note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) in chÂteau land * * * * * _by anne hollingsworth wharton_ an english honeymoon. decorated title and illustrations. cloth, extra, $ . _net_. italian days and ways. decorated title and illustrations. mo. cloth, extra, $ . _net_. social life in the early republic. profusely illustrated. vo. buckram, gilt top, uncut edges. $ . _net_; half levant, $ . _net_. salons, colonial and republican. profusely illustrated. vo. buckram, $ . ; three-quarters levant, $ . . heirlooms in miniatures. profusely illustrated. vo. buckram, $ . ; three-quarters levant, $ . . through colonial doorways. illustrated. mo. cloth, $ . . colonial days and dames. illustrated. mo. cloth, $ . . a last century maid. illustrated. vo. cloth, $ . . * * * * * [illustration: neurdein freres, photo. loches with gate of cordeliers] in chÂteau land by anne hollingsworth wharton with illustrations [illustration] philadelphia and london j. b. lippincott company mcmxi copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company published november, printed by j. b. lippincott company at the washington square press philadelphia, u.s.a. contents i page an embarrassment of chÂteaux ii an island chÂteau iii an afternoon at coppet iv en route for touraine v in and around tours vi langeais and azay-le-rideau vii two queens at amboise viii a battle royal of dames ix a fair prison x compensations xi the romance of blois xii three chÂteaux xiii chinon and fontevrault xiv angers xv orleans and its maid xvi a chÂteau fÊte list of illustrations loches, with gate of cordeliers _frontispiece_ isola bella, lake maggiore staircase and cloÎtre de la psallette, st. gatien mediÆval stairway, chÂteau of luynes entrance to langeais, with drawbridge cafÉ rabelais opposite chÂteau of langeais chÂteau of azay-le-rideau, east faÇade chÂteau of langeais, from the loire chÂteau of amboise, from opposite bank of the loire chenonceaux, marques tower and gallery across the cher house of tristan l'hermite agnes sorel entrance to chÂteau of blois, with statue of louis xii court of blois, with staircase of francis i louise de la valliÈre chÂteau of chaumont, the loire on the left smithy near gate of cheverny from photograph by mrs otis skinner anne de thou, dame de cheverny chÂteau of chambord ruins of chÂteau of coudray at chinon french cave dwellings near saumur forge near stone stairway at luynes from photograph by mrs otis skinner hÔtel cabu house of joan of arc salle des marriages, orleans in chÂteau land i an embarrassment of chÂteaux hotel florence, bellagio, august th. you will be surprised, dear margaret, to have a letter from me here instead of from touraine. we fully intended to go directly from the dolomites and venice to milan and on to tours, stopping a day or two in paris en route, but miss cassandra begged for a few days on lake como, as in all her travels by sea and shore she has never seen the italian lakes. we changed our itinerary simply to be obliging, but walter and i have had no reason to regret the change for one minute. beautiful as you and i found this region in june, i must admit that its august charms are more entrancing and pervasive. instead of the clear blues, greens and purples of june, the light haze that veils the mountain tops brings out the same indescribable opalescent shades of heliotrope, azure and rose that we thought belonged exclusively to the dolomites. however, these mountains are first cousins, once or twice removed, to the eastern italian and austrian alps and have a good right to a family likeness. there is something almost intoxicating in the ethereal beauty of this lake, something that goes to one's head like wine. i don't wonder that poets and artists rave about its charms, of which not the least is its infinite variety. the scene changes so quickly. the glow of color fades, a cloud obscures the sun, the blue and purple turn to gray in an instant, and we descend from a hillside garden, where gay flowers gain added brilliancy from the sun, to a cypress-bordered path where the grateful shade is so dense that we walk in twilight and listen to the liquid note of the nightingale, or the blackcap, whose song is sometimes mistaken for that of his more distinguished neighbor. this morning when we were resting in a hillside pavilion, near the villa giulia, gazing upon the sapphire lake and the line of purple alps beyond, we concluded that nothing was needed to complete the beauty of the scene but a snow mountain in the distance, when lo! as if in obedience to our call, a cloud that shrouded some far-off peaks slowly lifted, revealing to us the shining crest of monte rosa. it really seemed as if monte rosa had amiably thrown up that dazzling white shoulder for our especial delectation. this evening at sunset it will be touched with delicate pink. i am writing this afternoon on one of the long tables so conveniently placed on the upper deck of the little steamers upon which we made so many excursions when you and i were here in june. the colors of sky, mountain and lake are particularly lovely at this time of the day. miss cassandra and lydia have taken out their water colors, and are trying to put upon paper the exquisite translucent shades of the mountains that surround the lake. lydia says that the wash of water colors reproduces these atmospheric effects much more faithfully than the solid oils, and she and our quaker lady are washing away at their improvised easels, having sent the children off for fresh glasses of water. while i write to you, walter lights his cigar and gives himself up to day dreams, and i shall soon say _au revoir_ and devote myself to the same delightful, if unprofitable, occupation, as this fairy lake is the place of all others in which to dream and lead the _dolce far niente_ life of italy. and so we float about in boats, as at venice, and think not of the morrow. by we, i mean walter, lydia and myself, as the children and miss cassandra are fatiguingly energetic. she has just reminded me that there is something to do here beside gazing at these picturesque shores from a boat, as there are numerous villas to be visited, to most of which are attached gardens of marvellous beauty. we are passing one just now which has a water gate, over which climbing geraniums have thrown a veil of bloom. the villa itself is of a delicate salmon color, and the garden close to the lake is gay with many flowers, petunias and pink and white oleanders being most in evidence. the roses are nearly over, but other flowers have taken their places, and the gardens all along the shore make brilliant patches of color. it is not strange that bulwer chose this lake as the site of melnotte's _château en espagne_, for surely there could not be found a more fitting spot for a romance than this deep vale, "shut out by alpine hills from the rude world, near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold, and whispering myrtles, glassing softest skies." we were wondering what "golden fruits" were to be found on these shores at this time, oranges and nespoli being out of season, when some boatmen in a small fishing smack began to sing the "santa lucia" beloved by the neapolitans. a handsome, middle-aged woman seated near us, touched to tears by the penetrating sweetness of the song, as it reached us across the waters, and with the _camaraderie_ induced by the common hap of travel, has just whispered in my ear that her husband proposed to her at bellagio. i fancied the happy pair floating about in a boat with a beautiful brown and yellow sail, but the lady has destroyed my picture by telling me that she was over in new york at the time. it appears that a timid and somewhat uncertain admirer, the kind that we read about in old-fashioned novels, as he strolled by the shores of the lake at twilight, heard a boatman singing her favorite song and the melody of "santa lucia" floating forth upon the still air, coupled with the beauty of the scene, so wrought upon his feelings that he forthwith wrote her a love letter by the flickering light of a _bougie_. this little incident dates back to the more romantic if less comfortable days before electricity came to light our way, even in remote places. august th. there are so many châteaux to be visited, and so many excursions on the lake to be made that we could stay here a month and have a charming plan for each day. this morning, we climbed a winding mountain path to the villa serbelloni and wandered through the hillside garden, with its grottoes and tunnels, to a natural balcony overhanging a precipice of sheer rock that rises above the lake. from this height there is a view of the whole northern part of lake como, with the alps beyond, and here one realizes the beauty of bellagio which along the water front is but a long line of shops. situated on the extreme end of the point of land that separates lake como from its southern arm, the lago di lecco, the little town rises upon its terraces, and with its steep, narrow streets and winding paths, is as picturesque as only an italian hillside _villagio_ can be. on this punta di bellagio is situated one of the numerous villas of the younger pliny; another villa we saw, near the curious intermittent spring, which he described in his letters. this larian lake, as the ancients called it, is full of classic associations, and of those of a later time connected with italy's heroic struggle for independence, for the villa pliniana was once the home of the heroic and beautiful princess christina belgiojoso, the friend of cavour and garibaldi, who equipped a troop of lombardy volunteers which she herself commanded, until she was banished from italy by order of the austrian general. gazing upon the blue lake, on whose shining bosom the rocky shores were so charmingly mirrored, to-day, it was difficult to believe that great storms ever sweep over its still waters, yet habitués of this region tell us that this punta di bellagio is the centre of furious storms, the most violent coming from behind monte crocione, back of cadenabbia, and sweeping with great fury across the lake. such a storm as this was the memorable one of , upon whose violence chroniclers of the time delighted to descant. this particular tempest, which was probably no more severe than many others, found a place in history and romance because its unmannerly waters tossed about the richly decorated barge of bianca sforza, whose marriage to maximilian, king of the romans, had been solemnized with great magnificence, at the cathedral in milan, three days before. the bridal party set forth from como in brilliant sunshine, the shores crowded with men and women in holiday attire, and the air filled with joyous music. bianca's barge was rowed by forty sailors, says nicolo da correggio, while her suite followed in thirty boats, painted and decked out with laurel boughs and tapestries. this gay _cortège_ reached bellagio in safety, and after a night spent at a castle on the promontory the bride and her attendants set sail toward the upper end of the lake. hardly had they left the shore when the weather changed, and a violent storm scattered the fleet in all directions. bianca's richly decorated barge, with her fine hundred-thousand-ducat trousseau aboard, was tossed about as mercilessly as if it had been a fisherman's smack. the poor young queen and her ladies wept and cried aloud to god for mercy. giasone del maino, says the chronicler, alone preserved his composure, and calmly smiled at the terror of the courtiers, while he besought the frightened boatmen to keep their heads. happily, the tempest subsided toward nightfall, and the queen's barge, with part of her fleet, succeeded in putting back into the harbor of bellagio. the following day a more prosperous start was made, and poor bianca was saved from the terrors of the deep to make another perilous journey, this time across the alps on muleback, by that fearful and cruel mountain of nombray, as a venetian chronicler described the stelvio pass. she finally reached innsbruck, where she was joined, some months later, by her tardy and cold-hearted bridegroom. we had seen bianca's handsome bronze effigy in the franciscan church at innsbruck, and so felt a personal interest in the fair young bride who had been launched forth upon this matrimonial venture with so much pomp and ceremony, her head crowned with diamonds and pearls, and her long train and huge sleeves supported by great nobles of milan. foolish and light-headed the young queen doubtless was, and with some childish habits which must have been annoying to her grave consort, many years her senior,--erasmo brasca, the milanese envoy, says that he was obliged to remonstrate with her for the silly trick of eating her meals on the floor instead of at table,--and yet she was a warm-hearted, affectionate girl, and like many another princess of that time, she deserved a happier fate than the loveless marriage that had been arranged for her. our memories are quite fresh about bianca and her sorrows, because an accommodating tourist, who had mrs. ady's "beatrice d'este" with her, has loaned it to us for reading in the evenings--at least for as much time as we can afford to spend in-doors when the out-door world is so beguiling. august th. the man of the party and the children set forth early this morning for a day's fishing on the lake, walter having learned from a loquacious boatman that trout of large size, frequently weighing fifteen pounds, are to be caught here. we women, lacking the credulity of the true brother of the angle, declined walter's invitation, preferring a morning at the villa carlotta to "the calm, quiet, innocent recreation of angling," although we did encourage the fisher-folk by telling them that we should return from sightseeing with keen appetites for their trout. the villa, or château, which we visited to-day, situated on a hillside directly opposite bellagio, is not that in which maximilian and carlotta passed some happy years before the misfortunes of their life overtook them. that villa, as you may remember, is on the southern shore of lake como, at cernobbio. the fact of there being two villas carlotta on the same lake is somewhat confusing, as will appear later. this one, whose beautiful hillside gardens reach from cadenabbia to tremezzo, our informing little local guidebook tells us, was long known as the villa clerici, later as the villa sommariva, and finally, failing of heirs in the sommariva line, it was bought by the princess albert of prussia, who named the villa after her own daughter charlotte. we crossed from bellagio to cadenabbia in one of the little boats with brown awnings and gay cushions, that add so much to the picturesqueness of this fairy lake, and made our way to the villa carlotta, passing through the richly wrought iron gates and up many steps to the terraced garden where a fountain throws its feathery spray into the air. we were all three in such high spirits as befit a party of pleasure seekers, journeying through a land of enchantment on a brilliantly beautiful day, for it must be admitted that in a downpour of rain lake como and its shores are like any other places in the rain. miss cassandra, who is gay even under dull skies and overhanging clouds, is gayer than usual to-day, having donned a hat in which she takes great pride, a hat of her own confection, which she is pleased to call a "merry widow," and an indecorously merry widow it is, so riotous is it in its garnishings of chiffon, tulle and feathers! thus far lydia has prevented her aunt from appearing, in public, in her cherished hat; but here, in the lake region, where the sun is scorching at midday, she rebels against lydia's authority, says she has no idea of having her brains broiled out for the sake of keeping up a dignified and conventional appearance, and that this hat is just the thing for water-parties, and is not at all extreme compared with the peach-basket, the immense picture hat with its gigantic willow plumes, the grenadier, and other fashionable monstrosities in the way of headgear. our jaunt to cadenabbia appeared to be the psychological moment for the inauguration of the merry widow, and so i may say, truly and literally, that our quaker lady is in fine feather to-day, her head crowned with nodding plumes, and not a qualm of conscience anent the far-away meeting and its overseers to cloud her pleasure. whether in consequence of the charms of the merry widow, or because of a certain distinctive individuality that belongs to her, miss cassandra attracted even more attention than usual this morning. while we were admiring the noble thorwaldsen reliefs, that form the frieze of the entrance hall, and the exquisite marble of cupid and psyche by canova, that is one of the glories of the villa carlotta, she, as is her sociable wont, fell into conversation with two english-speaking women of distinguished appearance. before we left the château miss cassandra and one of her new friends, a stately, beautiful woman, were exchanging confidences and experiences with the freedom and intimacy of two schoolgirls. these ladies, whom miss cassandra is pleased to call the american countesses,--it having transpired in the course of conversation that they were of american birth, pennsylvanians in fact, who had married titled italians,--were courteous to us all, but they simply fell in love with our quaker lady, whose "thee's" and "thou's" seemed to possess a magic charm for them. later on we were in some way separated from our new acquaintances amid the intricacies of these winding hillside paths, where one may walk miles, especially if the guide is clever and entertaining, and has an eye to future _lira_ bestowed in some proportion to the time spent in exploring the beauties of the garden, and to the fatigue attending the tour. italian dames of high degree, even if so fortunate as to have been born in america, are not usually as good walkers as our untitled countrywomen. these ladies, being no exception to the rule, had probably yielded to the seductions of one of the rustic seats, placed so alluringly under the shade of fine trees, while we wandered on from path to path, stopping to admire an avenue of palms, a bamboo plantation, a blue norway spruce, a huge india-rubber tree, a bed of homelike american ferns, or a clump of gorgeous rhododendrons, for the trees and flowers of all climes thrive in this favored spot. a party of four or five men and women had joined us, who talked to each other in german, occasionally bowing to us and smiling, after the polite fashion of foreigners, when the guide drew our attention to some rare flower or plant, or to a charming vista of lake and mountain, seen through a frame of interlacing branches and vines. an immense bed of cactus, on a sunny slope, attracted the regard and admiration of our companions. miss cassandra, who had seen the cactus in its glory on its native heath, recognized the strangers' admiration even in an unknown language, and by way of protest expatiated in her enthusiastic fashion upon the splendor of the cactus of mexico, the plumes of her hat waving in unison with her eloquent words and gestures, while lydia and i exchanged amused glances; but our merriment was destined to be but short lived. the strangers, who were standing near us, could not, of course, get the drift of what miss cassandra was saying, but one of the party, a man of strongly marked personality, evidently caught the word "mexico," and pricked up his ears when she repeated it. in an instant, a heavy hand was laid upon her shoulder, while an angry voice hissed close to her ear: "mexican, mexican! pourquoi avez-vous tué l'empereur maximilian?" not comprehending this sudden arraignment, although she felt the heavy hand upon her shoulder, heard the angry voice at her side, and saw the unfriendly faces that surrounded her, our dear miss cassandra, by way of making matters worse, repeated the only word that she had caught: "mexican! yes, the mexican cactus is much finer than this!" this innocent remark seemed to irritate the austrian beyond all bounds. he repeated his question in french, still keeping his hand on the poor lady's shoulder and gazing into her frightened face. "why did you kill the emperor maximilian?" gesticulating with his free hand and drawing it across his throat. "pourquoi lui avez-vous coupé la gorge?" lydia and i were too shocked and dismayed to speak, and in that instant of terror every sad and gruesome disaster, that had befallen unprotected travellers in a strange land, passed in rapid review before our minds. we turned to the guide for help, but he who had been so voluble and instructive in botanical lore, in several languages, now held his tongue in them all, appearing quite dull and uninterested, as if having no understanding or part in the affair! suddenly my voice came to me, and i cried out in the best french that i could command: "the emperor maximilian did not have his throat cut! he died like a soldier! he was shot!" "well, then," exclaimed the austrian, still gesticulating violently with one hand and shaking miss cassandra's shoulder with the other, "why did you shoot him!" not having improved the situation by my remark, i turned again to the guide, when, to our immense relief, the american countesses, most opportunely, emerged from a shaded path. miss cassandra's pale, frightened face, the despair written upon lydia's and mine, the stranger's excited tone and gestures, told half the story, while i eagerly explained: "these people are austrians. they think that miss cassandra is a mexican, and they hate her on account of the assassination of the emperor maximilian. she is frightened to death, but she does not understand a word of what it is all about. do explain!" the stately lady, countess z---- by name, drew near, threw her arm protectingly around miss cassandra, and turning to the austrian, with an air of command, ordered him to take his hand off her shoulder, explaining in german (german had never sounded so sweet to my ears) that this lady was an american citizen who had simply travelled in mexico. the man listened and withdrew his hand, looking decidedly crestfallen when she added: "the american nation had nothing to do with the most unfortunate sacrifice of your young prince; in fact, the government at washington made an effort to avert the disaster. his death was deplored in america, and you must remember that the whole affair was in a large measure instigated by the ambitious designs of napoleon iii, who broke faith with maximilian, failed to send him the troops he had promised him, and cruelly abandoned him to his fate." the austrian bowed low and humbly apologized, adding something in an undertone about "here in the grounds of the château where maximilian and carlotta had once lived, seemed no place to talk about mexico." "you are quite mistaken!" exclaimed the countess. "this is not the villa carlotta that once belonged to maximilian. that is quite at the other end of the lake. this château, long the property of the sommariva family, passed in into the hands of the princess charlotte of prussia, who named it after her daughter, another carlotta, and i hope a happier one than the poor empress carlotta." again the austrian bowed and apologized, this time to miss cassandra, who, from his softened voice and deferential manner, realized that whatever deadly peril had menaced her was happily averted, and throwing her arms around the countess z----'s neck, she exclaimed, "my dear countrywoman! thee has the face of an angel and, like an angel, thee has brought peace to our troubled minds. but for the life of me i cannot tell what i have done to make that german so angry!" when miss cassandra had learned what was the head and front of her offending, she begged the countess to explain that she was a woman of peace, that war was abhorrent to her and all of her persuasion, and finally she quite won the austrian's heart by telling him that she had no admiration for that upstart bonaparte family (miss cassandra is nothing if not aristocratic); that for her part she liked old-established dynasties, like the hapsburgs, and had always considered the marriage of the daughter of a long line of kings with the self-made emperor a great come down for maria louisa. please remember that these are miss cassandra's sentiments, not mine, and how the dear italian-american lady managed to translate them into good german and keep her face straight at the same time, i know not; but the austrian evidently understood, as he became more profusely apologetic every moment, and well he might be for, as miss cassandra says, "no amount of bowing and scraping and apologizing could make up for the fright he had given us." but she is the most forgiving of mortals, as you know, and an _entente cordiale_ having been established, through the mediation of our two american-italian _diplomatistes_, the two recent foes were soon exchanging courtesies and scaling mountain paths together, hand in hand, smiling, gesticulating, quite _en rapport_, without a syllable of language between them, miss cassandra's nodding plumes seeming to accentuate her expressions of peace and good will. while our quaker lady was stepping off gaily, her late tormentor now her willing captive, lydia, usually so quiet and self-contained, suddenly collapsed upon the nearest seat and went off in a violent attack of hysterics. one of the austrian women rushed off for a glass of water, while the countesses ministered to her, in true story-book fashion, having with them a bottle of sal volatile which seems to be an important part of the equipment of every well-appointed foreign lady. and what do you think that heartless lydia said between her laughter and her sobs? "if only one of us had had a kodak with us, to take a snapshot of aunt cassie with the angry austrian berating her! nobody will ever believe the story when we get back to america, and then it would lose half its point without the merry widow!" of course we had tales of adventure to relate when reunited with our family this evening. walter warmly, and i believe with sincerity, expressed his regret that he had not been with us, which regret was probably all the more heartfelt because he had failed to catch the fifteen pound trout or, indeed, i may add in all truthfulness, trout of any size and weight. ii an island chÂteau pension beau-sÉjour, stresa, wednesday, august th. we reached this enchanting spot by a most circuitous and varied route, which i outline for you, as you may be coming this way some time. from bellagio we crossed over to menaggio, on monday after _déjeuner_, where we took an electric tram which brought us to porlezza in less than an hour. here we found a boat awaiting us in which we enjoyed a two hours' sail on beautiful lake lugano. at lugano, which we reached before six o 'clock, we were in switzerland, as we learned when the customs officers visited our luggage, with no benefit to themselves and little disturbance to us, and again when we found our beds at the hotel supplied with feather counterpanes--and i may venture to say it with all my love for italy--by a scrupulous and shining cleanliness that belongs more to the thrifty swiss than to the amiable and less energetic italians. lugano is full of quaint corners, interesting narrow streets, market wagons, drawn by oxen, and stalls and carts on all sides, filled with curios and native wares that would tempt the most blasé shopper. yesterday, being a market day when the peasants come in from the surrounding country in their ox carts, and with their great panniers, or _hottes_, on their backs, we found many delightful bits for our kodaks. the children were especially interested in a woman who carried a pretty, little young kid in her pannier, instead of the fruits and vegetables that are usually to be seen in these great baskets, and a heavy load it must have been! but these swiss and italian women are burden-bearers from early childhood. we needed a week instead of a day and night at lugano, and let me advise you and allan not to travel on schedule time when you make your tour through these lakes, as there are so many delightful side trips to be made. some pleasant americans, whom we met at the hotel in lugano, told us that a day or two spent on the summit of monte generoso is well worth while, as the view is one of the finest in europe, embracing as it does the chain of the alps, the italian lakes and the vast plains of lombardy as far as the apennines. in addition to all this there are fine woods and pasture lands upon this mountain top, and a hotel in which one may sojourn in comfort, if comfort is to be considered when such heavenly views are to be feasted upon. we quitted lugano after luncheon yesterday, having had time for only a hurried visit to the church of santa maria degli angeli and the famous luini frescoes. another charming trip on the lovely lago di lugano brought us to ponte tresa, from whence we journeyed by a steam tram through an enchanting wild wood country, full of little hills and rushing streamlets, to luino. do you wonder that lisa calls this a fairy journey? the change from car to boat and boat to car takes away all the weariness of travel, and the varied beauties of lake and shore make this an ideal trip, especially as we found ourselves transferred to another boat at luino which brought us straight to fairyland, here at stresa. the lights upon the many boats on the lake and in the hotels and villas along the shore gave the little town a gala appearance, as if it were celebrating our arrival, as miss cassandra suggested. later on it became humiliatingly evident that we had not been expected, our boat was late, the cabs had all gone away, and it was with difficulty that we secured enough conveyances for our party. we drove many miles, so it seemed to us, by winding roads up a steep hillside to this pension, where we finally found light, warmth, welcome and good beds, of which last we were sorely in need. by morning light the pension proves itself to be well named beau-séjour, as it is delightfully situated on a hill above the lake, with a garden, which slopes down to the town, full of oleanders and orange and lemon trees. when i opened the _jalousies_ at my window, what should i see but dear, snow-crested monte rosa and the rest of the alpine chain, seeming quite near in this crystal atmosphere, a perfect background for the picturesque borromean islands, fairy islets in a silver lake! "i really think that maggiore is more beautiful than como," i said, reluctantly, for i have heretofore contended that lake como at bellagio is the most beautiful place on the face of the earth. "take what goods the gods provide you, zelphine, and don't use up the gray matter of your brain trying to find out which of these lakes you like best," said walter in his most judicial tone. "yes, but one really cannot help comparing these two lakes, and if we give the preference to maggiore we have mr. ruskin on our side, who considers the scenery of lake maggiore to be the most beautiful and enchanting of all lake scenery, so we read in a pleasant little book of richard bagot's which we found on the drawing-room table, yet the author says that for himself he has no hesitation in giving his vote in favor of the larian lake for beauty of scenery and richness of historic interest." despite his philosophy i truly think that the man of the party has left his heart at bellagio, as i heard him telling a brother angler, whom he met at the boat landing, how fine he found the fishing there and that he doubted the sport being as good at stresa--at least for amateur fishermen. the associations here are less inspiring than those of como, the presiding genius of stresa being san carlo borromeo, whose thirst for the blood of heretics gained for him the title of saint. a great bronze statue at arona now proclaims his zeal for the church. miss cassandra, who has an optimistic faith in a spark of the divine in the most world-hardened saint or sinner, reminds me of carlo borromeo's heroic devotion to the sufferers from famine and the plague at milan in and . so, with a somewhat gentler feeling in our hearts toward "the saint," we turned our faces toward isola bella and its great château, built by a later and more worldly-minded member of the borromean family, count vitaliano borromeo. this château, which from the lake side appears like a stronghold of ancient times, is fitly named the castello, and after admiring its substantial stone terrace and great iron gates we were prepared for something more imposing than what we found within. the large rooms, with their modern furniture and paintings, some of them poor copies from the old masters, were strangely out of harmony with the ancient exterior of the castello; but they were shown to us with great pride by the custodian, who must have found us singularly unappreciative and lacking in enthusiasm, even when he displayed a room in which the great napoleon had once slept. when napoleon was here, and why, and whether he was here at all, does not concern any of us especially, except lydia, who having a turn for history is always determined to find out how, why, when, and where. i am glad that she does care, as her example is edifying to us all, especially so to christine and lisa, who follow her about and ask questions to their hearts' content, which she is never tired of answering. the garden, we revelled in, and found it hard to believe that the terrace, which rises to a height of one hundred feet, was once a barren rock until count borromeo covered it with a luxuriant growth of orange, olive, and lemon trees, cedars, oleanders, roses, camellias, and every tree and plant that you can think of. it is really a bewilderingly lovely garden, and we wandered through its paths joyously until we came suddenly upon some artificial grottos at one end overlooking the lake. these remarkable creations are so utterly tasteless, with masses of bristling shellwork and crude, ungainly statues, that we wondered how anything so inartistic could find a home upon italian soil. the children, however, found delight in the hideous grottos, were sure that they had been robbers' dens, and fancied they heard the groans of prisoners issuing from their cavernous openings. they were so fascinated, as children always are by the mysterious and unknown, that nothing but the pangs of hunger and promises of luncheon on a terrace garden overlooking the lake reconciled them to leaving the garden and the grottos. [illustration: a. gebr. wehrli, photo. isola bella, lake maggiore] we tried to forget the monstrosities of the château garden and to remember only the beauty and the rich luxuriance of its trees and the many flowering vines that clambered all over the shellwork terraces, as if striving to conceal their rococo ugliness. nor is it difficult to forget unsightly objects here, when we have only to raise our eyes to behold a scene of surpassing beauty,--isola madre and isola dei pescatori look but a stone's throw from us across the shining water, and beyond a girdle of snow mountains seems to encircle the lake, our beloved monte rosa, white as a swan's breast, dominating them all. despite the distracting beauty of the outlook from our café, on the terrace of a very indifferent looking hostel, we enjoyed our luncheon of italian dishes, crowned by an _omelette aux confitures_ of such superlative excellence that even my inveterate american was ready to acknowledge that it was the best omelet he had ever eaten anywhere. we shall need a whole morning for isola madre, whose gardens are said to be even more beautiful than those of isola bella. the sporting tastes of the man of the party naturally draw him toward the allurements of isola dei pescatori, but thither we shall decline to accompany him, for picturesque as it appears from the shore, it is, on a more intimate acquaintance, said to rival in unsavoriness the far-famed odors of the city of cologne. orta, august th. from stresa we made a short _détour_, in order to have a day and night here on the lago d'orta, which although comparatively near lake maggiore is not often included in the itinerary of the fast traveling tourist, who usually hurries to arona, stresa, and pallanza, which, beautiful as they are, lack something of the restful charm of this miniature lake set in the midst of a circle of well-wooded hills. after como and maggiore, which are like inland seas, the lago d'orta with its pretty island of san giulio, all so small that one may see the whole picture at a glance, is indescribably lovely. the waters here are said to be of a deeper blue than anywhere else in italy, probably because the lake is fed from springs which issue from its rocky bed. the whole town of orta, as well as the lake, is a blaze of color with the gay awnings of its many loggie, its masses of scarlet and pink geraniums, cactus and oleanders, its fruit stalls laden with melons, peaches and tomatoes, or poma d'oro, and its blue sky over all. we cannot imagine orta under any but a clear sky, as our day here has been one of dazzling brilliancy. but it was not solely for its beauty that the man of the party brought us to orta, as i discovered when i looked over a little local guidebook last night, and learned that the lago d'orta is famous for its fish, and abounds in trout of large size, pike, perch, and the agoni, a delicate little fish for which lake como is also noted. after glancing over this illuminating guidebook, and recalling the fact that the catch at stresa had been poor the day before, we were not surprised to hear arrangements being made for an early start this morning. after reading aloud some extracts from the guidebook, miss cassandra said, quite seriously: "for ways that are dark and tricks that are vain commend me to a fisherman or hunter. with all that izaak walton was pleased to say about fishing being 'a calm, quiet, innocent recreation,' i have known the best of men, even as good men as walter, descend to duplicity and even to prevarication when it came to a question of fish or game. not that i regret for a moment walter's bringing us here. orta is so beautiful that the end justifies the means; but he might have told us why we were coming." despite the innate and total depravity of fisher folk, i yielded to walter's and the children's persuasions and joined the fishing party this morning, and a delightful day i had, seated in the stern of the boat under one of the little canopies that you see in all the pictures of this region. here, well screened from the sun, with books and work, and the lovely lake and shore to gaze upon, the hours passed so quickly that i was surprised when we were told that it was time to land on the island of san giulio for our noon déjeuner. i was in the midst of relating the interesting experiences of the missionary priest julius, who is said to have founded a church here as early as , when we were nearing the lovely little island named for him. the children were naturally delighted with the priest's fertility of resource, which, like that of the mother in their favorite "swiss family robinson," was equal to every occasion. having resolved to found a sanctuary upon the island whose solitary beauty, as it rested upon the shining bosom of the lake, appealed to him as it does to us to-day, and finding no boatmen upon the shore willing to convey him thither, on account of the hideous monsters, dragons, and serpents of huge size then inhabiting the place, good julius, nothing daunted by so trifling an inconvenience as the lack of a boat, used his long cloak as a sail, and his staff as a rudder, and thus equipped allowed himself to be blown across to the island. "of course, we know that there is nothing new under the sun, but who would have thought of finding traces of the first aeroplane here, in this quiet spot, far from the haunts of men?" this from the man of the party, while lisa exclaimed impatiently: "now, don't stop the story! what did the good priest do when he landed on the island? did he kill the beasts with his big stick?" "we never heard of the 'big stick' flourishing among these lakes," said walter, as he wound up his line, and i explained to the children that the hideous monsters fled before the beautiful face of the messenger of peace and swam across the water to the mainland. a delightful confirmation of the story, the children found in the church, where they were shown a huge bone that belonged to one of these self-same monsters. "very like a whale," said walter, while we were further edified by a sight of the silver and crystal shrine under which repose the bones of st. julius removed from the little old church to this one of the seventh century, which is a perfect miniature basilica. this was explained to us by a priest, in italianized french of the most mongrel description, translated by me and listened to by christine and lisa with eager faces and wide-open eyes. when we related our experiences to miss cassandra, who had in our absence visited the twenty chapels on the mainland erected in honor of st. francis of assisi, she shook her head, knowingly, and said, "lydia and i have heard a great many wonderful tales, too, but it is worth everything to be a child and ready to swallow anything from a gumdrop to a whale." the little girls take so much more interest in churches and shrines than we had expected that we are half regretting our plan to leave them in a french school in lausanne while we make our tour among the châteaux of the loire. i can hear you say, "why not take them to tours, for the french there?" we know that the french of tours is exquisite, but they have had quite as much travel as is good for them, and then they have little friends at the school in lausanne whom they wish to join. "and after all," as miss cassandra says, "american french can always be spotted, no matter how good it may be." we were very much amused over the criticism of a little american boy who had been educated in italy. he said of an english lady's correct and even idiomatic italian, "yes, it's all right; but she doesn't speak in the right tune." we have so many tunes in our own language that we are less particular than the french and italians, who treat theirs with the greatest respect. to-morrow we leave this charming spot with great reluctance. we shall doubtless find architectural beauty in touraine, but we shall miss the glorious mountain and lake views and these indescribable atmospheric effects that we delight in. but, as the man of the party says, with masculine directness, "having started out to see the châteaux of the loire, had we not better push on to touraine?" you cannot appreciate the full magnanimity of this advice without realizing that orta is a place above all others to please a man's fancy, and that the fishing is exceptionally good. miss cassandra has taken back her caustic expressions with regard to the devious ways of fisher folk, or at least of this especial fisherman, and so, in good humor with one another and with the world in general, we set forth for lausanne, by domodossola and the simplon. we shall have a sunday in lausanne to drink in calvinism near its source; monday we arrange about the children's school, and set forth for touraine on tuesday, stopping in geneva for a day and night. iii an afternoon at coppet geneva, august th. like hawthorne, our first feeling upon returning to switzerland, after our sojourn in italy, was of a certain chill and austerity in the atmosphere, a lack of heartiness, in sharp contrast to the rich feast of beauty, the warm color and compelling charm of italian towns. this impression was accentuated by the fact that it rained yesterday at lausanne and that we reached geneva in the rain. we had one clear day, however, at lausanne, upon which we made a pilgrimage to chillon, to the great delight of the _kinder_. miss cassandra insisted that we should take the children to see this most romantic and beautiful spot, because, she says, it is out of fashion nowadays, like niagara falls at home, and that it is a part of a liberal education to see the castle of chillon and read byron's poem on the spot, all of which we did. it is needless to tell you that christine and lisa considered this day on the lake and in and about chillon the most interesting educational experience of their lives. we were glad to leave them at the pension in lausanne with a memory so pleasant as this, and for ourselves we carry away with us a picture of the grim castle reaching out into the blue lake and beyond that almost unrivalled line of alpine peaks, white and shining in the sun. after this there came a day of rain, in which we set forth for geneva. "we have not seen him for three days until to-day," said the _garçon_ who waited on us at the terrace café of the hotel this morning, with a fond glance toward the snowy crest of mont blanc rising above enveloping clouds. it would not have occurred to us to call this exquisite pearl and rose peak _him_, as did the _garçon_, who was proud of his english, and much surer of his genders than we ever hope to be in his language, or any other save our own; but we were ready to echo his lament after a day of clouds and rain. to be in these picturesque old towns upon the shores of the lake of geneva, and not to see mont blanc by sunlight, moonlight, and starlight is a grievance not lightly to be borne; but when a glory of sunshine dispelled the clouds and mont blanc threw its misty veil to the winds and stood forth beautiful as a bride, in shining white touched with palest pink, we could only, like the woman of the scriptures, forget our sorrows for joy that such a day was born to the world. days like this are rare in the swiss autumn, and with jealous care we planned its hours, carefully balancing the claims of vevey, yvoire, picturesque as an italian hillside town, ferney, and coppet. this last drew us irresistibly by its associations with madame de staël and her brilliant entourage, and we decided that this day of days should be dedicated to a tour along the côte suisse of the lake, stopping at nyon for a glance at its sixteenth century château and returning in time to spend a long afternoon at coppet. the only drawback to this delightful plan was that this is wednesday, and according to the friendly little guidebook that informs sojourners in geneva how to make the best of their days, thursday is the day that the château de staël is open to visitors. learning, however, that the d'haussonvilles were not at present in residence, we concluded to take our courage, and some silver, in our hands, trusting to its seductive influence upon the caretaker. after a short stroll through the quaint old town of coppet we ascended the steep hill that leads to the château de staël. as we drew near the entrance gate, walter, manlike, retired to the rear of the procession, saying that he would leave all preliminaries to the womenfolk, as they always knew what to say and generally managed to get what they wanted. fortune favored us. we noticed several persons were grouped together in the courtyard, and pushing open the gate, which was not locked, lydia, who if gentle of mien is bold of heart, inquired in her most charmingly hesitating manner and in her sunday best french whether we should be permitted to enter. upon this a man separated himself from the group and approaching us asked if we very much wished to see the château, for if we did he was about to conduct some friends through the premises and would be pleased to include us in the party. "when the french wish to be polite how gracefully they accord a favor!" exclaimed lydia, turning to walter, the joy of conquest shining in her blue eyes. "yes, and i kept out of it for fear of spoiling sport. any caretaker who could withstand the combined charms of you three must be valiant indeed! i noticed that zelphine put miss cassandra in the forefront of the battle; she is always a winner even if she isn't up to the language, and you did the talking. zelphine certainly knows how to marshal her forces!" we all laughed heartily over walter's effort to make a virtue of his own masterly inactivity, and miss cassandra asked him if he had ever applied for a diplomatic mission, as we gaily entered the spacious courtyard. we noticed, as we passed on toward the château, the old tower of the archives, which doubtless contains human documents as interesting as those published by count othenin d'haussonville about his pretty great-grandmother when she was _jeune fille très coquette_, with numerous lovers at her feet. behind the close-barred door of the tower the love letters of edward gibbon to the village belle were preserved, among them that cold and cruel epistle in which for prudential reasons he renounced the love of mademoiselle curchod, whom he would "always remember as the most worthy, the most charming of her sex." count d'haussonville, who now owns coppet, our guide informed us, is not the grandson of madame de staël, as lydia and i had thought, but her great-grandson. albertine de staël married victor, duc de broglie, and their daughter became the wife of count othenin d'haussonville, to whom we are indebted for the story of the early love affair of his ancestress with the historian of the roman empire. the sympathies of the reader of this touching pastoral are naturally with the pretty swiss girl, who seems to have been sincerely attached to her recreant lover, although she had sufficient pride to conceal her emotions. if edward gibbon found excuse for himself in the reported tranquillity and gayety of mademoiselle curchod, we, for our part, are glad that she did not wear her heart upon her sleeve, there being other worlds to conquer. indeed, even then, several suitors were at mademoiselle curchod's feet, among them a young parson,--her father being a pastor, young parsons were her legitimate prey,--and still greater triumphs were reserved for her in the gay world of paris which she was soon to enter. as _dame de compagnie_, mademoiselle curchod journeyed with madame vermenoux to the french capital, and carried off one of her lovers, m. necker, under her very eyes. the popular tradition is that madame vermenoux was well tired of m. necker and of mademoiselle curchod also, and so cheerfully gave them both her blessing, remarking with malice as well as wit: "they will bore each other so much that they will be provided with an occupation." it soon transpired that m. and mme. necker, far from boring each other, were quite unfashionably happy in their married life, some part of which was passed at coppet, which m. necker bought at the time of his dismissal from office. an hour of triumph came to madame necker later when edward gibbon visited her in her husband's home in paris. after being hospitably invited to supper by m. necker, the historian related that the husband composedly went off to bed, leaving him _tête-à-tête_ with his wife, adding, "that is to treat an old lover as a person of little consequence." the love affairs of the swiss pastor's daughter, her disappointments, her triumphs, and her facility for turning from lost edens to pastures new, would be of little interest to-day did they not reveal certain common characteristics possessed by the lively blue-stocking, susanne curchod, and her passionate, intense daughter, anne germaine de staël. the well-conducted madame necker, whose fair name was touched by no breath of scandal, possessed all her life a craving for love, devotion, and admiration, which were accorded to her in full measure. with the mother, passion was restrained by fine delicacy and reserve, and her heart was satisfied by a congenial marriage, while the impetuous and ill-regulated nature of germaine was thrown back upon itself by an early and singularly ill-assorted union. with many thoughts of the two interesting women who once lived in the château we passed through the doorway into the hall, on whose right-hand side is a colossal statue of louis seize, while on the left are portraits of several generations of d'haussonvilles. on the stairway are numerous genealogical charts and family trees of the neckers, doubtless reaching back to attila, if not to adam, for strange as it may seem the great swiss financier was as much addicted to vain genealogies and heraldic quarterings as a twentieth century american. it was in the long library, with its many windows opening out upon a sunny terrace, that we came upon traces of the presiding genius of the château. here are madame de staël's own books, the cases unchanged, we were assured, except by the addition of new publications from time to time. on a table, among the most treasured possessions of the devoted daughter, is the strong box of m. necker in which he kept his accounts with the french government when he sought to stem the tide of financial disaster that was bearing the monarchy to its doom. from this room instinct with the atmosphere of culture, a fit setting for the profoundly intellectual woman who inhabited it, we stepped through one of the long windows to the terrace which commands a glorious view. in the distance, yet not seeming very far away in this clear air, is that well-known group of which mont blanc is the central peak, with the dent du géant and the aiguilles du glacier and d'argentière standing guard over its crystalline purity. we had seen mont blanc and its attendant mountains from the heights of mont revard, and knew its majestic beauty as seen from chamounix; but we all agreed that nothing could be lovelier than these white peaks rising above the sapphire lake, with the blue cloud-flecked sky over all. yet, with this perfect picture spread before her, madame de staël longed for the very gutters of paris, its sights and sounds, which were inseparably associated in her mind with the joyous chatter of the salon to which she had been introduced at an age when most children are in the nursery. seated upon a high chair in her mother's salon, little anne germaine necker listened eagerly to the discourses of the great men of her day. listening was not destined to be her _rôle_ in later years; but to pace up and down the long drawing room at coppet, with the invariable green branch in her beautiful hands, uttering words that charmed such guests as schlegel, sismondi, bonstetten of geneva and chateaubriand. it was chateaubriand who said that the two magical charms of coppet were the conversation of madame de staël and the beauty of madame récamier. madame de staël's library opens into her bedroom, and beyond this is the charming little apartment dedicated to madame récamier. this small, dainty room, with hand-made paper upon its walls of delicate green decorated with flowers and birds, seemed a fit setting for the flower-like beauty who occupied it, a lily that preserved its purity amid the almost incredible corruption of the social life of the period. madame de staël's own bedroom is filled with pictures, and souvenirs of the _vie intime_ of one who with all her faults was dowered with a limitless affection for her family and friends. here is a marble bust of the beautiful daughter albertine in her girlhood, and on the right of madame de staël's bed is a portrait of her mother, in water color painted during her last illness, the fine, delicate old face framed in by a lace cap. on the margin of this picture is written, "elle m'aimera toujours." under this lovely water color is the same picture reproduced in black and white, beneath which some crude hand has written in english the trite phrase, "not lost, but gone before." in a glass case are madame de staël's india shawls, which, like josephine de beauharnais and other women of the period, she seems to have possessed the art of wearing with grace and distinction. one of these shawls appears in the familiar portrait by david, which is in a small library or living room _au premier_; this we reached by climbing many stairs. it is quite evident that david was not in sympathy with his sitter, as in this painting he has softened no line of the heavy featured face, and illumined with no light of intellect a countenance that in conversation was so transformed that madame de staël's listeners forgot for the moment that she was not beautiful. quite near the portrait of the exile of coppet, as she was pleased to call herself, is one of baron de staël holstein, in court costume, finished, elegant, handsome perhaps, but quite insignificant. it is surely one of the ironies of fate that the baron de staël is only remembered to-day as the husband of a woman whom he seems to have looked upon as his social inferior. in this living room is a large portrait of m. necker, indeed, no room is without a portrait or bust of the idolized father, and here, looking strangely modern among faces of the first empire, is a charming group of the four daughters of the count d'haussonville, the present owner of coppet. several portraits and busts there are, in the drawing room, of beautiful albertine de staël, wife of victor, duc de broglie, whom madame de staël says that she loved for his tenderness and sympathy. in this spacious, homelike drawing room, furnished in the style of the first empire, and yet not too fine for daily use, we could imagine madame de staël surrounded by her brilliant circle of friends, many of whom had been, like herself, banished from the paris that they loved. she is described by madame vigée lebrun, and other guests, as walking up and down the long salon, conversing incessantly, or sitting at one of the tables writing notes and interjecting profound or brilliant thoughts into the conversation. "her words," added madame lebrun, "have an ardor quite peculiar to her. it is impossible to interrupt her. at these times she produces on one the effect of an improvisatrice." ohlenschlager described the _châtelaine_ of coppet as "living in an enchanted castle, a queen or a fairy," albeit of rather substantial proportions, it must be admitted, "her wand being the little green branch that her servant placed each day by her plate at table." the time of the danish poet's visit was that golden period in the life of the château when it was the _rendezvous_ of many of the savants of germany and geneva. into the charmed circle, at this time, entered madame krüdener, that strangely puzzling combination of priestess and coquette, whose greuze face and mystic revelations touched the heart of an emperor. standing in the long salon, which contains many portraits and souvenirs of the habitués of coppet, we realized something of the life of those brilliant days, when the walls echoed to what bonstettin called "prodigious outbursts of wit and learning," and upon whose boards classic dramas and original plays were acted, often very badly, by the learned guests. rosalie de constant wrote that she trembled for her cousin benjamin's success in _mahomet_, which _rôle_ he accepted with confidence, while beneath the play at life and love the great tragedy of a passionate human soul is played on to the end, for this is the period of storm and stress, of alternate reproaches and caresses, from which benjamin constant escaped finally to the side of his less exacting charlotte. after spending some weeks in the company of a hostess who could converse half the day and most of the night with no sign of fatigue, it is not strange that benjamin constant sometimes found himself wearied by the mental activity of coppet, where "more intellect was dispensed in one day than in one year in many lands," or that bonstettin said that after a visit to the château, "one appreciated the conversation of insipid people who made no demand upon one's intellect." and brilliant as was that of the hostess, her guests doubtless hailed as a relief from mental strain occasional days when she became so much absorbed in her writing that she ceased for a while to converse, and they were free to wander at will through the beautiful park, or to gather around the récamier sofa, still to be seen in one corner of the salon, where the lovely juliette held her court. madame récamier, like benjamin constant, sismondi, and many other distinguished persons who had incurred the displeasure of napoleon, found what seems to us a gilded exile at coppet in the home of the emperor's arch-enemy. the close friendship of germaine de staël and juliette récamier, even cemented as it was by the common bond of misfortune, is difficult to understand. that madame de staël kept by her side for years a woman whose remarkable beauty and sympathetic charm brought out in strong contrast her own personal defects, presupposes a generosity of spirit for which few persons give this supremely egotistical woman credit. she always spoke of madame récamier in rapturous terms, and her "belle juliette" and her "dear angel" seems to have been free under the eyes of her hostess to capture such noble and learned lovers as mathieu de montmorency, prince augustus of prussia, ampère, and chateaubriand. it was only when that ill-named benjamin constant allowed his unstable affections to wander from the dahlia to the lily that germaine de staël's anger was aroused against her friend. for a short period madame récamier ceased to be the "belle juliette" and the "dear angel" of the mistress of coppet until, with a truly angelic sweetness of temper and infinite tact, she made germaine understand that she had no desire to carry off her recreant lover and so the friendship continued to the end. if it is difficult to understand the long friendship of madame de staël and juliette récamier, it is quite impossible to follow with any comprehension or sympathy the various loves of germaine. one can perhaps understand that after benjamin constant had escaped from her stormy endearments she could turn for solace to young albert rocca, and yet why did she still cling to benjamin's outworn affection, and then, with naïve inconsistency, declare that he had not been the supreme object of her devotion, but that narbonne, talleyrand and mathieu de montmorency were the three men whom she had most deeply loved? lydia said something of this, as we passed through the gate of the château, upon which an elderly woman, who had been one of the guide's party, turned to us and said abruptly, "artistic temperament! men have been allowed a monopoly of all the advantages belonging to the artistic temperament for so many years that it seems only fair to cover over the delinquencies of women of such unquestioned genius as germaine de staël and george sand with the same mantle of charity." these words of truth and soberness were spoken in a tone of authority, almost of finality, and yet in the stranger's eyes there shone so kindly and genial a light that far from being repelled by them, we found ourselves discussing with her the loves of poets and philosophers as we descended the steep hill that leads from the château to the garden café at its foot. here, led on by the pleasant comradeship induced by travel, we continued our discussion over cups of tea and buns, while mont blanc glowed to rose in the sunset light, and we wondered again how madame de staël could ever have looked upon the shores of this beautiful lake as a "terrible country," even if it was for her a "land of exile." you will think that we have had enough pleasure and interest for one afternoon, but you must remember that this is our one day in geneva, and although we have all been here before, we have never seen ferney. walter discovered, in looking over the local guidebook, that this is the day for ferney, and that it is open until six o'clock. he found that we had an hour after reaching the boat landing. walter secured an automobile and we set forth for the home of voltaire, which is really very near geneva. it was interesting to see the old philosopher's rooms and the gardens, from which there is an extended view of the lake and mountains; but most impressive after all is the little church which he built in his old age, with the inscription on one end: deo erexit voltaire mdcclxi walter has suddenly conceived the idea that there are some valuable coins well worth a visit in the ariana museum which we passed on the way to ferney, so we have decided to gain a half day here by taking an afternoon train to dijon and stopping there over night. when you next hear from me it will be from mary stuart's pleasant land of france and probably from the paris beloved of germaine de staël. until then, _au revoir, ma belle_. iv en route for touraine hÔtel de la clÔche, dijon, august th. we stopped at this interesting old town last night in order to break the long journey from geneva to paris. dijon, which has only been to us a station to stop in long enough to change trains and to look upon longingly from the car windows, proves upon closer acquaintance to be a town of great interest. after a morning spent among its churches and ancient houses and in its museum, we were quite ready to echo the sentiments of an english lady whom we met at the _table d'hôte_, who spends weeks here instead of days, and wonders why travellers pass dijon by when it is so much more worth while than many of the places they are going to. so much is left of the ancient churches and buildings to remind one of the romantic and heroic history of dijon, that it seems eminently fitting that we should make this stop-over, a visit to the capital city of burgundy being a suitable prelude to a sojourn among the châteaux of the french kings, who had their own troubles with these powerful lords of the soil. the present hôtel de ville was once the palace of the dukes of burgundy. little is now left of the original building with the exception of the ancient kitchens, and these, with their half-dozen great ventilating shafts, give one the impression that those doughty old warriors had sensitive olfactories. in the cathedral of saint bénigne, who seems to be the patron saint of dijon, are the remains of the great dukes of burgundy, although their magnificent tombs are in the museum. the cathedral of saint bénigne has a lovely apse and other architectural charms; but notre dame captivated us utterly, so wonderful are its gargoyles representing man and beast with equal impartiality, their heads and shoulders emerging from a rich luxuriance of sculptured foliage, the whole indescribably beautiful and grotesque at the same time. it is not strange that the carved figure of a plump and well-fed holy father, with his book in one hand and food in the other, sitting beside an empty-handed and mild-faced sheep, should have called forth such lines as the following from some local poet, evidently intended for the remarks of the sheep: "les esprits-forts. volontiers les humains s'apellent fortes-têtes qui la plupart du temps ne sont que bonnes bêtes et qui juste en raison de leurs étroits esprits de leurs maigres pensers sont beaucoup trop épris." other decorators and sculptors of these ancient buildings have, like fra lippo lippi, worked their own quaint conceits and humorous fancies into their canvases and marbles, and we to-day are filled with wonder at their cleverness, as well as over the excellence of their art, so exquisite is the carving of leaf and branch and vine. one would need to come often to the galerie des tours of notre dame to fully enjoy it, and other beauties of this church, whose tower is crowned by a curious clock with moving figures, called jacquemart, after the flemish mechanician jacques marc who designed it. the jacquemart, with his pipe in his mouth, stolidly strikes the hours, undisturbed by the cold of winter or the heat of summer, as some burgundian poet of the sixteenth century has set forth in a quaint rhyme. near the cathedral is a charmingly picturesque building called la tour de bar, where rené d'anjou, duke of bar and lorraine, was imprisoned with his children. in the museum, which possesses many treasures in painting and sculpture, we saw the magnificently carved tombs of philippe le hardi and jean sans-peur. here, with angels at their heads and lions couchant at their feet, the effigies of these dukes of valois rest, surrounded by a wealth of sculpture and decoration almost unequalled. it would be well worth stopping over night at dijon if only to see the magnificent tombs of these bold and unscrupulous old warriors and politicians. jean sans-peur planned and accomplished the assassination of louis d'orléans and was himself overtaken by the assassin a few years later. the tomb of the boldest and bravest of them all, charles le téméraire, you may remember, we saw at bruges. the lion at the feet of the last duke of burgundy, with head upraised, seems to be guarding the repose of his royal master, who in his life found that neither statecraft nor armies could avail against the machinations of his arch-enemy, louis xi. beautiful and impressive as are these tombs, the true glory of dijon is that the great bossuet was born here and st. bernard so near, at fontaine, that dijon may claim him for her own; and rameau, the celebrated composer; rude, whose sculptures adorn the arc de l'etoile in paris; jouffroy, and a host of other celebrities, as we read in the names of the streets, parks, and boulevards, for dijon, like so many french cities and towns, writes her history, art, literature, and science on her street corners and public squares, thus keeping the names of her great people before her children. when we were studying routes in geneva yesterday it seemed quite possible to go to tours by bourges and saincaize, and thus secure a day in bourges for the cathedral of saint etienne, which is said to be one of the most glorious in france, and not less interesting to see the house of the famous merchant-prince who supplied the depleted coffers of charles vii, jacques coeur, the valiant heart to whom nothing was impossible, as his motto sets forth. at the tourist office we were told that such a crosscut to tours was quite out of the question, impossible, and that the only route to the château country was via paris. it seemed to us a quite useless waste of time and strength to go northward to paris and then down again to tours, which is south and a little west, but having no knowledge on the subject and no bradshaw with us to prove our point, we accepted the ultimatum, although miss cassandra relieved her feelings by saying that she did not believe a word of it, and that tourist's agents were a stiff-necked and untoward generation, and that she for her part felt sure that we could cut across the country to saincaize and bourges. however, when we hear the questions that are asked these long-suffering agents at the tourist offices by people who do not seem to understand explanations in any language, even their own, we wonder that they have any good nature left, whatever their birthright of amiability may have been. here, in dijon, we find that we could have carried out our charming little plan, and walter, realizing my disappointment, suggests that we take an automobile from here to saincaize and then go by a train to bourges and tours. this sounds quite delightful, but our quaker lady, having turned her face toward the gay capital, demurs, saying that "we have started to paris, and to paris we had better go, especially as our trunks have been sent on in advance, and it really is not safe to have one's luggage long out of one's sight in a strange country." this last argument proved conclusive, and we yielded, as we usually do, to miss cassandra's arguments, although we generally make a pretence of discussing the pros and cons. paris, august th. when we reached paris on saturday we soon found out why we had come here, to use the rather obscure phrasing of the man of the party, for it speedily transpired that miss cassandra had brought us here with deliberate intent to lead us from the straight and narrow path of sightseeing into the devious and beguiling ways of the _modiste_. she has for some reason set her heart upon having two paris gowns, one for the house and one for the street, and lydia and i, being too humane to leave her unprotected in the hands of a dressmaker who speaks no english, spent one whole afternoon amid the intricacies of broadcloth, messaline, and chiffon. of course we ordered some gowns for ourselves as a time-saving measure, although i really do not think it is usually worth while to waste one's precious hours over clothes when there is so much to be done that is better worth while. however, the shades of mauve, and all the variants of purple, which are set forth so alluringly in the windows are enough to tempt an anchorite, and no more decided color attracts us, as blues and greens seem crude and startling beside these soft shades, which came in with the half-mourning for king edward and are still affected by parisians of good taste. our quaker lady has become so gay and worldly-minded, since her signal triumph with the american countesses in her merry widow, that we are continually reminded of the "rejuvenation of aunt mary," and lydia and i have to be on the alert to draw her away from the attractions of windows where millinery is displayed, lest she insist on investing in a grenadier, or in that later and even more grotesque device of the _modiste_, the "chantecler." to compensate for the time lost at the dressmakers, we had two long beautiful mornings at the louvre and a sunday afternoon at the luxembourg, followed by a cup of tea and a pleasant, sociable half-hour at the students' hostel, on the boulevard saint-michel, a delightful, homelike inn where many young women who are studying in paris find a home amid congenial surroundings. a little oasis in the desert of a lonesome student life, this friendly hostel seemed to us. several women whom we knew at home were pouring tea, and we met some nice english and american girls who are studying art and music, and the tea and buns brought to us by friendly hands made the simple afternoon tea take upon it something of the nature of a lovefeast, so warm and kindly was the welcome accorded us. pension b----, tours, august th. we left paris yesterday from the station quai d'orsay for our journey of three and a half hours to tours. so near to paris is this château land of touraine that we wonder why we have not all been journeying this way full many a year, instead of waiting to be caught up and borne hither by the tide of fashion, especially as our route lay through a land filled with historic and romantic associations. it is impossible to pass through this flat but picturesque country, with its winding rivers and white roads shaded by tall poplars, and by such old gray towns as Étampes, orléans, blois, and amboise, without recalling the delight with which we have wandered here in such goodly company as that of brantôme, balzac, dumas, and madame de sévigné. it was upon this same loire, which winds around many a château before it throws itself into the sea, that madame de sévigné described herself as setting forth from tours at o'clock on a may morning, in a boat, and in the most beautiful weather in the world. these boats on the loire, as described by madame de sévigné, were evidently somewhat like gondolas. "i have the body of my _grande carosse_ so arranged," she wrote, "that the sun could not trouble us; we lowered the glasses; the opening in front made a marvellous picture, all the points of view that you can imagine. only the abbé and i were in this little compartment on good cushions and in fine air, much at our ease, altogether like _cochons sur la paille_. we had _potage et du boulli_, quite warm, as there is a little furnace here; one eats on a ship's plank like the king and queen; from which you see how everything is _raffiné_ upon our loire!" down this same river m. fouquet, the great financier, fled from the wrath of his royal master and the bitter hatred of his rival colbert. on the swift current the lighter sped, carried along by it and the eight rowers toward nantes and fouquet's own fortress of belle isle, only to be overtaken by colbert's boat with its twelve sturdy oarsmen. whatever may have been the sins of fouquet, he had so many charming traits and was so beloved by the great writers of france--molière, la fontaine, madame de sévigné, pelisson, and all the rest whom he gathered around him at his château--that our sympathies are with him rather than with the cold and calculating colbert. putting their hands into the public coffers was so much the habit of the financiers and royal almoners of that period that we quite resent fouquet's being singled out for the horrible punishment inflicted upon him, and after all he may not have been guilty, as justice often went far astray in those days, as in later times. whether or not m. fouquet was the "man with the iron mask," as some authorities relate, we shall probably never know. walter, who is not a fanciful person, as you are aware, is inclined to believe that he was, although his beloved dumas has invented a highly dramatic tale which makes a twin brother of louis xiv, the mysterious "man with the iron mask." in the goodly company of madame de sévigné, her _fablier_, as she dubbed la fontaine, m. fouquet, and our old friends the three guardsmen, you may believe that the journey from paris to tours did not seem long to us. i must tell you of one contretemps, however, in case you, like us, take the express train from the quai d'orsay. instead of being carried to our destination, which is a railroad courtesy that one naturally expects, we were dumped out at a place about twenty miles from tours. we had our books and papers all around us, and were enjoying sole possession of the compartment, when we were suddenly told to put away our playthings and change cars. we asked "why?" as we had understood that this was a through train, but the only response that we could get from the guard was, "st. pierre le corps, change cars for tours!" so bag and baggage, with not a porter in sight to help us, and walter loaded like a dromedary with dress-suit cases and parcels, we were hurried across a dozen railroad tracks to a train which was apparently waiting for us. "what does it all mean?" exclaimed miss cassandra. "what have we to do with st. peter and his body? st. martin and his cloak are what we naturally expect here." "to be sure," we all exclaimed in a breath, but we had actually forgotten that st. martin was the patron saint of tours. miss cassandra is worth a dozen guidebooks, as she always gives us her information when we want it, and we want it at every step in this old touraine, which is filled with history and romance. she also reminds us that between tours and poitiers was fought the great battle between the saracen invaders and the french, under charles martel, which turned back the tide of mohammedism and secured for france and europe the blessings of christianity, and that in the château of plessis-les-tours the famous treaty was made between henry iii and his kinsman, henry of navarre, which brought together under one flag the league, the reformers, and the royalists of france. as we drove from the station to the hotel, the coachman pointed out to us the new church of st. martin, which occupies a portion of the site of the vast basilica of which two picturesque towers alone remain. we hope for a nearer view of it to-morrow, and of st. gatien, whose double towers we can see from our windows at the pension b----. we had expected to stop at the hôtel de l'univers, which mr. henry james and all the other great folk honor with their regard; but finding no accommodations there we are temporarily lodged at this excellent pension. although called a hotel by courtesy, this house possesses all the characteristics of a pension in good standing. there is no office, nothing to suggest the passing of the coin of the realm between ourselves and the proprietors. we are treated like honored guests by the ancient porter and the other domestics; but of madame, our hostess, we have only fleeting visions in the hall and on the stairway, usually in a pink _matinée_. monsieur materializes on occasions when we need postage stamps and change, and is most accommodating in looking up train times for us. above all, and most characteristic of all, there is in the _salle à manger_ a long table surrounded by a dozen or more of our countrywomen, _en voyage_ like ourselves. walter was at first somewhat disconcerted by this formidable array of womankind without a man in sight, and at the dinner table confided to me his sentiments regarding pensions in rather strong language, insisting that it was like being in a convent, or a young ladies' seminary, except that he had noticed that most of the ladies were not painfully young, all this in an undertone, of course, when lo! as if in answer to his lament, a man appeared and seated himself modestly, as befitted his minority sex, at a side table by his wife. walter now having some one to keep him in countenance, we shall probably remain where we are and indeed a harder heart than his, even a heart of stone, could not fail to be touched by miss cassandra's delight at being surrounded by her compatriots, and able to speak her own language once more with freedom. the joyous manner in which she expands socially, and scintillates conversationally, proves how keen her sufferings must have been in the uncomprehending and unrequiting circles in which we have been living. it goes without saying that she soon became the centre of attraction at table, and so thrilled her audience by a spirited recital of her adventures at the villa carlotta that the other man cried, "bravo!" from his side table, without waiting for the formality of an introduction. "quite different," as walter says, "from the punctilious gentlemen in the 'bab ballads' who couldn't eat the oysters on the desert island without being duly presented." our new acquaintances are already planning tours for us to the different châteaux of the loire, while walter and his companion, who proves to be a united states army man and quite a delightful person, are smoking in the garden. this garden upon which our long windows open, with its many flowers and shrubs and the largest gingko tree i have ever seen, would hold us fast by its charms were the pension b---- less comfortable than it is. v in and around tours pension b----, tours, august st. we set forth this morning on a voyage of discovery, and on foot, which is the only satisfactory way to explore this old town, with its winding streets and quaint byways and corners. our first visit was to the church of st. martin of tours, in the rue des halles, which brought with it some disappointment, as instead of a building so old that no one can give its date, we found a fine new church, in whose crypt are the remains of st. martin. the most ancient basilica of st. martin was erected soon after the death of the benevolent saint, whose remains were carried by faithful members of his diocese from candes, where he died in the beginning of the fifth century. this basilica was burned down in the tenth century, and another erected on its site some years later. this last basilica, built in the twelfth or thirteenth century, of vast size and beauty, was certainly old enough to have been treated with respect, and its destruction a few years ago to make way for a new street was, as walter says, an act of vandalism worthy of the councilmen of an american city. of the old church only two towers remain, the tour de charlemagne and the tour de l'horloge, and the gallery of one of the cloisters. over this imperfect arcade, with its exquisite carvings of arabesques, flowers, fruits, cherubs, and griffins, mr. henry james waxed eloquent, and mrs. mark pattison said of it: "of these beautiful galleries the eastern side alone has survived, and being little known it has fortunately not been restored, and left to go quietly to ruin. yet even in its present condition the sculptures with which it is enriched, the bas reliefs, arabesques, and medallions which fill the delicate lines of the pilasters and arcades testify to the brilliant and decided character which the renaissance early assumed in touraine." if the present church of st. martin was disappointingly new, we found the cathedral of st. gatien sufficiently ancient, with its choir dating back to the thirteenth century and its transept to the fourteenth, while the newels of the two towers belong to a very much earlier church dedicated to the first bishop of tours, and partly destroyed by fire in . [illustration: neurdein freres, photo. staircase and cloÎtre de la psallette, st. gatien] who st. gatien was, and why he had a cathedral built in his honor, even miss cassandra and lydia do not know, and we have no good histories or lives of the saints to refer to; verily one would need a traveller's library of many volumes in order to answer the many questions that occur to us in this city, which is so full of old french history, and english history, too. indeed it is quite impossible to separate them at this period, when england owned so much of france and, as miss cassandra says, her kings were always looking out of the windows of their french castles upon some naboth's vineyard that they were planning to seize from their neighbors. "jolly old robbers they were," says walter, "and always on top when there was any fighting to be done. i must say, quite aside from the question of right or wrong, that i have much more sympathy with them than with the johnny crapauds. here, in this foreign land of france, the plantagenet kings seem quite our own, and only a few removes in consanguinity from our early presidents." we were glad to lay claim to the cathedral of st. gatien, which in a way belongs to us, as the choir was begun by henry ii of england, although it is to be regretted that a quarrel between this plantagenet king and louis vii resulted in a fire which destroyed much of the good work. we lingered long in the cloisters, and climbed up the royal staircase, with its beautiful openwork vaulting to the north tower, from whose top we may see as far as azay-le-rideau on a clear day. this was, of course, not a clear day, as we are having hazy august weather, so we did not see azay, but from the tower we gained quite a good idea of the general plan of tours, and stopped long enough in the cloisters to learn that the picturesque little gallery, called the cloître de la psallette, was the place where the choir boys were once trained. the façade of this cathedral seemed to us a beautiful example of renaissance style, although said to offend many of the canons of architecture. we are thankful that we do not know enough about the principles of architecture to be offended by so beautiful a creation, and inside the church we were so charmed by the exquisite old glass, staining the marble pillars with red, blue and violet, that we failed to notice that the aisles are too narrow for perfect harmony. the jewel-like glass of the lady chapel was brought here from the old church of st. julian in the rue nationale, once the rue royale, and is especially lovely. in a chapel in the right-hand transept we saw the tomb of the little children of charles viii and anne of brittany, by whose early death the throne of france passed to the valois branch of the orleans family. looking at the faces of these two children sleeping here side by side, the little one with his hands under the ermine marble, the elder with his small hands folded piously together, a wave of sympathy passed over us for the unhappy mother who was in a few months deprived of both her precious babies. as we stood by the tomb with its two quaint little figures, guarded by kneeling angels at their heads and feet, beautiful, appropriate, reverent, we wondered why modern sculptors fall so far behind the ancient in work of this sort. the moderns may know their anatomy better, but in sweetness and tender poetic expression the work of the old artists is infinitely superior. this charming little group was probably made by michael colombe, although it has been attributed to several other sculptors of the time. after a visit to the archbishop's palace, and a short stop at the museum, which attracted us less than the outdoor world on this pleasant day, we stopped at the quai du pont neuf to look at the statues of descartes and rabelais, so picturesquely placed on each side of the pont de pierre. retracing our steps by the rue nationale we strolled into the interesting old church of st. julian, where we admired the vast nave of noble proportions and the beautiful stained glass. after wandering at will through several streets with no especial object in view, we found ourselves in a charming little park where we were interested in a monument to three good physicians of tours, a recognition of valiant service to humanity that might well be followed by our american cities. just here my inveterate american reminded me of the monument in boston to the discoverer of ether, and that to dr. hahnemann in washington. "both of them monstrosities of bad taste!" exclaimed miss cassandra, as we turned into the rue emile zola, and along the rue nationale to the palais de justice, in one of whose gardens is a fine statue of the great novelist who was born in the maison de balzac, near by on the rue nationale. through the streets george sand and victor hugo, we found our way to the theatre and then back to the boulevard béranger, upon which our pension is situated. "it is," as miss cassandra says, "a liberal education to walk through the streets of these old french towns, and whatever may be the shortcomings of the french, as a nation, they cannot be accused of forgetting their great people." as we stroll through these thoroughfares and parks we are constantly reminded by a name on a street corner or a statue that this touraine is the land of balzac, rabelais, descartes, and in a way of ronsard and george sand, as the châteaux of la poissonnière and nohant are not far away. here they, and many another french writer, walked and dreamed, creating characters so lifelike that they also walk with us through these quaint streets and byways or look out from picturesque doorways. we can fancy the curé de tours emerging from the lovely cloître de la psallette of st. gatien or the still lovelier cloister of old st. martin's; or we can see poor félex de vandenesse making his way across the park, emile zola, with his meagre lunch basket on his arm. we have not yet tasted the _rillons_ and _rillettes_ so prized by the school children of tours, and so longed for by félex when he beheld them in the baskets of his more fortunate companions. lydia reminds us that balzac was at some pains to explain that this savory preparation of pork is seldom seen upon the aristocratic tables of tours, and as our pension is strictly aristocratic and exclusive, it is doubtful if we ever see _rillons_ and _rillettes_ upon madame b----'s table. september st. we crossed over the bridge this afternoon in a tram to saint symphorien, on whose hillside the original city of tours was built. here we saw an interesting renaissance church, and passing through the streets of vieux calvaire l'ermitage, jeanne d'arc and st. gatien, gained the entrance to the abbey of marmoutier, where saint gatien dug out his cave in the rocky hillside. we also saw the ruins of a fine thirteenth century basilica once the glory of touraine, and by a spiral staircase ascended to the _chapelle des sept dormants_, really a cavern cut in the side of the hill in the shape of a cross, where rest the seven disciples of st. martin, who all died on the same day as he had predicted. their bodies remained intact for days and many miracles were worked, which you may believe, or not, just as you choose. when the name of the chapel was revealed to miss cassandra she exclaimed: "i have heard of the seven sleepers all my life and have been likened unto them in my youth; but never did i expect to lay eyes upon their resting place, and very uncomfortable beds they must have been!" "so it was st. gatien who first brought christianity to france. some one of us should surely have known that," said lydia, looking up from the pages of a small local guidebook, with a face so dejected over her own ignorance, and that of her companions, that miss cassandra said in her most soothing tones: "never mind, dear, you will probably find when we reach the next cathedral town that some other worthy and adored saint did this good work for france." and sure enough, this very night we have been learning, from a short history that we picked up on a book stall, that, although st. gatien came here on a mission from rome in the third century, to st. martin is due the spread of christianity not only through touraine but all over france. having done our duty in the line of sightseeing and historic associations, we rested from our labors for a brief season and stopped to call on the grants from new york, who are staying in a pleasant pension at st. symphorien. here we had an hour with them in the garden where many flowers are abloom, and exchanged travel experiences and home gossip over _brioches_, the famous white wine of vouvray and glasses of orange-flower water. orange-flower water is the proper thing to drink here as it is made in large quantities in the neighborhood of tours. as a refreshing and unintoxicating beverage it was highly recommended to our quaker lady, who does not take kindly to the wine of the country, which is really guiltless of alcohol to any extent; but over this rather insipid drink she was not particularly enthusiastic. like the english woman when she made her first acquaintance with terrapin, the most that miss cassandra could be induced to say was that the _eau des fleurs d'oranges sucrée_ was not so very bad. the english dame, of course, said "it is not so very nasty"; but we have not become sufficiently anglicized to say "nasty" in company. there is no knowing what we may come to when angela joins us, as she has been visiting and motoring with dr. mcivor's english and scotch relations for the last six weeks and will have become quite a britisher by the time we see her again. she is to meet us in paris later in september, when her m.d. will join us for his vacation. we returned home by the suspension bridge, built upon the site of an early bridge of boats. a later stone bridge was erected by odo, count of blois and touraine, "in order," as he recorded, "to make himself agreeable to god, useful to posterity and upon the solicitations of his wife." these were very good reasons, it must be admitted, for building a bridge. the substructure of this old stone bridge, the first of its kind in france, may be seen below the surface of the water a little farther up the stream. royalty seems to have had the good taste to spend much time in touraine during the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries, and small wonder we thought, for this fertile well-watered plain combines the advantages of north and south, and is hospitable to the fruits and flowers of many climates. louis xi, in his declining years, sought refuge here from the chill winds of paris, which are tempered in touraine by the softer breezes of the midi, and this ancient city of the turones he wished to make the capital of the france that he had strengthened and unified. however we may abhor the despicable characteristics of this wily old politician and despot, we cannot afford to underestimate his constructive ability and his zeal for the glory of france. september nd. we drove out this morning through the little village of st. anne to the old château of plessis-les-tours, which louis built and fortified to suit his fancy and his fears, for great and powerful as he was he seems to have been a most timid mortal. of the "hidden pitfalls, snares and gins" with which the old king surrounded his castle we could not expect to find a trace, but we were disappointed to see nothing left of the three external battlemented walls or the three gates and dungeon-keep, which sir walter scott described, the latter rising "like a black ethiopian giant high into the air." with our quentin durward in our hands, we read of plessis-les-tours as the novelist pictured it for us in the light of romance. of course sir walter never saw this château, but like many other places that he was not able to visit, it was described to him by his friend and neighbor, mr. james skene, laird of rubislaw, who while travelling in france kept an accurate diary, enlivened by a number of clever drawings, all of which he placed at the novelist's disposal. from this journal, says lockhart, sir walter took the substance of the original introduction to quentin durward. as mr. james skene is said to have given his friend most accurate descriptions of the buildings and grounds, it is safe to conclude that the château has been entirely remodelled since the days when the young scottish archer listened to the voice of the countess isabelle, as she sang to the accompaniment of her lute while he acted as sentinel in the "spacious latticed gallery" of the château. it is needless to say that we failed to discover the spacious gallery or the maze of stairs, vaults, and galleries above and under ground which are described as leading to it. nor did we see any traces of the fleur-de-lis, ermines, and porcupines which are said to have adorned the walls at a later date. indeed the empty, unfurnished rooms and halls, guiltless of paintings or tapestries, were so dismal that we hurried through them. as if to add an additional note of discord to the inharmonious interior, a "vaccination museum" has been established in one of the ancient rooms. we stopped a moment to look at the numerous caricatures of the new method of preventing the ravages of smallpox; one, that especially entertained walter, represented the medical faculty as a donkey in glasses charged upon by vaccine in the form of a furious cow. we hoped to find in the grounds some compensation for the cheerlessness of the interior of the castle; but here again we were doomed to disappointment. the vast lawn and extensive parterres, which caused the park of plessis-les-tours to be spoken of as the garden of france, have long since disappeared, and all that we could find was a grass-grown yard with some neglected flower beds, surrounded by a hedge of fusane, a kind of laurel with a small white flower that grows here in great profusion. we made an effort to see, or to fancy that we saw, an underground passage that was pointed out to us as that which once led to the dungeon upon whose stone foundation was placed the iron cage in which cardinal la balue was confined. of the series of fosses which once enclosed the château we found some remains, but of the solid ramparts flanked by towers, where a band of archers were once posted by night and day, and of the bristling _chevaux-de-frise_ nothing was to be seen. walter wishes you to tell allen that the greatest disappointment of all is that there is no oak forest anywhere near plessis from whose boughs the victims of louis were wont to hang "like so many acorns," one of scott's bits of realism that appealed to his boyish imagination. we were glad to turn our backs upon the modern brick building which occupies the site of the ancient stronghold of plessis and to drive home by a farm called la rabatière, whose fifteenth century building is said to have been the manor house of olivier le daim, familiarly called olivier le diable, the barber-minister of louis. our driver, who is somewhat of an historian, and like a loyal tournageau is proud of the associations of his town, good and bad alike, was delighted to show us this old home of olivier who was, he informed us, the executioner of his master's enemies of high degree, while tristan l'hermite attended to those of less distinction, having, as louis warned quentin, "for him whose tongue wagged too freely an amulet for the throat which never failed to work a certain cure." the house of tristan, our _cocher_ told us, we should find in one of the narrow streets of the old part of tours, which we have not yet explored. vi langeais and azay-le-rideau pension b----, tours, september rd. when we started toward langeais this afternoon we were pleased to think that our way was much the same as that which félix took in search of his "lily of the valley." the loire lay before us just as he described it,--"a long watery ribbon which glistens in the sun between two green banks, the rows of poplars which deck this vale of love with moving tracery, the oak woods reaching forward between the vineyards on the hillsides which are rounded by the river into constant variety, the soft outlines crossing each other and fading to the horizon." [illustration: mediÆval stairway, chÂteau of luynes] we passed by luynes, whose steep hillside steps we shall mount some day to see the fine view of the river and valley from the outer walls and terrace of the château, as its doors are said to be inhospitable to those who wish to inspect the interior. this afternoon langeais and azay-le-rideau are beckoning us, although we were tempted to stop for a nearer view of the strange pile de cinq mars, which is, we are told, an unsolved architectural puzzle. the most probable explanation is that this lofty tower was once part of a signalling system, by beacon fires, which flamed messages along the valley, past luynes to the lantern of rochecorbon and as far eastward as amboise. although there are the ruins of a castle of the same name quite near the pile de cinq mars, the home of henry d'effiat, marquis de cinq mars, seems to have been at chaumont, where alfred de vigny placed the opening scenes of his novel. to compensate for our disappointing morning at plessis-les-tours, we had an entirely satisfactory afternoon at langeais, where we beheld a veritable fortress of ancient times. at a first glance we were as much interested in the little gray town of langeais, which is charmingly situated on the right bank of the loire, as in the château itself, whose façade is gloomy and austere, a true mediæval fortress, "with moat, drawbridge, and portcullis still in working order," as walter expresses it. as we stood on the stone steps at the entrance between the great frowning towers waiting for the portcullis to be raised, we felt as if we might be in a scott or dumas novel, especially as our quaker lady repeated in her own dramatic fashion: ". . . . and darest thou then to beard the lion in his den, the douglas in his hall? and hopest thou hence unscathed to go? no, by saint bride of bothwell, no! up drawbridge, grooms--what, warder, ho! let the portcullis fall." lord marmion turn'd,--well was his need,-- and dashed the rowels in his steed, like arrow through the archway sprung, the ponderous gate behind him rung; to pass there was such scanty room, the bars, descending, razed his plume. [illustration: entrance to langeais, with drawbridge] fortunately for us the portcullis rose instead of falling, and so, with plumes unscathed, we passed through the doorway, and as if to add to the _vraisemblance_ of the situation and make us feel quite mediæval, soldiers stood on each side of the entrance, apparently on guard, and it was not until after we had entered the château that we discovered them to be visitors like ourselves. if the façade of langeais, with its severe simplicity and solidity, its great stone towers, massive walls, _chemin de ronde_ and machiolated cornices, gave us an impression of power and majesty, we found that it also had a smiling face turned toward the hill and the lovely gardens. here the windows open upon a lawn with turf as green and velvety as that of england, and parterres of flowers laid out in all manner of geometrical figures. from a court basking in sunshine, two beautiful renaissance doors lead into the castle. through one of them we passed into a small room in which the inevitable postcards and souvenirs were sold by a pretty little dark-eyed french woman, who acted as our guide through the castle. we begged her to stand near the vine-decked doorway to have her photograph taken, which she did with cheerful alacrity. some soldiers, who were buying souvenirs, stepped through the doorway just in time to come into the picture, their red uniforms adding a delightful touch of color as they stood out against the gray walls of the château. it was a charming scene which we hoped to be able to send you, but alas! a cloud passed over the sun, and this, with the dark stone background, made too dull a setting, and by the time the sun was out again our guide was in request to take a party of tourists through the château, ourselves among them. langeais is so popular during this busy touring season that hours and turns are strictly observed. one of the soldiers is evidently the _cher ami_ of our pretty eloisa, who waved her little hand to him as she sent a coquettish glance from her fine eyes in his direction, and threw him a kiss, after which she applied herself to her task as cicerone, conducting us from room to room, enlarging upon the history and associations of the château, and explaining to us that of the original castle, built by foulques nerra, or "fulk the black," in , only the ruinous donjon keep is to be seen beyond the gardens. the present château is of much later date, and was built by jean bourré, comptroller of the finances for normandy under louis xi, who was granted letters patent of nobility and the captaincy of langeais about . after listening to thrilling tales of the barbarous cruelty of fulk the black, count of anjou, who had his first wife burned at the stake and made himself very disagreeable in other ways, as our guide naïvely remarked in french of the purest touraine brand, lydia exclaimed, "the more perfect the french, the easier it is to understand!" "it is all the same to me, good or bad," groaned walter in reply to lydia's ollendorf phrase, uttering quite audible animadversions against foreign languages in general and the french in particular, which our guide fortunately did not comprehend, especially as he concluded with a crushing comparison, "why are not all the guides like that wonderful little woman at the castle of chillon, who told her story in english, french, and german with equal fluency and facility?" "why, indeed!" echoed miss cassandra, who being a fellow sufferer is most sympathetic. it certainly is exasperating to a degree to have the interesting history and traditions given forth in a language that one does not understand, and with such rapidity that if those who are able to grasp the meaning attempt to translate they quite lose the thread of the discourse and are left far behind in the story. as we passed through the great halls and spacious rooms with timbered ceilings, tapestried walls, and beautifully tiled floors, we were impressed with the combination of mediæval strength and homelike comfort, especially in the living rooms and bedrooms. the graceful mural decorations of flowers and cherries in the salon des fleurs are in strong contrast with the massive woodwork and the heavy carved furniture, and yet the ensemble is quite harmonious. in the guard room we noticed a fine frieze in which the arms of anne of brittany are interwoven with her motto, "_potius mori quam foedari!_" from this and much more in the line of careful restoration and rich decoration and furnishing, you may believe that the interior of langeais has undergone a transformation, at the hands of several owners of the château, since the days when mr. henry james spoke of its apartments as "not of first-class interest." m. christophe baron and monsieur and madame jacques siegfried have, while preserving the distinctive characteristics of an ancient fortress, made of langeais an entirely livable château. just here we are reminded by our historians that we anglo-saxons have a link far back in our own history with langeais and the cruel fulk, duke of anjou, as one of his descendants married matilda, daughter of henry i, of england, and their grandson was richard coeur de lion, who was count of touraine and lord of langeais as well as king of england. in the beautiful long salon, with its wonderful sixteenth century tapestries and handsomely carved spanish choir stalls, our guide became especially eloquent, telling us that this was the room in which charles viii and anne de bretagne were married, the inlaid table in the centre being that upon which the marriage contract was signed. "what is the little black-eyed woman talking about?" asked miss cassandra, in a most pathetic tone. fortunately, our cicerone gave us more time in this room than in the others, and as we stood by the windows which look out upon the court and gardens, a blaze of color in the september sunshine, lydia and i tried to explain about the very remarkable marriage solemnized in this château between the heiress of brittany and the young king of france. odd as royal marriages usually are, this was especially melodramatic, as the royal lover seems to have set forth to meet the lady of his choice with a sword in one hand and a wedding ring in the other. the hand of the young duchess of brittany was naturally sought after by many princes, who looked with longing eyes upon her rich inheritance, in addition to which, as brantôme says, she was renowned for her beauty and grace, which latter was not impaired by the fact that one leg was shorter than the other. she was also learned, according to the learning of her day, and clever, which circumstances probably weighed lighter than vanity when put in the scale against the wealth of the duchy of brittany. among the various pretendants to the hand of the duchess was louis, duke of orleans, who as next in succession to his cousin charles was a suitor quite worthy of the hand of this high-born lady. feats of valor had been performed by louis in brittany earlier in his career, which of course reached the ears of anne, who like every woman of spirit admired a hero, when lo! misfortune of misfortunes, he was taken prisoner at the battle of st. aubin, where he fought bravely at the head of his infantry. this capture must have been a sad blow to the hopes of the young duke of orleans, as maximilian, duke of austria, promptly stepped in and claimed the hand of the breton heiress; but even this wooing was not destined to prosper, as charles viii, who had just succeeded to the throne of france, suddenly announced that he was the proper person to wed the duchess anne and her possessions, and promptly breaking his engagement with margaret of austria, set forth upon his war-like wooing. she, poor girl, would probably have preferred any one of her suitors to the boy of nineteen or twenty, misshapen and ignorant, says a chronicler of the time, and so feeble in body that his father, despairing of his holding the throne, had arranged a marriage between the next heir, this same duke of orleans, and his daughter, jeanne of france. the young duchess, an heiress in her own right, and possessed of a decided will of her own, as appeared later, was singularly hampered in the choice of a consort, several eligible suitors being separated from her by the armies of charles, who, closely besieging the town of rennes, demanded her hand at the point of the sword. thus wooed, anne reluctantly consented to become queen of france, and was secretly betrothed to charles at rennes. if the betrothal of charles and anne was accomplished with scant ceremony, their marriage at langeais was celebrated in due form. the bride, accompanied by a distinguished suite, is described, as she arrived at the château upon her palfrey, wearing a rich travelling costume of cloth and velvet, trimmed with one hundred and thirty-nine sable skins. her wedding dress of cloth of gold was even more sumptuous, as it was adorned with one hundred and sixty sable skins. fortunately for the comfort of the wearer, the wedding was in december, and in these stone buildings, destitute of adequate heating arrangements, fur garments must have been particularly comfortable. the nuptial benediction was pronounced by the bishop of angers, probably in a chapel which was formerly in the southwest wing of the château, and in the presence of the prince of orange, the duke of bourbon, the chancellor of france and other nobles of high degree, among them the duke of orleans, afterwards louis xii, who was destined to become the second husband of anne. one of the articles of the marriage contract signed in this room at langeais was that if charles should die without issue anne should marry the next heir to the crown, thus uniting brittany indissolubly with france. brantôme described the fourteen-year-old bride as pretty, with black eyes, well-marked eyebrows, black hair, fresh complexion and a dimpled chin, but as lydia says, one cannot always trust brantôme, as he painted catherine de médici whom he beheld with his mortal eyes in all the glory of the lily and rose, and later, when he saw queen elizabeth in london, he wrote of her as beautiful and of lofty bearing. it is quite evident that brantôme's eyes were bedazzled by the glitter of royalty, or was it the glitter of royal gold? "well, whether or not anne was beautiful, it is a comfort to have her safely married in the midst of so much confusion and warfare," said miss cassandra, with the satisfied air of a mother who has just made an eligible marriage for her daughter. "but we have not done with her yet," exclaimed lydia. "we shall meet her and her ermine tails and tasseled ropes in every château of the loire, and at amboise we shall go a step further in her history, and only reach the last chapter at blois." [illustration: cafÉ rabelais opposite chÂteau of langeais] from the mediæval fortress, with its wealth of french and english history that lydia and our guide poured into our willing ears, we crossed the rue gambetta to the little café rabelais, opposite the entrance to the château, where we spent a cheerful _quart d'heure_ over cups of tea, and classic buns that are temptingly displayed in the window. although this genial reformed monk, as walter is pleased to call rabelais, was born at chinon, he seems to have lived at langeais at two different periods of his wandering and eventful life, guillaume, sieur de langeais, having given him a cottage near the château. having come to langeais by train we engaged a hack to convey us to azay-le-rideau, a drive of about six miles. as we drove over a long bridge that crosses the loire, we had another view of the château, with its three massive towers, many chimneys, and of the wide shining river that flows beside it, bordered by tall poplars and dotted with green islets. our drive was through a level farming land, where men and women were at work cutting grass and turning over the long rows of yellow flax which were drying in the sun. here again we saw many women with the large baskets or _hottes_ on their backs, as if to remind us that the burden-bearers are not all of italy, for the women of france work quite as hard as the men, more constantly it would seem, if we may judge by the number of men who are to be seen loafing about the little inns and _cabarets_. across the wide, low-lying fields and pasture lands, we could see the long line of foliage that marks the forest of chambord. all these great country palaces of the kings and nobles of france were comparatively near each other, "quite within visiting distance," as miss cassandra says. as we walked along the avenue of horse-chestnut trees, and over the little bridge that spans the indre, we felt that no site could have been better chosen for the building of a palace of pleasure than this. with a background of forest trees, a river flowing around it, the stone walls and bridges draped with a brilliant crimson curtain of american ivy, the château of azay-le-rideau justifies balzac's enthusiastic description: "a diamond with a thousand facets, with the indre for a setting and perched on piles buried in flowers." yet this gay palace, like most of the châteaux of the loire, has arisen upon the foundations of a fortress, and its odd name was given it in honor of a certain hughes ridel or rideau, who in the thirteenth century built a castle on an island to defend the passage of the indre, the position being an important one strategically. when our old dijon friend, jean sans-peur, came this way in , he took care to place a garrison of several hundred men at azay. these burgundian soldiers, having a high opinion of the strength of the castle and of their own prowess, undertook to jeer at the dauphin, afterwards charles vii, as he passed by on his way from chinon to tours, upon which he laid siege to azay and captured and meted out summary vengeance upon those who had mocked at and insulted him. the story told to us sounds, as miss cassandra says, like a chapter from the chronicles or the book of kings, for although a great bear did not come out of the woods and devour those wicked mockers, they were hanged, every one, their captain was beheaded and the castle razed to the ground. upon the piles of the old fortress the château of azay arose to please the fancy of a certain grilles berthold, a relative of the bohier who built the château of chenonceaux, and like him a minister of finance. built upon an island, the slow flowing indre forms a natural moat around the castle, or as balzac expresses it more picturesquely, "this most charming and elaborate of the châteaux of beautiful touraine ever bathes itself in the indre, like a princely galley adorned with lace-like pavilions and windows, and with pretty soldiers on its weathercocks, turning, like all soldiers, whichever way the wind blows." the lace-like effect that balzac speaks of evidently refers to the exquisite carving on the walls and around the windows, and upon the graceful corner towers of the château. here, over the driveway and in other places, are the salamander of francis i and the ermine of his wife, claude of brittany, who died before the château was completed. francis lived to use and enjoy azay in the hunting season, as did other sovereigns. the architect, whose name seems to have been lost sight of amid much discussion and some chicanery with regard to the possession of the château, was a wise man in his day and instead of attempting to unite the feudal fortress and the hunting seat, as le nepveu was doing at chambord, he was content to make of azay-le-rideau a palace of pleasure. indeed, he seems to have allowed his fancy free play in the construction of this château, with the result that he has made of it a dwelling place of great beauty, richly decorated but never overloaded with ornament. even the chimney tops are broidered over with graceful designs and covered with a fine basket work in metal. [illustration: chÂteau of azay-le-rideau, east faÇade] a true gem of the french renaissance is azay-le-rideau, so the learned in architecture tell us, and yet enough of the old fortress construction has been preserved to add strength and compactness to the fairy-like beauty of this château. through the handsome double doorway above which the salamander of francis breathes forth its device, "_nutrisco et extingo_," we passed into the beautiful hall and up the grand staircase, with its sculptured vaults of stone, rich beyond compare, adorned with medallions of royal faces and decorations of fruits, flowers, and heraldic emblems. miss cassandra, being somewhat fatigued after our ramble through langeais, sat down upon the steps to enjoy at leisure the delicate beauty of the ornamentation of the stairway, declaring that she was quite ready to take up her abode here, as this château fulfilled all the requirements of a pleasant country home, and after reading madame waddington's book she had always wished to try château life in france. lydia and i objected, for after the complete and harmonious furnishing of langeais the interior of azay-le-rideau seems a trifle bare, as only two or three of the rooms are thoroughly furnished. as the property now belongs to the state and is in the care of l'ecole des beaux arts, which is gradually collecting rare and beautiful articles of furniture, this compact little château will soon be completely equipped as a renaissance museum. the room of francis i is shown, with handsome carved bed and rich hangings of turquoise blue damask, adjoining it the room in which louis xiv slept, which is hung in crimson damask. these rooms, with some fine tapestries, scattered articles of furniture and a number of portraits, complete the present equipment of azay-le-rideau. among the portraits that interested us was one of catherine de médicis by clouet, and another by the same artist of francis i, as he so often appears in his portraits, "with the insufferable smile upon his lips that curl upward satyr-like towards the narrow eyes, the crisp close-cut brownish beard and the pink silken sleeves and doublet." near by, in strong contrast to the sensual face of francis, hangs the clear-cut face of calvin. here also are the portraits of henry of navarre and the wife for whom he cared so little, the beautiful marguerite of valois, less beautiful in her portrait than one would expect, and of the woman whom he loved so deeply, gabrielle d'estrées, duchess of beaufort. a charm of romance ever surrounds the graceful figure of gabrielle d'estrées, whom the usually inconstant henry seems to have loved tenderly and faithfully to the end of her days. many persons have excused this connection of the king with _la belle gabrielle_ because of his loveless and enforced marriage with his cousin marguerite, who was faithful to her royal husband only when his life or his throne were in danger. at such times she would fly to his aid like a good comrade. the handsomest and the most brilliant and daring of the unfortunate and ill-fated brood of the dreadful catherine, marguerite seems to have been particularly happy when she was able to thwart the malicious designs of her mother, from whose plots the king of navarre so often escaped that he was said to have borne a charmed life. as we quitted the château to wander through its lovely gardens, gay with many flowers, and over the lawn with its fine copper beeches, exquisite mimosa trees, hemlocks, and delicate larches, we thought of the many great lords and noble ladies who had walked over this fair demesne and, like us, had stopped to enjoy the soft breezes by the side of the little river where the birches spread their long branches over the gently flowing stream. so near the great world and yet so retired from it, it is not strange that francis, and the kings who followed him, should have often turned from the turmoil and unrest of the court to enjoy this happy valley. we were tempted to linger so long in the grounds that we had only a short time to spend in the interesting eleventh century church which adjoins the park and, like the château, belongs to the state. the façade of the church is richly decorated with quaint statuettes and carvings, and here also is a seigniorial chapel with inscriptions of the biencourt family who owned the château of azay-le-rideau before it passed into the hands of the government. our appetite for châteaux has so increased with the seeing of them that we regretted not having time to go to ussé this same afternoon, but we shall have to make a separate trip to this palace, which is said to be a superb example of gothic architecture. although the château is often inhospitably closed to visitors, its exterior, with innumerable towers and tourelles, and the terraces, gardens, and vast park, nearly seven miles in circumference, are well worth a visit. as usual, the afternoon was not long enough, and the shortening september light warned us that we must take a train from the station at azay-le-rideau about six in order to reach tours in time for dinner. vii two queens at amboise pension b----, tours, september th. this morning we spent at the château of amboise, which we reached by crossing two bridges over the loire, as the wide river is divided at this point by the isle st. jean. none of all these beautiful royal castles owes more to the loire than amboise, whose magnificent round machiolated tower commands the approaches to the bridge, while the fine pointed windows and arched balcony give a fairyland lightness and grace to the adjoining façade which crowns a bluff high above the river. we reached the château by many hillside steps, and through a garden which stands so high upon its terrace above the street that it seems, like the famous gardens of babylon, to hang in the air. upon a nearer view we found that the garden rests upon a solid foundation of rock and earth, and is surrounded by strong walls and parapets of masonry. from these walls the light buttresses of the little chapel of st. hubert spring. this lovely chapel, which with its fine delicate spire and chiselled pinnacles, standing out against the blue sky, gives an effect of indescribable beauty, was built by charles viii after his return from italy. the wonderful carvings above the doorway, representing st. hubert's miraculous encounter with a stag, were doubtless executed by italian workmen whom he brought with him, as only skilled hands could have produced a result so rich and decorative and yet so exquisitely fine and delicate. other beautiful carvings ornament the façade and the interior of the chapel, which in form is a miniature sainte chapel, less brilliant in color and richer in carving than the ancient chapel of st. louis, in paris. a cheerful château, perched upon a rock and bathed in sunshine, amboise appeared to us to-day, whether we looked at it from the bridge or from the garden, with nothing to remind us of the sad and tragic events in its history. this we are told reaches back to the time of julius cæsar, who, recognizing the strategic value of this high bluff above the loire, built a strong tower here. upon the well-wooded isle st. jean, directly opposite the château, clovis and alaric are said to have held an important conference, and our own good king arthur is credited with owning the castle of amboise at one time, and of graciously returning it to the franks before he sailed away to conquer mordred and to meet his own death upon the isle of avalon. all of these tales we may believe or not as we please, for touraine is full of ancient legends, more or less credible, and especially rich in those pertaining to cæsar and his conquests, and of the beloved st. martin's miraculous success in destroying the conqueror's towns, landmarks, and images of the gods. while lydia was gloating over the very ancient history of amboise, walter and i were glad to connect it with a later time when louis vii met thomas à becket here with a view to bringing about a reconciliation between the proud prelate and his lord and master, henry ii of england. this meeting seemed comparatively recent, after the shadowy traditions of cæsar and st. martin that were poured into our ears, and we began to feel quite at home in the castle when we learned that our old friend of langeais, charles viii, was born at amboise and spent his childhood here under the care of his good and clever mother, charlotte of savoy. she taught him all that he was permitted to learn, his father, the crafty louis xi, for some reason only known to himself, desiring his son and heir to grow up in ignorance of books as well as of the world of men. [illustration: chÂteau of langeais, from the loire] after her marriage at langeais, anne de bretagne made a right royal progress to st. denis, where she was anointed and crowned with great state and ceremony, the crown, which was far too heavy for the head of the little queen of fourteen, being held over her by the duke of orleans. the new queen, after making a solemn entrance into paris and receiving the homage of all the civil and military officers of the châtelet, the provost of paris, and of many other dignitaries, returned with her husband to amboise, where most of their married life was spent. additions were made to the château at this time and its interior was fitted up with great splendor; thousands of yards of cloth of gold, silk, tapestries from flanders, and other precious stuffs were used as hangings, to the amount of ten thousand pounds, says one chronicler. "past and contemporary events were portrayed on the tapestries. andré denisot and guillaume ménagier, workers of tours, had charge of the furnishing; one room by ménagier was hung with silk tapestry on which the history of moses was represented, and the floor was covered with a large, fine silk moorish carpet." all this, and much more in the way of rich furnishings and handsome silver, was brought to the old castle to do honor to the bretonne bride, who was destined to know little happiness in her new home. her eldest son, the dauphin charles, who was described by philippe de commines as "a fine child, bold in speech, and fearing not the things other children are frightened at," a child whose birth was hailed with rejoicing as an heir to the duchy of brittany and the kingdom of france, fell ill and died at amboise while his mother was near the frontier of italy celebrating the king's recent victories. a curious story is told by brantôme about the mourning of the king and queen for this beloved son. "after the death of the dauphin," says this chronicler, "king charles and his queen were full of such desolate grief that the doctors, fearing the weakness and feeble constitution of the king, were of opinion that excess of sorrow might be prejudicial to his health; they therefore advised as many distractions as possible, and suggested that the princes at court should invent new pastimes, dances, and mummeries to give pleasure to the king and queen, which being done, the monseigneur d'orléans devised a masquerade with dances, in which he danced with such gaiety and so played the fool that the queen thought he was making merry because he was nearer the throne of france, seeing that the dauphin was dead. she was extremely displeased, and looked on him with such aversion that he was obliged to leave amboise, where the court then was, and go to his castle of blois." this was, as walter remarks, rather shabby treatment of a royal prince and a former suitor; but the little queen was hot tempered, strong in her likes and aversions, and never unmindful of the fact that she was duchess of brittany in her own right, as well as queen of france by her marriage. lydia reminds us that the unappreciated duke of orleans had his innings later when he became king, after the death of charles, and the second husband of anne. you may notice that we are quite up on the history of anne of brittany, as we came across a charming biography of her at brentano's in paris, _a twice crowned queen_, by the countess de la warr, in addition to which we have been looking over an old copy of brantôme that we found at a book store here. in the three years following the death of the dauphin two sons and a daughter were born to charles and anne. these children all died in infancy. "in vain," says the countess de la warr, "did anne take every precaution to save the lives of these little creatures whom death snatched from her so ruthlessly. she summoned nurses from brittany, and the superstitious beliefs of her own country came back to her mind. she presented them with amulets, a guienne crown piece wrapped up in paper, a piece of black wax in a bag of cloth of gold, six serpents' tongues,--a large one, two of medium size, and three little ones,--and rosaries of chalcedony and jasper; she not only sent votive offerings to the venerated shrines of the saints in brittany, and presented rich gifts every year to the holy virgin of auray, but she went herself on a pilgrimage. alas! it was all to no purpose; a relentless fate followed the poor queen." a still heavier blow was destined to fall upon anne, a few years later, in the death of her husband, to whom she seems to have been devotedly attached. in the midst of his work of beautifying amboise with the spoils of his italian wars, charles was suddenly struck down with apoplexy, induced it is thought by a blow. he hit his head, never a very strong one, according to all accounts, against the stone arch of a little doorway and died a few hours after. we were shown the entrance to the galerie hacquelebac where the king met with his fatal accident as he was on his way to the tennis court with the queen and his confessor, the bishop of angers. the door, which was very low at that time, was later raised and decorated with the porcupine of louis xii. the little widow, not yet twenty-one, was so overcome with grief at the death of her husband that she spent her days and nights in tears and lamentations. the only comfort that she found was in ordering a magnificent funeral for charles, to every detail of which louis d'orléans, the new king, attended with scrupulous care, defraying himself the whole cost, not only of the ceremony itself, but of that incurred in conveying the body from amboise to st. denis. even this devotion on the part of her husband's successor did not satisfy the queen, as she redoubled her lamentations upon seeing him, and although he did everything in his power to comfort her in the most winning way, she still refused to eat or sleep and insisted between her sobs: "_je dois suivre le chemin de mon mari!_" which for some reason sounds infinitely more pathetic than the plain english, "i must follow the way of my husband." the way of the beloved charles anne was not destined to follow, as we find her, in less than a year, following in the way of his successor, louis xii. the enforced and altogether unhappy marriage between louis and his cousin, jeanne of france, having been annulled by alexander vi, in return for certain honors conferred upon his son, cæsar borgia, and the decree of separation having been pronounced by him at chinon, louis d'orléans was free to offer his heart and his hand to the lady of his choice. this he did with all despatch, and was as promptly accepted by the widowed queen. the marriage of louis xii and anne was solemnized in her own castle, at nantes, january , , less than nine months after the death of her husband. the queen bestowed rich gifts upon the churches of brittany, the king having already conferred upon the pope's representative, cæsar borgia, a pension of twenty thousand gold crowns, besides which he created him duke of valentinois. "all this goes to prove," as miss cassandra says, "that bribery and corruption in high places are not strictly modern methods, since this good king louis, called the father of his people, resorted to them." with this exception, louis seems to have been quite a respectable person for a royal prince of that time, as he did everything in his power to make up to the discarded jeanne for her disappointment at not being invited to share the throne of france with him. he conferred upon her the duchy of berry and other domains, and with them a handsome income which enabled the pious princess to do many good works and to found the religious order of the annonciade, of which she became superior. although louis and anne established their residence at the king's birthplace, the château of blois, the queen was at amboise during the spring after her marriage, where her return was celebrated with rejoicings and festivities which were as original as they were picturesque, and well calculated to please a wine-drinking populace. anne's biographer says: "the boulevard between the river loire and the castle was transformed into a huge pavilion, in the middle of which were erected two columns bearing the devices of louis and anne,--a porcupine and an ermine,--and from the mouth of each, wine poured. a dais of red damask had been prepared for the king and one of white for the queen; but anne alone took part in this ceremony, either because louis was prevented from being present or because he did not wish by his presence to recall sad memories." despite her wilfulness and obstinacy, louis was very fond of _ma bretonne_, as he playfully called his wife, and yielded to her in many instances. it is recorded, however, that when anne wished to marry their daughter claude to the archduke charles of austria, the king stood out stoutly against the persuasions of his spouse and insisted upon her betrothal to his cousin and heir, francis d'angoulême, telling his wife, after his own humorous, homely fashion, that he had resolved "to marry his mice to none but the rats of his own barn." even with occasional differences of opinion, which the king seems to have met with charming good humor, the union of anne and louis was far happier than most royal marriages. the little bretonne, who had begun by disliking louis d'orléans, ended by loving him even more devotedly than her first husband, which does not seem strange to us, as he was a brave and accomplished gentleman, altogether a far more lovable character than charles. with all her devotion to her husband, the duchess queen was a thrifty lady, with an eye to the main chance, and when poor louis was ill and thought to be dying at blois, she attempted to provide against the chances and changes of sudden widowhood by sending down the river to nantes several boats loaded with handsome furniture, jewels, silver, and the like. these boats were stopped between saumur and nantes by the maréchal de gié, his excuse being that as the king was still alive anne had no right to remove her possessions from the castle. although maréchal de gié was a favorite minister of louis, anne had him arrested and treated with great indignity. not only was the unfortunate maréchal punished for his recent sins, but by means of researches into his past life it was found that he had committed various offences against the state. indignities and miseries were heaped upon him, and so hot was the wrath of the royal lady that when it was proposed that the maréchal de gié should be sentenced to death, she promptly replied that death was far too good for him, as that ended the sorrows of life, and that for one of high estate to sink to a low estate and to be overwhelmed with misfortunes was to die daily, which was quite good enough for him. all of which shows that even if anne was something of a philosopher she was also possessed of a most vindictive spirit, and quite lacking in the sweetness and charity with which her partial biographer has endowed her. fortunately the king, recovering, "through the good prayers of his people," intervened on behalf of his late favorite and mitigated the rigor of his sentence, which was even then more severe than was warranted by his offence. [illustration: chÂteau of amboise, from opposite bank of the loire] i tell you this little tale because it is characteristic of the time, as well as of the imperious little duchess queen, and makes us realize that louis was well named the good, and had need of all the generosity and amiability that has been attributed to him as an offset to the fiery temper of his breton wife. among the many interesting additions that charles viii made to amboise was the great double tours des minimes, adjoining the royal apartments. this tower was used as an approach to the château by means of inclined planes of brick work, which wound around a central newel, graded so gently that horses and light vehicles could ascend without difficulty. these curious ascents were doubtless suggested to the king by the low broad steps in the vatican over which the old popes were wont to ride on their white mules. lydia reminds us that it was upon this dim corkscrew of a road winding upward that brown performed his remarkable feat in _the lightning conductor_. brown might have made this dizzy ascent and perilous descent in his napier; but it could be done by no other chauffeur, "live or dead or fashioned by my fancy," although kings and princes once rode their horses up these inclines, which answered the purpose of _porte cochère_ and stairway. by this way francis i and his guest charles v rode up to the royal apartments when the emperor made his visit here in , amid general rejoicings and such a blaze of flambeaux that, as the ancient chronicler tells us, even in this dim passage one might see as clearly as at midday. in the terraced garden of amboise, near a quincunx of lime trees, is a bust of leonardo da vinci. we wondered why it was placed here until we learned from our invaluable _joanne_ that the italian artist had lived and died at amboise, inhabiting a little manor house near the château. it was francis i, the beauty loving as well as the pleasure seeking king, who brought leonardo to france and to amboise, the home of his childhood. the italian artist was over sixty when he came to france and only lived about three years here, dying, it is said, in the arms of francis. among his last requests were minute directions for his burial in the royal church of st. florentin, which once stood in the grounds of the castle. when this church was destroyed, in the last century, a skull and some bones were found among the ruins which were supposed to be those of leonardo. a bust was erected on the spot where the remains were found. whether or not the bones are those of leonardo, a fitting memorial to the great artist is this bust near the lovely quincunx, whose overshadowing branches form a roof of delicate green above it like the pergolas of his native italy. we afterwards visited the little château de cloux, where leonardo had once lived. a long stretch of years and several reigns lie between anne of brittany and mary of scotland, yet it is of these two twice-crowned queens that we think as we wander through the gardens and halls of the château of amboise. both of these royal ladies came here as brides and both were received with joyful acclamations at amboise. mary's first visit to the château was in the heyday of her beauty and happiness, when as _la reine-dauphine_ she won all hearts. do you remember a charming full-length portrait, that we once saw, of mary and francis standing in the embrasure of a window of one of the royal palaces? although a year younger than mary, francis had been devoted to her little serene highness of scotland ever since her early childhood, and she seems to have been equally attached to her boyish lover, as chroniclers of the time tell us that they delighted to retire from the gayety and confusion of the court to whisper their little secrets to each other, with no one to hear, and that they were well content when according to the etiquette of the period they established their separate court and _ménage_ at villers cotterets as _roi et reine-dauphine_. as the province of touraine was one of the dower possessions of the young queen, she entered into her own when she visited these royal castles. we think of her at amboise, riding up the broad inclines to the royal apartments, her husband by her side, followed by a gay cavalcade, and what would we not give for a momentary glimpse of mary stuart in the bright beauty of her youth, before sorrow and crime had cast a shadow over her girlish loveliness! no portrait seems to give any adequate representation of mary, probably because her grace and animation added so much to the beauty of her auburn tinted hair, the dazzling whiteness of her complexion and the bright, quick glance of her brown eyes. "others there were," says one of mary's biographers, "in that gay, licentious court, with faces as fair and forms more perfect; what raised mary of scotland above all others was her animation. when she spoke her whole being seemed to become inspired. a ready wit called to its aid a well-stored mind." in fact, mary was witty enough to afford to be plain, and beautiful enough to afford to be dull; and early and late she captured hearts, from the days when the poets, ronsard, de maison fleur, and the hapless chastelard, celebrated her charms in verse to a later and sadder time when, during her captivity in england her young page, anthony babington, was so fascinated by her wit and grace that he made a valiant and desperate effort to save her to his own undoing. the sorrows and final tragedy of mary stuart's life have so overshadowed the events of her early years that we are wont to forget the power and influence that were hers in the eighteen months of her reign as queen of france. adored by her young husband, who evidently admired her for her learning as well as for her beauty and charm, she seems to have passed through her years at court with no breath of suspicion attached to her fair name, and this in an atmosphere of unbridled license and debauchery of which jeanne d'albret, queen of navarre, wrote to her son, "no one here but is tainted by it. if you were here yourself you would only escape by some remarkable mercy of god." in addition to her ascendency over the mind of her husband the young queen had always at her side her astute kinsmen, the duke of guise and the cardinal of lorraine, who were as clever as they were unscrupulous. with these powerful uncles near her, mary was in a position to outwit the wily catherine, between whom and the guise faction little love was lost. only when some scheme of deviltry joined them together in common interests, as the massacre of the huguenots at amboise, were catherine and the guise brothers at one, and this triumvirate even queen mary was powerless to withstand. we had wandered far afield with mary stuart in the joyous days of her youth when we were suddenly brought back by the guide to her last sad visit to amboise. he pointed out to us the isle st. jean opposite the balcony where we were standing, saying that the _conjuré_ had met over there. whether or not any of the conspirators met on this island in the loire, the conspiracy of , which the guise brothers were pleased to call the tumult of amboise, was formed at nantes. although the huguenots have had all the credit of this formidable uprising, a number of catholics had joined them with the object of breaking down the great and growing powers of the guise family. as one of the alleged plans of the conspirators was to seize francis and mary and remove them from the influence of the duke of guise and the cardinal of lorraine, the young king and queen were hurried from blois to the stronghold of amboise. if this plot had succeeded, as would probably have been the case had it not been for the treachery of a lawyer, named des avenelles, in whose house one of the leaders lodged, what would it not have meant to the huguenots and to france? with the guise brothers in their power and the king and queen no longer under their dominion, the huguenots might have made terms with the royal party, backed as they were at this time by some catholics of influence. the ever vigilant duke of guise, having discovered the plot, met it with the promptness, resolution, and relentless cruelty that belonged to his character and his time, and in this case an element of revenge was added to his wrath against the offenders, as his own capture and that of his brother, the cardinal of lorraine, was one of the chief objects of the conspirators. the life and liberty of the king and queen were in no way included in this plot, as appeared later; but it suited the purpose of the duke of guise to shelter himself behind the young sovereigns and to represent the conspiracy as an act of high treason against the throne of france. francis and mary, only half believing the story told them, but not strong enough to resist the power of the duke, the cardinal and the queen-mother, allowed themselves to be brought to amboise. we have been reading again dumas's thrilling description of the "tumult of amboise," and his pathetic picture of the young king and queen, who shrank from witnessing the tortures and death to which their huguenot subjects were condemned. catherine insisted that they should take their places on the balcony overlooking the court of execution, chid her son as a weakling because he shrank from the sight of blood, while the cardinal reminded poor, trembling, tender-hearted francis that his "grandsire of glorious memory, francis i, had always assisted at the burning of heretics." "other kings do as they please and so will i," francis had the courage to say but not to do, as he and mary, "poor crowned slaves," as the novelist calls them, were forced to appear upon the iron balcony and witness the execution of some of the noblest of their subjects. standing on the tour des minimes on this fair september day, looking down upon the balconies, terraces, and gardens of the château basking in warm sunshine, it was difficult to realize the scenes of horror and bloodshed that were enacted here on that sad day in march, . the duke had his troops ambushed in the forest of château regnault, in readiness to attack the conspirators as they approached in small detachments, and over the peaceful plain spread before us, through which the loire winds its way, an army of frenchmen was lured on to its destruction by false promises of safety, and in yonder forest of château regnault one of the prime movers in the uprising, the seigneur de la renaudie, a gentleman of perigord, was overtaken and slain. such other brave men and noble gentlemen as the baron de castelnau chalosse and the baron de raunay were spared for a sadder fate, while for the prince of condé there was reserved the crowning horror of seeing his followers beheaded one by one. it is said that as they were led into the courtyard they turned to salute their "_chef muet_," a salute which he was brave enough to return, while they went to the block singing clement marot's adaptation of the sixty-seventh psalm: dieu nous soit doux et favorable nous bénissant par sa bonté et de son visage adorable nous fasse luire la clarté. it is not strange that, in the face of such sublime faith and dauntless courage, the young queen should have pleaded for the life of these noblemen, or that the duke de nemours, who had pledged his faith as a prince, "on his honor and on the damnation of his soul," that the huguenot deputies should be fairly dealt with, should have added his entreaties to those of mary. the duke of nemours appealed to catherine, who answered with feigned indifference that she could do nothing, then to the king who, pale and ill at the sight before him, would have stopped the massacre long before. the queen, on bended knee, begged her husband for the life of the last victim, the baron de castelnau. the king made a sign that he should be spared; but the cardinal of lorraine chose to misunderstand, gave the fatal signal, and castelnau's head fell with the rest. in view of this wholesale slaughter, for it is said that over twelve hundred perished in and around amboise, we do not wonder that the prince de condé exclaimed: "ah, what an easy task for foreigners to seize on france after the death of so many honorable men!" a speech for which the guises never quite forgave him. nor did we wonder, as we made our way to the garden through the bare unfurnished rooms of the château, that it ceased to be a royal residence after this carnival of blood, and later became a state prison, and place of exile for persons of high degree. the cardinal de bourbon was confined here, and it is said that amboise opened its doors to the superintendent fouquet after his capture by d'artagnan, for you must know that there was a real d'artagnan from whom dumas constructed his somewhat glorified hero. we wondered why so many feeble, old people were sitting about in the house and grounds, until the _gardienne_ told us, that, the château having been restored to the orleans family in , they had established here a retreat and home for their old retainers. "well, i am thankful that some good deeds are done here to help to wash away the dark stains from the history of the château!" exclaimed miss cassandra. "but how do they manage to sleep with the ghosts of all these good men who have been murdered here haunting the place at night?" walter reminded her that the just were supposed to rest quietly in their graves, and that it was those of uneasy conscience who walked o' nights. "then catherine must be walking most of the time. we certainly should see her if we could wait here until after dark." when i translated our quaker lady's remarks to the guide she laughed and rejoined, with a merry twinkle in her eye, that if "her majesty had to walk in all the palaces that had known her evil deeds she would be kept busy and would only have a night now and again for amboise; beside which this château was blessed, having been dedicated to good works, and after all were not the guises more involved in the massacre of the huguenots here than catherine?" miss cassandra reluctantly acknowledged that perhaps they were, but for her part she makes no excuses for catherine, and refuses to believe that she was ever an innocent baby. she declares that this insatiable daughter of the médici, like minerva, sprang full grown into being, equipped for wickedness as the goddess was with knowledge. with a clink of silver and a cheerful "_au revoir, mesdames et monsieur_," we parted from our pleasant little guide. as we turned to look back at amboise from the bridge, some heavy clouds hung over the castle, making it look grim and gray, more like the fortress-prison that it had proved to so many hundreds of brave, unfortunate frenchmen than the cheerful château, basking in the sunshine, that we had seen this morning. we motored home, in a fine drizzle of rain, through a gray landscape; and surely no landscape can be more perfectly gray than that of france when it is pleased to put on sombre tints, and no other could have been as well suited to the shade of our thoughts. lydia, by way of reviving our drooping spirits, i fancy, as she is not usually given to conundrums or puzzles, suddenly propounded a series of brain-racking questions. "who first said, 'let us fly and save our bacon;' and 'he would make three bites of a cherry;' and 'appetite comes with eating;' and 'it is meat, drink, and cloth to us;' and----" "stop!" cried miss cassandra, "and give us time to think, but i am quite sure that it was beau brummel who made three bites of a cherry, or a strawberry, or some other small fruit." walter and i were inclined to give shakespeare and pope the credit of these familiar sayings; but we were all wrong, as lydia, after puzzling us for some time, exclaimed triumphantly: "no, further back than either shakespeare or pope; these wise sayings, and many more like them, were written by a tourangeau, one monsieur rabelais." "and where did you come across them?" we asked, quite put out with lydia for knowing so much more than the rest of us. then lydia, who appears upon the surface to be a guileless and undesigning young person, confessed that she had extracted this information from a frenchman with whom we all had some pleasant conversation on the way to langeais, and she has been treasuring it up ever since to spring it upon us in an unguarded moment when we were far from the haunts of rabelais. this gentleman, whose name is one of the things we shall probably never know, with the cheerfully appropriating spirit of the french, was ready to claim most of shakespeare's aphorisms for rabelais. we are willing to forgive him, however, because he introduced us to a phrase coined by the creator of pantagruel, in slow-going sixteenth century days, which so exactly fits the situation to-day that it seems to have been made for such travellers as ourselves: "nothing is so dear and precious as time," wrote m. rabelais, long before tourists from all over the world were trying to live here on twenty-four hours a day and yet see all the châteaux and castles upon their lists. my brother archie has been talking of coming over to join us either here or in paris. as he is a rather sudden person in his movements, it would not surprise me to have him appear any day. i only hope that he may come while we are in touraine. he is so fond of everything in the agricultural line that he would delight in this fertile, well-cultivated country. viii a battle royal of dames pension b----, tours, september th. this being a beautiful day, and the sunshine more brilliant than is usual on a september morning in this region, we unanimously agreed to dedicate its hours to one of the most interesting of the neighboring châteaux. the really most important question upon which we were not unanimous was whether chenonceaux or chinon should be the goal of our pilgrimage. miss cassandra unhesitatingly voted for chenonceaux, which she emphatically announced to be the château of all others that she had crossed the ocean to see. "it was not a ruin like chinon," she urged, "the buildings were in perfect condition and the park and gardens of surpassing loveliness." "of course we expect to go to chinon, dear miss cassandra," said i; "it is only a question of which we are to see to-day." "yes, my dear, but i have great faith in the bird in the hand, or as the portuguese gentleman expressed it, 'one i have is worth two i shall haves.' the finger of fate seems to point to chenonceaux to-day, for i dreamed about it last night and diana (miss cassandra always gives the name of the fair huntress its most uncompromising english pronunciation) was standing on the bridge looking just like a portrait that we saw the other day, and in a gorgeous dress of black and silver. now don't think, my dears, that i approve of diana; she was decidedly light, and lydia knows very well that the overseers of the meeting would have had to deal with her more than once; but when it comes to a choice between diana and catherine, i would always choose diana, whatever her faults may have been." "diane," corrected a shrill voice above our heads. we happened to be standing on the little portico by the garden, and i looked around to see who was listening to our conversation, when again "diane" rang forth, followed by "_bon jour, madame_," all in the exquisite accent of touraine. "it is polly, who is correcting my pronunciation," exclaimed miss cassandra, "and i really don't blame her." looking up at the cage, with a nod and a smile, she cried, "_bon jour, joli marie!_" "good-by, madame," rejoined the parrot, proudly cocking her head on one side and winking at miss cassandra in the most knowing fashion, as if to say, "two can play at that game." polly has learned some english phrases from the numerous guests of the house, and cordially greets us with "good-by" when we enter and "how do you do?" when we are leaving, which, you may remember, was just what mr. monard, who had the little french church in philadelphia, used to do until some person without any sense of humor undertook to set him straight. we trust that no misguided person may ever undertake to correct polly's english or miss cassandra's french, for as walter says, "to hear those two exchanging linguistic courtesies is one of the experiences that make life and travel worth while, and the most amusing part of it is that the quaker lady is as unconscious of the humor of the situation as the parrot." "and, after all," said miss cassandra, returning to her argument after polly's interruption, "when a woman is so beautiful at fifty that a young king is at her feet, giving her jewels from morning until night, it is not strange that her head should be turned. and you must remember, zelphine," added miss cassandra in her most engaging manner, "that your favorite henry james said that he would rather have missed chinon than chenonceaux, and that he counted as exceedingly fortunate the few hours that he passed at this exquisite residence." after this parthian shaft miss cassandra left us to put on her hat for chenonceaux, for to chenonceaux we decided to go, of course. miss cassandra's arguments were irresistible, as usual, and as walter added philosophically, "her choice is generally a wise one, and where everything is so well worth seeing one cannot go far astray." we took a train that leaves, what our local guidebook is pleased to call the monumental railway station of tours, between ten and eleven o'clock and reached the town of chenonceaux in less than an hour. all of these jaunts by rail are short and so conveniently arranged that one always seems to have ample time for the inspection of whatever château and grounds one happens to be visiting. at the station we found an omnibus which conveyed us to the hôtel du bon laboureur, the mecca of all hungry pilgrims, where a substantial luncheon was soon spread before us, enlivened, as walter puts it, by a generous supply of the light wine of the country. looking over my shoulder, as i write, he declares that i am gilding that luncheon at the bon laboureur with all the romance and glamour of chenonceaux, and that it was not substantial at all; but on the contrary pitifully light. perhaps i am idealizing the luncheon, as walter says, but as part and parcel of a day of unallayed happiness it stands out in my mind as a feast of the gods, despite all adverse criticism. being a mere man, as lydia expresses it, walter feels the discomforts of travel more than we women folk. he says that he is heartily tired of luncheons made up of flimflams, omelettes, entrées, and the like, and when the inevitable salad and fowl appeared he quite shocked us by saying that he would like to see some real chicken, the sort that we have at home broiled by mandy, who knows how to cook chicken far and away better than these johnny crapauds with all their boasted culinary skill. lydia and i were congratulating ourselves that no one could understand this rude diatribe when we noticed, at the next table, our acquaintance of langeais, lydia's aphoristic frenchman, if i may coin a word. this did not seem a good time to renew civilities, especially as he was evidently laughing behind his napkin. i motioned to walter to keep quiet and gave him a look that was intended to be very severe, and then miss cassandra, with her usual friendly desire to pour oil upon the troubled waters, stirred them up more effectually by adding: "yes, walter, but in travelling one must take the bad with the good; we have no buildings like these at home and i for one am quite willing to give up american social pleasures and luxuries for the sake of all that we see here and all that we learn." can you imagine anything more bewildering to a frenchman than miss cassandra's philosophy, especially her allusion to american social pleasures and luxuries, which to the average and untravelled french mind would be represented, i fancy, by a native indian picnic with a menu of wild turkey and quail? it was a very good luncheon, i insisted, even if not quite according to american ideas, and variety is one of the pleasures of foreign travel,--this last in my most instructive manner and to lydia's great amusement. she alone grasped the situation, as walter and miss cassandra were seated with their backs to the stranger. in order to prevent further criticisms upon french living i changed the subject by asking walter for our joanne guidebook, and succeeded in silencing the party, after artemus ward's plan with his daughter's suitors, by reading aloud to them, during which the stranger finished his luncheon and after the manner of the suitors quietly took his departure. "we shall never see him again," i exclaimed, "and he will always remember us as those rude and unappreciative americans!" "and what have we done to deserve such an opinion?" asked walter. "attacked them on their most sensitive point. a frenchman prides himself, above everything else, upon the _cuisine_ of his country, and considers american living altogether crude and uncivilized." "and is _that_ all, zelphine, and don't you think it about time that they should learn better; and who is the _he_ in question, anyhow?" when i explained about the frenchman, who was seated behind him and understood every invidious word, walter, instead of being contrite, said airily that he regretted that he had not spoken french as that would probably have been beyond mr. crapaud's comprehension. a number of coaches were standing in front of the little inn, one of which miss cassandra and lydia engaged in order to save their strength for the many steps to be taken in and around the château; but they did not save much, after all, as the coaches all stop at the end of the first avenue of plane trees at a railroad crossing and after this another long avenue leads to the grounds. walter and i thought that we decidedly had the best of it, as we strolled through the picturesque little village, and having our kodaks with us we were able to get some pretty bits by the way, among other things a photograph of a sixteenth century house in which the pages of francis i are said to have been lodged. [illustration: chenonceaux, marques tower and gallery across the cher] passing up the long avenue we made a _détour_ to the left, attracted by some rich carvings at the end of the tennis court,--and what a tennis court it is!--smooth, green, beautifully made, with a background of forest trees skirting it on two sides. the approach to the château is in keeping with its stately beauty. after traversing the second avenue of plane trees, we passed between two great sphinxes which guard the entrance to the court, with the ancient dungeon-keep on the right and on the left the domes buildings, which seem to include the servants' quarters and stables. beyond this is the drawbridge which spans the wide moat and gives access to a spacious rectangular court. this moat of clear, running water, its solid stone walls draped with vines and topped with blooming plants, defines the ancient limits of the domain of the marques family who owned this estate as far back in history as the thirteenth century. where the beautiful château now stands there was once a fortified mill. the property passed into the hands of thomas bohier, in the fifteenth century, who conceived the bold idea of turning the old mill into a château, its solid foundations, sunk into the cher, affording a substantial support for the noble superstructure; or, as balzac says, "messire de bohier, the minister of finances, as a novelty placed his house astride the river cher." a château built over a river! can you imagine anything more picturesque, or, as miss cassandra says, anything more unhealthy? the sun shone gaily to-day, and the rooms felt fairly dry, but during the long weeks of rain that come to france in the spring and late autumn these spacious _salles_ must be as damp as a cellar. miss cassandra says that the bare thought of sleeping in them gives her rheumatic twinges. there are handsome, richly decorated mantels and chimney-places in all of the great rooms, but they look as if they had not often known the delights of a cheerful fire of blazing logs. the old building is in the form of a vast square pavilion, flanked on each corner by a bracketed turret upon which there is a wealth of renaissance ornamentation. on the east side are the chapel and a small outbuilding, which form a double projection and enclose a little terrace on the ground floor. over the great entrance door are carvings and heraldic devices, and over the whole façade of the château there is a rich luxuriance of ornamentation which, with the wide moat surrounding it, and the blooming parterres spread before it, give the entire castle the air of being _en fête_, not relegated to the past like langeais, amboise, and some of the other châteaux that we have seen. however diane de poitiers and catherine de médici may have beautified this lovely palace on the cher, its inception seems to have been due to bohier, the norman _géneral des finances_ of charles viii, or perhaps to his wife katherine briçonnet, a true lover of art, who like her husband spent vast sums upon chenonceaux. the fact that bohier died before the château was anywhere near completion makes the old french inscription on the tower, and elsewhere on the walls, especially pathetic, "_s'il vient a point, m'en souviendra_" (if completed, remember me). even unfinished as the norman financier left chenonceaux, one cannot fail to remember him and his dreams of beauty which others were destined to carry out. unique in situation and design is the great gallery, sixty metres in height, which philibert de l'orme, at queen catherine's command, caused to rise like a fairy palace from the waters of the cher. this gallery of two stories, decorated in the interior with elaborate designs in stucco, and busts of royal and distinguished persons, is classic in style and sufficiently substantial in structure, as it rests upon five arches separated by abutments, on each of which is a semicircular turret rising to the level of the first floor. designed for a _salle des fêtes_, this part of the castle was never quite finished in consequence of the death of catherine, who intended that an elaborate pavilion, to match bohier's château on the opposite bank of the river, should mark the terminus of the gallery. the new building was far enough advanced, however, to be used for the elaborate festivities that had been planned for francis ii and queen mary when they fled from the horrors of amboise to the lovely groves and forests of chenonceaux. standing in the long gallery, which literally bridges the cher, we wondered whether the masques and revels held here in honor of the scotch queen were able to dispel sad thoughts of that day at amboise, of whose miseries we heard so much yesterday. mary stuart, more than half french, was gay, light-hearted and perhaps in those early days with a short memory for the sorrows of life; but it seems as if the recollection of that day of slaughter and misery could never have been quite effaced from her mind. to catherine, who revelled in blood and murder, the day was one of triumph, but its horrors evidently left their impress upon the delicate physique as well as upon the sensitive mind of the frail, gentle francis. since we have heard so much of the evil deeds of catherine it has become almost unsafe to take miss cassandra into any of the palaces where the medicean queen is honored by statue or portrait. when we passed from the spacious _salle des gardes_, later used as the dining hall of the briçonnet family, into the room of diane de poitiers, it seemed the very irony of fate that a large portrait of the arch enemy of the beautiful diane should adorn the richly carved chimney-place. i should not say _adorn_, for catherine's unattractive face could adorn nothing, and this severe portrait in widow's weeds, with none of the pomp and circumstance of royalty to light up the sombre garb, is singularly undecorative. although she had already announced that she had no great affection for diane, catherine's portrait in this particular room excited miss cassandra's wrath to such a degree that her words and gestures attracted the attention of the guide. at first he looked perplexed and then indignantly turned to us for an explanation: "what ailed the lady, and why was she displeased? he was doing his best to show us the château." we reassured him, smoothed down his ruffled feathers, and finally explained to him that miss cassandra had a deep-rooted aversion to queen catherine and especially resented having her honored by portrait or bust in these beautiful french castles, above all in this room of her hated rival. "diane was none too good herself," he replied with a grim smile; "but she was beautiful and had wit enough to hold the hearts of two kings." then, entering into the spirit of the occasion, he turned to miss cassandra and by dint of shrugs, and no end of indescribable and most expressive french gestures, he made her understand that he had no love for catherine himself, and that if it lay within his _pouvoir_ he would throw the unlovely portrait out of the window; no one cared for her,--her own husband least of all. this last remark was accompanied with what was intended for a wicked wink, exclusively for walter's benefit, but its wickedness was quite overcome by the irresistible and contagious good humor and _bonhomie_ of the man. finding that his audience was _en rapport_ with him, he drew our attention to the wall decoration, which consists of a series of monograms, and asked us how we read the design. "d and h intertwined" we answered in chorus. at this the guide laughed merrily and explained that there were different opinions about the monogram; some persons said that king henry had boldly undertaken to interlace the initial letters of catherine and diane with his own, but he for his part believed that the letters were two cs with an h between them and, whether by accident or design, the letter on the left, which looked more like a d than a c, gave the key to the monogram, "and this," he added with the air of a philosopher, "made it true to history; the beautiful favorite on the left hand was always more powerful than the queen on the right, not that the ways of king henry ii were to be commended; but," with a frank smile, "one is always pleased to think of that wicked woman getting what was owing her." "rousseau thought that both the initials were those of diane; he says in his _confessions_: 'in we went to pass the autumn in touraine, at the castle of chenonceaux, a royal mansion upon the cher, built by henry ii for diane de poitiers, of whom the ciphers are still seen.'" we turned, at the sound of a strange voice, to find the frenchman of the bon laboureur standing quite near us. "these guides have a large supply of more or less correct history at hand, and this one, being a philosopher, adds his own theories to further obscure the truth." this in the most perfect english, accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders entirely french. "chenonceaux being diane's château and this her own room, what more natural than that her cipher should be here, as rousseau says? and yet, as honoré de balzac points out, this same cipher is to be found in the palace of the louvre; upon the columns of _la halle au blé_, built by catherine herself; and above her own tomb at saint denis which she had constructed during her lifetime. all the same, it must have pleased henry immensely to have the royal cipher look much more like d h than like c h, and there is still room for conjecture which, after all, is one of the charms of history, so, monsieur et mesdames, it is quite _à votre choix_," with a graceful bow in our direction. evidently monsieur crapaud does not consider us savages, despite walter's unsavory remarks about the _cuisine_ of his country, and noticing our interest he added with french exactness: "of course, the château was not built for diane, although much enlarged and beautified by her, and when catherine came into possession she had the good sense to carry out some of diane's plans. francis i came here to hunt sometimes, and it was upon one of these parties of pleasure, when his son henry and diane de poitiers were with him, that she fell in love with this castle on the cher, and longed to make it her own. having a lively sense of the instability of all things mortal, kings in particular, she took good care to make friends with the rising star, and when francis was gathered to his fathers and his uncles and his cousins,--you may remember that his predecessor was an uncle or a cousin,--henry promptly turned over chenonceaux to diane." "there is a curious old story," said monsieur crapaud, "about chenonceaux having been given to diane to soothe her vanity, which had been wounded by the publication of some scurrilous verses, said to have been instigated by her enemy, madame d'etampes. naturally, the petted beauty, whose charms were already on the wane, resented satirical allusion to her painted face, false teeth and hair, especially as she was warned, in very plain language, that a painted bait would not long attract her prey. these verses were attributed to one of the bohiers, a nephew or a son of the old councillor who had built the château, and, to save his neck, he offered chenonceaux to henry, who begged diane to accept it and forget her woes." "which she did, of course," said walter, "as she always seemed to have had an eye to the main chance." "i cannot vouch for the truth of the story; i give it to you as it came to me. there is no doubt, however, that certain satirical verses were written about the duchesse de valentinois, in which she and the king also are spoken of with a freedom not to be expected under the old régime. perhaps you are not familiar with the quatrain: "'sire, si vous laissez, comme charles désire, comme diane veut, par trop vous gouverner, foudre, pétrir, mollir, refondre, retourner, sire vous n'êtes plus, vous n'êtes plus que cire.'" "rather bold language to use in speaking of a king, to be told that he is but wax in the hands of diane and the cardinal of lorraine," said lydia; "that was at the time of the disaster of st. quentin, was it not?" "yes, mademoiselle; you seem to be quite up on our history, which was really deeply involved in cabals at this juncture. i shall be afraid of you in future, as you probably know more about it all than i do." the french gentleman's natural use of americanisms in speech was as surprising to us as was lydia's knowledge of french history to him, and the ice being now fairly broken, we chatted away gaily as we passed through the handsome dining room, the ancient _salle des gardes_ of queen catherine, where our new _cicerone_ pointed out to us in the painted ceiling her own personal cipher interwoven with an arabesque. from the great dining room a door, on which are carved the arms of the bohiers, leads directly, one might say abruptly, into a chapel, "as if," said monsieur crapaud, "to remind those who sit at meat here that the things of the spirit are near at hand." the chapel is a little gem, with rich glass dating back to . another door in the dining room leads to queen catherine's superbly decorated salon, and still another to the apartments of louise de vaudemont. in these rooms, which she had hung in black, the saintly widow of henry iii spent many years mourning for a husband who had shown himself quite unworthy of her devotion. the more that we saw of this lovely palace, the better we understood catherine's wrath when she saw the coveted possession thrown into the lap of her rival. she had come here with her father-in-law, francis, as a bride, and naturally looked upon the château as her own. "but diane held on to it," said walter. "we have just been reading that remarkable scene when, after henry had been mortally wounded in the tournament with montgomery, catherine sent messages to her, demanding possession of the castle. you remember that her only reply was, 'is the king yet dead?' and hearing that he still lived, diane stoutly refused to surrender her château while breath was in his body. we have our dumas with us, you see." "yes, and here, i believe, he was true to history. that was a battle royal of dames, and i, for my part, have always regretted that diane had to give up her palace. have you seen chaumont, which she so unwillingly received in exchange? no! then you will see something fine in its way, but far less beautiful than chenonceaux, which for charm of situation stands alone." and after all, diane still possesses her château; for it is of her that we think as we wander from room to room. in the apartment of francis i her portrait by primaticcio looks down from the wall. as in life, diane's beauty and wit triumphed over her rivals; over the withering hand of age and the schemes of the unscrupulous and astute daughter of the médici, so in death she still dominates the castle that she loved. pray do not think that i am in love with diane; she was doubtless wicked and vindictive, even if not as black as dumas paints her; but bad as she may have been, it is a satisfaction to think of her having for years outwitted catherine, or as miss cassandra said, in language more expressive if less elegant than that of monsieur crapaud, "it is worth much to know that that terrible woman for once _did_ get her _come uppings_." if it was of diane de poitiers we thought within the walls of the château, it was to mary stuart that our thoughts turned as we wandered through the lovely forest glades of the park, under the overarching trees through whose branches the sun flashed upon the green turf and varied growth of shrubbery. we could readily fancy the young queen and her brilliant train riding gaily through these shaded paths, their hawks upon their wrists, these, according to all writers of the time, being the conventional accompaniments of royalty at play. ronsard was doubtless with the court at chenonceaux, as he was often in the train of the young queen, whom he had instructed in the art of verse making. like all the other french poets of his time, he laid some of his most charming verses at the feet of mary stuart, whose short stay in france he likened to the life of the flowers. "les roses et les lis ne règnent qu'un printemps, ansi vostre beauté seulment apparrue quinze ou seize ans en france est soudain disparue." i think ronsard, as well as chastelard, accompanied mary upon her sad return to scotland after the death of francis, and how cold and barren that north country must have seemed after the rich fertility and beauty of touraine! do you remember our own impressions of holyrood on a rainy august morning, and the chill gloom of poor mary's bedroom, and the adjoining dismal little boudoir where she supped with rizzio,--the room in which he was murdered as he clung to her garments for protection? i thought of it to-day as we stood in the warm sunshine of the court, with the blooming parterres spread before us, realizing, as never before, the sharp contrast between such palaces of pleasure as this and mary's rude northern castles. an appropriate setting was this château for the gay, spirited young creature, who seems to have been a queen every inch from her childhood, with a full appreciation of her own importance. it seems that she mortally offended catherine, when a mere child, by saying that the queen belonged to a family of merchants while she herself was the daughter of a long line of kings. in some way, mary's words were repeated to catherine, who never forgave the bitter speech, all the more bitter for its truth. finding that we had not yet seen the galerie louis xiv, which, for some reason, is not generally shown to visitors, our friendly _cicerone_ who, as he expressed it, knows chenonceaux as he knows the palm of his hand, conducted us again to the château. for him all doors were opened, as by magic, and we afterwards learned that he had some acquaintance with monsieur terry, the present owner of this fair domain. although the galerie louis xiv, on the upper floor of the long gallery, is not particularly beautiful or well decorated, it is interesting because here were first presented some of the plays of jean jacques rousseau, _l'engagement téméraire_ and _le devin du village_. such later associations as this under the _régime_ of the _fermier général_ and madame dupin are those of an altogether peaceful and homelike abode. in his _confessions_ rousseau says: "we amused ourselves greatly in this fine spot. we made a great deal of music and acted comedies. i wrote a comedy, in fifteen days, entitled _l'engagement téméraire_, which will be found amongst my papers; it has not other merit than that of being lively. i composed several other little things: amongst others a poem entitled, _l'allée de sylvie_, from the name of an alley in the park upon the banks of the cher; and this without discontinuing my chemical studies or interrupting what i had to do for madame d----n." rousseau was at this time acting as secretary to madame dupin and her son-in-law, monsieur francueil. elsewhere he complains that these two _dilettanti_ were so occupied with their own productions that they were disposed to belittle the genius of their brilliant secretary, which, after all, was not unnatural, as the "new eloisa" and his other famous works had not then been given to the world. monsieur crapaud explained to us that madame dupin was not only a beauty and a _précieuse_, but an excellent business woman, so clever, indeed, that she managed to prove, by hook or by crook, that chenonceaux had never been absolutely crown property and so did not fall under the _coup de décret_. she retained this beautiful château during the revolution, and lived here in heroic possession, during all the upheavals and changes of that tumultuous period. thanks to monsieur crapaud, we missed no part of the château, even to the kitchens, which are spacious and fitted out with an abundant supply of the shining, well-polished coffee pots, pans, and _casseroles_ that always make french cookery appear so dainty and appetizing. he accompanied us, with charming amiability, through this most important department of the château, and never once, amid the evidences of luxurious living, did he even look supercilious or, as lydia expressed it afterwards, "as if he were saying to himself, 'i wonder what these benighted americans think of french cookery now!'" not even when miss cassandra asked her favorite question in royal palaces, "how many in family?" was there a ghost of a smile upon his face, and yet he must have understood her, as he turned to a guide and asked how many persons constituted the family of monsieur terry. this cuban gentleman who now owns the château is certainly to be congratulated upon his excellent taste; the restoration of the building and the laying out of the grounds are all so well done, the whole is so harmonious, instinct with the spirit of the past, and yet so livable that the impression left upon us was that of a happy home. in the past, chenonceaux witnessed no such horrors as are associated with amboise and so many of the beautiful castles of touraine. small wonder that henry ii wrote of this fair palace, as we read in a little book lying on one of the tables: "le châsteau de chenonceau est assis en un des meillures, et plus beaulx pays de nostre royaume." "i must confess that i feel sorry for poor diana," said miss cassandra, as we lingered among the flowers and shrubbery of the lovely gardens. "what became of her after catherine turned her out of her château?" "you remember, madame, that chaumont was given her in exchange, although catherine gave her to understand that she considered the smaller château of anet a more suitable place for her to retire to, her sun having set. for this reason, or because she preferred anet, madame diane retired to this château, which she had beautified in her early years, and in whose grounds jean goujon had placed a charming figure of herself as diane chaseresse. this marble, destroyed during the revolution, has been carefully restored, and so diane now reigns in beauty at the louvre, where this statue has found a place." monsieur crapaud, whose name, it transpires, is la tour, an appropriate one and one easily remembered in this part of the world, returned to tours in the same train with us, and to our surprise we found that he also was stopping at the pension b----. the manner in which he said "my family always stop at the pension b----" seemed to confer an enviable distinction upon the little hostel, and in a way to dim the ancient glories of the hôtel de l'univers. ix a fair prison pension b----, tours, wednesday, september th. walter has been triumphing over me because, even after his unseemly behavior yesterday, m. la tour has formed a sudden attachment for him which is so strong that he insisted upon staying over to go with us to loches this afternoon. he says that we may miss some of the most interesting points there if left to the tender mercies of the guides, who often dwell upon the least important things. our new acquaintance proved to be so altogether delightful as a _cicerone_, when he conducted us through the old streets of tours this morning, that we are looking forward with pleasure to an afternoon in his good company. the old part of the town, m. la tour tells us, was once a quite distinct ecclesiastical foundation, called châteauneuf, of which every building, in a way, depended upon the basilica of st. martin. when the dreadful fulk, the black, set fire to it, in the tenth century, twenty-two churches and chapels are said to have been destroyed. among those that have been restored are notre dame la riche, once notre dame la pauvre, and st. saturnin, which formerly contained, among other handsome tombs, that of thomas bohier and his wife katherine briçonnet, the couple who did so much for chenonceaux. this ancient châteauneuf, like the court end of so many old cities, has narrow, winding streets overtopped by high buildings. these twisting streets are so infinitely picturesque with their sudden turns and elbows that we are quite ready to overlook their inconvenience for the uses of our day, and trust that no modern vandalism, under the name of progress, may change and despoil these byways of their ancient charm. wandering through the narrow, quaint streets of the old city, with their steep gabled and timbered houses, through whose grilled or half-opened gates we catch glimpses of tiled courtyards and irregular bits of stone carving, over which flowers throw a veil of rich bloom, we feel that we are living in an old world. yet m. la tour reminds us that beneath our feet lies a still older world, for as we follow what is evidently a wall of defence we come upon the remains of an ancient gateway and suddenly realize that beneath this martinopolis, châteauneuf and tours of the fifth century, lie the temples, amphitheatres, and baths of the more ancient urbs turonum of the romans. in the midst of our excursion into the past, miss cassandra suddenly brought us back to the present by exclaiming that she would like to go to some place where the romans had never been. she has had quite enough of them in their own city and country, and now being in touraine she says that she prefers to live among the french. m. la tour laughed heartily, as he does at everything our quaker lady says, and answered, with french literalness, that it would be hard to find any land in the known world that the romans had not occupied, "except your own america, madame." then, as if to humor her fancy, he conducted us by way of little streets with charming names of flowers, angels, and the like, to the place du grand marché, where he showed miss cassandra something quite french, the beautiful renaissance fountain presented to tours by the unfortunate jacques de beaune, baron de semblançay. this fountain was made from the designs of michel colombe by his nephew, bastian françois. it was broken in pieces and thrown aside when the rue royale was created, but was later put together by one of the good mayors of tours and now stands on the place du grand marché, a lasting monument to the baron de semblançay, treasurer under francis i, who was accused of malversation, hanged at montfaucon and his estates, azay-le-rideau with the rest, confiscated by the crown. m. la tour considers the treatment of the baron de semblançay quite unjust, and says that he was only found to have been guilty of corruption when he failed to supply the enormous sums of money required by francis i and his mother, who, like the proverbial horseleach's daughters, cried ever "give! give!" it seems one of the reprisals of time that the name of the donor should still be preserved upon this beautiful fountain de beaune of tours, as well as upon the old treasurer's house in the rue st. françois, a fine renaissance building. [illustration: neurdein freres, photo. house of tristan l'hermite] from the rue du grand marché we turned into the rue du commerce, where on the place de beaune is the hôtel de la crouzille, once the hôtel de la vallière, with its double gables and the graceful, shell-like ornamentation which the restaurateur who occupies the house has wisely allowed to remain above his commonplace sign of to-day. in the same street is the famous hôtel gouin, now a bank. this house, which dates back to the fifteenth century, has been carefully restored, and its whole stone façade, covered with charming arabesques, is a fine example of early french renaissance style. in the ancient rue briçonnet, quite near,--indeed nothing is very far away in this old town,--is the house attributed to tristan l'hermite, who held the unenviable position of hangman-in-chief to his majesty, king louis. there is no foundation for this tradition, which probably owes its origin to a knotted rope and some hooks on the wall, which are sufficiently suggestive of hanging. this sculptured cord, or rope, not unlike the emblem of anne of brittany, may have been placed here in her honor, or in that of one of her ladies in waiting, as she frequently urged her attendants to adopt her device of the knotted rope, whose derivation has never been quite understood. "however," as miss cassandra says, "we are not here in search of associations of the head executioner of louis or of those of his royal master," and so we were free to enjoy the beauty of this fourteenth century house, which is quite picturesque enough to do without associations of any kind, with its substantial walls in which brick and stone are so happily combined, its graceful arcades, lovely spiral pilasters and richly carved renaissance doorways. we noticed the words _priez dieu pur_ carved over a window in the courtyard which, m. la tour says, is thought to be an anagram upon the name of pierre de puy, who owned the house in . in the wide paved courtyard is an ancient stone well, near which is a spiral stairway leading to a loggia, from which we had a fine view of the picturesque gables and roofs of the old town, and beyond of the broad river shimmering in the sun, and still farther away of a line of low hills crowned with white villas. noticing the tour de guise as it stood out against the blue sky, m. la tour told us an interesting tale about this tower, which is about all that is left of the royal palace built here or added to by henry ii, who was also hereditary count of anjou, and did much building and road making in the touraine of his day. the young prince de joinville, son of the duke de guise, who for some reason was imprisoned here after the murder of his father at blois, was permitted to attend mass on assumption day, . tasting the sweets of freedom in this brief hour of respite, the prince took his courage in his two hands and suddenly decided to make a bold dash for liberty. laying a wager with his guards that he could run upstairs again faster than they, he reached his room first, bolted the door and seizing a cord, or rope, which had been brought to him by his laundress, he made it fast to the window, slipped out and dropped fifteen feet. with shots whistling all about him he flew around the tower to the faubourg de la riche, where he leaped upon the back of the first horse that he saw; the saddle turned and threw him and a soldier came up suddenly and accosted him. fortunately, the soldier proved, by some happy chance, to be a leaguer, who gave him a fresh mount, and soon the prince had put many miles between himself and his pursuers. ever since, the tower has borne the name of the young de guise who so cleverly escaped from it. wednesday evening. we experienced what our puritan ancestors would have called a "fearful joy" during our afternoon at loches, for anything more horrible than the dungeons above ground and under it would be difficult to imagine. i shall spare you a full description of them, as i refused to descend into the darkest depths to see the worst of them, and walter is probably writing allen a full-length account of them,--iron cages, hooks, rings, and all the other contrivances of cruelty. loches, however, is not all cells and dungeons, as the château is beautifully situated upon a headland above the indre, and the gray castle rising above the terraces, with its many towers, tourelles, and charming pointed windows, presents a picturesque as well as a formidable appearance. our way lay by winding roads and between high walls. we thought ourselves fortunate to make this steep circuitous ascent in a coach; but once within the _enceinte_ of the castle we were on a level and felt as if we were walking through the streets of a little village. many small white houses, with pretty gardens of blooming plants, lie below the fortress on one side, in sharp contrast to the frowning dungeons of fulk nerra and louis xi which overshadow them. the great square mass of fulk nerra's keep stood out dark against the blue of the sky to-day; this with the tour neuf and the tour ronde are said to be the "most beautiful of all the dungeons of france," as if a dungeon could ever be beautiful! and it was louis xi, that expert and past master in cruelty, who is said to have "perfected these prisons," which only needed the iron cage, designed to suit the king's good pleasure, to complete their horror. the invention of the iron cage has been accredited to jean la balue, bishop of angers, and also to the bishop of verdun. perhaps both of these devout churchmen had a hand in the work, as fate, with a dash of irony, and the fine impartiality of the mother who whipped both of her boys because she could not find out which one had eaten the plums, clapped them both into iron cages. louis xi was in these instances the willing agent of avenging fate. cardinal la balue survived the sorrows of his iron cage for eleven years, "much longer than might have been expected," as mr. henry james says, "from this extraordinary mixture of seclusion and exposure." the historian, philip de commines, described these cages as "rigorous prisons plated with iron both within and without with horrible iron works, eight foote square and one foote more than a man's height. he that first devised them was the bishop of verdun, who forthwith was himself put into the first that was made, where he remained fourteen years." louis was so enchanted with this fiendish device that he longed to put all his state prisoners into iron cages. we are glad to know that when he recommended this treatment to the admiral of france for one of his captives of high degree, the jailer replied, with a spirit and independence to which the tyrant was little wont, "that if that was the king's idea of how a prisoner should be kept he might take charge of this one himself." "de commines knew all about the horrors of the iron cage," said m. la tour, "for he was himself imprisoned in one of them by the lady of beaujeu, who was regent of france after the death of her father, louis xi. de commines joined the duke of orleans in a conspiracy against the government of the regent, which was discovered. he was seized and also the duke, afterwards louis xii. louis himself was imprisoned by his cousin of beaujeu and was set free by her brother charles." the guide pointed out the iron cage in which philip de commines was confined, which was horrible enough to answer to his description. some of the lines inscribed on the walls of the round tower were doubtless composed by de commines, among these a wise saying in latin which walter deciphered with difficulty and thus freely translated: "i have regretted that i have spoken; but never that i remained silent." a most ironical invitation, we read in the corridor leading to the tower: "entrés, messieurs, ches le roy nostre mestre." one poor captive, who showed a cheerful desire to make the best of his lot, inscribed upon the wall of his cell these lines, which lydia copied for you: malgré les ennuis d'une longue souffrance, et le cruel destin dont je subis la loy, il est encor des biens pour moy, le tendre amour et la douce espérance. in the martelet where we went down many steps, we saw the room in which ludovico sforza, duke of milan, was imprisoned by louis xii for eight years, and the little sundial that he made on the only spot on the wall that the sun could strike. he also whiled away the weary hours of captivity by painting frescoes on the walls, which are still to be seen. by such devices ludovico probably saved his reason, but his health broke down and when relief came he seems to have died of joy, or from the sudden shock of coming out into the world again. a sad end was this to a life that had begun in happiness and prosperity and that was crowned by a felicitous marriage with beautiful beatrice d'este. "and why did louis, the father of his people, the good king louis, imprison ludovico all those years?" asked miss cassandra. "king louis, although the best and wisest king that france had known for many a day, was but mortal," said m. la tour, twisting his moustache as if somewhat puzzled by our quaker lady's direct question, "and having a sound claim to the duchy of milan, through his grandmother valentine visconti, he proceeded to make it good." "by ousting ludovico, and his lovely wife, beatrice, who was really far too good for him; but then most of the women were too good for their husbands in those days," said miss cassandra. "fortunately," said m. la tour, "the duchess of milan had died two years before ludovico's capture and so was spared the misery of knowing that her husband was a prisoner in france." we were glad to emerge from the dismal dungeons into the light and air by stepping out upon a terrace, from which we had a fine view of the château and the collegiate church of st. ours adjoining it. the château of loches, once a fortress guarding the roman highway, later belonged to the house of anjou and was for some years handed about by french and english owners. as might have been expected, this fortress was given away by john lackland (whose name sounds very odd, done into french, as jean-sans-terre), but was regained by his brother, richard coeur de lion. it was finally sold to st. louis, and the château, begun by charles vii, was completed by louis xii. the tower of agnes sorel, with its garden terrace, is the most charming part of the château, crowning, as it does, a great rock on the south side which overlooks the town. charles seems to have met the enchanting agnes while at loches, whither she had come in the train of the countess of anjou, whose mission to france was to gain the liberty of her husband, king rené, who had been taken prisoner in battle, and was confined in the tour de bar, which we saw at dijon. from all accounts agnes appears to have been a creature of ravishing beauty and great charm, as the ancient chroniclers describe her with a complexion of lilies and roses, a mouth formed by the graces, brilliant eyes, whose vivacity was tempered by an expression of winning sweetness, and a tall and graceful form. in addition to her personal attraction, this "dame de beaulté" seems to have had a sweet temper, a ready wit, and judgment far beyond that of her royal lover. according to many historians, agnes was the good angel of the king's life, as joan, the inspired maid, had been in a still darker period of his reign. brantôme relates a story of the favorite's clever and ingenious method of rousing charles from his apathy and selfish pursuit of pleasure while the english, under the duke of bedford, were ravaging his kingdom. "it had been foretold in her childhood, by an astrologer," said agnes, "that she should be beloved by one of the bravest and most valiant kings in christendom," adding, with fine sarcasm, "that when charles had paid her the compliment of loving her she believed him to be, in truth, this valorous king of whom she had heard, but now seeing him so indifferent to his duty in resisting king henry, who was capturing so many towns under his very nose, she realized that she was deceived and that this valorous king must be the english sovereign, whom she had better seek, as he evidently was the one meant by the astrologer." [illustration: agnes sorel] "brantôme was a bit out here," said m. la tour, "as henry v. had died some years before and his son henry vi was only six or seven years of age at this time, and it was the duke of bedford who was ravaging the fair fields of france and taking the king's towns _a sa barbe_. however, that is only a detail as you americans say, and there must be some foundation for brantôme's story of agnes having aroused the king to activity by her cleverness and spirit, for more than one historian gives her the credit of this good work for charles and for france. you remember that brantôme says that these words of the _belle des belles_ so touched the heart of the king that he wept, took courage, quitted the chase, and was so valiant and so fortunate that he was able to drive the english from his kingdom." "it is a charming little tale," said lydia, "and i, for one, do not propose to question it. brantôme may have allowed his imagination to run away with him; but the good influence of agnes must have been acknowledged in her own time and later, or francis i would not have written of her: "'plus de louange son amour s'y mérite Étant cause de france recouvrer!'" "and i, for my part, don't believe a word of it!" said miss cassandra emphatically. "no ordinary girl, no matter how handsome she might be, would sit up and talk like that to a great king. i call it downright impertinent; she wasn't even a titled lady, much less a princess." for a quaker, miss cassandra certainly has a great respect for worldly honors and titles, and lydia took pleasure in reminding her that joan of arc was only a peasant girl of domremy, and yet she dared to speak boldly to charles, her king. "that was quite different, my dear," said miss cassandra. "joan was an _honest_ maid to begin with, and then she was raised quite above her station by her spiritual manifestations, and she had what the friends call a concern." then noticing the puzzled expression on m. la tour's face, she explained: "i mean something on her mind and conscience with regard to the king and the redemption of france, what you would call a mission." "yes," lydia added, "_une mission_ is the best translation of the word that i can think of; but it does not give the full meaning of the expression 'to have a concern,'" and as he still looked puzzled, she added, comfortingly: "you need not wonder, monsieur, that you do not quite understand what my aunt means, for born and bred in quakerdom as i have been, i never feel that i grasp the full spiritual significance of the expression as the older friends use it." for some years charles seems to have been under the spell of the beauty and charm of agnes sorel, upon whom he bestowed honors, titles, and lands, the château of loches among other estates. from her false dream of happiness the royal favorite was rudely awakened by the dauphin, afterwards louis xi, who entered the room where the queen's ladies in waiting were seated, and marching up to agnes in a violent rage, spoke to her in the most contemptuous language, struck her on the cheek, it is said, and gave her to understand that she had no right to be at the court. "which," as miss cassandra remarks, "was only too true, although the dauphin, even at this early age, had enough sins of his own to look after, without undertaking to set his father's house in order." agnes took to heart the dauphin's cruel words, and resisting all the solicitations of the king, parted from him and retired to a small house in the town of loches, where she lived for five years, devoting herself to penitence and good works. "it seems," said miss cassandra, "that repentance and sorrow for sin was the particular business of the women in those days; when the men were in trouble they generally went a hunting." m. la tour, being a frenchman, evidently considers this a quite proper arrangement, although he reminded miss cassandra that the wicked fulk nerra, "your angevin ancestor," as he calls him, "expiated for his sins with great rigor in the holy land, as he dragged himself, half naked, through the streets of jerusalem, while a servant walked on each side scourging him." after living quietly at loches for five years agnes one day received a message that greatly disturbed her and caused her to set forth with all haste for paris. arrived there, and learning that the king was at jumiéges for a few days' rest after the pacification of normandy, she repaired thither and had a long interview with him. as agnes left the king she said to one of her friends that she "had come to save the king from a great danger." four hours later she was suddenly seized with excruciating pain and died soon after. it was thought by many persons that the former royal favorite was poisoned by the dauphin; but this has never been proved. the body of agnes sorel was, according to her own request, transported to loches and buried in the choir of the collegiate church of st. ours, where it rested for many years. the beautiful tomb was first placed in the church, but was later removed to the tower where it stands to-day and where agnes still reigns in beauty. upon a sarcophagus of black marble is a reclining figure, modest and seemly, the hands folded upon the breast, two lambs guarding the feet, while two angels support the cushion upon which rests the lovely head of _la belle des belles_, whose face in life is said to have had the bloom of flowers in the springtime. the inscription upon the tomb is: "here lies the noble damoyselle agnes seurelle, in her life time lady of beaulté, of roquesserie, of issouldun, of vernon-sur-seine. kind and pitiful to all men, she gave liberally of her goods to the church and to the poor. she died the ninth day of february of the year of grace . pray for her soul. amen." you may remember that at the abbey of jumiéges we saw a richly carved sarcophagus which contains the heart of agnes sorel. m. la tour says that she left a legacy to jumiéges, with the request that her heart should be buried in the abbey. at one time a beautiful kneeling figure of agnes, offering her heart to the virgin in supplication, surmounted the black marble sarcophagus; but this was destroyed, when and how it is not known. in one of the oldest parts of the château are the bedroom and oratory of anne of brittany. from these rooms there is a lovely view of the indre and of the old town with its steep gables, crenelated roofs, and picturesque chimneys. the walls of the little oratory are richly decorated with exquisite carvings of the queen's devices, the tasseled cord and the ermine, which even a coat of whitewash has not deprived of their beauty. m. la tour, whom lydia has dubbed "our h.b.r." handy-book of reference, tells us that the origin of queen anne's favorite device is so far back in history that it is somewhat mythical. the ermine of which she was so proud is said to have come from her ancestress, madame inoge, wife of brutus and daughter of pindarus the trojan. it appears that during a hunting expedition an ermine was pursued by the dogs of king brutus. the poor little creature took refuge in the lap of inoge, who saved it from death, fed it for a long time and adopted an ermine as her badge. we had spent so much time in the château royale and in the various dungeons that there was little space left for a visit to the very remarkable church of st. ours adjoining the château, which, as viollet le duc says, has a remarkable and savage beauty of its own. after seeing what is left of the girdle of the virgin, which the verger thought it very important that we should see, we spent what time we had left in gazing up at the interesting corbeling of the nave and the two hollow, stone pyramids that form its roof. miss cassandra and i flatly refused to descend into the depths below, although the verger with a lighted candle stood ready to conduct us into a subterranean chapel, which was, at one time, connected with the château. we had seen quite enough of underground places for one day, and were glad to pass on into the more livable portion of the castle, which is now inhabited by the sous-prefect of the district, and from thence into the open, where we stopped to rest under the wide-spreading chestnut tree planted here by francis i so many years since. m. la tour reminds us, among other associations of loches, that the seigneur de saint vallier, the father of diane de poitiers, whose footsteps we followed at chenonceaux, was once imprisoned here. even the powerful influence of diane scarcely gained her father's pardon from francis i. his sentence had been pronounced and he was mounting the steps of the scaffold when the reprieve came. with our minds filled with the varied and vivid associations of loches, we left the castle enclosure and from without the walls we had a fine view of the massive dungeons, the château royal, with the beautiful tower of agnes sorel, and the charming terrace beside it. through many crooked, winding lanes and postern doors m. la tour conducted us by the gate of the cordeliers, with its odd fifteenth century turrets, to a neat little garden café. here we refreshed ourselves with tea and some very dainty little cakes that are a _spécialité de la maison_, while walter gracefully mounted his hobby, which, as you have doubtless gathered ere this, is the faithfulness of alexander dumas to history. "what need had dumas to call upon his imagination when the court life of france, under the valois and bourbons, furnished all the wonders of the thousand and one nights?" walter really becomes eloquent when launched upon his favorite subject, and indeed we all are, more or less, under the spell of dumas and balzac. with the heroes and heroines of alexandre dumas, we have spent so many delightful hours that touraine seems, in a way, to belong to them. it would not surprise us very much to have porthos, athos, and aramis gallop up behind our carriage and demand our passports, or best of all to see that good soldier and perfect gentleman, d'artagnan, standing before us with sword unsheathed ready to cut and come again; but always it must be remembered quite as reckless of his own precious skin as of that of his enemies. "i wonder if we shall ever again see their like upon the pages of romance," said walter turning to m. la tour. "good soldiers and brave gentlemen, better and braver than the royal masters whom they served so faithfully!" said m. la tour, raising his hand in the delightfully dramatic fashion of the french as if proposing a toast: "may their memories long linger in touraine and the blésois, which they have glorified by their deeds of valor!" what do you think we have been doing this evening? still under the spell of loches and its weird associations, we have been trying to turn the french verse, which lydia copied for you, into metrical english. it seemed so strange that we four twentieth century americans and one franco-american should be translating the pathetic little verse of the poor prisoner who, "_malgré les ennuis d'une longue souffrance,_" kept up a brave heart and counted his blessings. we all tried our hand at it, miss cassandra, m. la tour and all. i send you the verse that seemed to our umpire the best. one of the charming connecticut ladies, whom we met at amboise, called upon us this evening and was kind enough to act as umpire in our little war of wits. she was so polite as to say that all of the translations were so good that it was difficult to choose between them, but this is the one that she thought most in the spirit of the original lines: despite the weary hours of pain a cruel fate ordains for me, some dear possessions yet there be; sweet hope and tender love remain. it is for you to guess who wrote this verse. one thing i tell you to help you out or to puzzle you still more with your guessing, m. la tour wrote one of the verses; his knowledge of english construction is remarkable.[a] this young frenchman, who is usually politely reticent about his own affairs, although so generously expansive in communicating his historic and legendary lore, confided to walter, this evening, in the intimacy of smoking together, that his mother is an american. this accounts for his perfect and idiomatic english and for his knowledge of our cities. he talks about washington, philadelphia, new york, and boston as if he had seen them and yet he has never crossed the water, being like most frenchmen entirely satisfied with what his own country affords him. since walter has learned that m. la tour is half american, he begs to be allowed to call him mr. la tour. foreign handles and titles, as he expresses it, do not sit easily upon his tongue. the frenchman laughed good naturedly at this and said, "yes, yes, m. leonard, call me what you will. philippe is my name; why not philippe?" walter says this would be quite as bad as monsieur, unless he could change it to plain philip, which would seem quite too simple and unadorned a name for so elegant and decorative a being as m. philippe edouard la tour, who shines forth radiantly in the rather sombre surroundings of the pension b---- like the gilded youth that he is. what havoc he would make among the hearts of the _pensionnaires_ if this were indeed the young ladies' seminary that walter calls it! m. la tour is particularly resplendent in evening costume, and when he appears equipped for dining madame b----calls him "_beau garçon_." he possesses, as miss cassandra says, that most illusive and indescribable quality which we call distinction for lack of a better word. while admiring him immensely, she solemnly warns lydia against the wiles of foreigners. and i think myself that archie had better turn his steps this way if he expects to find lydia heart whole, as m. la tour loses no opportunity of paying her charming little attentions in the way of choice offerings, from the flower market on the boulevard béranger near by. this evening he produced some delicious bonbons which he must have imported from paris for her delectation, although i must admit that they were properly and decorously presented to madame leonard, your old, and, to-night, your very sleepy friend, zelphine. footnote: [a] mrs. leonard added a postscript to her letter in which she gave mrs. ramsey two other translations, asking her which she thought m. la tour had written: despite these dragging hours wherein i prove the painful weight of destiny's decree, yet fare i well, for none can take from me the gifts of gentle hope and tender love. despite the dreariness of durance long and sore, where fate's relentless hand still holds me fast, my dungeon i have made my treasure-house; its store is love, and hope for freedom at the last. x compensations tours, thursday, september th. we have been having what they call "golden weather" here; but to-day the skies are overcast, which does not please us, although this cloudy weather may still be golden to the wise tourangeau, who, as george sand said, "knows the exact value of sun or rain at the right moment." this most unpromising day is our one opportunity to see chinon, and as luck will have it miss cassandra is laid up in lavender, with a crick in her back, the result, she says, of her imprisonment at loches yesterday, and what would have become of her, she adds, if she had sojourned there eight or nine long years like poor ludovico? the threatening skies and miss cassandra's indisposition would be quite enough to keep us at home, or to tempt us to make some short excursion in the neighborhood of tours, were we not lured on by that _ignis fatuus_ of the traveler, the unexplored worlds which lie beyond. there will be so much to be seen in and near blois, and in order to have time for the château, and to make the excursions to chambord and the other castles, we must be at blois to-morrow evening. so this is the only day for chinon, which walter wishes so much to see while m. la tour is with us. although, like mr. henry james, i may be obliged to write you that i have not seen chinon at all, i decided to stay at home to-day with miss cassandra and sent the men off to chinon, lydia with them. miss cassandra expostulated and so did walter and lydia; but i held my position with great firmness, and i observed that the trio set forth without me in gay good spirits. of course my good man will miss me, especially when he comes across the interesting joan of arc landmarks; but he is in excellent company with m. la tour, and i have gained a day of repose which one needs when the associations are as interesting and thrilling as they are here in touraine. miss cassandra slept so sweetly all morning that i had another long ramble in and out of the quaint streets of the ancient châteauneuf, which is what you and i love best to do in old cities whose very stones, like those of venice, are written over with legend and story. the sun came out at noon, and i was fortunate in getting enough light on the house of tristan l'hermite to take a photograph from the court, which will give you some idea of this interesting old building. so you see my day at home has had its compensations, a crowning one being a letter from archie, who is in paris, saying that he would join us at blois to-morrow. this news proved so stimulating to miss cassandra that she was able to get up and come downstairs in time to greet the travelers on their return from chinon. they were most enthusiastic over their morning among the ruins, and full of the lore of the old stronghold where the maid of orleans first met the king, lydia quoting: "petite ville grand renom assise sur pierre ancienne au haut le bois, au pied la vienne," until i stopped their rhapsodies over the ancient by giving them my bit of up-to-date information that archie was _en route_ for blois. walter uttered such a shout of joy as this old hostel has not heard since the victories of the first napoleon were celebrated here. i tried to see lydia's face, but she turned away at the critical moment to speak to miss cassandra, and so i lost my chance of seeing whether she was surprised and excited over my news. when she turned to me later and said, "how glad i am for you, zelphine, and what a pleasant addition dr. vernon will make to the party," her face wore its wonted expression of sweet composure. walter says, "you really must see chinon, zelphine; we can make a separate trip there with archie. it is much farther from blois than from tours, but by taking a motor car we can go to angers at the same time." mr. la tour (you notice that i take walter's privilege in writing of him) says that we really should pay our respects to angers, the cradle of our angevin kings. he quite resents mr. henry james having written down this old town in his notebook as a "sell," and says that although angers has become a flourishing, modern city, there is much of the old town left and the château is well worth seeing. like john evelyn, we have found the sojournment so agreeable here that we could stay on and on for weeks, spending our days in visiting one interesting château after another. we want so much to see villandry and ussé, and we would love to have a day at mme. de sévigné's, les rochers, or better still at chantilly, where poor vatel, the cook, through the letters of _la belle marquise_ and the failure of the fish supply, took his place one summer day among the immortals. lydia reminds me that the château of chantilly is too far north to be easily reached from here, but la châtre is not far away, and a day and night among the haunts of george sand would be a rare pleasure, especially if we could drive to nohant along the road once travelled by such guests of the novelist as théophile gautier, dumas, alfred de musset, and balzac. the latter found her living, as he says, after his own plan "turned topsy-turvy; that is to say, she goes to bed at six in the morning and rises at midday, whilst i retire at six in the evening and rise at midnight." miss cassandra, who in whatever portion of the globe she may be travelling is sure to meet people with whom she has a link of acquaintance or association, has discovered in the course of a long talk with m. la tour, this evening, that she knows some of his american relatives. indeed his browns (how much more distinguished le brun would sound!) are connected in some way with her family, and she and m. la tour are delighted to claim cousinship through these new york browns. i am sure that to establish the exact degree of relationship would defy the skill of the most expert genealogist; but they are quite satisfied with even a remote degree of kinship, especially as this discovery brings lydia, in a way, into the la tour connection. m. la tour, who talks of visiting his american relatives next winter, is evidently preparing himself in more ways than one for his projected trip. although his english is faultless, he seems to think it important to be familiar with a certain amount of american slang. yesterday he turned to me, with a quite helpless expression upon his handsome face, exclaiming, "this word 'crazy' that the americans use so much--i am crazy about this and crazy about that,--now what does that mean, madame?--_fou de ceci, fou de cela? vraiment il me semble qu'ils sont tous un peu fou!_" it is needless to say that i quite agreed with m. la tour, and after i had given him the best explanation in my power, he laughed and said: "it appears that what you call quakers do not use this extreme language so much. miss mott, for example, never uses such expressions." yesterday, when a party of our compatriots were drinking tea at a table near us, he was again much puzzled. "these young people all say that they are 'passing away' on account of the heat of the sun, from fatigue, for various reasons. now what is it to pass away, is it not to die, to vanish from the earth?" the seriousness of his manner, as he gave us this literal and somewhat poetical translation of the popular slang of the day, so amused walter that i had to send him off to make some inquiries about the route in order to prevent an outburst of laughter which our french friend, who is endowed with little sense of humor, could never have understood. dear miss cassandra, who enjoyed the humor of the situation quite as much as any of us, but possesses the rare gift of laughing inwardly (the friends do so many things inwardly while presenting a serene face to the world), exclaimed: "one of the foolish exaggerations of our modern speech! you will probably notice that the young people who are always passing away are usually uncommonly healthy and strong and blessed with vigorous appetites. for my part, i consider it tempting providence to be always talking about passing away; but of course," her pride coming to the fore, "the best people among us do not use such expressions." hÔtel de france, blois, september th. as blois is only about an hour from tours, we reached here some time before archie appeared, and thus had time to feel quite at home in this pleasant little hotel, and to kill the fatted calf in honor of his arrival. this latter ceremony was exceedingly simple, consisting, as it did, in supplementing the fairly good _table d'hôte_ luncheon with a basket of the most beautiful and delicious fruit. such blushing velvet skinned peaches as these of the blésois we have not seen, even in tours, and the green plums of queen claude are equally delectable if not as decorative as the peaches. these, with great clusters of grapes, and a bottle of the white wine of voudray, which walter added to the mênu, made a feast for the gods to which archie did ample justice. he looks handsomer than ever, and as brown as a spaniard after the sea voyage. i am glad that we are by ourselves, agreeable as m. la tour is, for as you know, archie does not care much for strangers and our little family party is so pleasant. archie's idea of enjoying a holiday is to motor from morning until night. we humored his fancy this afternoon and had a long motor tour, going through montbazon and couzieres, which we had not yet seen, although we were quite near both places at loches. our chauffeur, knowing by instinct that lydia and i were of inquiring minds, told us that queen marie de médicis came from montbazon to couzieres after her escape from blois, and that here she and her son louis were reconciled in the presence of a number of courtiers. this royal peacemaking we have always thought one of the most amusing of rubens's great canvases at the louvre, as he very cleverly gives the impression that neither the queen nor her son is taking the matter seriously. you will scarcely believe me, i fear, when i tell you that we only stopped at one château this afternoon. this was archie's afternoon, you know, but the château of beauregard is so near that we simply could not pass it by, and the drive through the forest of russy in which it stands was delightful. the château was closed to visitors, for which archie said he was thankful, which rather shocked lydia, who is as conscientious in her sightseeing as about everything else that she does. it was a disappointment to her and to me, as there is a wonderful collection of pictures there, an unbroken series, they tell us, including the great folk of fifteen reigns. suddenly realizing our disappointment, archie became quite contrite and did everything in his power to gain a sight of the treasures for us, but to no purpose, as the concierge was absolutely firm, even with the lure of silver before his eyes, and when he told us that the family was in residence we knew that it was quite hopeless to expect to enter. the duchesse de dino, whose interesting memoirs have been published lately, was the châtelaine of beauregard in the early years of the last century. we had a delightful afternoon, despite our disappointment about the château, and in the course of this ride archie, who can understand almost no french, extracted more information from the chauffeur with regard to the soil, products, crops, and characteristics of touraine than the rest of the party have learned in the ten days that we have spent here. these investigations were, of course, conducted by the aid of such willing interpreters as lydia and myself. "m. la tour could tell you all about these things," said lydia. "and pray who is this m. la tour that you are all quoting? some johnny crapaud whom zelphine has picked up, i suppose. she always had a fancy for foreigners." "he is a very delightful person, and if you wait long enough you will see him," said miss cassandra, "as he has taken a great fancy to walter." "to walter!" exclaimed archie, and seeing the amused twinkle in miss cassandra's eyes he suddenly became quite silent and took no further interest in the scenery or in the products of touraine, until lydia directed his attention to the curious caves in the low hills that look like chalk cliffs. this white, chalky soil, m. la tour had explained to us, is hard, much like the tufa used so much for building in italy. we thought that these caves were only used for storing wine, but our chauffeur told us that most of those which are provided with a door and a window are used as dwelling houses, and they were, he assured us, quite comfortable. these underground dwellings, burrowed out like rabbits' warrens, with earth floors, no ventilation except a chimney cut in the tufa roof to let the smoke out, and only the one window and door in the front to admit light and air, seem utterly cheerless and uncomfortable, despite our chauffeur's assurances that they have many advantages. from the eloquence with which he expatiated upon the even temperature of these caves, which he told us were warm in winter and cool in summer, we conclude that he has lived in one of them, and are thankful that he could not understand our invidious remarks about them, for as archie remarks, even a troglodyte may have some pride about his home. [illustration: neurdein freres, photo. entrance to chÂteau of blois with statue of louis xii] hÔtel de france, september th. it is so delightful to be lodged so near the beautiful château of blois that we can see the façade of francis i by sunlight, twilight, and moonlight. built upon massive supporting walls, it dominates a natural terrace, which rises above the valley of the loire and the ravine of the arroux. no more fitting site could be found for the château than the quadrilateral formed by these two streams. the wing of francis i, with its noble columns, italian loggie, balustrades, attics, picturesque chimneys, grotesque gargoyles and other rich and varied decorations, displays all the architectural luxury of the renaissance of which it was in a sense the final expression. it was while gazing upon this marvelous façade that mr. henry james longed for such brilliant pictures as the figures of francis i, diane de poitiers, or even of henry iii, to fill the empty frames made by the deep recesses of the beautifully proportioned windows. we would cheerfully omit the weak and effeminate henry from the novelist's group, but we would be tempted to add thereto such interesting contemporary figures as the king of navarre and his heroic mother, jeanne d'albret, or his beautiful, faithless wife, la reine margot, the pasithée of ronsard's verse, who, with her brilliant eyes and flashing wit, is said to have surpassed in charm all the members of her mother's famous "_escadron volant_." and, as miss cassandra suggests, it would be amusing to see the portly widow of henry iv descending from one of the windows, as she is said to have done, by a rope ladder and all the paraphernalia of a romantic elopement, although, as it happened, she was only escaping from a prison that her son had thought quite secure. the poor queen had great difficulty in getting through the window, but finally succeeded and reached the ditch of the castle; friends were waiting near by to receive her with a coach which bore her away to freedom at loches or amboise, i forget which. this window from which marie de médicis is said to have escaped is in one of the apartments of catherine. the guide, a very talkative little woman, told us that there is good reason to believe that the stout queen never performed this feat of high and lofty tumbling; but that she made her escape from a window in the south side, and with comparative ease, as in her day there were no high parapets such as those that now surround the château on three sides. our cicerone seemed, however, to have no doubts about the unpleasing associations with catherine de médicis, and took great pleasure in showing us her _cabinet de travail_, with the small secret closets in the carved panels of the wall in which she is said to have kept her poisons. these rooms are richly decorated, the gilt insignia upon a ground of brown and green being a part of the original frescoes. the oratory, of which catherine certainly stood in need, is especially handsome and elaborate. even more thrilling than the poison closets are the secret staircase and the _oubliette_ near by, into which last were thrown, as our guide naïvely explained, "_tous ceux qui la gênait_." cardinal lorraine is said to have gone by this grewsome, subterranean passage. not having had enough of horrors in the rooms of the dreadful catherine, we were ushered, by our voluble guide, into those of her son, henry iii. in order to make the terrible story of the murder of the duke of guise quite realistic, we were first taken to the great council chamber, before one of whose beautiful chimney places le balfré stood warming himself, for the night was cold, eating plums and jesting with his courtiers, when he was summoned to attend the king. henry, with his cut-throats at hand, was awaiting his cousin in his _cabinet de travail_, at the end of his apartments. as the duke entered the king's chamber he was struck down by one and then by another of the concealed assassins. henry, miserable creature that he was, came out into his bedroom where the duke lay, and spurning with his foot the dead or dying man, exclaimed over his great size, as if he had been some huge animal lying prone before him. "it seems as if the victims of amboise were in a measure avenged; the dukes of guise, father and son, met with the same sad fate, and at the time of the assassination of le balfré queen catherine lay dying in the room below." this from lydia, in a voice so impressive and tragic that archie turned suddenly, and looking first at her and then at me, said: "well, you women are quite beyond me! you are both overflowing with the milk of human kindness, you would walk a mile any day of the year to help some poor creature out of a hole, and yet you stand here and gloat over a murder as horrible as that of the duke of guise." "we are not gloating over it," said lydia, "and if you had been at amboise and had seen, as we did, the place where the duke of guise and the cardinal, his brother, had hundreds of huguenots deliberately murdered, you would have small pity for any of his name, except for the duchess of guise, who protested against the slaughter of the huguenots and said that misfortune would surely follow those who had planned it, which prediction you see was fulfilled by the assassination of her husband and her son." "that may be all quite true, as you say, dear miss mott; but i didn't come here to be feasted on horrors. i can get quite enough of them in the newspapers at home, and it isn't good for you and zelphine either. you both look quite pale; let us leave these rooms that reek with blood and crime and find something more cheerful to occupy us." the first more cheerful object which we were called upon to admire was the handsome _salle d'honneur_, with its rich wall decorations copied after old tapestries; but just a trifle too bright in color to harmonize with the rest of the old castle. in this room is an elaborately decorated mantel, called _la cheminée aux anges_, which bears the initials l and a on each side of the _porc-épic_, bristling emblem of the twelfth louis, who was himself less bristling and more humane than most of his royal brothers. above the mantel shelf two lovely angels bear aloft the crown of france, which surmounts the shield emblazoned with the _fleur-de-lis_ of louis and the ermine tails of anne, the whole mantel commemorative of that most important alliance between france and bretagne, of which we have heard so much. the guide repeated the story of the marriage, lydia translating her rapid french for archie's benefit. observing our apparent interest in queen anne, our guide led us out into the grounds and showed us her pavilion and the little terrace called _la perche aux bretons_, where the queen's breton guards stood while she was at mass. she is said to have always noticed them on her return from the chapel, when she was wont to say, "see my bretons, there on the terrace, who are waiting for me." always more breton at heart than french, anne loved everything connected with her native land. this trait the guide, being a french woman, evidently resented and said she had little love for anne. when we translated her remarks to miss cassandra she stoutly defended the queen, saying that it was natural to love your own country best, adding that for her part she was "glad that anne had a will of her own, so few women had in those days; and notwithstanding the meek expression of her little dough face in her portraits, she seemed to have been a match for lovers and husbands, and this at a time when lovers were quite as difficult to deal with as husbands." walter, who says that he has heard more than enough of anne and her virtues, insists that she set a very bad example to french wives of that time, as she gave no end of trouble to her husband, the good king louis. "good king louis, indeed!" exclaimed miss cassandra. "he may have remitted the taxes, as mr. la tour says; but he did a very wicked thing when he imprisoned the duke of milan at loches. he and anne were both spending christmas there at the time, and we are not even told that the king sent his royal prisoner a plum pudding for his christmas dinner." "it would probably have killed him if he had," said archie; "plum pudding without exercise is a rather dangerous experiment. don't you think so yourself, miss cassandra?" "he might have liked the attention, anyhow," persisted the valiant lady, "but louis seems to have had an inveterate dislike for the duke of milan, and mr. la tour says that one of his small revenges was to call the unfortunate duke 'monsieur ludovico,' which was certainly not a handsome way to treat a royal prisoner." "no, certainly not," walter admitted, adding, "but from what we have seen of the prisons of france, handsome treatment does not seem to have been a marked feature of prison life at that time; and anne herself was not particularly gentle in her dealings with her captives." probably with a view to putting an end to this discussion, which was unprofitable to her, as she could not understand a word of it, the guide led us back to the château and showed us the room in which queen anne died. whatever may have been her faults and irregularities of temper, anne seems to have had a strong sense of duty and was the first queen of france who invited to her court a group of young girls of noble family, whom she educated and treated like her own daughters. she even arranged the marriages of these girls entirely to suit herself, of course, and without the slightest regard to their individual preferences, which was more than she was able to do in the case of the young princesses, her children. she lived and died adored by her husband, who gave her a funeral of unprecedented magnificence, and although louis soon married again, for reasons of state, he never ceased to mourn his _bretonne_ whom he had loved, honored, and in many instances obeyed. anne's insignia of the twisted rope and the ermine tails are to be found in nearly every room in the château, and here also is the emblem of her daughter, a cygnet pierced by an arrow, which seems symbolic of the life of the gentle claude of france, whose heart must often have been wounded by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, as she was made to feel keenly, from her wedding day, that the king, her husband, had no love for her. matrimonial infelicities are so thickly dotted over the pages of french history that it is impossible to pause in our excursions through these palaces to weep over the sorrows of noble ladies. indeed, for a french king to have had any affection for his lawful wife seems to have been so exceptional that it was much more commented upon than the unhappiness of royal marriages. these reflections are miss cassandra's, not mine; and she added, "i am sorry, though, that anne's daughter was not happy in her marriage," in very much the same tone that she would have commented upon the marriage of a neighbor's daughter. "i hope the beautiful garden that we have been hearing about was a comfort to her, and there must be some satisfaction, after all, in being a queen and living in a palace as handsome as this." with this extremely worldly remark on the part of our quaker lady, we passed into the picture gallery of the château, where we saw a number of interesting portraits, among them those of louis xiii and of his son louis xiv, in their childhood, quaint little figures with rich gowns reaching to their feet, and with sweet, baby faces of indescribable charm. here also is a superb portrait of gaston, the brother of louis xiii, and a portrait bust of madame de sévigné, whose charming face seems to belong to blois, although she has said little about this château in her letters. here also are portraits of madame de pompadour, vigée lebrun, as beautiful as any of the court beauties whom she painted, and a charming head of mademoiselle de blois, the daughter of louise de la vallière, whom madame de sévigné called "the good little princess who is so tender and so pretty that one could eat her." this was at the time of her marriage, which louis xiv arranged with the prince de conti, having always some conscience with regard to his numerous and somewhat heterogeneous progeny. and in this far off gallery of france our patriotism was suddenly aroused to fourth of july temperature by seeing a portrait of washington. this portrait, by peale or trumbull, was doubtless presented to one of the french officers who were with washington in many of his campaigns, and the strong calm face seemed, in a way, to dominate these gay and gorgeously appareled french people, as in life he dominated every circle that he entered. we were especially interested in a bust of ronsard with his emblem of three fishes, which delighted walter and archie, who now propose a fishing trip to his château of la poissonnière. we love ronsard for many of his verses, above all for the lines in which he reveals his feeling for the beauties of nature, which was rare in those artificial days. do you remember what he said about having a tree planted over his grave? "give me no marble cold when i am dead, but o'er my lowly bed may a tree its green leaves unfold." xi the romance of blois hÔtel de france, saturday afternoon. walter and archie have elected to spend a part of this afternoon in the daniel dupuis museum, over whose treasures, in the form of engraved medals, they are quite enthusiastic. we women folk, left to our own devices, wandered at will through the first floor rooms and halls of the château of blois. the great salle des etats, with its blue ceiling dotted over with fleur-de-lis, is said to be the most ancient of them all. beautiful as many of the rooms are, despite their somewhat too pronounced and vividly colored decorations, and interesting as we found the remains of the tour de foix upon which tradition placed the observatory dedicated by catherine and her pet demon, ruggieri, to uranus, the crowning glory of the château of blois is the great court of honor. we never pass through this impressive portal, surmounted by the gilded equestrian figure of louis xii, without a feeling of joy in the spaciousness and beauty of this wide sunny court. at a first glance we were bewildered by its varied and somewhat incongruous architecture, the wing of louis xii, with its fine, open gallery; that of charles d'orléans, with its richly decorative sculpture; the chapel of st. calais, and the modern and less beautiful wing of gaston, the work of francis mansard, but after all, and above all, what one carries away from the court of blois is that one perfect jewel of renaissance skill and taste, the great staircase of francis i. an open octagonal tower is this staircase, with great rampant bays, delicately carved galleries and exquisite sculptured decorations. indeed, no words can fully describe the richness and dignity of this unique structure, for which francis i has the credit, although much of its beauty is said to have been inspired by queen claude. we all agreed that this staircase alone would be worth while coming to blois to see, with its balustrades and lovely pilasters surmounted by jean goujon's adorable figures representing faith, hope, abundance, and other blessings of heaven and earth. the charming faces of these statues are said to have been modeled after diane de poitiers and other famous beauties of the time. while wandering through the court, we came suddenly upon traces of charles of orleans, who was taken prisoner at the battle of agincourt, and was a captive for twenty-five years in english prisons. a gallery running at right angles to the wing of louis xii is named after the duke of orleans, probably by his son louis. this gallery, much simpler than the buildings surrounding it, is also rich in sculpture and still richer in associations with the poet-prince, who is said to have solaced the weary hours of his imprisonment by writing verses, chansons, rondeaux, and ballades, some of which were doubtless composed in this gallery after his return from exile. the lines of that exquisite poem, "the fairest thing in mortal eyes," occurred to lydia's mind and mine at the same moment. we were standing near the ruins of an old fountain, looking up at the gallery of charles of orleans and repeating the verses in concert like two school girls, when miss cassandra, who had been lingering by the staircase, joined us, evidently not without some anxiety lest we had suddenly taken leave of our senses. finding that we were only reciting poetry, she expressed great satisfaction that we did not have it in the original, as she is so tired of trying to guess at what people are talking about. [illustration: court of blois with staircase of francis i] indeed, henry cary's translation is so beautiful that we scarcely miss the charm of the old french. we wondered, as we lingered over the lines, which one of the several wives of the duke of orleans was "the fairest thing in mortal eyes,"--his first wife, isabelle of france, or bonne d'armagnac, his second spouse? his third wife, marie de cleves, probably survived him, and so it could not have been for her that there was spread a tomb "of gold and sapphires blue: the gold doth show her blessedness, the sapphires mark her true; for blessedness and truth in her were livelily portrayed, when gracious god with both his hands her goodly substance made. he framed her in such wondrous wise, she was, to speak without disguise, the fairest thing in mortal eyes." it was pleasant to think of the poet-prince spending the last days of his life in this beautiful château with his wife, marie de cleves, and to know that he had the pleasure of holding in his arms his little son and heir, louis of orleans, afterwards the good king louis, our old friend, and the bone of walter's contention with miss cassandra. by the way, i do not at all agree with that usually wise and just lady in her estimate of louis xii. as m. la tour says, he was far in advance of his age in his breadth of mind and his sense of the duty owed by a king to his people. perhaps something of his father's poet vision entered into the more practical nature of louis, and in nothing did he show more plainly the generosity and breadth of his character than in his forgiveness of those who had slighted and injured him,--when he said, upon ascending the throne, "the king of france does not avenge the wrongs of the duke of orleans," louis placed himself many centuries in advance of the revengeful and rapacious age in which he lived. another poet whose name is associated with blois is françois villon. a loafer and a vagabond he was, and a thief he may have been, yet by reason of his genius and for the beauty of his song this troubadour was welcomed to the literary court of charles d'orléans. that villon received substantial assistance and protection from his royal brother poet appears from his poems. among them we find one upon the birth of the duke's daughter mary: _le dit de la naissance marie_, which, like his patron's verses, is part in french and part in latin. in this château, which is so filled with history and romance, our thoughts turned from the times of charles of orleans to a later period when catherine sought to dazzle the eyes of jeanne d'albret by a series of fêtes and pageants at blois that would have been quite impossible in her simpler court of navarre. the huguenot queen, as it happened, was not at all bedazzled by the splendors of the french court, but with the keen vision that belonged to her saw, through the powder, paint, tinsel, and false flattery, the depravity and corruption of the life that surrounded her. to her son she wrote that his fiancée was beautiful, witty, and graceful, with a fine figure which was much too tightly laced and a good complexion which was in danger of being ruined by the paint and powder spread over it. with regard to the marriage contract which she had come to sign, the queen said that she was shamefully used and that her patience was taxed beyond that of griselda. after many delays the marriage contract was finally signed, and a few days later the good queen of navarre was dead, whether from natural causes or from some of the products of queen catherine's secret cupboards the world will never know, as ruggieri and le maître were both at hand to do the will of their royal mistress with consummate skill, and to cover over their tracks with equal adroitness. it was to a still later and less tragic period in the history of the château that our thoughts turned most persistently, when gaston, duke of orleans and his wife, marguerite of lorraine, held their court here and a bevy of young girls brought charm and grace to these great bare rooms. gaston's eldest daughter, the grande mademoiselle, was often here in those days, acting in amateur theatricals with her stepsisters, one of whom, the little princess marguerite d'orléans, cherished vain hopes of becoming queen of france by marrying her own cousin, louis xiv. there is an amusing passage in the diary of mademoiselle de montpensier, in which she describes the visit of the king at blois. "my sister," she said, "came to the foot of the stairs to receive his majesty," this was of course the beautiful stairway of francis i, which bears the lovely sculptured figures of diane de poitiers and other beauties of the time; but alas, the little princess marguerite had been stung by certain flies called gnats which quite spoiled her beautiful complexion, and, adds the frank sister, "made her look quite an object." this circumstance added greatly to marguerite's chagrin when she learned that louis was on his way to wed the spanish infanta, she herself having been flattered with the hope of marrying her cousin, having been frequently addressed as the "little queen." louis, never insensible to his own charms, confided to mademoiselle on his way to blois that he had not changed his coat or dressed his love-locks; in fact had made himself "_le plus vilain possible_," in order to spare the regrets of his cousin marguerite and her parents that he had slipped through their fingers. other young girls in the family group were mademoiselle de saint-remi, whose father, jacques de courtarval, marquis of saint-remi, was first steward to gaston, duke of orleans, and mademoiselle montelais, whose name occurs in one of the court rhymes of the day in company with that of another young girl, whose history is closely associated with the château, "guiche of love the ally the maids of honor did supply, he has caged a pretty pair, montelais and la vallière." this other girl, who was destined to be a companion to mademoiselle montelais at court, was louise de la vallière, the stepdaughter of saint-remi and the daughter of the marquis de la baume-le blanc, sieur de la gasserie, who took the title of la vallière after the death of an elder brother. these high-sounding titles of the la vallières did not stand for much in gold or gear at this time, although there are still ruins to be seen in bourbonnais of a very ancient castle of the la baumes. an heroic record was theirs, however, as one of the name, pierre le blanc, served under joan of arc, and the father of louise successfully bore the brunt of the enemies' attack at the passage of brai, in , and secured the retreat of the spanish. we had seen the house at tours where louise was born, but it was at amboise that the la vallières lived during her childhood, and here she may have seen the fourteen-year-old louis, who came with the queen mother and mazarin to this town, which was so gallantly held for him, its rightful lord, against gaston and his bellicose daughter, by the honest soldier, laurent de la vallière. whether or not little louise de la vallière saw the young king at amboise during the war of the fronde she certainly saw him when he stopped at blois, some years later, on his way to saint-jean de luz and the spanish marriage. louis and his court were the guests of gaston in , although they had been openly arrayed against each other at amboise in . mademoiselle de montpensier, in her frank and amusing chronicles, tells us that the king evidently found her father's château a dull place to stop in over night. the customs and costumes of the household failed to please the fastidious young monarch; the meal was served in "old-fashioned style, and the ladies were dressed like the dishes--all out of fashion." dumas makes louis remark facetiously to madame gaston, that his teacher in geography had not told him that blois was so far from paris that the fashions could not reach the provincial town for several years. only one figure in the group, which had gathered in the vast _salle_ to do honor to the monarch, appeared to him worthy of royal regard. this was a slight, girlish form, in white muslin, a costume so simple that it could never be quite out of date. standing this afternoon in the salle de reception, we pictured to ourselves the first meeting of the king and louise de la vallière on the night of the arrival of the court at blois. the fast-fading light lent a semblance of reality to the scene, as the torches and candles used in those early days could not have brilliantly lighted the vast hall. we fancied the chairs placed in half circle for the accommodation of the royal guests, the king's not a half-inch higher than that of mazarin or of the queen, anne of austria. the astute italian prime minister is seated, his body is bent, his face pallid, the hand of death is already laid upon him, but his mind is as keen and alert as in youth, his eyes as penetrating. the courtiers are grouped around mazarin, the real king; gaston, the indolent father of the energetic and courageous mademoiselle de montpensier, is talking to mazarin, and chronicles of the day tell us that the duke was an admirable _raconteur_. the grande mademoiselle, now over thirty, and in the full flower of a beauty which, according to petitot's miniature and her own rose-colored description, was not inconsiderable, is in another group at one side of the hall, with her half-sisters and the other young girls of the house. called forth from her modest station behind the princesses of the house of orleans by the command of her hostess, louise de la vallière stepped forward, confused and blushing, to make her deep courtesy before the king, while the duchess presented her in due form as mademoiselle de la baume-le blanc, daughter of the marquis de la vallière and stepdaughter of the marquis de saint-remi. as madame de motteville described her at seventeen, we see the slight girlish form of la vallière making her reverence before royalty, owing her charm, as the court lady relates, more to a certain grace, modesty and tenderness in bearing and expression than to the dazzling whiteness and rosiness of her skin, the exquisite blueness of her eyes and the brilliancy of her blonde hair of the shade which the french call _cheveux argentés_. [illustration: louise de la valliÈre] although madame de la motte's description of louise de la vallière is charming and sympathetic, we long for the graceful and vivifying pen of madame de sévigné to picture for us the young girl as she appeared at her home in blois, before the equally baneful breath of court favor or court scandal had brushed the bloom from her innocent loveliness. dear madame de sévigné, with her graceful fancy, her _joie de vivre_, and her inimitable skill in presenting a situation and making her characters live before us, should have been immortal as well as universal. we wish for a letter from her in every château of the loire, most of all here at blois, of which she has written so little. when madame de sévigné saw louise de la vallière some months later at court, she likened her to a modest violet, hiding beneath its leaves; but not so completely as to evade the eyes of royalty. and if louise was lovely in her gown of virginal white, the king was a no less pleasing object to gaze upon. at all times courteous and graceful, at twenty-three louis is described as handsome, well-formed, with deep blue eyes, and a profusion of curling hair which fell over his shoulders. although somewhat under the middle height, he bore himself with an air of majesty and dignity, inherited from his royal mother, and would have been "every inch a king," said saint-simon, "even if he had been born under the roof of a beggar." it was this grace and personal charm, which louis possessed in no small degree, that appealed to the girl's imagination, rather than the grandeur of his station. if louise had not seen him again the image of this young prince from fairyland might in time have faded from her mind, especially as an incipient love affair with a neighbor's son already existed. some notes and occasional shy glances had been exchanged between mademoiselle de la vallière and young bragelongne, who lived next door to the saint-remis at blois, and had she not been suddenly carried off to court this nebulous romance might have materialized into a happy marriage, and a career more honorable, if less brilliant and exciting, than that which lay before her. it was this early affair with a neighbor's son which gave dumas some historic foundation for his captivating and pathetic story of the vicomte de bragelonne. whether or not the young lover wore his heart upon his sleeve to the end of his days, it is quite evident that m. de bragelongne was speedily forgotten by louise amid the pleasures and distractions of the gayest court in europe. as maid of honor to the english princess, henriette, louise was plunged into all the festivities of fontainebleau, versailles, and the palais royal, of which the king was always the soul and centre. you will think that my pen has run away with me in following the fortunes of louise de la vallière from blois to paris and from paris to versailles; but lydia and i have been reading a book about blois which m. la tour had sent to us from paris. this book, which dwells particularly upon the story of louise de la vallière and her association with the château of blois, has brought the life of that time before us so vividly that we feel as if we had some part and lot in the pathetic tale. the festivities and intrigues of fontainebleau and versailles may seem a far cry from the old château of blois, and yet the court life of that older time, dramatic and picturesque as it was, was curiously limited. the characters were always the same, the pageant alone shifted from palace to château, and from one château of the loire to another. now the court is at amboise, again at chenonceaux, and again at the stately palace of chambord. the king is always surrounded by the same courtiers and the same favorites, whether he is riding through the forest of fontainebleau or hunting at chambord, in which princely domain louis boasted that he had shot fourteen of his uncle gaston's cherished pheasants in one afternoon. the distances are short, and even in the days of slow-going coaches the court could breakfast at chambord and sup at blois. through the influence of a distant relative louise de la vallière was given a place at court in the service of the english princess, the beautiful, captivating and capricious henriette, daughter of charles i and wife of the king's young brother, philippe d'orléans. chroniclers of the time all agree in attributing to her rare charm of manner, a lively wit and a keen intellect. a patron of the great writers of the day, she encouraged corneille and the older poets and emboldened the younger by her appreciation. henriette wept over the _andromaque_ when racine read it to her, until the happy youth's head was well-nigh turned by what he considered the most fortunate beginning of its destiny. this combination of beauty, charm, and intellect, found more frequently, perhaps, in france than in any other country, rendered madame the most irresistible of women, and as saint-beuve says, the most touching of princesses. the king, who at sixteen had refused to dance with the thin and not especially attractive child of eleven, because, as he explained to his mamma, he did not care for little girls, took himself to task later for not realizing before she became his brother's fiancée that henriette was the most beautiful woman in the world. at the time that louise de la vallière entered her household madame henriette was enjoying her hour of triumph. the king, who had been slow in discovering her charms, was at her feet. the death of mazarin, the miserly, had given louis a freedom in his own kingdom that he had never before known. entertainment followed entertainment, all given in honor of the english bride, his own spanish bride having been relegated to the background of this gay court, from which she was never destined to emerge. "it seemed," wrote madame de lafayette, "as if the king had no interest in these _fêtes_ except through the gratifications they gave to madame." it was in the summer time, and the royalties were at fontainebleau, which delightful palace of pleasure, with its extensive grounds, made a charming background for the succession of _fêtes_ and dances that louis planned for his sister-in-law. there were expeditions on land by day, water parties on the lake by the light of the moon, and promenades in the woods by night. madame delighted to bathe in the seine; accordingly parties were arranged for her pleasure, the ladies driving to the river and returning on horseback, in elaborate costumes with wonderful plumes in their hats, to an _al fresco_ breakfast in the park. a theatre was erected in the grounds and lulli was installed as superintendent of the royal music. among other entertainments a ballet des saisons was given, in which the king, in a gorgeous costume representing spring, danced with his usual grace and skill, while madame, in a gown of shining tissue, delicate as a butterfly's wing, led her troupe of bacchantes, louise de la vallière among them. it was after one of these entertainments, which were sometimes followed by rambles in the park lasting until two or three o'clock in the morning, that the scene under the royal oak took place which dumas has so ingeniously woven into his romance of la vallière. you remember that the three maids of honor of madame,--montelais, athenais, and louise,--were grouped together under the famous oak in the forest of fontainebleau, which had witnessed the sighs for love or glory of the great henry and many another monarch. the conversation of the three girls on life and love sounds trite and commonplace as we read the story, and yet in the light of the events that followed in quick succession the sentimental platitudes of the innocent child, la vallière, and the worldly aphorisms of the ambitious athenais, afterwards madame de montespan, gain both dignity and pathos. that louise, the timid and gentle, should express herself so warmly upon her admiration for the king reveals the fact that the handsome young sovereign had already made an impression upon her sensitive heart. for her it seemed that there had been no one worthy of notice at the dance except the king, the living embodiment of the springtime he personified. when she exclaimed with fervor, "have you ever seen any one to be compared with the king?" even the bold athenais was surprised at the frankness of the little blésoise. a still greater surprise was in store for the three graces under the royal oak when a rustling was heard in the undergrowth of the adjoining quincunx, and with cries of "a wolf! or a wild boar!" they all scampered away as fast as their feet could carry them to the safe and sure shelter of madame's apartments, to learn later to their dismay that the rustling in the bushes had been caused, not by a wolf or a wild boar, but by the king himself, who was sauntering through the park with m. de saint-aignan. whether or not louise ever thus openly expressed her admiration for the king, one may readily believe that even a slight impression made upon the girl's imagination would be inevitably deepened and strengthened in these days when the court life at fontainebleau is described as a delirium of ambition, pleasure and love. the merry-making and feasting continued, the _fêtes_ still being given in madame's honor, and "the modest violet" might have remained hidden beneath its leaves had not madame henriette's schemes involved louise. it appears that the queen mother, having in common with others observed the king's growing admiration for his beautiful sister-in-law, expostulated with him, entreating him, in the name of dignity and decorum, to discontinue his attentions to her. the king, angry and disconcerted that his actions should be criticised, formed with the aid of the quick-witted madame, who cared little for louis but greatly enjoyed her position as queen of the hour, a plot which involved several of the maids of honor. so infamous was this plot of madame's that one wonders that a woman, to whom kindness of heart has been attributed, could have countenanced a scheme so cruel. "in order to hide their own game," said saint-beuve, "the king was to pay make-believe attention to several of madame's maids of honor." the three selected were mademoiselle de pons, mademoiselle de chimerault, and mademoiselle de la vallière. it soon appeared that the latter was the one whom the king preferred to seem to be in love with. the plot soon thickened quite beyond madame's anticipations, the make-believe attentions became real, the other maids of honor were quite neglected, madame herself was forgotten, and while trying to dazzle the eyes of the public louis himself was bewildered, and soon found himself seriously in love with la vallière, at least as seriously in love as it was in his nature to be. and louise was then and ever after deeply, hopelessly in love with the king. is it strange that this innocent girl, little more than a child in years and experience, with many to flatter and criticise, but none to counsel or protect, should have fallen into the trap that was laid for her unwary feet? from her quiet village home she was suddenly, as madame's dame d'honneur, introduced to a new world, in which the king, young, handsome, and possessed of all the graces and accomplishments of his age, was the central figure. before she had time to become accustomed to the life around her, the greatest temptation that could be offered to a frenchwoman of that day was presented to her. this monarch, the roi soleil to his adoring satellites, was at her feet, telling her that he loved her, and her only, little louise de la vallière, whom the haughty court dames had looked down upon as insignificant, lacking in grace and even beauty. it was only a few short days since water parties, ballets, and _fêtes_ had been given in madame's honor; the gayety continued, but henriette was no longer the inspiration of these festivities, which were planned for other _beaux yeux_, whose she does not know. louise was so modest and retiring, so anxious to spare the queen sorrow and pain, that it was some time before it transpired that the little blésoise, whom madame would not have condescended to look upon as a possible rival, was the reigning favorite. in the midst of the scheming, love making, jealousy, and carousing, the king's second child--the little princess anne elizabeth--opened her eyes to the light of the world, only to close them again before the rejoicings at her birth were well over, even before the foreign ambassadors who came to welcome her had reached paris. the queen was deeply grieved at the loss of her child, louis wept copiously over the family affliction, but being in greater need of distraction than before we find him a few weeks later dancing gayly in a ballet des arts in company with mademoiselle de mortmart, _la belle athenais_, mademoiselle de sévigné, whom her fond mother called the "prettiest girl in france," and mademoiselle de la vallière, who, despite her slight lameness, danced to perfection, her slim figure, of the lissome slenderness that belongs to early youth, showing to great advantage in the figures of the cotillon. you know the sad story far better than i do. the few short years of enchantment when louise lived in the delirium of love's young dream, yet was never really happy, never enjoying her honors as duchesse de la vallière, the royal favorite, because her conscience was ever awake and her tender heart filled with remorse for the sorrow she had caused the queen. the brief years of enchantment were soon over, to be followed by disillusionment, when it was revealed to louise that the fickle heart of louis had succumbed to other charms; the final flight from court and the long years of repentance at the carmelites. twice before louise had taken refuge in a convent. the first time she sought to fly from her passion and herself, to be brought back to court by the adoring king, the second flight was when louis had begun to transfer his attentions to madame de montespan, and finally, at thirty, louise de la vallière retired to chaillot to expiate whatever sins she had committed by thirty-six long years of prayer and penitence. having entered the carmelites in the bright bloom of her beauty, her lovely blonde hair severed from her graceful head, la vallière was known ever after as sister louise de la miséricorde, and as if anything more were needed to complete the tragedy, the king whom she had loved so deeply, to whom she had sacrificed her life, although at the time much engrossed with madame de montespan, was incapable of forgiving louise for quitting the court, and never made the slightest effort to see her again. "he has forgotten her," wrote the vivacious and outspoken madame, mother of the regent, "as much as if he had never known her." in her repentance, which was evidently deep and sincere, la vallière likened herself to three great sinners, the canaanitish woman, the woman of samaria, and the magdalen, and asked only that her sins be forgiven. bossuet, who received her confession, compared her to a dove taking its flight heavenward, while madame de sévigné, who visited her at the carmelites about the time of the marriage of la vallière's daughter to the prince de conti, wrote to madame de grignan: "but what an angel she appeared to me! to my eyes she possessed all the charms of early days, the same eyes and the same expression: the austere life, meagre fare and little sleep _ni les lui ont ni creusés ni battus_. the severe costume has despoiled her of no grace or dignity; indeed, this dress and this retreat add greatly to her dignity." just as we were leaving the château a pleasant diversion came in the form of a call from m. la tour, who had motored over from his father's country seat to dine with us to-night. i was glad to see him, as i wished to thank him for a book which we found at the hotel, when we reached here yesterday, which has added so much to our interest in the château. i tell m. la tour that if we dream to-night of court pageants at blois, midnight strolls in the forest, and girlish confidences under the royal oak, at fontainebleau, it will be quite his fault for making the story so real to us. then, as if to deepen the impression already made, he proceeded to draw us a picture of the _cortège_ attending louis xiv on his arrival at blois,--the great state carriages of wood and leather, with their genoa velvet cushions and wide wheels, surrounded by outriders advancing in perfect order, at a foot's pace, the musketeers in their brilliant uniform, the horns of varying sorts exciting the dogs and horses,--movement, noise, color, a mirage of light announced the king's approach to the château, of which nothing can now convey any adequate idea unless it be the picturesque splendor and false majesty of a theatrical spectacle. as m. la tour described this brilliant scene, another arose before me unbidden, this last in the dim religious light of the convent, where a woman still young, in the full maturity of her beauty, is taking the veil, which is held for the former royal favorite by the neglected queen of louis, maria teresa. although some chroniclers tell us that the king's eyes were red with weeping all the day before, he probably went hunting that day after pheasants, or whatever game was in season, amid the flatteries and acclamations of his courtiers. so short was the memory of a king! so long and deep was the repentance of a woman more sinned against than sinning! the floral offerings, this evening, were handsomer than usual, having come from m. la tour's paternal gardens. miss cassandra and i have bouquets of sweet peas of exquisite shades of mauve, purple and white, quite suitable for chaperones, while for lydia was reserved a choice posy of the blue forget-me-nots, that the french adore, surrounded by mignonette. lydia is wearing a soft grey voile gown to-night, cut low enough to reveal the roundness and whiteness of her throat, and the blue flowers against her grey corsage made a perfect finish to the simple, dainty costume, beside which they are exactly the color of her eyes. upon this fact m. la tour is probably expatiating this minute, as they are talking together in the embrasure of a window in this odd little room which answers the purpose of salon and writing room, in which i scribble off these lines to you. we are all enjoying the young frenchman's visit, with one exception perhaps, archie, who is smoking on the terrace alone. i can see his face from where i am sitting, and it wears a rather careworn expression,--much as he used to look when he was interne at the p----hospital and had a particularly bad case under his care. walter, who is writing at a table near me, is laughing over my description, and says that this is a bad case for archie and m. la tour, whatever it may be for lydia, who quaker-like is so self-contained and serene of countenance that she does not betray her feelings by so much as the lifting of an eyelash. she treats both of her admirers with charming impartiality. "how is archie ever going to find out whether lydia cares for him, zelphine?" this from walter's writing table, in a stage whisper. "even you, inveterate matchmaker that you are, have met your waterloo for once. angela, with all her roguish ways, wasn't a patch to this demure lydia. you certainly are having experiences, zelphine, and are keeping your hand in for christine and lisa when they come along. i feel sorry for poor old archie; but we all have to have our troubles in this line sooner or later." "then why have you added to archie's troubles by urging m. la tour to go with us to-morrow?" "how could i help asking him," this in walter's most persuasive tone, "when he has taken the trouble to come over here to dine with us? in common decency i could do nothing else." "of course nothing will ever come of this, as m. la tour's parents have no doubt arranged an advantageous marriage for him, but----" "do you want anything to come of it, zelphine?" "how you tease! you know very well that i do not; but poor archie's holiday is being spoiled, all the same." "well, he can't go with us anyhow, zelphine dear, for to-morrow is his mother's birthday, and he will have to leave here betimes, in order to be at home to lunch with madame la tour. i must go out on the terrace now and comfort archie." "don't be _too_ comforting, walter, and why didn't you tell me before that m. la tour could not go with us to-morrow?" "i did not quite realize how important his movements were, and after all he holds out a hope of rejoining us at chinon, on monday." this conversation with my good man, dear margaret, will give you a fairly satisfactory idea of a very unsatisfactory state of affairs except that i am not quite sure about chinon. walter looked so mischievous, when he added that bit of information, that i am inclined to think he made it up, on the spur of the moment, just to give me something to think about. by the way, i am leaving the most important item for the end of this long letter. m. la tour brought a charming note from his mother, inviting us to lunch with her any day that suits us. the château la tour is somewhere between blois and paris, not much out of our way; but we really have not time to stop over even for a few hours, as angela writes from paris that the dudleys leave her on tuesday to sail from cherbourg. the child cannot stay at a hotel alone, and she says that she is so busy over her trousseau that she has not time to join us here even for a few days. so you see we have only monday for chinon, a night at angers and a full day on tuesday, as we return to paris, via orleans, where we wish to have several hours _en route_ for the joan of arc associations. it would be a delightful experience to lunch at the château la tour, but under the circumstances, a trifle embarrassing. archie would flatly refuse to go, i am sure, and walter would think it a perfect bore, so it is just as well that we have a good, ready-made excuse. i don't know what miss cassandra thinks about the situation of affairs, as for once in her life she is as discreet and non-committal as lydia; but she is evidently much disappointed about the luncheon at the château la tour. she is always ready for a new experience, and is eager to meet madame la tour, who claims cousinship with her. however, this last pleasure may be only deferred, as madame hopes to call upon us in paris later in the month. xii three chÂteaux hÔtel de france, blois, september th. this has been a golden day of pure delight, with a brilliant sunshine from early morn to dewy eve, and a cool, refreshing air, an altogether ideal day for our prolonged visitations among the châteaux around blois! lydia and i went to the little protestant church with miss cassandra this morning, as a salve to our consciences, archie says, in view of the giddy round of pleasure that we had planned for the afternoon. he and walter tried to beguile lydia from our side, to spend the morning in roaming about blois with them; but she is a loyal little soul and resisted all their blandishments with sweet steadfastness, saying that after following the huguenots through all the miseries that were heaped upon them, the least that we can do is to honor their memories in their chapel here at blois. archie says that we are quite right and that this sentiment is praiseworthy; but that as he and walter were unable to honor these heroic souls in their own language, to attend such a service would be a mockery. "yes," walter added, "it would seem like a bit of play-acting to sit there in church, like two whited sepulchres, trying to look as if we understood when we should not know six words of what was being said." miss cassandra, being accustomed to religious service where not a word is spoken in any language, naturally does not think much of these arguments; but having a strong liking for my two men she is quite willing to excuse them from accompanying us to the chapel. nor do i wonder that they are glad to have a fine morning in which to roam about this interesting old town together, and to give zest and point to their rambles, m. la tour has told them of an ancient coin associated with the history of blois. this coin is said to be the oldest document in existence on, or in, which the name of blois is inscribed, it also bears the name of the officer of the mint at blois at the time of its issue, far back in history. of course walter and archie are very anxious to see this ancient coin, and m. la tour has given them a letter of introduction to the man who has charge of it, which he assured them would admit them to a view of it sundays or holidays, or any time in the day or night. we enjoyed the service in the little church, where we heard a really eloquent discourse from an old _pasteur_ with the most beautiful, benevolent face that you can imagine. we are quite sure that this handsome, venerable clergyman comes from a long line of heroic huguenot ancestors, and miss cassandra says that she did not mind so much not understanding what he said, as she was quite sure that it was all to edification, which she evidently does not always feel with regard to the long tales that the guides spin off for us, and in truth lydia and i have tripped them up more than twice in their history. we returned to the hotel quite enthusiastic about the chapel and its pastor, and miss cassandra is already planning some benevolent scheme to help the evidently struggling congregation. if her means were equal to her charitable intent, what would she not do for the benefit of mankind in all quarters of the globe? walter and archie were so impressed by her description of "the venerable descendant of a long line of massacred huguenots" that they have made substantial acknowledgments to be sent by lydia and myself to the patrons of the little chapel. the idea of visiting three châteaux in one afternoon was rather appalling at first; but the afternoon was long, beginning soon after our twelve o'clock _déjeuner_, and the roads are fine for motoring in this level country. our way lay for some miles by loire, first on one bank and then on the other. this flat country, with its wide reaches of meadow land and distant horizon lines, has a charm of its own, its restfulness suits the drowsy autumn days, and no trees could be better fitted to border these roadsides and river banks than the tall slim lombardy poplars, with their odd bunches of foliage atop like the plumes and pompons on soldiers' caps. down by some of the streams large white poplars have spread out their branches, making coverts from the sunshine for man and beast. on these poplars we noticed what looked like huge green nests. "are they crows' nests?" we asked, as there seem to be no end of crows all about here. "no, not for the _corbeaux_," said the chauffeur, shaking his head and looking fairly puzzled, as he explained with some elaboration that this was a parasitic plant which drew its nourishment from various trees, and that later in the season white, waxlike berries would appear upon it. "it is the mistletoe!" exclaimed lydia, joyously, as if meeting an old friend in a strange land, and as she was, as usual, conducting the general information course, she asked the chauffeur if it was not used for decoration at christmas and the new year, being hung where lovers were likely to pass, a custom derived from the rites of the ancient druids. the chauffeur was evidently unacquainted with the ways of the druids, his studies in folk lore not having been extensive; but the bit about the lovers he understood, and in that curious way, that has so often surprised us, perhaps by a certain mental telepathy, he suddenly understood, slapped his hand upon his knee, and exclaimed, "yes, yes, mademoiselle, it is the same thing, le mis-le-toe, _le gui_." so it is _le gui_, that we see on so many trees, and this man, evidently of the soil, as he knows all about the products here, tells us that it grows upon pear, apple and other trees and is cut off and sent in great quantities to the large towns for holiday celebrations. from the level landscape with low-lying meadows and fields of turnips in which men and women were at work, we suddenly saw the great round towers of chaumont rising from among the trees of a well-wooded ridge. like langeais, chaumont is a strong fortress of the middle ages, dark and lowering at a first view, but with much beauty in its hillside park and gardens. we crossed a creaking, swaying suspension bridge, one is always crossing bridges here, as the loire winds itself around these châteaux as if it delighted to encircle them in its shining arms. the best view of the château is from this bridge, which connects the villages of chaumont and onzain. from this coign of vantage it rises before us, crowning the hill-crest with its many towers and dominating the little village at its feet and the broad river. the loire is twice as wide here as at blois, its surface broken up by many sand bars and stretches of pebbly beach, such brilliantly colored pebbles as we used to see in northern italy, when the rivers were low as these are here to-day. much the same view is this as john evelyn's first sight of chaumont, on a may day long ago: "we took boate," wrote evelyn, "passing by chaumont, a proud castle on the left hand; before it a small island deliciously shaded with tall trees." as we motored through the village street, whose houses run parallel with the river, we noticed that the town seemed to be _en fête_. the outside of the little church was decorated with banners, lanterns and flowers, while within it was so filled to overflowing with villagers, and small maidens in white frocks and pink and blue sashes, that we could scarcely get our noses within the doorway. the village was celebrating some church festival, the chauffeur told us; but we stupidly forget which saint was being honored, perhaps because the remainder of the afternoon was spent among those who had small claim to saint-hood, and then as miss cassandra says, "there are so many of these saints, how can we ever keep track of them all?" [illustration: chÂteau of chaumont: the loire on the left] "and it is so much easier to remember the sinners," walter adds, "because there is always something doing among them." leaving the auto in the village, we climbed up to the castle by a steep and narrow path and entered the great doorway where the moat and drawbridge between the huge round towers again reminded us of langeais. over this entrance are the graven initials of louis and anne of brittany, the arms of george of amboise with his cardinal's hat, and the double c's of charles of chaumont and his wife, catherine of chauvigny. here also are some scattered d's which stand for diane of poitiers, who consented to accept this château when catherine offered her a hobson's choice of chaumont or nothing. we were especially interested in a rich frieze in which were intertwined the double c's and the odd device of the burning mountain, "chaud-mont," from which, it is said, the name of the château was derived. as chaumont is still inhabited, we were not shown the whole of the castle, but fortunately for us the suite of historic rooms was on view. here again we came upon associations with the dreadful catherine, whose bedroom and furniture are shown to visitors. whether or not these articles are genuine, and grave doubts are thrown upon their authenticity, they are very handsome and of the proper period. the tapestries in these rooms are all old and charming in color, of old rose and pink. a description which i came across in a delightful book by mr. theodore a. cook, which m. la tour brought us from his mother's library, gives a better idea of this tapestry than any words of mine: "beside the door a blinded love with rose-red wings and quiver walks on the flushing paths, surrounded by strange scrolls and mutilated fragments of old verses; upon the wall in front are ladies with their squires attending, clad all in pink and playing mandolins, while by the stream that courses through the flowery meadows small rosy children feed the water birds, that seem to blush with pleasure beneath the willow boughs of faded red." next to the so-called room of catherine de médicis is the chamber attributed to ruggieri, the chosen aide and abettor of her schemes, which apartment very properly communicates with a private stairway leading to the platform of the tower which is said to have been used by him as an observatory. whether or not catherine ever inhabited these rooms, and we know that she never lived for any length of time at chaumont, i must confess that seeing them thus conveniently placed for plotting and adventure, they impressed us even more than her secret stairways and poison cupboards at blois. this may have been because these rooms are small and dark and dreary, ruggieri's being in one of the corner towers, with small windows cut in the wall, which is over two metres in thickness. from whatever reason, these apartments are the most weird and ghostly that we have seen, fitted up as they are with many memorials of catherine, and two portraits of her, one in a rich costume, an extinguisher gown with pink underskirt and wide full sleeves bordered with a band of fur, each one as large as an ordinary muff. there is also a portrait of ruggieri here, whose dark, sinister face adds much to the grewsomeness of the room, and standing here we could readily imagine the scene, described by a chronicler of the time, when the queen sought ruggieri here among his philters, minerals, foreign instruments, parchments and maps of the heavens, to consult him about the future of her offspring. this was soon after the death of henry ii, when the young king's health had begun to break down. when the queen desired to be shown the horoscopes of her children, by some skillful arrangement of mirrors the astrologer made her four sons to pass before her, each in turn wearing crowns for a brief period; but all dying young and without heirs, each figure was to turn around as many times as the number of years he was to live. poor francis appeared, wan and sickly, and before he had made an entire circle he passed out of sight, from which the queen knew that the young king would die before the year was out, which, as we know, came true, as did some of the other prognostications. what must have filled to the brim the cup of misery which this ambitious, disappointed woman had held to her lips, was to see the rival of her sons, the bitterly hated henry of navarre, following their shadows upon the mirror and making over twenty turns, which meant that he would reign in france for twenty years, or more. by whatever means the astrologer accomplished these predictions, the remarkable thing about them is that the account of this interview at chaumont was written during the reign of henry iii, before some of them had been fulfilled. catherine, firmly believing in ruggieri's prognostications, left the château a sadder if not a wiser woman. the rooms of catherine communicate directly with the chapel, where there is a most realistic picture of the last judgment, and her book of the hours lies open on her _prie dieu_ as if she had just finished her devotions. for good and sufficient reasons, we do not think of this queen at prayer as readily as we figure her taking part in affairs of state, plotting for the destruction of her enemies and trying to hoodwink the huguenots and leaguers in turn. "and yet," as walter reminds us, "catherine was extremely devout, with all her deviltry." you may remember a portrait of her in fine enamel at the louvre, which represents catherine kneeling before an altar, her hands devoutly clasped, and as if to give point to the time-honored adage "handsome is that handsome does," the queen's face, in this enamel, possesses some claim to good looks. m. la tour has been telling us of some old papers, recently brought to light, which prove that catherine, during the babyhood of her children, was an anxious and watchful mother. she seems to have written careful and minute directions regarding the food and clothing of her little ones, in one instance directing that her son henry should not be encouraged to eat largely, adding, like any wise mother of to-day, "i am of opinion that my children are rather ill from being too fat than too thin." the evidence of this opinion is borne out by clouet's drawings of the chubby face of henry and the fat, heavy cheeks of francis ii, both in their babyhood. it was little francis, an unassertive prince in after years, who at the age of two insisted upon discarding his petticoats, upon which the king, when consulted upon this important question, wrote to the governor of the royal nursery, "it is right indeed that my son should wear breeches if he asks for them; for i do not doubt that he knows perfectly well what is needful." these intimate details of the youth of the royal children, trifling as they are, add a human interest to the figures of henry ii and catherine, whom we only think of as sweeping through these châteaux in form and state, and raise a question as to whether, after all, this cruel queen had not a heart somewhere tucked away under her jewelled bodice. chaumont has many associations earlier than the days of catherine, reaching back to charles of amboise, who built much of the château, and to his father georges, one of the chief ministers of louis xii. it is said that georges of amboise used his tact and influence to gain the papal bull necessary for the king's divorce from jeanne of france, which was brought to chinon by cæsar borgia, with great state and ceremony. it was this same papal envoy who brought georges d'amboise his cardinal's hat. unscrupulous as he may have been in some instances, cardinal d'amboise seems to have been, in the main, a wise and judicious minister and helped louis to institute many important reforms. the romance of chaumont is its association with the knightly figure of henri coiffier de ruzé, marquis de cinq mars. the opening scene of de vigny's novel rises before us, as we pass through the rooms of chaumont. the young marquis was about to set forth upon his ill-fated journey into the great world, and the members of his family were gathered together for a solemn, farewell meal. de vigny represents the poor youth neglecting his dinner, and even indifferent to his mother's sorrow over his departure in his desire to meet the beautiful eyes of marie de gonzague, who was seated at the other end of the table, from whom he was soon to part forever. it was by a lattice window in the rez-de-chaussée of the western tower that cinq-mars found marie waiting for him, when he retraced his steps and came back at midnight for a last word with her. we looked in vain for the window by which the lovers swore eternal fidelity to their love and to each other; but the château has doubtless undergone some changes since those early days, although it looks so ancient. lydia and i were wishing for a copy of cinq-mars in order to follow the young marquis through his sad and singular experience at loudun, his meeting with his old friend de thou, his brilliant exploit at perpignan, his rapid preferment at court, and--just here walter called us from our rapid review of the career of cinq-mars to show us a head of benjamin franklin in terra cotta. this excellent low relief of franklin is in a case with a number of other medallions, made by an italian, nini, whom the owner of chaumont brought here in the hope of turning to account some clay found on the estate. this admirable medallion excited the two antiquarians of the party more than anything we have seen here, even more than the weird sky parlor of ruggieri. walter is wondering whether this is not the medallion about which dr. franklin wrote to his daughter soon after his arrival at passy, as the first of its kind made in france. this idea seems more probable, in view of the fact that the same m. le ray, who owned chaumont at that time, was franklin's host at passy for nine years. all of which, as walter says, makes it more than likely that the old philosopher came to chaumont to have his portrait modelled by nini, especially as his relations with the master of chaumont were of the most friendly nature. the old potteries in which the italian artist worked have long since been turned into stables and a riding school. another familiar and even more recent figure associated with chaumont is madame de staël, who took refuge here, while reading the proofs of her work upon germany, chaumont being the requisite forty leagues from paris. m. le ray and his family, with whom madame de staël was upon the most intimate terms, were in america at this time. here in the old château the de staëls lived for some time, the authoress working in peace and quietness upon her great work. when m. le ray and his family returned to chaumont, although hospitably invited to remain at the château, madame de staël insisted upon removing with her family to a villa in the neighborhood, which was placed at her disposal by m. de salaberry. at this place, called fossé, madame de staël welcomed madame récamier and other friends, and with the charming french trait of making the most of the joys of the hour, she wrote with enthusiasm of the happy days that she passed near her friends at chaumont. even if the old vendean soldier, the châtelain of fossé, took little care of his estate, she said that his constant kindness made everything easy and his original turn of mind made everything amusing. "no sooner had we arrived," wrote madame de staël, "than an italian musician whom i had with me, to give lessons to my daughter, began to play the guitar. my daughter accompanied on the harp the sweet voice of my fair friend, madame récamier; the peasants assembled below the windows astonished to find this colony of troubadours who came to enliven the solitude of their master. it was there that i passed my last days in france, with a few friends whose memories are cherished in my heart. surely this reunion so intimate, this solitary sojourn, this delightful dalliance with the fine arts could hurt no one." charming, innocent, pastoral seems this life, as madame de staël described it, and yet even such simple pleasures as these she was not allowed to enjoy, for during a brief visit to the home of m. de montmorency, an attempt was made to seize her manuscripts, which her children had fortunately put in a place of safety; her book was suppressed and she was ordered to leave france within three days. when madame de staël asked why she was treated with such harshness by the government and why her book was censured, the answer given under the signature of the ministry plainly stated that the head and front of her offending consisted in her not having mentioned the emperor in her last work. it is difficult to believe that a man who could do such great things as napoleon could be so small as to follow this brilliant woman with bitter, relentless hatred, because she failed to burn incense at his shrine. although we were not given the freedom of the grounds, we were shown the beautiful court of honor with its one fine tree, a cedar of lebanon which spreads its branches quite close to the chapel walls. there is an old italian well in this court, with low reliefs carved upon its sides, and graceful ornaments of wrought iron above the sweep. we pictured to ourselves the marquis de cinq mars and marie de gonzague meeting in this court, under the friendly branches of the great cedar, and so with a tender thought for these hapless old-time lovers, we turned away from chaumont. still musing and dreaming over its numerous and varied associations, we motored along toward cheverny. this was an afternoon in which to dream,--the air was full of a delicious drowsy autumnal warmth, and a soft haze hung over the loire and its tributaries. involuntarily our thoughts turn back to the time when the kings and nobles of france made their stately progress along these same roads, many of them roman roads, for the great road-builders were all over this country as in england. upon these highways over which we speed along in an auto, great lumbering stage coaches once made their way, and in the fields, as to-day, were the toilers, the husband and wife, as in the angelus of millet. for an instant they would look up from their work to see what all the racket was about, and take a momentary interest in the gilded coaches, the gay outriders, the richly caparisoned horses, and all the pomp and circumstance of royalty. if near the highway, they would catch a fleeting glimpse of the beautiful face of some royal or noble dame, and seeing only the rich brocade of her gown, the jewels upon her breast and the gay feathers and flowers in her hat, they would turn back to their toil with a half-formulated wonder why life was a holiday to these favored ones and only bitter toil and hardship to _nous autres_. thomas jefferson's proposition, that all men are created free and equal, would have shocked these simple souls as it would their lords and masters, and yet a seed of thought was slumbering in their slow minds, germinating for a future awakening, a small seed that was destined to become a thousand in the sad and terrible reprisals of the french revolution. to these starved peasants luxury stood for happiness, never themselves knowing the satisfaction of a full comfortable meal, it would have been impossible to make them believe that this outward show and splendor did not mean that these men and women, who rolled along in coaches and fed sumptuously every day, were the supremely blessed of the earth. and yet along these roads passed the coaches of the heavy hearted as well as of the gay. by much the same way that we are going journeyed the unhappy princess joanne when her husband, louis xii, was minded to put her away to give place to a more ambitious marriage. another royal lady to whom a crown brought naught but sorrow and disappointment was the gentle louise de vandemont-lorraine, wife of henry iii, who fared this way to the home of her widowhood at chenonceaux, and by much the same route passed marie de médicis when she fled from blois and found refuge and aid at loches. [illustration: smithy near gate of cheverny] as cheverny and chaumont are not far apart, we were aroused from our reflections by a sudden stop at a little smithy near the gates of the park. a most charming little smithy is this, with a niched saint on the outside, vines clambering all over the wall, and a picturesque outside staircase with a little balcony above. the blacksmith, himself, as he stood framed in by the doorway, made a picture that we thought well worth taking. unfortunately the saint in the niche could not come in, as it was some distance from the door, but just at the right moment lydia, quite unconsciously, stepped before the lens, and near the stone stairway which she had been examining. "far better than a saint!" said archie under his breath, and then aloud, "keep still, miss mott, the blacksmith will stay, i am sure, as he looks as if he had been built into that door." i think we shall be able to send you a photograph of our little smithy, and perhaps one of the church across the road, which is quaint and interesting, with its timbered verandas (one cannot, by any stretch of courtesy, call them cloisters) and something like a lych-gate at the entrance. within are some marbles and memorial tablets of the hurault family. it seems that the huraults owned the seignory of cheverny as long ago as the fourteenth century, "before we americans were discovered," as miss cassandra says. early in the sixteenth century, one raoul hurault built a château here, of which little or nothing is left. the present château was built by a later hurault, in , and, after passing through several hands, it was bought, in , by the marchioness hurault de vibraye, and being thus returned to the family of the original owners, is still in their possession. a wonderful tale was this for american ears! cheverny, with its well wooded park, and its avenue six kilometres in length, is a noble domain; but the outside of the château, although its architecture has been highly praised, did not impress us particularly. this may be because the mansion is situated on a level sweep of lawn, laid out after the english style, instead of crowning a great bluff like blois, amboise and chaumont. the interior of cheverny leaves nothing to be desired. it is elegant, aristocratic, and yet most delightfully homelike, with its spacious hall, richly decorated royal bedroom, and salon as livable as an english drawing room, with books, magazines and writing materials scattered over the centre table. on the panelled walls are gathered together a goodly and graceful company of noble lords and beautiful ladies, among them a fine full-length portrait of philippe hurault, count de cheverny, chancellor of finance under henry iv, and opposite him his beautiful and stately wife, anne de thou, dame de cheverny, in a gown of black velvet garnished with rich lace. this noble lady was related, in some way, to the gallant young de thou who perished on the scaffold with his friend cinq mars. over the chimney-place is a charming portrait by mignard of the daughter, or daughter-in-law, of anne de thou, marie johanne de saumery, marquise de montglat, countess de cheverny. the subject of this lovely portrait bears with distinction her long array of cumbersome titles, while the airy grace of the figure and the innocent sweetness of the rounded girlish face are irresistibly attractive. above the chimney-place, in which this portrait is set in the white wainscot, is the monogram (hv) which one finds all over the château, a proof that this ancient family is _légitimiste_ to the core, and devoutly loyal to whatever is left of the ancient line of the bourbons. in the _salle à manger_, the monogram of the last henry of this royal house is especially conspicuous. we were puzzling over the name of the pretender of to-day when the guide informed our ignorance, with a most superior manner of knowing it all and wondering that we did not know it also. from what he gave forth in rapid french with many gestures, we gathered that on the death of the comte de paris his eldest son, philippe robert, duc d'orléans, became heir to the house of bourbon, founded in by robert le fort, with the title philippe vii. the duc de bourdeaux, always known as the comte de chambord after he became owner of the château of the same name, was heir to the throne, through the elder branch of the house, that is, as the grandson and eldest descendant of charles x, the last of the elder branch that reigned in france. some little time before his death, the comte de chambord was reconciled to the younger or orleans branch, which had usurped the throne after the expulsion of charles x. by this act the comte de paris was recognized as the legitimate successor to the throne. the present duke of orleans, should the monarchy be restored, would rule as philippe vii. the comte de chambord took the title henri v, as the next henri after the king of navarre, henri iv. the comte de chambord bequeathed the château of chambord, which was his personal property, to his kinsman, the duke de parme, who was a bourbon of the spanish line, being the descendant of the grandson of louis xiv, who was elected to the spanish throne in . from the pride with which this information was communicated we realized that this very superior _gardien_ was, like the noble master and mistress of cheverny, legitimist to the ends of his fingers. [illustration: neurdein freres, photo. anne de thou, dame de cheverny] while listening to this genealogical disquisition our eyes turned to a most attractive looking tea table which was set forth with superb silver, and thin slices of bread and butter and cake. with appetites sharpened by our long ride through the fresh air, i fear that we all gazed longingly at that tempting regale, and for miss cassandra, lydia and i positively trembled. with her strong feeling that the world was made for herself and those whom she loves, it would not have surprised us to see the good lady sit down at this hospitable looking table and invite the rest of the party to join her. lydia adroitly led the conversation toward chambord and the afternoon tea which our chauffeur had promised us there, adding, gracefully, "it is very kind of the marquise to allow us to go through her beautiful château while the family is in residence." "yes," assented miss cassandra, "but how much more hospitable if she would invite us to drink tea with her!" after admiring the beautifully decorated ceiling and the handsome leather hangings, we left the dining room and its temptations for what was a much greater attraction to the men of the party, the fine suits of armor in the salle des gardes. although cheverny cherishes its bourbon traditions, like the proverbially happy nation and happy woman it has no history to speak of, having even escaped the rigors of the french revolution. in the past, as to-day, this château seems to have been a homelike and peaceful abode, its long façade and pavilions having looked down through many centuries upon a smiling garden and a vast lawn, which shut it in from the world beyond even more effectually than its great gates. from cheverny our way lay across a stretch of open, level country and then through the forest of chambord, which includes , acres of woodland. by the time we reached the château, we were, as miss cassandra expresses it in classic phrase, "faint yet pursuing" for lack of the refreshment to which we were not made welcome at cheverny. our chauffeur, being accustomed to famished pilgrims, conducted us at once to a garden café quite near the château, from whence we could study its long façade while enjoying our tea and _pâtisserie_. and what a huge monument is this château of chambord to the effete monarchy of france, built up from the life-blood and toil of thousands! it impressed us as more brutally rich and splendid than any of the palaces that we had seen, rising as it does in its great bulk so unexpectedly from the dead level of the sandy plain, with no especial reason for its existence except the will of a powerful sovereign. it is not strange that the salamander of francis i appears upon so many of the châteaux of france, for to this art-loving, luxurious, and _débonnaire_ king she owes chambord, fontainebleau, st. germain and the smaller châteaux of azay-le-rideau, anet and villers-cotterets. although francis i brought from italy, to beautify his palaces, leonardo da vinci, primaticcio, benvenuto cellini, florentin rosso and other foreign artists, it has been decided by those who know more about the matter than we do, that chambord owes more to its first architect, maître pierre le nepvue, dit trinqueau, than to anyone else. it seemed to us that this master hand was happier in the construction of chenonceaux, blois and some of the other châteaux of france, than here at chambord, but this is a matter of individual taste. vast, palatial, magnificent chambord certainly is, and much more attractive on the north façade, where the château is reflected in the waters of the cosson, than from the café where we were seated. the long line of buildings in the south front is somewhat monotonous, even broken as it is by the several towers, and the great central lantern, which appears to the best advantage from this side. rich as is all the ornamentation of chambord, it is skyward that it breaks forth into the greatest exuberance of renaissance decoration. we reached the central lantern, with the single fleur-de-lis atop, by one of the remarkable staircases for which the palaces of francis i are so famous. this staircase, which is formed by two spirals starting from different points, and winding about the same hollow shaft in the centre, is so constructed that persons can go up and down without meeting. mr. henry james considered this double staircase "a truly majestic joke," but in days when courts lived and moved and had their being in intrigues, schemes and plots, it doubtless had its uses. [illustration: neurdein freres, photo. chÂteau of chambord] mademoiselle de montpensier gives in her diary an amusing account of her first acquaintance with this double stairway. she came, when a child, to chambord to visit her father, gaston, duke of orleans, who stood at the top of the stairs to receive her, and called to her to come to him. as she flew up one flight her agile parent ran down the other; upon which the little girl gave chase, only to find that when she had gained the bottom he was at the top. "monsieur," she said, "laughed heartily to see me run so fast in the hope of catching him, and i was glad to see monsieur so well amused." having reached the central lantern we found ourselves upon a flat roof, surrounded by a perfectly bewildering maze of peaks, pinnacles, lanterns, chimneys and spires, which constitute what our guide is pleased to call the _ensemble de la toiture_. this vast terrace, which covers the main building of the palace, is one of the architectural marvels of france. here it seems as if the architect had allowed himself unlimited freedom in decoration, in which he was aided by such artists as jean goujon and cousin, who zealously worked upon the ornamentation of these bell turrets, balconies and towers, as if to prove the sincerity and beauty of french art. this luxuriant flowing forth, in stone carving, of foliage, flower, boss and emblem, has resulted in an ensemble of indescribable charm, the dazzling light stone of bourré, of which the château is built, lending itself harmoniously to the elaborate renaissance decoration. it was of jean goujon, whose exquisite work we see now and again in these châteaux, that some writer has said, that the muse of ronsard whispered in the ear of the french sculptor, and thus goujon's masterpieces were poems of ronsard translated in marble. it is a rather pretty fancy, but lydia and i cannot remember its author. walter says that he can understand why the counts of blois built their castle here, as this place seems to have formed part of a system of fortresses which guarded the loire, making it possible, in the time of charles vii, for joan of arc to move her army up the river to orleans; but why francis should have transformed this old castle into a palace is not so easy to understand. when so many more attractive sites were to be found, it seems strange that he should have chosen this sandy flat upon the border of what was then the sad and barren solange. one reason given is that the country about chambord was rich in game, and we know that francis was an inveterate hunter; another theory is that a charming woman, the comtesse de thoury, one of the early loves of the king, had a manor in the neighborhood. "both excellent reasons!" exclaimed archie, "dame quickly is evidently an apt student of human nature." these various surmises and bits of information were poured into our ears by the guide, a plump and merry soul, whom archie at once dubbed dame quickly. as she conducted us from room to room, she turned to me and, with a flash of her black eyes, exclaimed, "if these walls could speak, what tales they could tell!" adding that, for her part, she believed that the king came here for the hunting, the comtesse de thoury having been a love of his youth, and, with a knowing shake of her head, "you know, mesdames, how short is the memory of man for an early love, especially a king's memory, when another is always to be found to take the vacant place." when we explained this philosophic reflection upon their sex to the men of the party, they declared that an unfair advantage was being taken by this facetious dame, simply because they were not able to answer back and vindicate the eternal fidelity of man. then, as if divining what was being said, through her quick woman's instinct, she drew us toward a window in the study of francis i and showed us these lines scratched upon one of the panes: souvent femme varie; mal habile qui s'y fie. some discredit is thrown upon the authenticity of these lines, and if francis wrote them in his old age, his point of view must have greatly changed since his earlier days, when he so gaily and gallantly said that a court without ladies was a year without spring and a spring without roses. francis spent much of his time in his later years at chambord, his chief solace being the companionship of his lovely sister, marguerite, queen of navarre, the author of the heptameron, whose beauty and intellect were the inspiration of many french poets. one of the pleasing sides of the character of the king was his devoted affection for this sister, with whom he had spent a happy youth at amboise, and she, loving him beyond any other being, wrote verses to express her grief when they were separated. a varied, many-sided, personality was francis i, and with all his faults possessed of a charm of his own, and a taste in the fine arts that added much to the beauty of his kingdom. something of this we said to dame quickly, who replied, with another wise shake of her head, "the history of francis is a wonderful history, mesdames, made up of many things. there is always state policy, and religion, _et un peu les femmes_," the knowing look and shrug with which this bit of wisdom was communicated is simply untranslatable. only a few of the rooms of chambord are furnished; we were shown the bedroom of the late comte de chambord, a ghostly apartment, it seemed to us in the fading daylight, the bed hung with elaborate tapestries, the work of the loyal hands of the ladies of poitou. miss cassandra asked the guide if she would not be afraid to sleep in this dismal chamber. "no," she answered, "there are no _revenants_ here, the great people who lived here do not walk, they had such an active life with their hunting and fêtes that they are content to rest quietly in their beds." we passed through the council chamber of the château, where there are more tapestries, these presented by the loyal inhabitants of blois and the limousin districts, and here also is a quite useless throne donated by some devoted legitimists. in the chapel, we were shown some tapestry worked by madame royale, during her imprisonment in the temple, that daughter of marie antoinette who alone survived her unfortunate family and as duchesse d'angoulême lived to quite an advanced age. the fast-fading daylight made it impossible to see many of the portraits in the great reception room; among them we noticed two portraits of anne of austria, and a van loo of the beautiful unloved queen of louis xv, marie leczinska. in this picture she appears so graceful and charming that one wonders how the king could have been insensible to her attractions; but one need never be surprised at the vagaries of royalty, and it is not to be expected that diplomatic alliances should be happy. what interested the men of the party especially, was the little light wagon in which, we were told, the owner of chambord, the duc de parme, went a hunting with that good legitimist, the master of cheverny. "i am glad," said walter, "that the noble duke has a neighbor of the same stripe to go a hunting with him, the grandeur of this great palace without a friendly neighbor to come in and take a hand at cards or crack a joke with him, would be simply appalling." "the idea of jokes in this vast mausoleum of departed grandeur!" exclaimed miss cassandra. "it would be like dancing in a cemetery. do ask that lively black-eyed dame how many there are in family when the owners are at home." "monsieur le duc has twenty-two children," was the reply. "he lives in italy, but comes here sometimes for the hunting."[b] "and does he bring his family with him?" "_pas tout le monde_ at the same time, madame, although we have enough rooms for them all." laughing over this ready rejoinder, we parted from our merry cicerone with exchanges of compliments and a clink of silver. i am quite sure that walter and archie gave her the fee twice over because of her _beaux yeux_ and her merry wit. it is late, and i am tired after the _grande tournée_, as they call our afternoon trip here, and walter reminds me "that the best of all ways to lengthen our days is _not_ to steal a few hours from the night, my dear." footnote: [b] since mrs. leonard wrote of this conversation at chambord, the château has passed into the possession of prince sixtus de bourbon, son and heir of the late duke of parma. the present owner of chambord in making good his title to the château testified that not a penny of its revenue has ever been applied to any other purposes than the restoration and upkeep of the domain. xiii chinon and fontevrault le cheval blanc, angers, september th. fate certainly seemed to be against my seeing chinon to-day, as we awoke this morning to hear the rain pattering against our windows. a rather disconsolate party, we gathered around the table for the breakfast, which we had ordered an hour earlier, in order to make the day as long as possible. miss cassandra, who was the only really cheerful member of the party, reminded us of the many days of sunshine that we have had in touraine, adding with her usual practical optimism, "and thee must remember, my dear, that constant sunshine makes the desert," this to lydia, but we all took the wise saying to heart and were quite cheerful by the time we had finished our breakfast, perhaps also for the more material reason that walter, through various gratuities and persuasions, had succeeded in making it of better cheer than the ordinary light _déjeuner_. another pleasing circumstance was the assurance of the chauffeur, who arrived while we were still in the breakfast room, that the clouds were breaking away and that we should have sunshine by noon. by the time we had reached villandry the sun was struggling through the clouds, and as we approached chinon, its long line of ancient ruins and the little town clustered beneath were bathed in sunshine. [illustration: neurdein freres, photo. ruins of chÂteau of coudray at chinon] although from several points the old château on the crest of the hill, dominated by the lofty tour de l'horloge, is beautiful and impressive, the best general view of it is from the middle of the lower bridge, from which we could see the three distinct foundations, the château of st. george at the upper or right side, the bridge which connects it with the tour de l'horloge, the château du milieu, and finally the château de coudray at the extreme lower or left end of the plateau. the whole is far more ruinous than the other famous castles of touraine and requires as much imagination to make it whole and habitable as some of the ruins along the rhine. of the château of st. george, built by the plantagenet kings to protect the one vulnerable point in a position almost impregnable in its day, nothing is left but parts of the lower wall. so ruinous, indeed, is this château, that one is almost ready to accept pantagruel's derivation of the name of chinon, or caino, from cain, the son of adam its founder. we climbed up the hill and rang the bell at the tour de l'horloge, which is the only part of the buildings still boasting a roof, and here the concierge and his family tuck themselves away somewhere within its high, narrow walls. the bell that we rang is on the outer side of the tower, and in the course of time a girl, about as big as the old key she carried, unlocked a door in the archway through which we entered. the level spaces inside between the different buildings have been laid out as a sort of promenade which is open to the public on sundays and holidays. the view up and down the slow, shallow river with its yellow sand-flats, little green islands, and the softly wooded country beyond seemed to us one of the most charming in touraine. the concierge, who was attempting to act as guide to two separate parties at once, hurried us around in such a bewildering fashion that it would be almost impossible for me to give the exact locations of the different buildings. what we all remember distinctly is the bare, roofless hall, of which only a western gable and a vast chimney-piece remain, in which joan had her audience with the king. this hall was the throne room, in , when the fearless maid appeared at chinon, having journeyed one hundred and fifty leagues through a country occupied, in many places, by english and burgundian troops, in order to deliver her message to the king. although the meeting between charles vii and joan was by candlelight, even in the garish light of day it seemed strangely real here in this great ruinous hall. nearly three hundred knights were present, and the king is said to have stood a little apart amidst a group of warriors and courtiers, many of them more richly dressed than himself, with the idea, perhaps, of testing joan. there are various accounts of this audience, but the one that we like best because it seems the most probable is that joan knew the king at once, although she had never seen him, and going straight to him, accosted him humbly and reverently like the poor, little shepherdess that she was. "gentle dauphin," she said to the king (for she did not think it right to call him king so long as he was not crowned), "my name is joan the maid; the king of heaven sendeth you word by me that you shall be anointed and crowned in the city of rheims, and shall be lieutenant of the king of heaven who is king of france. it is god's pleasure that our enemies, the english, should depart to their own country; if they depart not evil will come to them, and the kingdom is sure to continue yours." even after these earnest words from joan, the king, although impressed, was not convinced, and with some reluctance allowed her to remain at chinon. we were afterwards shown the lodgings, which this inhospitable royal host gave to the persistent visitor, in a very thick-walled little tower, and according to our guide, joan could get in or out of her room, on an upper floor, only when her guards put a ladder up to her small window, permanent stairways being considered unsafe for such guests. the king saw joan again several times. she did not delude herself as to the doubts he still entertained. "gentle dauphin," she said to him one day, "why do you not believe me? i say unto you that god hath compassion on you, on your kingdom and your people; st. louis and charlemagne are kneeling before him, making prayer for you, and i will say unto you, so please you, a thing which will give you to understand that you ought to believe me." charles gave her audience on this occasion, in the presence, according to some accounts, of four witnesses, the most trusted of his intimates, who swore to reveal nothing, and, according to others, completely alone. "what she said to him there is none who knows," wrote alan chartier a short time after [in july, ], "but it is quite certain that he was all radiant with joy thereat, as at a revelation from the holy spirit." archie, who read the most recent life of joan of arc, on the steamer, as a preparation for chinon, reminds us that after much sifting of history and tradition, it has been decided by learned authorities that the revelation of the maid, which filled the king with joy, was a positive assurance that he was the rightful heir to the throne of france and the true son of his father, charles vi. it is not strange that charles vii should have doubted his own paternity with a mother as unnatural and depraved as isabel of bavaria, and that with a kingdom chiefly in the hands of the english he should have seriously questioned his right and title to the throne, being himself of a weak and doubting nature. it is said, that in an hour of great despondency, charles prayed to god from the depths of his heart that if he were the true heir of the house of france, and the kingdom justly his, god would be pleased to help him and defend it for him. this prayer, which he thought known to god alone, the maid recalled to the mind of the king, thus giving the sign and seal of her mission, and by this revelation she not only caused the king to believe in her, but strengthened his confidence in himself and in his right and title. true to herself and "the voices," for she never spoke as of her own motion, it was always a superior power speaking through her, as the mouthpiece. she said: "i tell thee on behalf of my lord that thou art the true heir of france and son of the king." after some weeks of discussion and delay, joan's plan for the relief of orleans was adopted, troops were gathered together, of which she was given the command, or as she naïvely expressed it, she was made the "war-chief." yolande, queen of sicily, the young queen's mother and the duc d'alençon, were her zealous advocates. yolande gave of her treasures for the relief of orleans, and soon at the head of her army, her banner flying, upon which was inscribed the name of the prince of peace, surrounded by the lilies of france and with her troops singing _veni creator_, the dauntless maid passed through these gates and chinon knew her no more. we know that joan accomplished in less than a year all that she had promised. the city of orleans was relieved, she had led charles to rheims to be crowned and had done much toward delivering france from the english. then came the sad part of the story, which you know so well. while we were following the fortunes of the maid, and here where she had so courageously taken up what she deemed her heaven-appointed task, feeling more than ever before the cruelty and rank injustice of her treatment, lydia exclaimed: "nothing could prove more forcibly the old saying about the ingratitude of princes than the king's treatment of joan!" a voice behind us echoed, "nothing," and we turned to see m. la tour, who had followed us and entered the hall so quietly that we had not known that he was anywhere within miles of us. "no," he said, when the first greetings were over, "i am not here to defend my country for her treatment of the noble and fearless maid. she did much to regain the territory of france from the english and to establish the king upon his throne; she came to him in the darkest hour and inspired him with hope and courage, and yet in the time of her trial he basely deserted her. no, there is no excuse except that at the king's side there were many men jealous of the success and military glory of jeanne, to whisper tales in his ear. he was a weak and vacillating creature, at the best, ready to follow the last person who talked to him, and he probably believed some of the stories told him about the good maid." "and then," as archie reminded him, "joan was given papers to sign which she was not able to read and thus set her mark to her own death warrant." "a sad and shameful tale!" exclaimed the young frenchman, as we passed by the donjon where joan had been lodged and by the scanty ruins of the little chapel where she stopped to pray, and wept because the angels left her. just then, as we were passing on to find some traces of the several angevin kings, who lived and died at chinon, something happened which i cannot quite explain. in some way lydia was separated from us, as we were passing from one ruinous castle to another. she has not told me, and indeed there has been little time to have a word with her, but i shall always think that she was so impressed by the wonderful story, which seems so real here, where joan saw the angels and revealed her mission, that lydia was in a way overwhelmed by the mysterious, spiritual power of it all, and lingered behind us for the peace and rest of being alone, and away from all the talk and from that small child, with the big key, who recited her monotonous tale like a parrot. then later, in trying to find us, lydia must have gone off quite a distance in the wrong direction, and so became confused and lost her way among the ruins. this is only my explanation. lydia is writing to you and may give you another. all that i know is that we heard a sharp, sudden cry and turning we saw the poor dear perched up quite high on the ruins of a wall, with a steep, precipitous descent between her and ourselves. miss cassandra was scared out of her wits, m. la tour begged lydia to be calm, in french and english, with the most dramatic gestures, while archie, without a word, sprang up the steep ascent, agile and surefooted like the good mountain climber that he is, and without more ado picked lydia up in his strong arms and bore her down the precipice as if she had been a baby, and she is no light weight, as you know. all that lydia said, when she found herself in miss cassandra's embrace, was "i am so ashamed of myself for losing my head. i think i was just a little dizzy, and i was so afraid of falling from that wall." "don't think about it, dear," said miss cassandra, "now that you are safe and sound, thanks to dr. vernon." the good lady was so overjoyed at having her treasure beside her again that she would have been quite ready to include her deliverer in the warm embrace with which she welcomed lydia, nor do i think that archie would have objected. the situation was somewhat strained, for the moment, as he had been living at rather high pressure with the joan of arc associations when lydia's escapade came to cap the climax. miss cassandra's eyes were brimming over with tears, and i was more ready to weep than to laugh, when walter, as usual, came to the rescue with his sound common sense, saying to lydia, whose modesty and reserve were distinctly shocked by the idea of having made a scene. "you would never have lost your head up there, miss mott, if you had had your luncheon before you ascended to the heights above," this in walter's most comforting manner. "we have gone through a lot of history and emotion on a breakfast that is a good many hours away. let us go down to the town and see what they can do for us in the way of luncheon or afternoon tea." m. la tour, who had been rather left in the background during the last excitement, now came forward and offered to conduct us to a nice little hotel for luncheon,--insisting, however, that we should first go with him to see the part of the castle in which henry ii of england died, in the midst of the dissensions of his rebellious sons. "the most pitiful, disgraceful death-bed scene in all history!" exclaimed miss cassandra. "i don't see why we need trouble ourselves about it. henry was lying half dead, here or somewhere else near chinon, when his son richard, who had joined the french king against him, approached his father to receive from him the kiss of peace, and such a kiss of peace as it was!--the dying king muttering under his breath as he gave it, 'may god keep me alive till i have given you the punishment you deserve!'" "that was at colombiers, near villandry," said m. la tour, laughing over the quaker lady's picture, gruesome as it was. "henry was too ill to return to chinon, and so passed the night at azay-le-rideau, or at the commanderie of the templars at ballan. it was there or at chinon that his clerk, at his request, read to him the list of the rebellious barons. 'sire,' said the man, 'may jesus christ help me! the first name that is written here is the name of count john, your son.' then henry turned his face to the wall, caring no more for himself or the world, and lay there muttering, 'shame upon a conquered king!'" it really seemed to us as if m. la tour took a certain ghastly satisfaction in telling us of the unseemly behavior of these english kings and princes who had appropriated, justly or unjustly, so much of his country's territory. the only human incident in the last hours of the great king was the devotion of his son geoffrey, who sat through the hours of the long summer day fanning away the insects from his father's face, the dying man's head resting upon his shoulder while a knight supported his feet. the king opening his eyes, recognized his son, blessed him, and said that he of all his children was the only one that showed any affection for him, and that if his life was spared he would make him the most powerful prince of them all. this, like many another death-bed resolution, was not carried out, as henry died the next day, before the high altar of the church of st. melaine, which was within the château, at chinon. we did not feel at all sure that we had seen the spot where the king breathed his last; but it really does not much matter, as miss cassandra says, and it is not easy to locate the scene of remote events among these ruinous buildings. the trial of the grand master of the knights templars was held here in one of the halls of chinon in , and swift retribution was meted out to the members of the order, more for the love of gold than for the love of justice, as the templars had become the bankers of christendom and were possessed of vast treasures, which were seized upon forthwith. a carving in the donjon of coudray of three kneeling knights, each one bearing a sword and a shield, is thought to have been carved by the templars on their prison wall. as we made our way down the hillside to the town, m. la tour reminded us of a more cheerful association connected with chinon than those upon which we had been dwelling, for here it was that the historian philippe de commines was betrothed. he had been created prince of talmont by louis xi, who arranged a marriage for him with hélène de chambès, daughter of the lord and lady of montsoreau. this betrothal was attended by the whole court, and louis heaped honors and rewards upon his favorite who was made governor of chinon. a few years later, after the death of the king, commines entered into the involved politics of france, and incurred the displeasure of anne de beaujeu who imprisoned him at loches; or, as he expressed it in scripture phrase, "i ventured on the great ocean, and the waves devoured me." he, however, escaped from this sea of troubles and gave to the world his valuable history, composed, it is said, in the hours of his enforced retirement. "which is," as walter says, "a delicate and extremely polite manner of referring to his imprisonment in one of those infernal iron cages at loches." (pray notice that the language is walter's, not mine.) on our way to the café we passed by the statue of rabelais, and although this was not a market day, to m. la tour's infinite regret, there were some booths in the busy little square and a number of traffickers. the face of the humorist who loved his kind, even if he often made game of them, looked down upon the gay, chattering, bargain-making crowd in the square beneath him, with an expression half satirical, half laughing and wholly benevolent. there is some uncertainty as to the date of the birth of maître françois at chinon, and he may or may not have lived in either of the old houses pointed out as his, but he certainly belonged to this part of the country, and we are grateful to his fellow-townsmen for honoring him so fittingly. in the centre of the little square a fountain, surrounded by acacia trees, was playing, and beyond was the welcome hôtel de france opening its doors to us. after we had ordered our luncheon, walter suddenly remembered the chauffeur, and started to hunt him up and tell him where to meet us with the automobile, and i joined him for the pleasure of another stroll through the town. m. la tour, who accompanied us, again regretted that this was not a market day, when the peasants come in from the surrounding country, and we could then see just such a noisy merry crowd as rabelais described when couillatris goes to chinon, which he calls "that noble, antique city, the first in the world," to buy oxen, cows and sheep, pigs, geese and capons, dead and alive, and all manner of country produce. an antique city chinon appeared to us, above all that we had seen; and to add to this impression we met a number of peasant women and black-eyed girls with the picturesque lace caps of this province, veiling but not concealing their fine dark hair. after a luncheon that more than answered our expectations, we strolled about the old town, through its narrow winding streets and by the place jeanne d'arc, with its remarkable statue which represents the maid riding roughshod over the prostrate bodies of her foes; her horse has all four feet off the ground, his means of support, a bronze rod as a sort of fifth or middle leg, being more practical than artistic. "the rider's position in the saddle," as archie says, "would turn any circus performer green with envy." an altogether atrocious piece of sculpture is this, with an element of grotesqueness in its conception quite unworthy of one of the most serious characters in all history, the maid to whom, as carlyle says, "all maidens upon earth should bend." finally, and i must say with some reluctance, we turned our backs upon chinon and our faces toward fontevrault, journeying by much the same route that henry ii was carried on his last journey, over the bridge that he had built and by the river and the village of montsoreau. by the way, m. la tour showed an amiable desire to accompany us to angers, and as our touring car is of hospitable proportions we were glad to have his good company. at fontevrault, which has been turned from an abbey into a reformatory for criminals, we were fortunate to have some one with us to speak to the sentinel, as this seemed to be a day when visitors were not welcomed here. after some parleying with the officials, m. la tour gained permission to have us enter and see all that is left of the fine old church, whose buttresses and roofs we had admired from a distance. in the little chapel we saw the four plantagenet statues that still remain, after the vandals of the french revolution had broken open the tombs and destroyed all that they could lay their hands upon. these four statues have been restored and the faces repainted. here lies henry ii, robed and sceptred as he was when borne forth from chinon for burial at fontevrault, and richard coeur de lion, both in the middle of the group. to the left is eleanor of guienne, the wife of henry ii. three of these recumbent figures are of colossal size, hewn out of the tufa rock and painted. the other statue of smaller size, carved in wood and colored, represents the english queen, isabel of angoulême, one of the most beautiful as well as the most depraved queens of history; only excelled in wickedness by her french sister of a later time, isabel of bavaria. this earlier isabel, daughter of aymar, count of angoulême, upon the day of her betrothal to hugues de lusignan, was carried off by john of england, who put away his wife, avice, to marry this beautiful, wicked enchantress. after the death of john, isabel came back to france to marry her old lover. as we left fontevrault and motored down the hill towards the loire, m. la tour recalled to us the ancient glory of this abbey, whose walls now echo to the clank of arms instead of to the _ave marias_ of the gentle sisters. fontevrault was founded in the eleventh century by robert d'abrissel, a monk, as a place of refuge for a vast and ill-assorted company of men and women who gathered around him when he was preaching a crusade to palestine. from this strange beginning the abbey became one of the most famous in christendom, as it was richly endowed by kings and princes, especially by the early english kings who loved this beautiful valley of the loire. many noble and royal ladies presided over fontevrault, among them, renée de bourbon, sister of francis i who, while she was abbess, rebuilt the beautiful cloister which we saw to-day. another and later lady abbess was marie madelaine gabrielle de rochechouart, who found time in the midst of her religious duties to make translations of some of plato's works. new ideas, you see, were finding their way into the convent, it being the fashion about that time for women to be learned, mary stuart having led the way by delivering a latin oration at the louvre to the edification of all who heard her. and here came mary stuart herself, while louise de bourbon was lady abbess, brought hither by her aunt, the duchess of guise, to charm and delight the nuns by her beauty and ready wit. as a religious establishment for men and women, ruled over solely by a woman, the abbey of fontevrault was unique in christendom. [illustration: french cave dwellings near saumur] as we motored along the river bank beyond its low-lying sand marshes and line of small hills, we noticed tiny black wind-mills spreading out their arms to the breeze, and wreaths of smoke curling up from the cliffs. here and there the lowering sun would light up a window pane in the cliff, as if to remind us that these hillsides are burrowed out by the workers in the vineyards who make their homes here as in touraine and in the valley of vendomois. "it seems that we are again in the land of the troglodytes," said walter. "alfred de vigny says these peasants 'in their love for so fair a home have not been willing to lose the least scrap of its soil, or the least grain of its sand.' i think myself that it is for more practical and economic reasons that they live underground." these cliff dwellings continue for nearly eight miles around saumur, and m. la tour tells us that many of them go back to the days of the roman occupation when they served the conquered tribes as a last retreat from the invader. some one has said that every step to the southward takes us further back in the history of france. chinon and fontevrault are not far south of tours and blois, and yet we are far back in history to-day, living with the angevin kings and with the cave-dwellers of gaul. even the _coiffes_ of the women are different here from those worn in other places on the loire, and in a very distinct way we realize that we have left touraine and are in anjou. in the fields the peasants were gathering in their stores for the winter; the women pass along the road constantly with their odd panniers upon their backs, full of treasures. sometimes they are filled with fruit and vegetables and again it is only grass for the cattle or faggots for the fire. as we drew near saumur, grapes filled the _hottes_ to overflowing, for this is the land of the vine, one of the great grape-growing regions of france. we are spinning along all too rapidly over these perfect roads, as we long to stop at so many places, especially at that tiny venice on the loire, a republic of fishermen and laborers established by king rené when he was still in power. from its sole palace, the château de l'ile d'or, rené's daughter went forth to be the unhappy margaret of anjou, the red rose of the house of lancaster, during the war of the succession which raged in england for so many years. m. la tour tells us there is much to see at saumur, a very old hôtel de ville, a twelfth century church, and other ancient buildings. this city, once a favorite residence of angevin princes and english kings, was in the reign of henry iv, the headquarters of protestantism, with duplessis-mornay, the pope of the huguenots, as its governor. all that we had time to see, this afternoon, was the fortress château, which stands high up on the quay de limoges, overlooking the junction of the loire and the thouet. we were warned that if we stopped again we should not reach angers until after dark, and so we sped along past many an historic landmark of interest. xiv angers le cheval blanc, angers, september th. we were glad to have our first view of angers by daylight, as the dark slate roofs and the great black château in the old part of the town, made us understand what shakespeare meant when he wrote of "black angiers." the towns, old and new, had their full share of sunshine to-day and of a warmth that would have been oppressive had it not been tempered by a fresh breeze from the river maine that flows by the château, for here we quitted our loire, for a while, a river with a distinct individuality which we have come to love like the face of a friend. a little below angers, the loire and the maine unite, and in the land lying between these rivers is the richest agricultural region in all france, its nurseries and kitchen gardens having made a fortune for this little corner of the world. the town of angers, which is a place of some consequence, being the capital of the département de maine et loire, is situated upon a height crowned by the slim spires of the cathedral of st. maurice. on a first view, we must admit that angers is disappointingly modern, with its straight, wide boulevards and regular rows of trees; but to-day we have spent most of our time in the old town which has not been despoiled of its ancient charm. and here in this inn, the cheval blanc, which has opened its hospitable doors since , we live in an atmosphere of antiquity surrounded by modern comforts. the rue st. aubin, upon which our hostel is situated, is so narrow that lydia says she is tempted to shake hands with the little dressmaker who is sewing away busily at a window across the street, and she doubtless hears everything that we say, and looks politely interested in our remarks although she probably cannot understand a word of english. as we see her there, looking up from her sewing, from time to time, neat and dainty, her black hair dressed to perfection, a pathetic expression in the dark eyes with which she regards us from time to time, we think of marie claire, and wonder if this little seamstress has not a story of her own to tell, and one which like the story of that other sewing girl, would touch the heart because of its perfect simplicity. this hotel is so unpretentious, in its style and furnishings, that we are more than surprised at its comfort. miss cassandra says that she has never in her life seen floors scrubbed to such immaculate whiteness, and we know that quakers know all about cleanliness. the service which the men chambermaids give us is exceptionally good and quite discouraging to miss cassandra and myself who have always persistently upheld the superiority of our sex. it is like my uncle's bachelor housekeeping, a little too good to be gratifying to our woman's pride. everything runs so smoothly here, like magic, under these ministering angels of the male sex, in their white shirts, red waistcoats and green aprons. we really don't know what to call them, although the one who attends to my room informed me quite frankly that he was the _femme de chambre_. this was, i think, in order to avoid confusion with regard to fees; the double service of waiter and _valet de chambre_ entitling him to a particularly generous douceur. one expects good meals in all of these french inns, and at the cheval blanc they are as good as the best and served in a cool, quiet dining-room, between the front courtyard with its palms and pleasant lounging places and the rear court, around which are the kitchens, the garage and the offices generally. good as we find the cuisine, what most delights us is the fruit. we have been in great fruit-growing countries before, as at canterbury, where we had no evidence of the excellence and profusion of the fruit on the table d'hôte; but here each meal is crowned with a great dish of plums, peaches, grapes and pears. beautiful and delicious as they all are, the pears are supreme, as the italians say, in size and flavor. we are feasting upon fat things in this land of plenty, as we have seen nothing to compare with the fruit of angiers in touraine or elsewhere. m. la tour made no mistake when he conducted us to the _cheval blanc_, where he himself was received with warm friendliness as well as with great respect by the proprietor. shining in his reflected light, we are treated as if we belonged to the royal family, or to the president's family, which is the popular thing in the france of to-day. in view of our french friend's many kind attentions and charming good nature, archie has overcome his racial prejudices sufficiently to say: "zelphine, that french friend of yours is really no end of a good fellow." "why _my_ friend?" i ask. "m. la tour is the friend of us all. walter is devoted to him, and he is lydia's 'handy book of reference,' as you know." this last was distinctly cruel; but archie, instead of retaliating, answered quite amiably: "yes, he is a good fellow, with no superior foreign airs about him." walter says that it is only fair that archie should admit this much of his rival, after carrying lydia off under his very eyes at chinon, which, he says, is prophetic of coming events. i must confess that i do not feel as sure of the outcome as walter. lydia is the most self-contained young person that i have ever encountered. by the way, we decided, after our arrival yesterday, that we could not possibly do justice to angers in the short half day that we had allowed ourselves. we telegraphed to angela that we really could not meet her in paris until wednesday night. even if the dudleys leave to-day, she will have only one night by herself, and with her usual good luck she will probably meet some friends in the hotel. again we echo the sentiments of maître françois, and saying "there is nothing so dear and precious as time," rejoice in this one long, golden day in angers. i am writing after our second _déjeuner_. we have all spent the morning in the most strenuous sightseeing, going to the cathedral first, which is quite near, its apse blocking the street on which the cheval blanc stands. from the west front of the cathedral, which is very narrow in proportion to its height, the ground suddenly descends to the river, a long, broad flight of steps taking the place of a street. there are, on the façade, some fine carvings of armed warriors; but the side walls are flat and plain, solid masonry replacing the flying buttresses which lighten most of the french churches. this last feature we find to be characteristic of angevin churches, as are two other characteristics which impressed us as we entered the cathedral. one of these is the absence of aisles in the nave, and a consequent sense of light and spaciousness; the other, the small dome-like roof into which the vaulting of each section of the nave rises. there are some curious old tapestries hung on the walls of the nave, a handsome carved pulpit and some fine glass of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. in the chapel to the left is a calvary by david d'angers, a sculptor not without honor in his native town. the chief object of interest in the cathedral is the tomb of king rené and his wife, which was discovered beneath the choir only about fifteen years ago. on our way to the château, on a broad open space at the intersection of two boulevards and in the midst of a treeless expanse, stands a statue of the mild, poetic sovereign of anjou by david d'angers. this bronze statue is on a high, light-colored stone foundation, and shows him no more kingly and rather less amiable than history, which has always surrounded rené d'anjou with the sympathetic charm that belongs to a king in exile. around the base of the monument are smaller statues representing such founders and leaders of his house as dumnacus, defender of the angevins, foulques nera, robert the strong and henry plantagenet. here also are statues of rené's two wives, isabelle de lorraine and jeanne de laval, and of his daughter margaret, queen of england. this monument naturally carried our thoughts back to the days when the valor of anjou's counts, and their connection with the thrones of england and sicily, gave this land an importance far beyond its natural value. king rené himself, with his three titles, count of anjou, king of sicily and duke of provence, seems to have been born to misfortune as the sparks fly upward. had he been endowed with the spirit and courage of his daughter margaret, rené might have been able to cope with his enemies; but being of a gentle and reflective nature, he yielded to what he deemed his fate. one possession after another was wrested from him, and he finally retired to aix in provence, where he devoted himself to literature and the fine arts, or, as miss cassandra expresses it, "he amused himself by writing verses and pottering about his garden. and a very much more respectable way of spending his time, it was, than quarreling with his neighbors, which was the chief occupation of louis xi and most of the other kings of that period!" we afterwards saw the noble statue of margaret of anjou, a regal figure, wearing the crown and bearing the sceptre of which she was so soon deprived by edward iv. when she went to england, as the bride of henry vi, she was received with rejoicings and the london streets were decorated with the marguerite flower in her honor. no man, it was said, surpassed margaret in courage, and no woman in beauty, and it might well be added that none of the princesses who had left france to share the british throne had to endure such misfortunes. her son was captured and slaughtered under her eyes; then and then only, the strong purpose and high courage, that had supported her during years of adversity, deserted her. she lost heart. after being dragged from prison to prison, margaret was restored to her country and her family, upon which king rené, being more of a poet than a king, wrote a madrigal to celebrate his daughter's sad homecoming. the castle, which is across the way from rené's statue, dates back to the twelfth century, when english and french were disputing over the ownership of anjou. standing on a hillside above the maine, this château, with its massive stone walls and heavy drawbridge, suggests brute force more completely than any of the other castles that we have seen. as we passed through the dungeons at loches, we shuddered at the cruelty which they represent; as we looked at the bare black walls of this castle, we were even more appalled by the dread relentless strength against which enemy after enemy battered himself in vain. the castle was built on the hill, as it sloped up from the maine, and originally stood at the lower corner of the city ramparts. broad quays have taken the place of the outer fortifications on the river bank, and most of the moat has been filled in to make boulevards, but between the quay and the river front of the castle a crumbling mass of crazy old houses still cluster around the castle, as if to remind us of the days when the thick walls behind them meant safety. the seventeen round towers and the battlements have all been torn down, leaving only the slate-built walls, striped near the top with horizontal panels of a lighter stone, and still so high that they look like precipices. we entered by a heavy drawbridge and under a massive arch, and were duly shown around by the guide, a man this time, whom we found far less interesting than the women who have conducted us through most of the other châteaux. he did, however, give us some interesting associations with the château of angers, as he reminded us that henry iv was here in with _la belle gabrielle_, and their little son, "_cæsar monsieur_." henry seems to have come to angers to reduce brittany to subjection, and to punish the rebellious duke de mercoeur. the latter, however, by a fine stroke of policy, sent his wife and her mother to angers to make his submission to the king and to propose an alliance between his daughter, who was his sole heiress, and the little cæsar. an interview with henry took place here, in the château, we were told. with two noble dames in tears, on their knees before him, and his own fair duchess quite on their side, the king could refuse nothing, and accordingly his son, aged four, was betrothed to françoise de lorraine, who was in her sixth year and with no less magnificence than if the little cæsar had been the legitimate heir to the throne of france. dancing and rejoicing took the place of the fighting and bloodshed to which the old castle had been much more accustomed. we are glad to turn from the stormy revengeful counts of anjou and kings of england to the reign of henry of navarre, that heroic figure whom we still love whatever his shortcomings may have been. his faults and failings were those of his time; his virtues, his sense of justice, his large benevolence and desire to give every man a chance, and his broad constructive policy, were far in advance of his age. he doubtless inherited his noble traits from his mother, jeanne d'albert, while from the less distinguished paternal side may have come the traits that marred the character of the great huguenot leader. miss cassandra can never quite forgive henry for his abjuration, and says that to have renounced the religion for which they had both sacrificed so much was unworthy the son of so great a mother. member of the peace society as she is, our quaker lady will make no excuses for henry, although m. la tour insists it was a wise and humane act on the part of the king, as it put an end to the long war that was devastating france, or, to use henry's own forcible phrasing, "by my faith, i have no wish to reign over a kingdom of dead men." the favorite expletive of the béarnois, "ventre saint gris," seems to have gone out of favor after he became a catholic, having fallen into bad repute, as it was considered a protestant oath. there is little doubt that the traditions of his early years had great influence over him, and that henry of navarre was always at heart a protestant. gabrielle d'estrées, to whom henry iv was far more devoted and more faithful than to any other woman, had almost unbounded influence over him, which she generally used with wisdom and moderation. affectionate, intelligent, and good tempered, she seemed an ideal companion for the generous, impetuous and often ill-governed monarch. henry was himself wont to say that he loved her far more for her noble qualities of mind and heart than for her dazzling beauty. that the king consulted gabrielle upon more than one occasion is evident, and equally so that she did not hesitate to express her opinion frankly. after the king's famous speech at the abbey of st. ouen, when he besought his noble subjects to counsel him and generously invited them to share with him whatever glory should fall to his share, gabrielle, then marquise de monceaux, was present, secluded from the general gaze by a screen or curtain. later, when questioned by henry as to how she liked his speech, she replied that she had rarely heard him speak better; but that she was indeed surprised at his asking for counsel and offering to place himself _en tutelle_ in the hands of the assembly. "ventre saint gris!" exclaimed the béarnois, "that is true; but as i understand it, in tutelage, with my sword by my side." gabrielle's womanly pride was doubtless satisfied with this quick-witted rejoinder of her royal lover, who never seemed to be at a loss for an argument or a _bon mot_. as dumas says of his beloved hero, "in default of money, something to which the béarnois was accustomed all his life, he was in the habit of paying his debts with that which he never stood in need of borrowing, a ready wit." the only influence that the great minister sully feared was that of gabrielle, whom the king had promised to marry when the tie that bound him to his beautiful, wilful, dissolute cousin, marguerite of valois, should be annulled by the pope. sully, however, had other ambitions for henry and for france, as he was already entering into negotiations with the médici with a view to a marriage with a daughter of their house, which would swell the depleted coffers of france and bring some coveted territory to the kingdom. here in the old château at angers, the scene of gabrielle's most signal triumph over the favorite minister, during whose absence her son was created duke of vendôme and affianced to the little heiress of the duke of mercoeur, we could not help wondering whether henry of navarre's life would not have been very different had he been allowed to marry the woman of his choice. as the daughter of the baron d'estrées, and connected with royalty through the courtenays, it seemed to us that gabrielle was quite as suitable a consort for the french king as one of the daughters of the médici who had never brought good fortune to france. sully, who evidently thought more of the coffers of the kingdom than of the happiness of the king, was the persistent enemy of gabrielle from the early days when henry incurred untold dangers in passing the enemy's lines in order to secure a brief half hour with her, to a later time when as duchesse de beaufort she seemed to be perilously near the throne. the tragedy of her sudden death, which has been attributed to poison at the instance of sully, and the king's agony of grief have added a pathetic interest to the history of gabrielle d'estrées, duchesse de beaufort. it should be said, in justice to sully, that there is no proof that he had anything whatever to do with the death of the duchesse de beaufort; but there is little doubt that the tidings of her death brought relief to his mind, after the first shock was over. the château of angers is bare and unadorned, with nothing to remind us of the ceremonies and festivities that so annoyed sully in the far away time when henry of navarre and the charming gabrielle held high festival here. after its days of fighting and feasting were well over, the castle was used as a prison. now, with the thrift for which the french are proverbial, this substantial building is used as a depot for military stores. the only things suggestive of the gentler side of life are the little chapel, and the castle within the castle, a small renaissance house in which the family of the prince lived in times of siege. the walk around the top of the walls is well worth taking, not only because it intensifies the impression of size and strength, but also because it gives a charming view of the country round about. in front the maine flows calmly by to its junction with the loire three or four miles to the left; across the river there is an old suburb of the town with a few good churches and old houses, and farther upstream near the river's edge, stands what walter calls "a business-like looking old tower" which he thinks must have guarded a bridge connected with the ramparts. to the right the cathedral looms up, its clumsy base hidden by other buildings and its slender spires dominating the town. beyond the town stretch rich, green fields, with an occasional old windmill flapping its arms and a slow boat drifting lazily down the river. even if angers has never been one of the most important cities of france, it seems always to have been a place of moderate consequence, as it still is. there are a few good private houses dating several centuries back, the most pretentious of these being the hôtel de pincé, a charming renaissance building, standing in the heart of the town and now used as a museum of antiquities and _objets d'art_. there was no guide to tell us the history of this house and the books are equally reticent about its traditions. the hôtel de pincé looks like a charming miniature château, suggesting azay-le-rideau or some of the renaissance houses in tours, in its general style, and like them it makes one feel that the builders of those days understood elegance and beauty better than they did comfort and ease. whatever king or noble or knight-at-arms lived in this house, his women-folk had to drag their brocaded trains up and down steep twisting stone staircases, and also to be content with very little light and air in many of their elegant rooms. the rich angevin _bourgeoisie_ built these half-timbered houses, which are somewhat like those that one sees so often in normandy. one of the most elaborate of these is the so-called maison d'adam, just behind the cathedral, which, although it does not date back to our first ancestor, is sufficiently ancient in appearance to satisfy our antiquarian tastes. much of the carving on the uprights is elaborate and effective, even if bearing evidences of frequent restorations. the most noticeable thing about this building is its height, as houses of six stories were not usual in the days of the renaissance in france. so little is done for angers by local guide books that the joy of discovery adds a zest to our pleasure in this old town, and, although archie is usually the least enthusiastic of sightseers, he has never been bored once to-day. perhaps lydia's presence and delight in it all has something to do with his contented frame of mind. however that may be, he has listened with polite attention to m. la tour's long disquisitions, architectural as well as historical, and in return has asked him many questions about the products and industries of this prosperous town. it seems that the extensive slate quarries have not only roofed and housed a great part of angers, but have added considerably to its revenue. archie is in a merry mood to-day and after m. la tour's disquisition upon these extensive slate quarries, he asked lydia if she did not think that king rené must have missed his slate when he was scribbling verses in the south. we all laughed heartily over this very slight _bon mot_; but our frenchman looked dreadfully puzzled and asked to have it explained to him. he proved even more difficult than sydney smith's scotchman; or, as walter expresses it, "it had to be driven in with a sledge hammer," and he warns archie solemnly to attempt no more pleasantries in the presence of our gallo-american, guide, philosopher and friend. on our way back to the cheval blanc, we stopped at the préfecture whose superbly carved arches and columns are said to date back to the roman occupation. while we were enjoying these noble arches and rich carvings, m. la tour told us that julius cæsar and one hundred thousand of his troops were encamped upon the triangle upon a part of which angers is now situated. here they lived for months on the resources of this somewhat restricted area, which does not seem at all wonderful if the soil was cultivated in those days as it is now; and how those soldiers must have enjoyed the rich vintage of anjou!--to say nothing of the choux-fleurs, artichokes, peas, and the various fruits which are now shipped in carloads to paris every night. the idea of a roman camp in the neighborhood of angers appealed strongly to our antiquarians, and while we were at luncheon archie, after politely inquiring what we proposed to do with our long afternoon, and finding that we had no plans except to visit some place of interest in the motor car, presented a well arranged programme. what archie suggested, evidently after collusion with walter and the chauffeur, was to motor to nantes, stopping _en route_ at the roman camp, if indeed its site can be found. lydia and i would have shouted for joy had there not been other guests in the _salle à manger_. as it was we contented ourselves with congratulating archie upon his fertility of resource, adding that we had been longing to see nantes, with its fortress-château and the tomb of françois, the father of our old friend, anne de bretagne. upon this miss cassandra waked up from a little nap she had been taking between courses, and expressed her delight at the thought of seeing nantes in whose ancient château her favorite anne was married to louis xii. "not," she added, "that i approve of that marriage, it is the one sad blot upon anne's otherwise fine character that she was willing to marry louis after he had divorced poor jeanne." "i must warn you, before we set forth," said archie, raising his finger admonishingly, "that this is to be an afternoon in the open; the chauffeur tells me that we shall have barely time to see the surroundings of nantes, to get a general view of the town, and return to angers in time for a late dinner." "of course we shall stop at the roman camp," said lydia, tactfully, looking at archie as she spoke. "it would never do to miss that, and i plead for twenty minutes or a half hour at the cathedral to see the tomb of françois, and the gold box in which the heart of the duchess anne was sent back to brittany." "you shall have your half hour at the cathedral, miss mott," said archie gallantly, "even if we don't get home 'till morning." "'till daylight doth appear," sang walter as he went out to tell the chauffeur to be ready for an early start. m. la tour looked his surprise, he had never seen us in quite so merry a mood. there is something exhilarating in the air here, which is crisp and fresh, almost like that of october at home, and we were further stimulated by the thought of doing something as unexpected as it was delightful. we set forth promptly, a gay party, the three women folk upon the back seat, m. la tour and archie vis à vis, and walter with the chauffeur in front. a nice intelligent young fellow is this chauffeur, with whom walter has become so intimate that he seems to be able to converse with him without any apparent language. his name is françois and walter has, in some way, fathomed the secrets of his soul and tells us that he is the _fiancé_ of the pretty black eyed eloisa who showed us around the château of langeais. the confidence came about in this wise, françois asked us if we had seen langeais, a very noble château, and did the little _gardienne_, the pretty, dark-eyed one, take us about? yes! that is the one he knows, they both belong to the country around tours, than which there is nothing finer in the known world. although living at blois, for financial reasons, he hopes to go back to that garden spot of france and there to end his days. after which walter, by means of gestures and signs, extracted the story of his love. we did not feel it incumbent upon us to reveal to françois the sad fact that eloisa was flirting quite openly with one of the red-legged upholders of the military glory of france, when we saw her at langeais. "that was doubtless an innocent diversion to which she resorted, in order to pass away the time during her lover's absence," archie remarked, with a fine touch of sarcasm in his tone, for at this moment lydia, who is wearing some forget-me-nots that were beside her plate this morning, is having a very animated conversation with m. la tour. lydia is very charming in a blue linen suit, the tang of salt in the air, which is quite evident here, has given her a brilliant color, and every stray lock of her golden brown hair has curled up into bewildering little ringlets. i don't wonder that archie resents the forget-me-nots. "where the deuce does the fellow get them?" he asked me this morning. "françois and i have been looking all about the town before breakfast and we can't even find a bunch of pansies." pansies would be a good offset to forget-me-nots; but as only sweet peas and roses were to be found, archie scorned to bestow these which grow in such abundance, and so contented himself with a beautiful basket of fruit which we all enjoyed. i need not tell you, after our experience with roman camps, that there was little to be seen upon the site of this one of angers; but we were interested in the glimpse that we had, in passing through ancenis, of its ancient château with its tower-flanked doorway, the work of an angevin architect. within this château, m. la tour tells us, an important treaty was signed by françois ii of brittany and louis xi. as we drew near nantes the strong salt air blowing in our faces made us realize that we were near the sea. nantes and st. nazaire, which is a little north and west of nantes, are among the great sea ports of the world. and here we find ourselves again in the dumas country, for it was along the part of the loire that we have seen to-day that fouquet fled pursued relentlessly by colbert. if only fouquet could have reached nantes and his own belle ile, out beyond st. nazaire, a different fate might have been his. we follow again in imagination, with almost breathless interest, that close pursuit, of one boat by the other, until we suddenly find ourselves winding through the streets of a town and know that we are in queen anne's city of nantes, that also of the monk abelard and of the famous warrior surnamed "bras de fer." gazing upon the redoubtable château of nantes with its six towers, its bastions and its wide and deep moat, into which the sea poured its rising tide twice each day, we could understand henri quatre saying, as he stood before it, "ventre saint gris! the dukes of brittany were not men to be trifled with!" it was into the dungeon of this château that fouquet was first thrown, and here mazarin had henri de gondi imprisoned, and from whence, as m. la tour tells us, he escaped over the side of the bastion de mercoeur, by means of a rope smuggled into the prison by his friends. there are no end of interesting associations connected with nantes, of which not the least important is that henry of navarre here signed the edict of nantes, the huguenot charter of liberties. we needed a full day here, but remembering our promise, we did not even ask whether the château was open to visitors, which was really very good behavior on our part. we turned our faces toward the cathedral of st. pierre, and spent there our half hour, no more, no less. here over the sculptured figure of its patron saint are some lines, in old french, which tell us that this building dates back to the year . the chief treasure of the cathedral is the beautiful tomb of françois ii, and his wife marguerite de foix, the father and mother of the little duchess anne, on which the ermine tails are in full feather, if we may so express it, and also the hound and the lion which are symbols of this ancient house. the tomb, which is one of the masterpieces of that good artist, michel colombe, was brought here from the old Église des carmes which was pillaged and burned during the revolution. although we reached angers only in time for a very late dinner, we were inclined to wander again to-night. i don't know just how it came about; archie was out on the terrace smoking, and when lydia appeared at the door he threw away his cigar and joined her. as they walked off together, lydia turned back and said, in her sweet, demure way: "dr. vernon is taking me to see the ruins of the abbey of toussaint by moonlight. why don't you and mr. leonard come too?" "oh! no, we don't spoil sport; do we, zelphine?" said walter, "and it seems to me, dear, if my memory does not fail me, that moonlight upon ruins has brought good luck to your matchmaking schemes before this. do you remember how angela and the doctor trotted off to see the ruins at exeter by moonlight?" "yes, of course, how could i forget that evening? poor dear angela will be thinking of us and missing us to-night." "well, she will only have this one night to miss us and this day in angers has been worth so much to us." "we have had many delightful days on this trip; but this has been one of the most perfect. why do many of the people, who do the châteaux so conscientiously, skip angers?" "i hope that many may continue to skip it," said walter, "tourists and trippers would ruin this lovely old place and turn this comfortable, homelike cheval blanc into a great noisy caravansary. and now that the lov--i mean, now that your brother and lydia have had a good start of us, let us go to see the ruins of the old abbey, zelphine," and then with a mischievous twinkle in his eye: "don't you think that miss cassandra and m. la tour could be persuaded to pair off and go with us?" miss cassandra was just then sleeping sweetly in her chair; she does not confess to any fatigue after our long motor trip, but she must be very tired, and m. la tour is engaged with some friends from paris. much as we like him, and indeed no one could help liking him,--for this one evening we are content to dispense with his kind attentions. the ruins of the abbey of toussaint must be interesting at any time, reminding us of those of nettley and jumiéges, with their exquisite carved arches and windows all overgrown and draped with vines and shrubbery, but by moonlight, like fair melrose, they take upon them an added charm. we lingered long before the lovely carved window, through which the moonlight streamed in silvery radiance; but we saw nothing of archie and lydia. they had probably gone to take a last look at the castle of angers by the light of the moon, and when they returned to the cheval blanc miss cassandra and i had gone upstairs, feeling that we had indeed had a full day, and that the wanderers would probably be quite as happy without us. xv orleans and its maid orleans, september th. we set forth early this morning, as we had a long day before us, and as walter warned us, little time to loiter by the way, great as the temptation might be to stop _en route_. i don't know that anything has happened, but the atmosphere seems somewhat electric, and if anything has occurred i am quite sure that it is of a cheerful nature, as there is a telltale light in archie's eyes that seems to say when they meet mine: "i have been sworn to secrecy, find out if you can!" lydia's face is inscrutable; but her color is a little brighter than usual and she seems to avoid meeting my gaze, and drops her eyelids in a way that she has when the sun is bright. then, she is beside me and consequently i cannot see her face as i can archie's. our places have been changed in the auto; lydia and archie are vis à vis this morning and m. la tour is opposite to me, but this may be quite accidental. after walter's solemn warning about the shortness of time, i was afraid to suggest stopping anywhere; but lydia had told me that she intended, if possible, to see the château de morains, near saumur, where margaret of anjou died. she made her request with some hesitation. "of course we can stop," said walter, "it won't take long, if françois knows the way." françois did not know the way to the historic shrine, which is evidently neglected by english and american pilgrims; but by making inquiries he found it without much trouble. we saw the outside of the little château and what interested us especially, the inscription over the gateway which relates that this manoir of vignole-souzay, formerly dampierre, was the refuge of the heroine of the war of the roses, marguerite of anjou and lancaster, queen of england, the most unfortunate of queens, wives and mothers, who died here the th of april, , aged fifty-three years. this little french tablet in memory of the english queen, who was received with such rejoicings in england upon her marriage with henry vi, seemed to us most pathetic. as a return for this stop at morains, which walter considered a particular concession to the women of the party, he suggested that we take time to stop at villandry to see a druid stone which m. la tour has been telling him about. you may remember that he and archie are somewhat insane upon the subject of druidical remains, but i notice that archie is not as keenly interested in the druids, this morning, as usual. he and lydia are talking over some places that they mean to see in or near paris. archie has been reading a description of fouquet's château of vaux-le-vicomte, which is only an hour's ride from paris, near melun. wise in his day and generation is this brother of mine, for nothing could so appeal to lydia's historic soul as just such an expedition as this! this was the château at which the great financier entertained the king with such magnificence that he aroused the jealousy of his royal master. you remember dumas's description of it, and la fontaine's _songe de vaux_, in which he says that everything conspired for the pleasure of the king, music, fountains, molière's plays, in which he was praised,--even the moon and the stars seemed to shine for him, on those nights at vaux. "and the fruits of the earth, and of the greenhouses yielded up their treasures for him," said m. la tour. "in his old age louis was wont to say that no peaches were equal to those of vaux-le-vicomte in flavor and quality." "i am quite sure that he had never tasted those of anjou!" exclaimed walter, and at this most opportune moment françois produced a basket of these same anjou peaches, and some pears also, all surrounded by green leaves, as only the french know how to set them forth. we feasted on the fat things of the earth, as we made our way to villandry, where we saw the ancient monument of the druids, which was not much to see after all. walter, however, takes a solid satisfaction in visiting the things that he feels it is his duty to see. the same sort of a rainbow illuminates his horizon after a duty of this sort is performed, that irradiates our path when you and i have accomplished a series of perfunctory visits, and yet he tells lydia and me that we take our sightseeing quite too seriously. m. la tour has been telling us about the elaborate new year's ceremonies once held at chartres, by the druids. the mistletoe was cut by the eubage, with a golden _faucelle_, or sickle, belonging to one of the druidesses and then distributed to the people. the eubage was, it appears, a combination of priest and bard whose pleasing task it was to cut the throats of the human victims offered upon the druidical altar of sacrifice. this distribution of the mistletoe at the beginning of the year may have led to our later use of the mistletoe in the christmas holiday festivals. walter says that he does not know about this, nor does m. la tour; but they intend to look it up and communicate the result one to the other. from this conversation you will naturally infer that we are again in the land of the mistletoe. in the meadows we noticed a delicate little mauve-colored flower, something like an orchid, which françois told me was a crocus, blooming for the second time this season, and in the gardens of the little gray houses, with their red-tiled roofs, and by the roadside were gorgeous asters of all shades of purple. in the less cultivated places, heather blooms luxuriantly and yellow gorse which attracted miss cassandra's trained botanist's eye, and she suddenly quoted the old scotch saw, with about the same appropriateness as some of the remarks of "mr. f's aunt" in bleak house: "'when gorse is out of season, kissing is out of fashion,'" and looking straight at archie, she added encouragingly "you see it is still blooming." [illustration: forge near stone stairway at luynes] it would be impossible to accuse miss cassandra of flirtatious intent, and yet at her glance and words archie blushed a beautiful scarlet. i tried not to look at him, as i knew that he was inwardly swearing at the thinness of his skin, or whatever it is that makes people blush. i couldn't see lydia without turning around and staring at her; but walter, who enjoyed the whole scene from his coign of vantage beside françois, told me afterwards that "lydia never turned a hair, and so you see, zelphine," he said, laughing gaily, "it all rests between miss cassandra and archie." seeing in the distance the curious, enigmatical pile de cinq mars, we suddenly realized that we were quite near luynes, and walter told françois to stop there as he knew that archie would be charmed with the beauty of the situation of this château which hangs high, like an eagle's nest, upon a bluff above the lowlands and the river. while we were walking around and about the château, we suddenly came upon mr. and mrs. otis skinner standing at the entrance to a little smithy, quite near the rock-hewn steps that lead up to the château. we have seen so few americans, and no friends or acquaintances since we left tours, and now, as we are again approaching the old town, to meet these good friends was a great pleasure. mr. skinner took us into the smithy, which is so charmingly situated, and we wondered again, as at cheverny, why even a blacksmith's workshop is so much more picturesque here than in england or america. while mr. skinner was standing talking to the blacksmith, lydia and archie and mrs. skinner managed to get snapshots of the forge. if it is satisfactory, i will send you a photograph, as we intend to exchange pictures and you shall have the very best. after this encounter, we sped along on our way toward tours, wondering whether mr. skinner was collecting material, atmosphere, etc., for a french play. we are glad that our way lay through tours and that archie could have even a fleeting glimpse of the old capital. to motor across the great bridge and along the wide rue nationale, and to have another look at st. gatien, with its two beautiful towers, and at those other towers of charlemagne and de l'horloge was a joy, even if there was not time to stop over at tours for an hour. at blois we gathered up our luggage, left the automobile and took the train for orleans. we parted from our françois with much regret, as we have come to like his honest, frank face and his pleasant french ways. walter and archie, i am quite sure, gave him a generous remembrance, archie especially being quite in sympathy with his dreams of love in a touraine cottage. we all wished him happiness, not without some misgivings on my part, i must admit, lest his eloisa of the bright eyes should play him false for the charms of some one of those red-legged soldiers, who seem to possess an irresistible charm for french women, who are always ready to sing "j'aime le militaire." from blois to orleans is a railroad journey of a little over an hour, through a fertile, but a rather monotonous country abounding in fields of turnips. from the quantities of this vegetable raised here, we naturally conclude that the peasants of this part of france subsist chiefly upon turnips, as the irish do upon potatoes. we passed through many gray villages, which tone in with the shades of the silver poplars, and this with certain gray atmospheric effects in the landscape makes us realize how true to life are the delicate gray-green canvases of many of the french artists. the orleans station, like that of tours, is a delusion and a snare, as we were suddenly landed at les aubrais, one of the outskirts of the old city and from thence had to make our way to orleans as best we could. we had fortunately been able to send our small luggage directly through to paris by putting it in the _consigne_, and paying ten centimes on each article. this convenient and economical device, which with all our travel we had never discovered, was revealed to us by the two charming connecticut ladies whom we met at amboise. walter calls down blessings upon the pretty heads of these two wise new england women whenever we make a stop over between trains; and miss cassandra ejaculates: "it takes a yankee, my dears, to find out the best way to do everything on the top of the earth!" having only ourselves to dispose of, we soon found an omnibus which conveyed us to the place du martroi, the soul and centre of the ancient city of orleans, where is fitly placed an equestrian statue of jeanne d'arc, by foyatier. this statue does not, however, happily suggest the maid, as the peasant girl of domremy is here represented with a fine greek profile, and, as archie noticed, with his keen horseman's eye, the charger upon which she is mounted is a race-horse and not a war-horse. it is, however, a noble and dignified memorial, on the whole, in which it differs from the grotesque affair at chinon, and dubray's low reliefs on the sides of the pedestal, representing important scenes in the life of the maid, are beautiful and impressive. here in orleans, the scene of joan's first and most remarkable success, we live more completely in the life and spirit of that wonderful period than at chinon. the marvel of it all impressed us more forcibly than ever before. that this peasant girl, young and ignorant of the art of war, by the power of her sublime faith in her heaven-sent mission and in herself as the divinely appointed one, should have wrested this city from the english, seems nothing short of the miracle that she and her soldiers believed it to be. even that hard-headed and cold-hearted sovereign, louis xi, was so overawed by the story of joan's victories that he marked with tablets the little room at domremy where she was born, and also the convent of sainte catherine de fierbois, where she was received and where she found her sword with the five crosses. we knew that the place du martroi was not the scene of joan's martyrdom, and yet this wide, noble square, with her monument in the centre, from which diverge so many streets associated with her history, stood for infinitely more to us than anything we had seen at rouen, the actual place of her martyrdom. from the square, m. la tour conducted us to the cathedral, which has been criticized by victor hugo and many others, and which we, perhaps from pure perversity, found much more harmonious than we had expected. the façade, which the local guidebook pronounces majestic, even if _bâtarde_ in style, is rich in decoration, and the little columns on the towers i thought graceful and beautiful, however _bâtarde_ they may be. two cathedrals have stood upon the site of the present sainte croix, the last having been destroyed by the huguenots, to whom are attributed the same sort of destruction that marked the course of oliver cromwell's army in england. it is said that the great protestant leader, théodore de bèze, himself blew up the four noble pillars that once supported the belfry. however this may be, and miss cassandra says that we are all free to believe such tales or not, as we choose, very little is left of the old edifice except the eleven chapels and the side walls. even if théodore de bèze destroyed the old cathedral, the building as it now stands was the work of his former chief, for it was henry of navarre who laid the corner stone of the new edifice, in , to fulfill a vow made to pope clement viii who had absolved him from the ban of excommunication. in the side windows, in richly colored glass, is the story of the maid of orleans, from the day when she heard the voices and a vision appeared to her while she kept her father's sheep in the fields near domremy, to the hour when she and her troops gave thanks for the victory of orleans in this cathedral. on through the eventful months of her life to the sad and shameful scenes at rouen, where the innocent and devoted maid was burned at the stake, while france which she had delivered, and charles whom she had crowned, made no sign, the story is told in a series of pictures. even if of modern glass and workmanship, these windows seemed to us most beautiful, especially those on the right-hand side through which the light streamed red, yellow and blue from the jewelled panes. the window representing the crowning of charles vii at rheims is especially rich in color. joan, with a rapt ecstatic expression on her face, is here to see her king crowned and with her is the banner that she loved even more than her mystic sword. below are inscribed her own simple words, "it has been with him in the suffering, it is right that it should be with him in the glory." ever self-effacing, it was of her beloved banner that joan was thinking, never of herself. the whole wonderful story is written upon these windows so plainly that any child may read it. we have been thinking of christine and lisa, and wishing that they were here to read it with us. they will learn of joan of arc in their histories, but it will never be so real to them as it is here where her great work was done, and where she is so honored. some day we promise ourselves the pleasure of bringing the children here and going with them through all the joan of arc country. m. la tour, who has made the journey, says that, as the joan of arc cult is increasing all the time, every spot associated with her is marked and everything most carefully preserved. "most interesting of all," he says, "is the little church where jeanne worshipped. although badly restored by louis xviii, the nave remains intact, and the pavement is just as it was when the bare feet of jeanne trod its stones, in ecstatic humility, during the long trance of devotion when she felt that supernatural beings were about her and unmistakable voices were bidding her to do what maid had never dreamed of doing before. in a little chapel, beside the main edifice, is the stone fount where the infant jeanne was baptized. fastened to the wall there hangs a remnant of the iron balustrade, that jeanne's hands must have rested on during the hours that she passed in rhapsody, seeing what never was seen on land or sea. a few steps from the church stands the cot where the maid was born, almost as humbly as the christ child. entering through the small doorway, you see the room in which jeanne first opened her eyes to the light. on one side stands the 'dresser,' or wardrobe, built half way into the wall, where the housewife stored the family belongings. beside this is the iron arm which held the lamp, used during midnight watches. beyond this general room is the alcove that served jeanne as a sleeping-room. in this narrow chamber, more like a cell than a sleeping-room, jeanne heard 'voices,' and dreamed her dreams." m. la tour's description is so interesting that we all long to follow in his footsteps and in those of the maid, from the clump of oak trees--of which one still stands--and the "fountain of the voices" to the ruins of the château of vaucouleurs, where the chivalrous robert de baudricourt, impressed by the girl's serene confidence, gave her a letter for the king, who was at chinon, as we know. [illustration: hÔtel cabu house of joan of arc orleans] the porte de france is still standing, m. la tour tells us, through which the shepherd maid, with her four men-at-arms and her brother jean, embarked on her perilous journey of eleven days across a country filled with roaming bands of british and burgundian soldiers. the places are all marked, saint-urbain, auxerre, gien, sainte catherine de fierbois, where jeanne was received in the "aumonerie" of the convent, now transformed into a mayor's office. when we come to orleans with the children, we must try to be here on the th of may, when the whole city is _en fête_ celebrating the glorious victory of the maid. still talking over the projected joan of arc pilgrimage, m. la tour led us by the rue jeanne d'arc which faces the cathedral and to the maison de l'annonciade where jacques boucher, treasurer of the duke of orleans, received the maid. in the court of this building, now used as a dominican convent, is a small statue of joan, above the well. this house is also called the maison de jeanne d'arc, and in a charming renaissance building, near by, is a collection of relics of the maid. for some unknown reason this house is sometimes spoken of as the house of agnes sorel; and with about the same authority another house at the corner of the streets, charles-sanglier and des albanais, is called the _maison de diane de poitiers_. this latter mansion, with its small towers and richly ornamented façade, is now an historical museum and is better known as the hôtel cabu. by the rue royale, which suddenly changes its name and becomes the rue de la republique after it crosses the place du martroi, we made our way to the hôtel du ville, a handsome sixteenth century building of brick and stone. on a tablet upon the façade is a long inscription telling how many kings, queens and notable personages have stopped here; but what interested us much more is a statuette in bronze of joan, the work of the princess marie d'orléans, daughter of louis philippe. the modest, devout little maid, represented by this statue, is more like the real joan, to our thinking, than most of the more pretentious monuments. [illustration: neurdein freres, photo. salle des marriages, orleans] in the salle des marriages of the hôtel du ville, we came suddenly upon souvenirs of a much later period than that of joan, for here, in this room, francis ii died. he and mary came here from chenonceaux, and becoming violently ill from a malady in his ear which had tortured him for some time, the poor young king took to his bed never to rise again. his mother followed him here, and at mary's instance the great surgeon ambrose paré was summoned. he wished to operate; the young queen had full confidence in his judgment and skill, but catherine resolutely opposed the use of the surgeon's knife, and poor francis lingered a few days in great pain, and finally died in the arms of his wife. there is a painting in the salle des marriages of this sad scene; mary is kneeling by the bedside of her husband and catherine is seated nearby, her face cold and expressionless. it has been intimated that catherine opposed ambrose paré because she wished to have poor francis removed to make way for a son whom she could control and bend to her will; but with all her wickedness, it is impossible to believe in such a motive. one may, however, understand her ignorant horror of the use of the knife, and the superstitious terror that haunted her in view of the recent revelations of ruggieri at chaumont. "i think it is quite evident what was amiss with king francis!" exclaimed miss cassandra. "he was suffering from mastoiditis, of course, and ambrose paré was clever enough to find it out, and might have saved his life if he had been allowed to have his way. i have no patience with catherine, and she knew what she was about when she set up her opinion against that of a great surgeon." archie says that to diagnose a case at a distance of several hundred miles requires considerable skill; but still greater is the insight into obscure maladies of our quaker lady, who bridges over the centuries and tells us just what disease afflicted francis ii in the year of grace ; and he added quite seriously: "you may be quite correct in your surmise, miss west. your niece and i will hunt up ambrose paré's diary when we get to paris, and see what he says about the case. if you are right, i'll take you into my office as a partner." after a somewhat strenuous morning of sightseeing and a sumptuous regale at the hôtel st. aignan, whose name pleased us on account of its dumas flavor, we climbed up to a lovely terrace garden from which we could overlook the town and the cathedral, to which distance certainly lends enchantment. in this pleasant resting place i am writing to you, dear margaret, while we wait for a late train to paris. m. la tour expects his auto to meet us and convey us to the station and then to take him to his home. we shall miss him, as his kind attentions and vast fund of information have added much to the pleasure of our sojourn in château land. to-day he has managed our time so judiciously that we have seen everything of importance in orleans without being hurried, and we now have this quiet hour on the hillside garden before setting forth upon our journey. he evidently has no idea of what is happening in our midst, and is as attentive as ever to lydia, talking to her and walking with her, whenever archie gives him a chance; and who can blame him? i have never seen lydia more charming than she is to-day; but the soft light that shines in her eyes is not for the young frenchman, i am sure. walter says: "if la tour had his wits about him he would see what is going on under his nose; it takes a sledge hammer to drive in some other things beside a joke." here comes the auto, and in five minutes we shall be _en route_ for paris. xvi a chÂteau fÊte paris, september th. we found angela eagerly awaiting us when we reached our destination, and i must admit still more eagerly awaiting another arrival, as mr. mcivor was expected by a train due here later than ours. since she had been with his scotch and english relatives, angela insists upon having her fiancé called mr. mcivor, as that is the custom in his own country. she, however, much prefers our calling him by his own delightful scotch name, ian, and we like him well enough to fall in with her desires. ian arrived in due time, and our party is now complete. "how fortunate it is that the hour was in our favor instead of the doctor's," exclaimed walter; for according to french etiquette to have left angela here unchaperoned with her lover in the same city, even if not in the same hotel, would have shocked all ideas of propriety. "i fancy that m. la tour, good fellow as he is, couldn't understand our leaving angela here by herself even for a single night." "no," i said, "and i didn't think it necessary to tell him." "queer notions these people have! as if angela didn't know how to take care of herself!" no one knows better, and i told walter how angela managed in london. she reached there in the afternoon, instead of in the morning as she had expected. something about the automobile had given out and they had finally to take a train from york. when she reached the hotel where she was to meet the dudleys, she found a note telling her to follow them to southampton as they were obliged to take the night boat. angela immediately looked up trains and finding that the next train would be one hour too late for the boat, what do you think she did? she telegraphed to the captain to wait for her! did you ever hear of anything so delicious? walter calls it a piece of american effrontery, but i call it quickwitted, don't you? of course the captain could not keep his boat waiting for any person of less distinction than the queen; but by good luck (angela is always lucky) the vessel was late in sailing that evening. the dudleys, who were anxiously waiting for her on deck, saw her coming, just as the sailors were about to take up the gang-plank, and begged the captain for a moment's delay. of course angela looked charmingly pretty as she tripped up the incline; and she never realized that her little telegram could be taken otherwise than seriously until she heard the captain say to the first officer, as she stepped on deck: "she was worth waiting for, after all." at this the child was so overcome with confusion that she did not know which way to look, and evidently did not recover her self-possession during the crossing. walter insists that she is still blushing over her own daring. if she is, it is vastly becoming to her, as i have never seen angela look more brilliantly beautiful. we are living in an atmosphere so charged with romance, that it would be positively dangerous for two unmated beings to join our party at this time. miss cassandra pays archie and myself the compliment of appearing to be radiantly happy over lydia's engagement, although i know that she drops a tear in secret over m. la tour and his château. i tell her that this is not an entirely safe environment for her, especially as one of her old time suitors is in paris; he met us at morgan's this morning and has been dancing attendance on miss cassandra this evening, which last, walter says, is a very disrespectful way to speak of the decorous call of a dignified quaker gentleman. however that may be, miss cassandra laughed gaily at my serious warning, and with a flash of her bright blue eyes dismissed her quondam suitor and my solicitude in one brief sentence: "thee is very flattering, my dear, and i admit that jonah is an excellent person; but he is quite too slow for me!" "that may be; very few people are quick enough for you, dear miss cassandra; but you must acknowledge that mr. passmore was not at all slow about calling upon you to-night." it is really too bad to tease our quaker lady; but she takes it all so literally and is so charmingly good-humored withal that it is a temptation not easy to resist. we are making the most of our few days in paris, as we leave here early next week. lydia announced at breakfast that she felt it _her_ duty, and she hoped that we should feel it to be ours to make a pilgrimage to st. denis this afternoon. "after enjoying ourselves in the châteaux of the kings and queens of france, it is," she says, "the very least that we can do to go to st. denis and see them decently and honorably buried." miss cassandra quite agreed with lydia, and archie, although he says that it is a ghoulish sort of expedition, would go anywhere with her, of course. it is rather odd that none of us have ever been to st. denis, not even ian mcivor who lived in paris for months while he was studying medicine. we set forth this afternoon in truly democratic fashion on top of a tram, on one of the double-deckers that they have over here, to angela's great delight. a rather lively party we were, i must admit, despite the sobriety of our errand. there was nothing that especially interested us in the prosperous manufacturing town of st. denis, and we went directly to the basilica, which with the mingling of the romanesque and gothic in its architecture is much more beautiful than we had expected. it is sufficiently ancient to satisfy our antiquarian taste, as the site of the original abbey dates back to , having been erected over the remains of st. dionysius or st. denis. the present edifice owes its existence to the abbé suger who reigned here in the days of saint louis. there have been many restorations, of course, and some very bad ones as late as the reign of napoleon bonaparte. in this basilica the emperor napoleon was married to the archduchess marie louise and, what is more interesting to us, here joan of arc hung up her arms, in . it is wonderful to see the monuments to royalties as far back in french history as queen frédégonde and king dagobert, who founded an abbey here as early as . the tomb of dagobert is a most remarkable and realistic representation of the king's soul leaving his body and its reception in heaven; the means of transportation is a boat with oarsmen, both going and coming, if i may so express it, that is the soul of dagobert goes forth upon the unknown sea in a boat, and in another carving on the tomb he is welcomed to the shores of heaven, still in a boat. it is very interesting, as there is a poetic as well as a realistic side to the strange conception. near dagobert's monument some one had left a visiting card, after the curious french fashion. "it seemed so very late in the day to be calling upon king dagobert," as walter remarked. after this ancient mausoleum, that of louis and anne de bretagne seemed quite modern, and very handsome, much in the style of the visconti monument at the certosa near pavia. not far from this tomb we came upon that of henry ii and catherine de médicis, in which they are represented in that gruesome fashion so frequent in english cathedral tombs,--the nude figures below, while above in a beautiful chapel, with marble columns and pillars, there are handsome bronze figures of the king and queen devoutly kneeling. very inappropriately at the four corners are placed bronze figures of faith, hope, charity and good works. catherine is said to have planned this mausoleum herself, and, strange to relate, in the choir we found another monument to the same king and queen. "just like the grasping creature to want two tombs!" exclaimed miss cassandra. "most people are satisfied with one." it appears that in her old age catherine disapproved of the nude figures on the first monument, and had this one made with two decently robed effigies, in marble, resting upon a bronze couch. we went down into the crypt, all of us except angela, who still has an aversion to underground resorts. ian went with us; but after a hurried glance at the most important tombs he made his way back to the sunshine and to angela. the rest of the party went through everything quite resolutely, although we found this ancient crypt of the good abbé suger even more gruesome than most crypts. the guide directed us to a tiny window, through which we could see the place where poor marie antoinette and louis xvi were finally buried, at least all that could be found of their remains. here a light was burning, which they told us was never allowed to go out. in strange contrast to this solemn little chapel, there is a kneeling figure of the queen on one side of the crypt in a ball dress with jewels around her neck. this statue, by petitot, although strangely inappropriate in costume, is beautiful in expression, and in the modelling of the face, arms, and hands, the latter being very lovely. here also is a "caveau impérial," constructed by the order of napoleon iii, as the burial place of his dynasty. this tomb is quite untenanted, of course, as no bonapartes lie at st. denis; although the bones of the valois, orleans and bourbon families, who have come and gone in france, probably forever, are royally entombed here, from their early sovereigns down to louis xviii. i tell you all this because i think you have not been to st. denis, and we found it so much more interesting than we had expected. walter and archie made their acknowledgments to lydia, in due form, and indeed we should never have made this pilgrimage had she not been enterprising enough to lead us forth toward st. denis and its royal tombs. september th. madame la tour and her son made a formal call upon us yesterday. m. la tour had already dropped in, in his friendly way, to inquire after our comfort and to offer his services, as a guide to anything that we might wish to see. as madame had announced her coming we were at home to receive her. she is pretty and graceful, a charming combination of the american and french woman. we all fell in love with her. m. la tour is frankly proud of his mother and was anxious that we should meet her. he has evidently not yet grasped the situation of affairs, although during the visit, which was brief if somewhat embarrassing, i could see nothing but the sapphire that sparkled upon lydia's finger. madame la tour very cordially invited lydia to go to the opera with her, and m. la tour was evidently much disappointed when she declined in consequence of another engagement. "lydia never said a truer word in her life!" exclaimed walter, after the visitors had departed; "but la tour is very stupid not to know what sort of an engagement it is that she has on her hands." upon which i suggested that walter should mention the engagement to m. la tour, quite casually, in the course of conversation. "why not tell him yourself, zelphine? you are so much more adroit at that sort of thing." "it is really becoming embarrassing. some flowers came last night, forget-me-nots again, to archie's amusement. now if lydia had been anything but just ordinarily nice and pleasant to him, as she is to everyone, it would be different." "well, and even if she had been more than ordinarily nice to la tour why do you trouble yourself about it, zelphine? it is something that only concerns lydia and la tour, and archie perhaps in a way, but we really have nothing to do with it." thus, manlike, does walter push aside all part and lot in the _affaires du coeur_ of his fellow-travellers; but i have just had a brilliant and beautiful idea, which i intend to communicate to archie at once. we were all talking _en route_ of the château of vaux-le-vicomte. as this is a land where people make a fête upon every occasion, archie shall give a breakfast at melun or some place near the château, and invite us all, and the la tours also, an engagement party. i have no doubt the french have some charming name for this sort of an entertainment, which we can find out. i shall write you later of the success of my plan. september th. of course archie was delighted with my suggestion, as he and lydia have been promising themselves the pleasure of an excursion to vaux-le-vicomte which seems to go by the name of vaux-praslin at the present time. archie and walter did the very kindest and most friendly thing, which in the end proved to be the most advantageous to themselves. they took m. la tour into their confidence and consulted with him as to how the little excursion should be made and where the breakfast should be given. naturally the poor boy was very much surprised, and quite downhearted when he found out what event was to be celebrated, and we did not see him for two whole days, not until this evening, when he called and offered his congratulations to lydia in pretty french phrases. angela is charmed with m. la tour and his manners, and says that she does not see how lydia could possibly resist his fascinations; this with a mischievous glance at archie, who, serene and confident in his own happiness, replies that lydia is probably making the mistake of her life in turning away from the young frenchman and his château. but lydia knows that she is making no mistake and takes all this jesting in good part; but she insists that the little celebration shall be called a château fête, as vaux-le-vicomte is our objective point. this is in much better taste, and, after all, we don't know the french name for an engagement fête. "we certainly don't want to ask la tour to inform our ignorance," as walter says. "it would be like requiring the man who is down on his luck to name the happy day. it is quite better taste, and, after all, we don't know the occasion." miss cassandra and walter and i went to the american church this morning because we like the simple service there, and the rest of the party went to the russian church to hear the music, which was very good to-day. the afternoon we all spent at versailles, where we were so fortunate as to see the fountains play. nothing, not even the châteaux of the loire, gives us so realizing a sense of the gayety and splendor of the life of the french court, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, as this vast palace of pleasure when the gardens bask in sunshine and the fountains are playing. we recalled madame de sévigné's spirited description of the court and royal family setting forth upon some pleasure party, herself among them, tucked in snugly in the same _carosse_ with her favorite, duchesse de la vallière, or madame de montespan of the many ringlets, for whom she cares nothing,--these two ladies in close quarters although cordially hating each other. the queen is in another _carosse_ with her children, and the king, being a free lance, drives in the coach with the royal favorites or rides beside it as his fancy dictates. our fête is to be on tuesday, and m. la tour came to the hotel this evening with a well arranged plan. he really is a dear, and having plenty of spirit and a certain kind of pride that seems to belong to well-bred french people, he has no idea of wearing his heart upon his sleeve, even for the love of lydia. his suggestions are most practical and sensible, and his advice to archie is to go to fontainebleu first and have a walk through the forest, breakfast at one of the hotels there, and motor to vaux-le-vicomte, by way of melun, in the afternoon. it all sounds perfectly delightful, and i have secured a copy of the vicomte de bragelonne, at brentano's, in order to read over again his account of fouquet's reception of the king at vaux. we shall be glad to see fontainebleau again. since we have seen the châteaux of the loire, all of these palaces near paris are most interesting to us, as they make us realize, as we have never done before, what a great pleasure park much of france was under the valois and the bourbons. if the forest of chambord was vast with its many acres, so also was that of fontainebleau with its , acres. palaces of pleasure, all of these châteaux were intended to be, as were chenonceaux, azay le rideau, blois and chambord, although many of them are stained by dark and bloody crimes. passing through the gardens and park of versailles to-day we forgot the terrible scenes that were enacted there in , until the guide pointed out to us the queen's apartments, and showed us the little room from which marie antoinette fled for safety to the king's rooms, on that october night of horror, when the parisian mob swept down upon the palace. september th. our day in the open was a brilliant success. archie had a large automobile, or perhaps i should say a touring car, large enough to hold us all. madame la tour declined, and so we have our château party, with the pleasant addition of angela and ian, who naturally entered with great spirit into the celebration. we had all the time we needed at fontainebleau, entering by the old cour du cheval blanc, but avoiding the interior of the palace, as we had all been here before, some of us several times, and spending all our time in the gardens and forest which are ever new and always beautiful. we looked for the quincunx near which louise de la vallière and her companions were hiding when the king and st. aignan overheard their girlish confidences, but not finding anything answering to dumas's description we had to content ourselves with a labyrinth which m. la tour thinks should answer quite as well. at the end of it is the huge grape-vine, called the king's vine, which reminded us of the vine at hampton court, and like it is said to produce an enormous crop of grapes. archie's breakfast was delightful, an _al fresco_ entertainment under a spreading horse-chestnut tree in the garden of a hotel at fontainebleau. the table was beautifully decorated with flowers and fruit, and the menu, which was suggested by m. la tour, was the sort to tempt one's appetite on a warm day like this, for it is summer here and much like our september weather at home. walter complimented m. la tour so heartily upon his good taste that he laughingly reminded walter of our first acquaintance at the _bon laboreur_, and asked him if he still had a poor opinion of the french _cuisine_. "not when you have anything to do with the ordering, my dear fellow!" was the response. "perhaps my taste needed to be cultivated, for i have come to like some of your french dishes very much, and as for your wines, my taste did not need to be cultivated to like them; i took to them quite naturally." there were toasts, speeches and good wishes, angela and ian coming in for their full share. altogether something to be remembered was that luncheon under the chestnut tree, and near the great forest of fontainebleau, one of the many pleasant things to be stored up in our memories in connection with our days in château land. this motor trip, to vaux-le-vicomte, which seemed so short to us, was evidently quite an affair to louis xiv and his court, as, according to dumas, there was some talk of stopping at melun over night. as we know, large bodies move slowly, and the royal party must have been sufficiently cumbersome, with the heavy coaches of the king, of the two queens, anne of austria and maria teresa, and the several coaches of their maids of honor, to say nothing of the outriders, the swiss guards and the musketeers with our friend d'artagnan at their head. a small army was this, that passed over the road that we travel to-day, lighting up the gray-green landscape with all colors of the rainbow. at the château of vaux-le-vicomte, of which we had only expected to see the outside, m. la tour had a surprise for us, as he had managed, in some way, to secure tickets of admission. we mounted the great steps, entered the vast vestibule and passed through the salons in which are beautiful paintings by mignard and the two le bruns. as we wandered through these rooms, richly furnished and hung with old tapestries, and into the rotunda, capped by its great dome, we wondered in which of these rooms molière's play had been given. the performance of _les fâcheux_, written especially for the occasion, was the crowning glory of the king's visit to vaux. we learned that it was not given in any of these rooms, but in the garden, in the starlight. when the guests were seated, molière appeared, and with well counterfeited surprise at seeing the king, apologized for having no players with him and no play to give. at this juncture, there arose from the waters of a fountain nearby, a nymph in a shell, who gracefully explained that she had come from her home beneath the water to behold the greatest monarch that the world had ever seen. we can well believe that a play, set in this flattering key, was calculated to please the king, who was praised all through at the expense of his courtiers, who were _les fâcheux_, the bores. after this rare bit of adulation molière's fortune was made. for the host, fouquet, who had gathered so much here to give the king pleasure, a far different fate was reserved. the sumptuous entertainment, the show of wealth on all sides, aroused bitter jealousy in the king's heart, and when some designing person (colbert, it is said) whispered in his ear that fouquet, not content with outshining his sovereign in the magnificence of his château, had raised his eyes to the royal favorite, louise de la vallière, the king's wrath knew no bounds. he was eager to have fouquet arrested, while he was still accepting his hospitality. one of the finest passages in dumas's description of the fête at vaux-le-vicomte is that in which colbert tries to inflame his royal master's jealousy, while the usually timid and gentle louise de la vallière urges the king to control his wrath, reminding him that he is the guest of m. fouquet and would dishonor himself by arresting him under such circumstances. "he is my king and my master," said la vallière, turning to fouquet; "i am the humblest of his servants. but he who touches his honor touches my life. now, i repeat that they dishonor the king who advise him to arrest m. fouquet under his own roof.... were m. fouquet the vilest of men, i should say aloud, 'm. fouquet's person is sacred to the king because he is the king's host. were his house a den of thieves, were vaux a cave of coiners or robbers, his home is sacred, his palace inviolable, since his wife is living in it; and it is an asylum which even executioners would not dare to violate.'" these words, from the woman whom he loved, influenced louis, and for the time he relinquished his design; but eighteen days after the great festival at vaux, m. fouquet was arrested, near nantes as we know, and ended his days in prison. this magnificent château, which the architect le vau, the artist le brun, and the landscape gardener le nôtre had conspired to make so beautiful, is still, in a way, a monument to the great financier, although it has passed from his family into the hands of the duke de praslin. unlike many of the châteaux, vaux-le-vicomte is still the home of people who love its beautiful lawns and parterres and keep them green and blooming. armies of gardeners trim the hedges, plant the borders, and remove every stray leaf from the gravel paths. here we saw the perfection of french gardening. as we motored home by the light of the stars, we felt that this, our last day in château land, was one of the happiest that we had known. we would like to stay longer in paris and visit the many châteaux within motoring distance of the capital; but our holiday time is nearly over. walter starts for lausanne to-night, to gather up the children and bring them to london, whither we all go to-morrow. we shall have a few days there, and as many more in oxford, where walter has some engagements with old friends, and then to southampton and home. we all sail october first, all except ian mcivor, who comes over in december for a very important event. you and allen must come some time, and visit with us the châteaux that we have seen, and see the others that we have not yet visited. for to-night, au revoir. life has many joys, and not the least among them is to see the beautiful places of the earth, in congenial company, such as yours, dear margaret. yours always devoted, zelphine. * * * * * transcriber's notes: photographs were moved so that they did not interrupt paragraphs. page , "apearance" changed to "appearance" (gala appearance, as if) page , "apears" changed to "appears" (lake side appears like) page , "apears" changed to "appears" (as it appears from the) page , "näive" changed to "naïve" (with naïve inconsistency) page , "hotel" changed to "hôtel" (at the hôtel de) page , "clôitre" changed to "cloître" (the cloître de la psallette) page , "clôitre de la psalette" changed to "cloître de la psallette" (lovely cloître de la psallette) page , "impresion" changed to "impression" (an impression of power) page , "näively" changed to "naïvely" (guide naïvely remarked) page , "medici" changed to "médici" (de médici whom he beheld) page , "medici" changed to "médici" (médici, like minerva) none none [every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed. no attempt has been made to correct or normalize the spelling of non-english words. some typographical errors have been corrected; a list follows the text. some illustrations have been moved from mid-paragraph for ease of reading. (etext transcriber's note)] castles and chateaux of old navarre and the basque provinces _works of_ _francis miltoun_ [illustration: text decoration] _rambles on the riviera_ $ . _rambles in normandy_ . _rambles in brittany_ . _the cathedrals and churches of the rhine_ . _the cathedrals of northern france_ . _the cathedrals of southern france_ . _castles and chateaux of old touraine and the loire country_ . _castles and chateaux of old navarre and the basque provinces_ . _the automobilist abroad_ _net_ . _postage extra_ [illustration: text decoration] _l. c. page & company_ _new england building, boston, mass._ [illustration: a peasant girl of the ariÈge] castles and chateaux of old navarre and the basque provinces including also foix, roussillon and bÉarn by francis miltoun author of "castles and chateaux of old touraine," "rambles in normandy," "rambles in brittany," "rambles on the riviera," etc. _with many illustrations_ _reproduced from paintings made on the spot_ by blanche mcmanus [illustration] boston l. c. page & company _copyright, _ by l. c. page & company (incorporated) _all rights reserved_ first impression, october, _colonial press electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, u. s. a._ by way of introduction "cecy est un livre de bonne foy." _montaigne._ no account of the life and historical monuments of any section of the old french provinces can be made to confine its scope within geographical or topographical limits. the most that can be accomplished is to centre the interest around some imaginary hub from which radiate leading lines of historic and romantic interest. henri de navarre is the chief romantic and historical figure of all that part of france bounded on the south by the pyrenean frontier of spain. he was but a prince of béarn when his mother, jeanne d'albret, became the sovereign of french navarre and of béarn, but the romantic life which had centred around the ancestral château at pau was such that the young prince went up to paris with a training in chivalry and a love of pomp and splendour which was second only to that of françois i. the little kingdom of navarre, the principality of béarn, and the dukedoms and countships which surround them, from the mediterranean on the east to the gulf of gascony on the west, are so intimately connected with the gallant doings of men and women of those old days that the region known as the pyrenean provinces of the later monarchy of france stands in a class by itself with regard to the romance and chivalry of feudal days. the dukes, counts and seigneurs of languedoc and gascony have been names to conjure with for the novelists of the dumas school; and, too, the manners and customs of the earlier troubadours and crusaders formed a motive for still another coterie of fictionists of the romantic school. in the comté de foix one finds a link which binds the noblesse of the south with that of the north. it is the story of françoise de foix, who became the marquise de chateaubriant, the wife of jean de laval, that breton bluebeard whose atrocities were almost as great as those of his brother of the fairy tale. and the ties are numerous which have joined the chatelains of these feudal châteaux and courts of the midi with those of the domain of france. these petty countships, dukedoms and kingdoms of the pyrenees were absorbed into france in , and to-day their nomenclature has disappeared from the geographies; but the habitant of the basses pyrénées, the pyrénées orientales, and the hautes pyrénées keeps the historical distinctions of the past as clearly defined in his own mind as if he were living in feudal times. the béarnais refers contemptuously to the men of roussillon as catalans, and to the basques as a wild, weird kind of a being, neither french nor spanish. the geographical limits covered by the actual journeyings outlined in the following pages skirt the french slopes of the pyrenees from the atlantic gulf of gascony to the mediterranean gulf of lyons, and so on to the mouths of the rhône, where they join another series of recorded rambles, conceived and already evolved into a book by the same author and artist.[ ] the whole itinerary has been carefully thought out and minutely covered in many journeyings by road and rail, crossing and recrossing from east to west and from west to east that delectable land commonly known to the parisian frenchman as the midi. [ ] "castles and châteaux of old touraine and the loire country." the contrasts with which one meets in going between the extreme boundaries of east and west are very great, both with respect to men and to manners; the niçois is no brother of the basque, though they both be swarthy and speak a _patois_, even to-day as unlike modern french as is the speech of the breton or the flamand. the catalan of roussillon is quite unlike the languedoçian of the camargue plain, and the peasant of the aude or the ariège bears little or no resemblance in speech or manners to the béarnais. there is a subtle charm and appeal in the magnificent feudal châteaux and fortified bourgs of this region which is quite different from the warmer emotions awakened by the great renaissance masterpieces of touraine and the loire country. each is irresistible. whether one contemplates the imposing château at pau, or the more delicately conceived chenonceaux; the old walled cité of carcassonne, or the walls and ramparts of clisson or of angers; the roman arena at nîmes, or the roman arc de triomphe at saintes, there is equal charm and contrast. to the greater appreciation, then, of the people of southern france, and of the gallant types of the pyrenean provinces in particular, the following pages have been written and illustrated. f. m. perpignan, _august_, . [illustration: contents] chapter page by way of introduction v i. a general survey ii. feudal france--its people and its chÂteaux iii. the pyrenees--their geography and topography iv. the pyrenees--their history and people v. roussillon and the catalans vi. from perpignan to the spanish frontier vii. the canigou and andorra viii. the high valley of the aude ix. the walls of carcassonne x. the counts of foix xi. foix and its chÂteau xii. the valley of the ariÈge xiii. st. lizier and the couserans xiv. the pays de comminges xv. bÉarn and the bÉarnais xvi. of the history and topography of bÉarn xvii. pau and its chÂteau xviii. lescar, the sepulchre of the bÉarnais xix. the gave d'ossau xx. tarbes, bigorre and luchon xxi. by the blue gave de pau xxii. oloron and the val d'aspe xxiii. orthez and the gave d'oloron xxiv. the birth of french navarre xxv. the basques xxvi. saint-jean-pied-de-port and the col de ronÇevaux xxvii. the valley of the nive xxviii. bayonne: its port and its walls xxix. biarritz and saint-jean-de-luz xxx. the bidassoa and the frontier index [illustration: list of illustrations] page a peasant girl of the ariÈge _frontispiece_ the pyrenean provinces map _facing_ watch-tower in the val d'andorre _facing_ feudal flags and banners the peaks of the pyrenees (map) brÈche de roland _facing_ the col de perthus (map) the five proposed railways (map) stations thermales (map) the basques of the mountains _facing_ in a pyrenean hermitage _facing_ a mountaineer of the pyrenees _facing_ gitanos from spain roussillon (map) catalans of roussillon _facing_ the women of roussillon _facing_ arms of perpignan porte notre dame and the castillet, perpignan _facing_ chÂteau roussillon _facing_ collioure _facing_ chÂteau d'ultrera _facing_ the pilgrimage to st. martin _facing_ villefranche _facing_ arms of andorra chÂteau de puylaurens _facing_ axat _facing_ plan of carcassonne (diagram) the walls of carcassonne _facing_ ground plan of the chÂteau de foix (diagram) chÂteau de foix _facing_ key of the vaulting, chÂteau de foix, showing the arms of the comtes de foix tarascon-sur-ariÈge _facing_ chÂteau de lourdat _facing_ st. lizier _facing_ trained bears of the vallÉe d'ustou _facing_ st. bertrand de comminges _facing_ pau and the surrounding country (map) arms of the city of pau chÂteau de pau _facing_ espadrille-makers _facing_ a shepherd of bigorre _facing_ chÂteau de coarraze _facing_ chÂteau de lourdes _facing_ cauterets _facing_ the pont d'orthez _facing_ the walls of navarreux _facing_ bÉarn and navarre (map) kings of basse-navarre and kings of france and navarre (diagram) the arms of navarre arms of henri iv of france and navarre _facing_ the basque country (map) the game of _pelota_ _facing_ "le chevalet" _facing_ the quaint streets of saint-jean-pied-de-port _facing_ arms of bayonne a gateway of bayonne _facing_ biarritz and the surrounding country (map) biarritz _facing_ st.-jean-de-luz _facing_ ile de faisans (map) the frontier at hendaye (map) maison pierre loti, hendaye _facing_ in old feuntarrabia _facing_ [illustration: the pyrenean provinces] castles and chateaux of old navarre and the basque provinces chapter i a general survey this book is no record of exploitation or discovery; it is simply a review of many things seen and heard anent that marvellous and comparatively little known region vaguely described as "the pyrenees," of which the old french provinces (and before them the independent kingdoms, countships and dukedoms) of béarn, navarre, foix and roussillon are the chief and most familiar. the region has been known as a touring ground for long years, and mountain climbers who have tired of the monotony of the alps have found much here to quicken their jaded appetites. besides this, there is a wealth of historic fact and a quaintness of men and manners throughout all this wonderful country of infinite variety, which has been little worked, as yet, by any but the guide-book makers, who deal with only the dryest of details and with little approach to completeness. the monuments of the region, the historic and ecclesiastical shrines, are numerous enough to warrant a very extended review, but they have only been hinted at once and again by travellers who have usually made the round of the resorts like biarritz, pau, luchon and lourdes their chief reason for coming here at all. delightful as are these places, and a half a dozen others whose names are less familiar, the little known townlets with their historic sites--such as mazères, with its château de henri quatre, navarreux, mauléon, morlaas, nay, and bruges (peopled originally by _flamands_)--make up an itinerary quite as important as one composed of the names of places writ large in the guide-books and in black type on the railway-maps. the region of the pyrenees is most accessible, granted it is off the regular beaten travel track. the tide of mediterranean travel is breaking hard upon its shores to-day; but few who are washed ashore by it go inland from barcelona and perpignan, and so on to the old-time little kingdoms of the pyrenees. fewer still among those who go to southern france, via marseilles, ever think of turning westward instead of eastward--the attraction of monte carlo and its satellite resorts is too great. the same is true of those about to "do" the spanish tour, which usually means holy week at seville, a day in the prado and another at the alhambra and grenada, toledo of course, and back again north to paris, or to take ship at gibraltar. en route they may have stopped at biarritz, in france, or san sebastian, in spain, because it is the vogue just at present, but that is all. it was thus that we had known "the pyrenees." we knew pau and its ancestral château of henri quatre; had had a look at biarritz; had been to lourdes, luchon and tarbes and even to cauterets and bigorre, and to foix, carcassonne and toulouse, but those were reminiscences of days of railway travel. since that time the automobile has come to make travel in out-of-the-way places easy, and instead of having to bargain for a sorry hack to take us through the gorges de pierre lys, or from perpignan to prats-de-mollo we found an even greater pleasure in finding our own way and setting our own pace. this is the way to best know a country not one's own, and whether we were contemplating the spot where charlemagne and his followers met defeat at the hands of the mountaineers, or stood where the romans erected their great _trophée_, high above bellegarde, we were sure that we were always on the trail we would follow, and were not being driven hither and thither by a _cocher_ who classed all strangers as "mere tourists," and pointed out a cavern with gigantic stalagmites or a profile rock as being the "chief sights" of his neighbourhood, when near by may have been a famous battle-ground or the château where was born the gallant gaston phoebus. really, tourists, using the word in its over-worked sense, are themselves responsible for much that is banal in the way of sights; they won't follow out their own predilections, but walk blindly in the trail of others whose tastes may not be their own. travel by road, by diligence or omnibus, is more frequent all through the french departments bordering on the pyrenees than in any other part of france, save perhaps in dauphiné and savoie, and the linking up of various loose ends of railway by such a means is one of the delights of travel in these parts--if you don't happen to have an automobile handy. beyond a mere appreciation of mediæval architectural delights of _châteaux_, _manoirs_, and _gentilhommières_ of the region, this book includes some comments on the manner of living in those far-away times when chivalry flourished on this classically romantic ground. it treats, too, somewhat of men and manners of to-day, for here in this southwest corner of france much of modern life is but a reminiscence of that which has gone before. many of the great spas of to-day, such as the bagnères de bigorre, salies de béarn, cauterets, eaux-bonnes, or amélie les bains, have a historic past, as well as a present vogue. they were known in some cases to the romans, and were often frequented by the royalties of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and therein is another link which binds the present with the past. one feature of the region resulting from the alliance of the life of the princes, counts and seigneurs of the romantic past, with that of the monks and prelates of those times is the religious architecture. since the overlord or seigneur of a small district was often an amply endowed archbishop or bishop, or the lands round about belonged by ancient right to some community of monkish brethren, it is but natural that mention of some of their more notable works and institutions should have found a place herein. where such inclusion is made, it is always with the consideration of the part played in the stirring affairs of mediæval times by some fat monk or courtly prelate, who was, if not a compeer, at least a companion of the lay lords and seigneurs. not all the fascinating figures of history have been princes and counts; sometimes they were cardinal-archbishops, and when they were wealthy and powerful seigneurs as well they became at once principal characters on the stage. often they have been as romantic and chivalrous (and as intriguing and as greedy) as the most dashing hero who ever wore cloak and doublet. still another species of historical characters and monuments is found plentifully besprinkled through the pages of the chronicles of the pyrenean kingdoms and provinces, and that is the class which includes warriors and their fortresses. a castle may well be legitimately considered as a fortress, and a château as a country house; the two are quite distinct one from the other, though often their functions have been combined. throughout the pyrenees are many little walled towns, fortifications, watch-towers and what not, architecturally as splendid, and as great, as the most glorious domestic establishment of renaissance days. the _cité_ of carcassonne, more especially, is one of these. carcassonne's château is as naught considered without the ramparts of the mediæval _cité_, but together, what a splendid historical souvenir they form! the most splendid, indeed, that still exists in europe, or perhaps that ever did exist. prats-de-mollo and its walls, its tower, and the defending fort bellegarde; saint bertrand de comminges and its walls; or even the quaintly picturesque defences of vauban at bayonne, where one enters the city to-day through various gateway breaches in the walls, are all as reminiscent of the vivid life of the history-making past, as is henri quatre's tortoise-shell cradle at pau, or gaston de foix' ancestral château at mazères. mostly it is the old order of things with which one comes into contact here, but the blend of the new and old is sometimes astonishing. luchon and pau and tarbes and lourdes, and many other places for that matter, have over-progressed. this has been remarked before now; the writer is not alone in his opinion. the equal of the charm of the pyrenean country, its historic sites, its quaint peoples, and its scenic splendours does not exist in all france. it is a blend of french and spanish manners and blood, lending a colour-scheme to life that is most enjoyable to the seeker after new delights. before the revolution, france was divided into fifty-two provinces, made up wholly from the petty states of feudal times. of the southern provinces, seven in all, this book deals in part with gascogne (capital auch), the comté de foix (capital foix), roussillon (capital perpignan), haute-languedoc (capital toulouse), and bas-languedoc (capital montpellier). of the southwest provinces, a part of guyenne (capital bordeaux) is included, also navarre (capital saint-jean-pied-de-port) and béarn (capital pau). besides these general divisions, there were many minor _petits pays_ compressed within the greater, such as armagnac, comminges, the condanois, the pays-entre-deux-mers, the landes, etc. these, too, naturally come within the scope of this book. finally, in the new order of things, the ancient provinces lost their nomenclature after the revolution, and the département of the landes (and three others) was carved out of guyenne; the département of the basses-pyrénées absorbed navarre, béarn and the basque provinces; bigorre became the hautes-pyrénées; foix became ariège; roussillon became the pyrénées-orientales, and haute-languedoc and bas-languedoc gave hérault, gard, haute-garonne and the aude. for the most part all come within the scope of these pages, and together these modern départements form an unbreakable historical and topographical frontier link from the atlantic to the mediterranean. this bird's-eye view of the pyrenean provinces, then, is a sort of picturesque, informal report of things seen and facts garnered through more or less familiarity with the region, its history, its institutions and its people. châteaux and other historical monuments, agriculture and landscape, market-places and peasant life, all find a place here, inasmuch as all relate to one another, and all blend into that very nearly perfect whole which makes france so delightful to the traveller. everywhere in this delightful region, whether on the mountain side or in the plains, the very atmosphere is charged with an extreme of life and colour, and both the physiognomy of landscape and the physiognomy of humanity is unfailing in its appeal to one's interest. here there are no guide-book phrases in the speech of the people, no struggling lines of "conducted" tourists with a polyglot conductor, and no futile labelling of doubtful historic monuments; there are enough of undoubted authenticity without this. thoroughly tired and wearied of the progress and super-civilization of the cities and towns of the well-worn roads, it becomes a real pleasure to seek out the by-paths of the old french provinces, and their historic and romantic associations, in their very crudities and fragments every whit as interesting as the better known stamping-grounds of the conventional tourist. the folk of the pyrenees, in their faces and figures, in their speech and customs, are as varied as their histories. they are a bright, gay, careless folk, with ever a care and a kind word for the stranger, whether they are catalan, basque or béarnais. since the economic aspects of a country have somewhat to do with its history it is important to recognize that throughout the pyrenees the grazing and wine-growing industries predominate among agricultural pursuits. there is a very considerable raising of sheep and of horses and mules, and somewhat of beef, and there is some growing of grain, but in the main--outside of the sheep-grazing of the higher valleys--it is the wine-growing industry that gives the distinctive note of activity and prosperity to the lower slopes and plains. for the above mentioned reason it is perhaps well to recount here just what the wine industry and the wine-drinking of france amounts to. one may have a preference for burgundy or bordeaux, champagne or saumur, or even plain, plebeian beer, but it is a pity that the great mass of wine-drinkers, outside of continental europe, do not make their distinctions with more knowledge of wines when they say this or that is the _best_ one, instead of making their estimate by the prices on the wine-card. anglo-saxons (english and americans) are for the most part not connoisseurs in wine, because they don't know the fundamental facts about wine-growing. for red wines the bordeaux--less full-bodied and heavy--are very near rivals of the best burgundies, and have more bouquet and more flavour. the medocs are the best among bordeaux wines. château-lafitte and château-latour are very rare in commerce and very high in price when found. they come from the commune of pauillac. château margaux, st. estèphe and st. julien follow in the order named and are the leaders among the red wines of bordeaux--when you get the real thing, which you don't at bargain store prices. the white wines of bordeaux, the graves, come from a rocky soil; the sauternes, with the vintage of château d'yquem, lead the list, with barsac, entre-deux-mers and st. emilion following. there are innumerable second-class bordeaux wines, but they need not be enumerated, for if one wants a name merely there are plenty of wine merchants who will sell him any of the foregoing beautifully bottled and labelled as the "real thing." down towards the pyrenees the wines change notably in colour, price and quality, and they are good wines too. those of bergerac and quercy are rich, red wines sold mostly in the markets of cahors; and the wines of toulouse, grown on the sunny hill-slopes between toulouse and the frontier, are thick, alcoholic wines frequently blended with real bordeaux--to give body, not flavour. the wines of armagnac are mostly turned into _eau de vie_, and just as good _eau de vie_ as that of cognac, though without its flavour, and without its advertising, which is the chief reason why the two or three principal brands of cognac are called for at the wine-dealers. at chalosse, in the landes, between bayonne and bordeaux, are also grown wines made mostly into _eau de vie_. béarn produces a light coloured wine, a specialty of the country, and an acquired taste like olives and gorgonzola cheese. from béarn, also, comes the famous _cru de jurançon_, celebrated since the days of henri quatre, a simple, full-bodied, delicious-tasting, red wine. thirteen départements of modern france comprise largely the wine-growing region of the basin of the garonne, included in the territory covered by this book. this region gives a wine crop of thirteen and a half millions of hectolitres a year. in thirty years the production has augmented by sixty per cent., and still dealers very often sell a fabricated imitation of the genuine thing. wine drinking is increasing as well as alcoholism, regardless of what the doctors try to prove. the wines of the midi of france in general are famous, and have been for generations, to _bons vivants_. the soil, the climate and pretty much everything else is favourable to the vine, from the spanish frontier in the pyrenees to that of italy in the alpes-maritimes. the wines of the midi are of three sorts, each quite distinct from the others; the ordinary table wines, the cordials, and the wines for distilling, or for blending. within the topographical confines of this book one distinguishes all three of these groups, those of roussillon, those of languedoc, and those of armagnac. the rocky soil of roussillon, alone, for example (neighbouring collioure, banyuls and rivesaltes), gives each of the three, and the heavy wines of the same region, for blending (most frequently with bordeaux), are greatly in demand among expert wine-factors all over france. in the département de l'aude, the wines of lézignan and ginestas are attached to this last group. the traffic in these wines is concentrated at carcassonne and narbonne. at limoux there is a specialty known as blanquette de limoux--a wine greatly esteemed, and almost as good an imitation of champagne as is that of saumur. in languedoc, in the département of hérault, and gard, twelve millions of hectolitres are produced yearly of a heavy-bodied red wine, also largely used for fortifying other wines and used, naturally, in the neighbourhood, pure or mixed with water. this thinning out with water is almost necessary; the drinker who formerly got outside of three bottles of port before crawling under the table, would go to pieces long before he had consumed the same quantity of local wine unmixed with water at a montpellier or béziers table d'hôte. at cette, at frontignan, and at lunel are fabricated many "foreign" wines, including the malagas, the madères and the xeres of commerce. above all the _muscat de frontignan_ is revered among its competitors, and it's not a "foreign" wine either, but the juice of dried grapes or raisins,--grape juice if you like,--a sweet, mild dessert wine, very, very popular with the ladies. there is a considerable crop of table raisins in the midi, particularly at montauban and in maritime provence which, if not rivalling those of malaga in looks, have certainly a more delicate flavour. along with the wines of the midi may well be coupled the olives. for oil those of the bouches-du-rhône are the best. they bring the highest prices in the foreign market, but along the easterly slopes of the pyrenees, in roussillon, in the aude, and in hérault and gard they run a close second. the olives of france are not the fat, plump, "queen" olives, sold usually in little glass jars, but a much smaller, greener, less meaty variety, but richer in oil and nutriment. the olive trees grow in long ranks and files, amid the vines or even cereals, very much trimmed (in goblet shape, so that the ripening sun may reach the inner branches) and are of small size. their pale green, shimmering foliage holds the year round, but demands a warm sunny climate. the olive trees of the midi of france--as far west as the comté de foix in the pyrenees, and as far north as montelimar on the rhône--are quite the most frequently noted characteristic of the landscape. the olive will not grow, however, above an altitude of four hundred metres. the foregoing pages outline in brief the chief characteristics of the present day aspect of the old pyrenean french provinces of which béarn and basse-navarre, with the comté de foix were the heart and soul. the topographical aspect of the pyrenees, their history, and as full a description of their inhabitants as need be given will be found in a section dedicated thereto. for the rest, the romantic stories of kings and counts, and of lords and ladies, and their feudal fortresses and renaissance châteaux, with a mention of such structures of interest as naturally come within nearby vision will be found duly recorded further on. chapter ii feudal france--its people and its chÂteaux it was not the revolution alone that brought about a division of landed property in france. the crusades, particularly that of saint bernard, accomplished the same thing, though perhaps to a lesser extent. the seigneurs were impoverished already by excesses of all kinds, and they sold parts of their lands to any who would buy, and on almost any terms. sometimes it was to a neighbouring, less powerful, seigneur; sometimes to a rich bourgeois--literally a town-dweller, not simply one vulgarly rich--or even to an ecclesiastic; and sometimes to that vague entity known as "_le peuple_." the peasant proprietor was a factor in land control before the revolution; the mere recollection of the fact that louis-le-hutin enfranchised the serfs demonstrates this. the serfdom of the middle ages, in some respects, did not differ from ancient slavery, and in the most stringent of feudal times there were numerous serfs, servants and labourers attached to the seigneur's service. these he sold, gave away, exchanged, or bequeathed, and in these sales, children were often separated from their parents. the principal cause of enfranchisement was the necessity for help which sprang from the increase in the value of land. a sort of chivalric swindle under the name of "the right of taking" was carried on among the lords, who endeavoured to get men away from one another and thus flight became the great resort of the dissatisfied peasant. in order to get those belonging to others, and to keep his own, the proprietor, when enfranchising the serfs, benevolently gave them land. thus grew up the peasant landowner, the seigneur keeping only more or less limited rights, but those onerous enough when he chose to put on the screw. in this way much of the land belonging to the nobles and clergy became the patrimony of the plebeians, and remained so, for they were at first forbidden to sell their lands to noblemen or clergy. then came other kinds of intermediary leases, something between the distribution of the land under the feudal system and its temporary occupancy of to-day through the payment of rent. such were the "domains" in brittany, anjou and elsewhere, held under the emphyteusis (long lease), which was really the right of sale, where the land, let out for an indefinite time and at a fixed rent, could be taken back by the landlord only on certain expensive terms. this was practically the death knell of feudal land tenure. afterward came leases of fifty years, for life, or for "three lifetimes," by which time the rights of the original noble owners had practically expired. finally, all landowners found these systems disadvantageous. the landlord's share in the product of the soil (as a form of rent) continually increased, while the condition of the farmer grew worse and worse. since the revolution, the modern method of cultivation of land on a large scale constitutes an advance over anything previously conceived, just as the distribution of the land under the feudal régime constituted an advance over the system in vogue in earlier times. times have changed in france since the days when the education of the masses was unthought of. then the curé or a monkish brother would get a few children together at indeterminate periods and teach them the catechism, a paternoster or a credo, and that was about all. writing, arithmetic--much less the teaching of grammar--were deemed entirely unnecessary to the growing youth. then (and the writer has seen the same thing during his last dozen years of french travel) it was a common sight to see the sign "ecrivain publique" hanging over, or beside, many a doorway in a large town. the renaissance overflow from italy left a great impress on the art and literature of france, and all its bright array of independent principalities. the troubadours and minstrels of still earlier days had given way to the efforts and industry of royalty itself. françois premier, and, for aught we know, all his followers, penned verses, painted pictures, and patronized authors and artists, until the very soil itself breathed an art atmosphere. marguerite de valois ( - ), the sister of françois premier, was called the tenth muse even before she became queen of navarre, and when she produced her boccoccio-like stories, afterwards known as the "heptameron of the queen of navarre," enthusiasm for letters among the noblesse knew no bounds. the spirit of romance which went out from the soft southland was tinged with a certain license and liberty which was wanting in the "romaunt of the rose" of guillaume de lorris, and like works, but it served to strike a passionate fire in the hearts of men which at least was bred of a noble sentiment. what the renaissance actually did for a french national architecture is a matter of doubt. but for its coming, france might have achieved a national scheme of building as an outgrowth of the greek, roman, and saracen structures which had already been planted between the alps and the pyrenees. the gothic architecture of france comes nearer to being a national achievement than any other, but its application in its first form to a great extent was to ecclesiastical building. in domestic and civil architecture, and in walls and ramparts, there exists very good gothic indeed in france, but of a heavier, less flowery style than that of its highest development in churchly edifices. the romanesque, and even the pointed-arch architecture (which, be it remembered, need not necessarily be gothic) of southern and mid-france, with the moorish and saracenic interpolations found in the pyrenees, was the typical civic, military and domestic manner of building before the era of the imitation of the debased lombardic which came in the days of charles viii and françois premier. this variety spread swiftly all over france--and down the rhine, and into england for that matter--and crowded out the sloping roof, the dainty colonnette and ribbed vaulting in favour of a heavier, but still ornate, barrel-vaulted and pillared, low-set edifice with most of the faults of the earlier romanesque, and none of its excellences. the parts that architects and architecture played in the development of france were tremendous. voltaire first promulgated this view, and his aphorisms are many; "my fancy is to be an architect." "mansard was one of the greatest architects known to france." "architects were the ruin of louis xiv." "the cathedral builders were sublime barbarians." montesquieu was more sentimental when he said: "love is an architect who builds palaces on ruins if he pleases." the greatest architectural expression of a people has ever been in its christian monuments, but references to the cathedrals, churches and chapels of the pyrenean states have for the most part been regretfully omitted from these pages, giving place to fortresses, châteaux, great bridges, towers, donjons, and such public monuments as have a special purport in keeping with the preconceived limits of a volume which deals largely with the romance of feudal times. generally speaking, the architectural monuments of these parts are little known by the mass of travellers, except perhaps henri quatre's ancestral château at pau, the famous walls of carcassonne, and perhaps bayonne's bridges or the eglise st. saturnin and the bizarre cathedral of st. etienne at toulouse. all of these are excellent of their kind; indeed perhaps they are superlative in their class; but when one mentions perpignan's castillet, the château de puylaurens, the arcaded gothic houses of agde, béziers' fortress-cathedral, the fortress-church of st. bertrand de comminges or a score of other tributary monumental relics, something hitherto unthought of is generally disclosed. almost the whole range of architectural display is seen here between the mediterranean and the gulf of gascony, and any rambling itinerary laid out between the two seas will discover as many structural and decorative novelties as will be found in any similar length of roadway in france. [illustration: _watch-tower in the val d'andorre_] leaving the purely ecclesiastical edifices--cathedrals and great churches--out of the question, the entire midi of france, and the french slopes and valleys of the pyrenees in particular, abounds in architectural curiosities which are marvels to the student and lover of art. there are _châteaux_, _chastels_ and _chastillons_, one differing from another by subtle distinctions which only the expert can note. then there are such feudal accessories as watch-towers, donjons and _clochers_, and great fortifying walls and gates and barbicans, and even entire fortified towns like carcassonne and la bastide. surely the feudality, or rather its relics, cannot be better studied than here,--"where the people held the longest aloof from the crown." the watch-towers which flank many of the valleys of the pyrenees are a great curiosity and quandary to archæologists and historians. formerly they flashed the news of wars or invasions from one outpost to another, much as does wireless telegraphy of to-day. of these watch-towers, or _tours télégraphiques_, as the modern french historians call them, that of castel-biel, near luchon, is the most famous. it rises on the peak of a tiny mountain in the valley of the pique and is a square structure of perhaps a dozen or fifteen feet on each side. sixteen feet or so from the ground, on the northwest façade, is an opening leading to the first floor. this tower is typical of its class, and is the most accessible to the hurried traveller. the feudal history of france is most interesting to recall in this late day when every man is for himself. not all was oppression by any means, and the peasant landowner--as distinct from the _vilain_ and _serf_--was a real person, and not a supposition, even before the revolution; though thomas carlyle on his furzy scotch moor didn't know it. feudal france consisted of seventy thousand fiefs or rere-fiefs, of which three thousand gave their names to their seigneurs. all seigneurs who possessed three _châtellenies_ and a walled hamlet (_ville close_) had the right of administering justice without reference to a higher court. there were something more than seven thousand of these _villes closes_, within which, or on the lands belonging to the seigneurs thereof, were one million eight hundred and seventy-two thousand monuments,--churches, monasteries, abbeys, châteaux, castles, and royal or episcopal palaces. it was thus that religious, civic and military architecture grew side by side and, when new styles and modifications came in, certain interpolations were forthwith incorporated in the more ancient fabrics, giving that mélange of picturesque walls and roofs which makes france the best of all lands in which to study the architecture of mediævalism. among these mediæval relics were interspersed others more ancient,--roman and greek basilicas, temples, baths, arenas, amphitheatres and aqueducts in great profusion, whose remains to-day are considerably more than mere fragments. the hereditary aristocracy of france, the rulers and the noblesse of the smaller kingdoms, dukedoms and countships, were great builders, as befitted their state, and, being mostly great travellers and persons of wealth, they really surrounded themselves with many exotic forms of luxury which a more isolated or exclusive race would never have acquired. there is no possible doubt whatever but that it is the very mixture of styles and types that make the architecture of france so profoundly interesting even though one decries the fact that it is not _national_. one well recognized fact concerning france can hardly fail to be reiterated by any who write of the manners and customs and the arts of mediæval times, and that is that the figures of population of those days bear quite similar resemblances to those of to-day. historians of a hundred years back, even, estimated the total population of france in the fifteenth century as being very nearly the same as at the revolution,--perhaps thirty millions. to-day eight or perhaps ten millions more may be counted, but the increase is invariably in the great cities, paris, lyons, marseilles, bordeaux, rouen, etc. oloron and orthez in béarn, saint-jean-pied-de-port in navarre, or agde or elne in roussillon, remain at the same figure at which they have stood for centuries, unless, as is more often the case, they have actually fallen off in numbers. and still france is abnormally prosperous, collectively and individually, so far as old-world nations go. originally the nobility in france was of four degrees: the _noblesse_ of the blood royal, the _haute-noblesse_, the _noblesse ordinaire_ and the _noblesse_ who were made noble by patent of the ruling prince. all of these distinctions were hereditary, save, in some instances, the _noblesse ordinaire_. in the height of feudal glory there were accredited over four thousand families belonging to the _ancienne noblesse_, and ninety thousand _familles nobles_ (descendant branches of the above houses) who could furnish a hundred thousand knightly combatants for any "little war" that might be promulgated. sometimes the family name was noble and could be handed down, and sometimes not. sometimes, too, inheritance was through the mother, not the father; this was known as the _noblesse du ventre_. a foreign noble naturalized in france remained noble, and retained his highest title of right. the french nobles most often took their titles from their fiefs, and these, with the exception of baronies and _marquisats_, were usually of roman origin. the chief titles below the _noblesse du sang royal_ were _ducs_, _barons_, _marquis_, _comtes_, _vicomtes_, _vidames_, and _chevaliers_ and each had their special armorial distinctions, some exceedingly simple, and some so elaborate with quarterings and blazonings as to be indefinable by any but a heraldic expert. the coats of arms of feudal france, or _armoiries_, as the french call them (a much better form of expression by the way), are a most interesting subject of study. some of these _armoiries_ are really beautiful, some quaint and some enigmatic, as for instance those of the king of navarre. the revolutionary assembly abolished such things in france, but napoleon restored them all again, and created a new noblesse as well: "aussitôt maint esprit fécond en reveries, inventa le blason avec les armoiries." sang the poet boileau. primarily _armoiries_ were royal bequests, but in these days a pork-packer, an iron-founder or a cheese-maker concocts a trade-mark on heraldic lines and the thing has fallen flat. fancy a pig sitting on a barrel top and flanked by two ears of corn, or a pyramid of cheeses overtopped by the motto "a full stomach maketh good health." why it's almost as ridiculous as a crossed pick-axe, a shovel and a crow-bar would be for a navvy on a railway line! in the old days it was not often thus, though a similar ridiculous thing, which no one seemed to take the trouble to suppress, was found in the "_armoiries des gueux_." one of these showed two twists of tobacco _en croix_, with the following motto: "_dieu vous bénisse_!" at the head of the list of french _armoiries_ were those of _domain_ or _souveraineté_. then followed several other distinct classes. "_armoiries de pretention_," where the patronal rights over a city or a province were given the holders, even though the province was under the chief domination of a more powerful noble. "_armoiries de concession_," given for services by a sovereign prince--such as the _armoiries_ belonging to jeanne d'arc. "_armoiries de patronage_," in reality quarterings added to an _armoirie_ already existing. these were frequently additions to the blazonings of families or cities. paris took on the arms of the king of france, the insistent louis, by this right. "_armoiries de dignité_," showing the distinction or dignities with which a person was endowed, and which were added to existing family arms. "_armoiries de famille_," as their name indicates, distinguishing one noble family from another. this class was further divided into three others, "_substituées_," "_succession_," or "_alliance_," terms which explain themselves. "_armoiries de communauté_," distinctions given to noble chapters of military bodies, corporations, societies and the like. finally there was a class which belonged to warriors alone. at all times illustrious soldiers adopted a _devise_, or symbol, which they caused to be painted on their shields. these were only considered as _armoiries_ when they were inherited by one who had followed in the footsteps of his ancestors. this usage dates from the end of the ninth century, and it is from this period that _armoiries_, properly called, came into being. [illustration: feudal flags and banners] the banners of the feudal sovereigns were, many of them, very splendid affairs, often bearing all their arms and quarterings. they were borne wherever their owners went,--in war, to the capital, and at their country houses. at all ceremonious functions the banners were ever near the persons of their sovereigns as a sign of suzerainty. the owner of a banner would often have it cut out of metal and placed on the gables of his house as a weather-vane, a custom which, in its adapted form, has endured through the ages to this day. in tournaments, the nobles had their banners attached to their lances, and made therewith always the sign of the cross before commencing their passes. also their banners or _banderoles_ were hung from the trumpets of the heralds of their house. another variety of feudal standard, differing from either the _bannière_ or the _pennon_, was the _gonfanon_. this was borne only by _bacheliers_, vassals of an overlord. "_n'i a riche hom ni baron_ _qui n'ait lès lui son gonfanon._" the feudal banner, the house flag of the feudal seigneurs, and borne by them in battle, was less splendid than the _bannière royale_, which was hung from a window balcony to mark a kingly lodging-place. it was in fact only a small square of stuff hanging from a transversal baton. this distinguished, in france, a certain grade of knights known as _chevaliers-bannerets_. these chevaliers had the privilege of exercising certain rights that other knights did not possess. to be created _chevalier-banneret_ one had to be twenty-one years of age. if a chevalier was already a _bachelier_, a grade inferior to that of a _banneret_, to become a full blown _chevalier_ he had only to cut the points from his standard--a _pennon_--when it and he became a _banneret_; that is to say, he had the right to carry a banner, or to possess a _fief de bannière_. there were three classes of fiefs in feudal france. first; the _fief de bannière_, which could furnish twenty-five combatants under a banner or flag of their own. second; the _fief de haubert_, which could furnish a well-mounted horseman fully armed, accompanied by two or three _varlets_ or _valets_. third; the _fief de simple écuyer_, whose sole offering was a single vassal, lightly armed. there was, too, a class of nobles without estates. they were known as seigneurs of a _fief en l'air_, or a _fief volant_, much like many courtesy titles so freely handed around to-day in some monarchies. a vassal was a dweller in a fief under the control of the seigneur. the word comes from the ancient frankish _gessell_. the chevaliers, not the highest of noble ranks, but a fine title of distinction nevertheless, bore one of four prefixes, _don_, _sire_, _messire_, or _monseigneur_. they could eat at the same table with the monarch, and they alone had the right to bear a banner-lance in warfare, or wear a double coat of mail. in , louis xi began to abolish the bow and the lance in france, in so far as they applied to effective warfare. the first fire-arms had already appeared a century before, and though the _coulevrines_ and _canons à main_ were hardly efficient weapons, when compared with those of to-day, they were far more effective than the bow and arrow at a distance, or the javelin, the pike and the lance near at hand. then developed the _arquebuse_, literally a hand-cannon, clumsy and none too sure of aim, but a fearful death-dealer if it happened to hit. the feudal lords, the seigneurs and other nobles, had the right of levying taxes upon their followers. these taxes, or _impôts_, took varying forms; such as the obligation to grind their corn at the mills of the seigneur, paying a heavy proportion of the product therefor; to press their grapes at his wine-press, and bake their bread in his ovens. at montauban, in the garonne, one of these old seigneurial flour mills may still be seen. the seigneurs were not ostensibly "in trade," but their control of the little affairs of the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick-maker virtually made them so. more definite taxes--demanded in cash when the peasants could pay, otherwise in kind--were the seigneurial taxes on fires; on the right of trade (the sale of wine, bread or meat); the _vingtaine_, whereby the peasant gave up a twentieth of his produce to the seigneur; and such oddities as a tax on the first kiss of the newly married; bardage, a sort of turnpike road duty for the privilege of singing certain songs; and on all manner of foolish fancies. after the taxation by the seigneurs there came that by the clerics, who claimed their "ecclesiastical tenth," a tax which was levied in france just previous to the revolution with more severity, even, than in italy. finally the people rose, and the french peasants delivered themselves all over the land to a riot of evil, as much an unlicensed tyranny as was the oppression of their feudal lords. one may thus realize the means which planted feudal france with great fortresses, châteaux and country houses, and the motives which caused their destruction to so large an extent. it was the tyranny of the master and the cruelty of the servant that finally culminated in the revolution. not only the petty seigneurs had been the oppressors, but the crown, represented by the figurehead of the bourbon king in his capital, put the pressure on the peasant folk still harder by releasing it on the nobles. the tax on the people, that great, vague, non-moving mass of the population, has ever produced the greatest revenue in france, as, presumably, it has elsewhere. in the days before the revolution it was _le peuple_ who paid, and it was the people who paid the enormous franco-german war indemnity in . the feudality in france, in its oppressive sense, died long years before the revolution, but the aristocracy still lives in spite of the efforts of the assembly to crush it--the assembly and the mob who sang: _"ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,_ _les aristocrates à la lanterne!_ _ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,_ _les aristocrates on les pendra!"_ and the french noblesse of to-day, the proud old french aristocracy, is not, on the whole, as bad as it has frequently been painted. they may, in the majority, be royalists, may be even bonapartists, or orléanists, instead of republicans, but surely there's no harm in that in these days when certain political parties look upon socialists as anarchists and free-traders as communists. the honour, power and profit derived by the noblesse in france all stopped with the revolution. the national assembly, however, refused to abolish titles. to do that body justice they saw full well that they could not take away that which did not exist as a tangible entity, and it is to their credit that they did not establish the new order of knights of the plough as they were petitioned to do. this would have been as fatal a step as can possibly be conceived, though for that matter a plough might just as well be a symbol of knighthood as a thistle, a _jaratelle_, a gold stick or a black rod. in france a whole _seigneurie_ was slave to the seigneur. under feudal rule the clergy (not the humble _abbés_ and _curés_, but the bishops and archbishops) were frequently themselves overlords. they, at any rate, enjoyed as high privileges as any in the land, and if the revolution benefited the lower clergy it robbed the higher churchmen. just previous to the revolution, the clergy had a revenue of one hundred and thirty million _livres_ of which only forty-two million five hundred thousand _livres_ accrued to the _curés_. the difference represents the loss to the "seigneurs of the church." with the revolution the whole kingdom was in a blaze; famished mobs clamoured, if not always for bread, at least for an anticipated vengeance, and when they didn't actually kill they robbed and burned. this accounts for the comparative infrequency of the feudal châteaux in france in anything but a ruined state. sometimes it is but a square of wall that remains, sometimes a mere gateway, sometimes a donjon, and sometimes only a solitary tower. all these evidences are frequent enough in the provinces of the pyrenees, from the more or less complete châteaux of foix and of pau, to the ruins of lourdes and lourdat, and the more fragmentary remains of ultrera, ruscino and coarraze. the mediæval country house was a château; when it was protected by walls and moats it became a castle or château-fort; a distinction to be remarked. the château of the middle ages was not only the successor of the roman stronghold, but it was a villa or place of residence as well; when it was fortified it was a _chastel_. a castle might be habitable, and a château might be a species of stronghold, and thus the mediæval country house might be either one thing or the other, but still the distinction will always be apparent if one will only go deeply enough into the history of any particular structure. light and air, which implies frequent windows, have always been desirable in all habitations of man, and only when the château bore the aspects of a fortification were window openings omitted. if it was an island castle, a moat-surrounded château,--as it frequently was in later renaissance times,--windows and doors existed in profusion; but if it were a feudal fortress, such as one most frequently sees in the pyrenees, openings at, or near, the ground-level were few and far between. such windows as existed were mere narrow slits, like loop-holes, and the entrance doorway was really a fortified gate or port, frequently with a portcullis and sometimes with a _pont-levis_. the origin of the word château (_castrum_, _castellum_, castle) often served arbitrarily to designate a fortified habitation of a seigneur, or a citadel which protected a town. one must know something of their individual histories in order to place them correctly. in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, châteaux in france multiplied almost to infinity, and became habitations in fact. in reality the middle ages saw two classes of great châteaux go up almost side by side, the feudal château of the tenth to the fifteenth centuries, and the frankly residential country houses of the renaissance period which came after. for the real, true history of the feudal châteaux of france, one cannot do better than follow the hundred and fifty odd pages which viollet-le-duc devoted to the subject in his monumental "_dictionnaire raisonée d'architecture_." in the midi, all the way from the italian to the spanish frontiers, are found the best examples of the feudal châteaux, mere ruins though they be in many cases. in the extreme north of normandy, at les andelys, arques and falaise, at pierrefonds and coucy, these military châteaux stand prominent too, but mid-france, in the valley of the loire, in touraine especially, is the home of the great renaissance country house. the royal châteaux, the city dwellings and the country houses of the kings have perhaps the most interest for the traveller. of this class are chenonceaux and amboise, fontainebleau and st. germain, and, within the scope of this book, the paternal château of henri quatre at pau. it is not alone, however, these royal residences that have the power to hold one's attention. there are others as great, as beautiful and as replete with historic events. in this class are the châteaux at foix, at carcassonne, at lourdes, at coarraze and a dozen other points in the pyrenees, whose architectural splendours are often neglected for the routine sightseeing sanctioned and demanded by the conventional tourists. there are no vestiges of rural habitations in france erected by the kings of either of the first two races, though it is known that chilperic and clotaire ii had residences at chelles, compiègne, nogent, villers-cotterets, and creil, north of paris. the pre-eminent builder of the great fortress châteaux of other days was foulques nerra, and his influence went wide and far. these establishments were useful and necessary, but they were hardly more than prison-like strongholds, quite bare of the luxuries which a later generation came to regard as necessities. the refinements came in with louis ix. the artisans and craftsmen became more and more ingenious and artistic, and the fine tastes and instincts of the french with respect to architecture soon came to find their equal expression in furnishings and fitments. hard, high seats and beds, which looked as though they had been brought from rome in cæsar's time, gave way to more comfortable chairs and canopied beds, carpets were laid down where rushes were strewn before, and walls were hung with cloths and draperies where grim stone and plaster had previously sent a chill down the backs of lords and ladies. thus developed the life in french châteaux from one of simple security and defence, to one of luxurious ease and appointments. the sole medium of communication between many of the french provinces, at least so far as the masses were concerned, was the local _patois_. all who did not speak it were foreigners, just as are english, americans or germans of to-day. the peoples of the romance tongue stood in closer relation, perhaps, than other of the provincials of old, and the men of the midi, whether they were gascons from the valley of the garonne, or provençaux from the bouches-du-rhône were against the king and government as a common enemy. the feudal lords were a gallant race on the whole; they didn't spend all their time making war; they played _boules_ and the _jeu-de-paume_, and held court at their château, where minstrels sang, and knights made verses for their lady loves, and men and women amused themselves much as country-house folk do to-day. the following, extracted from the book of accounts of one of the minor noblesse of béarn in the sixteenth century, is intimate and interesting. the master of this feudal household had a system of bookkeeping which modern chatelains might adopt with advantage. the items are curiously disposed. francs sous deniers pot de vinaigre livre de l'huile d'olive sac du sel aux pauvre {pour deux laquais et la mulette {au valet pour boire en {À tarbes pour la couchée de lundi voyage {un relevé pour la mulette {un fer pour la mulette {aux nomads evidently "la mulette" was a very necessary adjunct and required quite as much as its master. chapter iii the pyrenees--their geography and topography one of the great joys of the traveller is the placid contemplation of his momentary environment. the visitor to biarritz, pau, luchon, foix or carcassonne has ever before his eyes the massive pyrenean bulwark between france and spain; and the mere existence of this natural line of defence accounts to no small extent for the conditions of life, the style of building, and even the manners of the men who live within its shadow. the pyrenees have ever formed an undisputed frontier boundary line, though kingdoms and dukedoms, buried within its fastnesses or lying snugly enfolded in its gentle valleys, have fluctuated and changed owners so often that it is difficult for most people to define the limits of french and spanish navarre or the country of the french and spanish basques. it is still more difficult when it comes to locating the little pyrenean republic of andorra, that tiniest of nations, a little sister of san marino and monaco. some day the histories of these three miniature european "powers" (sic) should be made into a book. it would be most interesting reading and a novelty. unlike the alps, the pyrenees lack a certain impressive grandeur, but they are more varied in their outline, and form a continuous chain from the atlantic to the mediterranean, while their gently sloping green valleys smile more sweetly than anything of the kind in switzerland or savoie. they possess character, of a certain grim kind to be sure, particularly in their higher passes, and a general air of sterility, which, however, is less apparent as one descends to lower levels. the very name of pyrenees comes probably from the word _biren_, meaning "high pastures," so this refutes the belief that they are not abundantly endowed with this form of nature's wealth. from east to west the chain of the pyrenees has a length of four hundred and fifty kilometres, or, following the détours of the crests of the hispano-français frontier, perhaps six hundred. between pau and huesca their width, counting from one lowland plain to another, is a trifle over a hundred and twenty kilometres, the slope being the most rapid on the northern, or french, side. the pyrenees are less thickly wooded than the savoian alps, and there is very much less perpetual snow and fewer glaciers. in reality they are broken into two distinct parts by the val d'aran, forming the pyrénées-orientales and the pyrénées-occidentales. of the detached mountain masses, the chief is the canigou, lying almost by the mediterranean shore, and a little northward of the main chain. its highest peak is the puigmal (_puig_ or _puy_ being the languedoçian word for peak), rising to nearly three thousand metres. for long the canigou was supposed to be the loftiest peak of the pyrenees, but the pic du midi exceeds it by a hundred metres. however, this well proportioned, isolated mass looks more pretentious than it really is, standing, as it does, quite away from the main chain. from its peak marseilles can be seen--by a marseillais, who will also fancy that he can hear the turmoil of the cannebière and detect the odour of the saffron in his beloved _bouillabaise_. at any rate one can certainly see as much of the earth's surface spread out before him here as from any other spot of which he has recollection. [illustration: _the peaks of the pyrenees_] the pyrénées-occidentales abound in more numerous and better defined mountains than the more easterly portion. here are the famous monts maudits, with the pic de nethou, the highest of the pyrenees (three thousand four hundred and four metres), with a summit plateau or belvedere perhaps twenty metres in length by five in width. the vignemal (three thousand two hundred and ninety-eight metres) is the highest peak wholly on french soil and dominates the famous _col_, or pass, known as the brèche de roland. the pic du midi, back of bigorre, is justly the best known of all the crests of the pyrenees. its height is two thousand eight hundred and seventy-seven metres, and it is worthy of a special study, and a book all to itself. the observatory recently established here is one of the _chefs-d'oeuvre_ of science. the astronomical, climatological and geographical importance of this prominent peak was already marked out on the maps of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and its glory has been often sung in verse by guillaume saluste, sire du bartas, gentilhomme gascon; and by bernard palissy, better known as a potter than as a poet. [illustration: _brèche de roland_] towards the gulf of gascony the pyrenees send out their ramifications in much gentler slopes than on the mediterranean side. forests and pastures are more profuse and luxuriant, but the peaks are still of granite, as they mostly are throughout the range. grouped along the flanks of the river bidassoa this section of the chain is known to geographers as the "montagnes du pays basque." at the foot of these basque mountains passes the lowest level route between france and spain,--that followed by the railway and the "route internationale, paris-madrid." this easy and commodious passage of the pyrenees has ever been the theatre of the chief struggles between the peoples of the spanish peninsula and france. at ronçevaux the rear-guard of the army of charlemagne--"his paladins and peers"--were destroyed in , and it was here that the french and spanish fought in and . the french slopes of the pyrenees belong almost wholly to the basin or watershed of the garonne, one of the four great waterways of france, the other three being the loire, the seine and the rhône. in the upper valley of the garonne is the plateau de lannemazan. it lies in reality between the garonne and the adour. the adour on the west and the tech on the east, with their tributaries, play an important part in draining off the waters from the mountain sources, but they are entirely overshadowed by the garonne, which, rising in spain, in the val d'aran, flows six hundred and five kilometres before reaching salt water below bordeaux, through its estuary the gironde. nearly five hundred kilometres of this length are navigable, and the economic value of this river to agen, montauban and toulouse is very great. between the adour and the gironde lies that weird morass-like region of the landes, once peopled only by sheep-herders on stilts and by charcoal-burners, but now producing a quantity of resin and pine which is making the whole region prosperous and content. the source of the garonne is at an altitude of nearly two thousand metres, and is virtually a cascade. another tiny source, known as the garonne-oriental, swells the flood of the parent stream by flowing into it just below st. gaudens, the nearest "big town" of france to the spanish frontier. the ariège is the only really important tributary entering the garonne from the region of the pyrenees. its length is a hundred and fifty-seven kilometres, and its source is on the pic nègre, at an altitude of two thousand metres, three kilometres from the frontier, but on french soil. it waters two important cities of the comté de foix, the capital foix and pamiers. on the west, the chain of the pyrenees slopes gently down to the great bight, known so sadly to travellers by sea as the bay of biscay. from the mouth of the gironde southward it is further designated as the golfe de gascogne. there is no perceptible indentation of the coast line to indicate this, but its waters bathe the sand dunes of the landes, the basque coasts, and the extreme northeastern boundary of spain. the shore-line is straight, uniformly monotonous and inhospitable, the great waves which roll in from the atlantic beating up a soapy surf and long dikes of sand in weird, unlovely contours. for two hundred and forty kilometres, all along the shore-line of the gironde and the landes, this is applicable, the only relief being the basin of archachon (bordeaux' own special watering-place), the port of bayonne,--at the mouth of the adour,--the delightful rocky picturesqueness immediately around biarritz, and saint-jean-de-luz and its harbour, and the estuary of the bidassoa, that epoch-making river which, with the crest of the pyrenees, marks the franco-espagnol frontier. the french coast line at the easterly termination of the pyrenees possesses an entirely different aspect from that of the west. practically there is no tide in the mediterranean, and the gateway between france and spain through the eastern pyrenees is less gracious than that on the west. the pyrénées-orientales come plump down to the blue waters of the great inland sea just north of cap créus with little or no intimation of a slope. the frontier commences at cap cerbère, and at port vendres (the portus-veneris of the ancients) one finds one of the principal mediterranean sea ports of france, and the nearest to the great french possessions in africa. on cap créus in spain, and on cap bear in france, at an elevation of something over two hundred metres, are two remarkable lighthouses whose rays carry a distance of over forty kilometres seaward. the _étangs_, saint nazaire and leucate, cut the coast line here, and three tiny rivers, whose sources are high up in the mountain valleys of the tech, the tet and the aglay, flow into the sea before cap leucate, the boundary between old languedoc and the comté de roussillon. off-shore is the tempestuous golfe des lions, where the lion banners of the arlesien ships floated in days gone by. the aude, the orb and the hérault mingle their waters with the mediterranean here, and on the montagne d'agde rises another of those remarkable french lighthouses, this one throwing its light a matter of forty-five kilometres seawards. with perpignan, narbonne, béziers and agde behind, one draws slowly out from under the shadow of the pyrenees until the soil flattens out into a powdery, dusty plain, with here and there a pond, or great bay, of soft, brackish water, whose principal value lies in its fecundity at producing mosquitoes. aigues-mortes cradles itself on the shores of one of these great inlets of the mediterranean, and saintes maries on another. little gulfs, canals, dwarf seaside pines, cypresses, olive trees and vineyards are the chief characteristics of the landscape, while inland the surface of the soil rolls away in gentle billows towards nîmes, montpellier and st. giles, with the flat plain of the camargue lying between. since the christian era began, it is assumed that this coast line between the pyrenees and the rhône has advanced a matter of fourteen kilometres seaward, and since aigues-mortes, which now lies far inland, is known to be the port from which the sainted louis set out on his crusade, there is no gainsaying the statement. the immediate region surrounding aigues-mortes is a most fascinating one to visit, but would be a terrible place in which to be obliged to spend a life-time. between roussillon and spain there are fifteen passes by which one may cross the chain of the pyrenees, though indeed two only are practicable for wheeled traffic. the col de perthus is the chief one, and is traversed by the ancient "route royale" from paris to barcelona. there is a town by the same name, with a population of five hundred and a really good hotel. it's worth making the journey here just to see how a dull french village can sleep its time away. the passage is defended by the fine fortress de bellegarde. it was on the col de perthus that pompey erected the famous "trophy," surmounted by his statue bearing the following legend: +----------------------------------------+ | from the alps to the ulterior extremity| | of spain, pompey has forced | | submission to the roman republic | | from eight hundred and seventy-six | | cities and towns. | +----------------------------------------+ twenty years after, caesar erected another tablet beside the former. no trace of either remains to-day, and there are only frontier boundary stones marking the territorial limits of france and spain, which replace those torn down in the revolution. [illustration] proceeding by the coast line, a difficult road into spain lies by the col de banyuls, just where the pyrenees plunge beneath the mediterranean, a mere shelf of a road. the _cirques_, or great amphitheatres of mountains, are a characteristic of the pyrenees, and the cirque de gavarnie is the king of them all. it represents, very nearly, a sheer perpendicular wall rising to a height of five hundred metres, and three thousand five hundred metres in circumference. perpetual snow is an accompaniment of some of its gorges and neighbouring peaks, and twelve cascades tumble down its rock walls at various points. there is nothing quite so impressive in the world--outside yosemite or the yellowstone. gavarnie, its _cirque_ and its village, is the natural wonder of the pyrenees. said victor hugo: "_grand nom, petit village._" to explore the cirque de gavarnie is a passion with many; when you get in this state of mind you become what the touring frenchman knows as a "_gavarniste_," as an alpine climber becomes an "_alpiniste_." as for the climate of the pyrenees, it is, for a mountain region, soft and mild; not so mild as that of the french riviera perhaps, nor of barcelona, nor san sebastian in spain, but on the whole not cold, and certainly more humid than in the alpes-maritimes, on the côte d'azur. generally blowing from the northwest in winter, the wind accumulates great masses of cloud in the bight of the golfe de gascogne and sweeps them up against the barrier of the pyrenees, there to be held in suspension until an exceedingly stiff wind blows them away or the sun burns them off. the french riviera is cursed with the mistral, but it has the blessing of almost continual sunshine, while in the pyrénées-occidentales the wind is less strong as it comes only from the sea in the northwest, instead of from the north by the rhône valley, and the "disagreeable months" (november, december and january) often bring damp and humid, if not frigidly cold weather with them. the rainfall is often as much as eight decimetres per annum in the landes, one metre in the pyrenees proper, and a metre and a half in the basque country. the average rainfall for france is approximately eight decimetres, perhaps thirty-two inches. in the pyrenees the temperature is, normally, neither very hot nor very cold. perpignan is the warmest in winter. its average is ° centigrade ( ° f.), about that of nice, whilst that for france is ° centigrade ( ° f.). the climate of the pyrenees comes within the _climat girondin_, and the average for the year is ° centigrade. the _climat-maritime_ is a further division, and is considerably more elevated in degree. this comes from the western and northwestern winds off the sea, which, it may be remarked, almost invariably bring rain with them. at montauban the saying is: "_montagne claire, bordeaux obscure, pluie à coup sur._" in gascogne: "_jamais pluie au printemps ne passe pour mauvais temps._" at bordeaux the average summer temperature is but ° centigrade, at toulouse . ° centigrade and pau about the same, with a winter temperature often ° or ° below zero centigrade. the general aspect of the region of the pyrenees is one of the most varied and agreeable in all southern france. there is a grandeur and natural character about it that has not fallen before the march of twentieth century progress, save in the "resorts," such as biarritz or pau; and yet the primitiveness and savagery is not so uncomfortable as to make the traveller long for the super-civilization of great capitals. it is virgin in its beauty and varied wildness, and yet it is a soft, pleasant land where even the winter snows of the mountains seem less rigorous than the snow and cold of savoie or switzerland. on one side is the great bulwark of the pyrenees, and on two others the dazzling waters of the ocean, while to the north the valley of the garonne, west of the cevennes, is not at all a frigid, austere, frost-bound region, save only in the very coldest "snaps." the ranges of foothills in the pyrenees divide the surface of the land into slopes and valleys every bit as charming as those of switzerland, and yet oh! so different! and the fresh, limpid rivulets and rivers are real rivers, and not mere trickling brooks, whose colouring and transparency are the marvel of all who view. the majesty of the sea on either side, and of the mountains between, makes the very aspect of life luxurious and less hard than that in the more northerly alpine climes, and above all the outlook on life is french, and not that money-grabbing anglo-german-swiss commercialism which the genuine traveller abhors. he sees less of that sort of thing here in the pyrenees, even at pau and biarritz, than anywhere else in southern europe. at nice, monte carlo, naples, capri, along the italian lakes, and everywhere in french, german or italian speaking switzerland, one must pay! pay! pay! continually, and often for nothing. here you pay for what you get, and then not always its full value, according to standards with which you have previously become familiar. the pyrenees form quite the ideal mountain playground of europe. the basses-pyrénées, made up from the coherent masses of navarre, the basque country, béarn, and a part of chalosse and the landes, contains a superficial area of seven hundred and sixty-three thousand nine hundred and ninety french acres. its name comes naturally enough from the western end of the pyrenean mountain chain. throughout, the department is watered by innumerable streams and rivulets, whose banks and beds are as reminiscent of romanticism as any waterways extant. the adour is one of the "picture-rivers" of the world; it joins the rustling, tumbling nive, as it rushes down by cambo from the spanish valleys, and forms the port of bayonne. the gave de pau commences in the high pyrenees, in the wonderfully spectacular cirque de gavarnie, literally in a cascade falling nearly one thousand three hundred feet, perhaps the highest cascade known in the four quarters of the globe, or as the french say, "in the five parts of the world," which is more quaint if less literal. the gave d'oloron has its birth in the valley of the aspe, and is a tributary of the gave de pau. it is what one might call pretty, but has little suggestion of the scenic splendour of the latter. the bidassoa is one of the world's historic rivers. it forms the atlantic frontier between france and spain, and was the scene of wellington's celebrated "passage of the bidassoa" in , also of a still more famous historical event which took place centuries before on the ile des faisans. the nivelle is a tiny stream which comes to light on spanish soil, over the crest of the pyrenees, and flows rapidly down to the sea at saint-jean-de-luz, on the shores of the gulf of gascony. the ministry for the interior in france classes all these chief rivers as _flottable_ for certain classes of boats and barges through a portion of their length, and each of them as _navigable_ for a few leagues from the sea. four great "routes nationales" cross the basses-pyrénées. they are the legitimate successors of the "routes royales" of monarchial days. the "route royale de paris à madrid, par vittoria et burgos," the very same over which charles quint travelled to paris, via amboise, as the guest of françois premier, passes via bayonne and saint-jean-de-luz. it is a veritable historic highway throughout every league of its length. the climate of the basses-pyrénées is by no means as warm as its latitude would seem to bespeak, the snow-capped pyrenees keeping the temperature somewhat low. pau and luchon in the interior (as well as bayonne and biarritz on the coast) seem, curiously enough, to be somewhat milder than the open country between. the pyrenees, though less overrun and less exploited than the alps, are not an unknown world to be ventured into only by heroes and adventurers. they are what the french call a "new world" lively in aspect, infinitely varied, and as yet quite unspoiled, take them as a whole. this is a fact which makes the historical monuments and souvenirs of the region the more appealing in interest, particularly to one who has "done" the conventionally overrun resorts of the tyrol, egypt or norway; and the country here is far more accessible. furthermore the comforts of modern travel, as regards palace hotels and sleeping-cars, if less highly developed, are more to be remarked. one lives bountifully throughout the whole of the french slopes of the pyrenees, from a table well supplied with many exotic articles of food such as truffles, and _salaisons_ of all sorts, fresh mountain lake trout, and those delightful _crouchades_ and _cassoulets_, which in the more populous centres are only occasional, expensive luxuries. both the valleys and the mountains are equally charming and characteristic. the lowlanders and the mountaineers are two different species of man, but they both join hands in the admiration of, and devotion to their beloved country. the soft, sloping valleys and the plains below, in the great watersheds of the garonne, the aude, the nive, or the adour, tell one story, and the _terre debout_, as the french geographers call the mountains, quite another. the contrast and juxtaposition of these two topographical aspects, the varying manners and customs of the peoples, and the picturesque framing given to the châteaux and historic sites make an undeniably appealing ensemble which the writer thinks is not equalled elsewhere in travelled europe. one of the chief characteristics of the chain of the pyrenees is that it possesses numerous passages or passes at very considerable elevations, being outranked by surrounding peaks usually to the extent of a thousand metres only. these passes are not always practicable for wheeled traffic to be sure, but still they form a series of exits and entrances from and into spain which are open to the dwellers in the high valleys of either country on foot or on donkey back. they are distinguished by various prefixes such as _puerto_, _collada_, _passo_, _hourque_, _hourquette_, _brèche_, _port_, _col_, and _passage_, but one and all answer more or less specifically to the name of a mountain pass. the expression of "_il y a des pyrénées_," has been paraphrased in latter days as "_il n'y a plus de pyrénées_." a spanish aeronaut has recently crossed the crest of the range in a balloon, from pau to grenada--seven hundred and thirty kilometres as the birds fly. this intrepid sportsman, in his balloon "el cierzo," crossed the divide in the dead of night, at an elevation varying between two thousand three hundred and two thousand nine hundred metres, somewhere between the pic d'anie and the pic du midi d'ossau. in these days when automobiles beat express trains, and motor-boats beat steamships for speed, this crossing of the pyrenees by balloon stands unique in the annals of sport. the crossing of the pyrenees has already resolved itself into a momentous economic question. half a dozen roads fit for carriage traffic, and two gateways by which pass the railways of the east and west coasts, are the sole practicable means of communication between france and spain. the chain of the pyrenees from west to east presents nearly a uniform height; its simplicity and uniformity is remarkable. it is a veritable wall. to-day the parisian journals are all printing scare-heads, reading, "_plus de pyrénées_" and announcing railway projects which will bring paris and madrid within twenty hours of each other, and paris and algiers within forty. new tunnels, or _ports_, to the extent of five in place of two, are to be opened, and if balloons or air-ships don't come to supersede railways there will be a net-work of iron rails throughout the upper valleys of the pyrenees as there are in switzerland. the _ville d'eaux_, or watering-places, of the pyrenees date from prehistoric times. at ax-les-thermes there has recently been discovered a tank buried under three metres of alluvial soil, and dating from the bronze age. old maps of these parts show that the baths and waters of the region were widely known in mediæval times. it was not, however, until the reign of louis xv that the "stations" took on that popular development brought about by the sovereigns and their courts who frequented them. [illustration: _the five proposed railways_] not all of these can be indicated or described here but the accompanying map indicates them and their locations plainly enough. [illustration] nearly every malady, real or imaginary (and there have been many imaginary ones here, that have undergone a cure), can be benefited by the waters of the pyrenees. only a specialist could prescribe though. in point of popularity as resorts the baths and springs of the pyrenees rank about as follows: eaux-bonnes, eaux-chaudes, cauterets, st. sauveur, barèges, bagnères de bigorre, luchon, salies de béarn, ussat, ax-les-thermes, vernet and amélie les bains. whatever the efficacy of their waters may be, one and all may be classed as resorts where "all the attractions"--as the posters announce--of similar places elsewhere may be found,--great and expensive hotels, tea shops, theatres, golf, tennis and "the game." if the waters don't cure, one is sure to have been amused, if not edified. the watering-places of the pyrenees may not possess establishments or bath houses as grand or notorious as those of vichy, aix, or homburg, and their attendant amusements of sport and high stakes and cards may not be the chief reason they are patronized, but all the same they are very popular little resorts, with as charming settings and delightful surroundings as any known. at eaux-bonnes there are four famous springs, and at eaux-chaudes are six of diverse temperatures, all of them exceedingly efficacious "cures" for rheumatism. at cambo--a new-found retreat for french painters and literary folk--are two _sources_, one sulphurous and the other ferruginous. mostly the waters of cambo are drunk; for bathing purposes they are always heated. napoleon first set the pace at cambo, but its fame was a long while becoming widespread. in the emperor proposed to erect a military hospital here, and one hundred and fifty thousand francs were actually appropriated for it, but the fall of the empire ended that hope as it did many others. in the commune of salies is a _source_, a _fontaine_, which gives a considerable supply of salt to be obtained through evaporation; also in the mountains neighbouring upon saint-jean-pied-de-port, and in the arrondissement of mauléon, are still other springs from which the extraction of salt is a profitable industry. in the borders of the blue gave de pau, in full view of the extended horizon on one side and the lowland plain on the other, one appreciates the characteristics of the pyrenees at their very best. one recalls the gentle hills and vales of the ile de france, the rude, granite slopes of bretagne, the sublime peaks of the savoian alps, and all the rest of the topographic tableau of "la belle france," but nothing seen before--nor to be seen later--excels the pyrenees region for infinite variety. it is truly remarkable, from the grandeur of its sky-line to the winsomeness and softness of its valleys, peopled everywhere (always excepting the alien importations of the resorts) with a reminiscent civilization of the past, with little or no care for the super-refinements of more populous and progressive regions. the pyrenees, as a whole, are still unspoiled for the serious-minded traveller. this is more than can be said of the swiss alps, the french riviera, the german rhine, or the byways of merry england. chapter iv the pyrenees--their history and peoples it may be a question as to who discovered the pyrenees, but louis xiv was the first exploiter thereof--writing in a literal sense--when he made the famous remark "_il y a des pyrénées_." before that, and to a certain extent even to-day, they may well be called the "_pyrénées inconnues_," a _terra incognita_, as the old maps marked the great desert wastes of mid-africa. the population of the entire region known as the pyrénées françaises is as varied as any conglomerate population to be found elsewhere in france in an area of something less than six hundred kilometres. the pyrenees were ever a frontier battle-ground. at the commencement of the eleventh century things began to shape themselves north of the mountain chain, and modern france, through the _féodalité_, began to grow into a well-defined entity. charles martel it was, as much as any other, who made all this possible, and indeed he began it when he broke the saracen power which had over-run all spain and penetrated via the pyrenean gateways into gaul. the iberians who flooded southern gaul, and even went so far afield as ireland, came from the southwestern peninsula through the passes of the pyrenees. they were of a southern race, in marked distinction to the franks and gauls. settling south of the garonne they became known in succeeding generations as aquitains and spoke a local _patois_, different even from that of the basques whom they somewhat resembled. the vascons, or gascons, were descendants of this same race, though perhaps developed through a mixture of other races. amidst the succession of diverse dominations, one race alone came through the mill whole, unscathed and independent. these were the basques who occupied that region best defined to-day as lying around either side of the extreme western frontier of france and spain. a french savant's opinion of the status of this unique province and its people tells the story better than any improvisation that can be made. a certain m. garat wrote in the mid-nineteenth century as follows:-- [illustration: _the basques of the mountains_] "well sheltered in the gorges of the pyrenees, where the gauls, the francs and the saracens had never attacked their liberties, the basques have escaped any profound judgments of that race of historians and philosophers which have dissected most of the other peoples of europe. rome even dared not attempt to throttle the basques and merge them into her absorbing civilization. all around them their neighbours have changed twenty times their speech, their customs and their laws, but the basques still show their original characters and physiognomies, scarcely dimmed by the progress of the ages." certainly they are as proud and noble a race as one remarks in a round of european travel. a basque will always tell you if you ask him as to whether he is french or spanish: "_je ne suis pas français, je suis basque; je ne suis espagnol, je suis basque; ou,--tout simplement, je suis homme._" this is as one would expect to find it, but it is possible to come across an alien even in the country of the basque. on interrogating a smiling peasant driving a yoke of cream-coloured oxen, he replied: "_mais je ne suis pas basque; je suis périgourdin_--born at badefols, just by the old château of bertrand de born the troubadour." one may be pardoned for a reference to the _cagots_ of the basque country, a despised race of people not unlike the cretins of the alps. as littré defines them they are distinctly a "people of the pyrenees." the race, as a numerous body, practically is extinct to-day. they lived in poor, mean cabins, far from the towns and under the protection of a seigneurial château or abbey. all intercourse with their neighbours was forbidden, and at church they occupied a space apart, had a special holy water font, and when served with blessed bread it was thrown at them as if they were dogs, and not offered graciously. this may have been uncharitable and unchristianlike, but the placing of separate holy water-basins in the churches was simply carrying out the principle of no intercourse between the basques and the _cagots_, not even between those who had become, or professed to be christians. "the loyal hand of a basque should touch nothing that had previously been touched by a _cagot_." from the basque country, through the heart of the pyrenees, circling béarn, navarre and foix, to roussillon is a far cry, and a vast change in speech and manners. life in a pyrenean village for a round of the seasons would probably cure most of the ills that flesh is heir to. it may be doubtful as to who was the real inventor of the simple life--unless it was adam--but jean jacques rousseau was astonished that people did not live more in the open air as a remedy against the too liberal taking of medicine. "_gouter la liberté sur la montagne immense!_" this was the dream of the poet, but it may become the reality of any who choose to try it. one remarks a certain indifference among the mountaineers of the pyrenees for the conventions of life. the mountaineer of the pyrenees would rather ride a donkey than a pure bred arab or drive an automobile. he has no use for the proverb:-- "honourable is the riding of a horse to the rider, but the mule is a dishonour and a donkey a disgrace." when one recalls the fact that there are comparatively few of the bovine race in the south of france, more particularly in languedoc and provence, he understands why it is that one finds the _cuisine à l'huile d'olive_--and sometimes _huile d'arachide_, which is made from peanuts, and not bad at that, at least not unhealthful. in the pyrenees proper, where the pasturage is rich, cattle are more numerous, and nowhere, not even in the allier or poitou in mid-france, will one find finer cows or oxen. little, sure-footed donkeys, with white-gray muzzles and crosses down their backs, and great cream-coloured oxen seem to do all the work that elsewhere is done by horses. there are ponies, too,--short-haired, tiny beasts,--in the pyrenees, and in the summer months one sees a basque or a béarnais horse-dealer driving his live stock (ponies only) on the hoof all over france, and making sales by the way. the mediterranean terminus of the pyrenees has quite different characteristics from that of the west. here the mountains end in a great promontory which plunges precipitately into the mediterranean between the spanish province of figueras and the rich garden-spot of roussillon, in france. [illustration: _in a pyrenean hermitage_] french and spanish manners, customs and speech are here much intermingled. on one side of the frontier they are very like those on the other; only the uniforms of the officialdom made up of _douaniers_, _carabineros_, _gendarmes_ and soldiers differ. the type of face and figure is the same; the usual speech is the same; and dress varies but little, if at all. "_voilà! la fraternité franco-espagnole_". one ever-present reminder of two alien peoples throughout all roussillon is the presence of the _châteaux-forts_, the walled towns, the watch-towers, and defences of this mountain frontier. the chief characteristics of roussillon, from the seacoast plain up the mountain valleys to the passes, are the château ruins, towers and moss-grown hermitages, all relics of a day of vigorous, able workmen, who built, if not for eternity, at least for centuries. in the pyrénées-orientales alone there are reckoned thirty-five abandoned hermitages, any one of which will awaken memories in the mind of a romantic novelist which will supply him with more background material than he can use up in a dozen mediæval romances. and if he takes one or more of these hallowed spots of the pyrenees for a setting he will have something quite as worthy as the overdone italian hilltop hermitage, and a good deal fresher in a colour sense. the strategic pyrenean frontier, nearly six hundred kilometres, following the various twistings and turnings, has not varied in any particular since the treaty of the pyrenees in . from cap cerbère on the mediterranean it runs, via the crests of the monts albères, up to perthus, and then by the crests of the pyrénées-orientales, properly called, up to puigmal; and traversing the sègre, crosses the col de la perche and passes the pic nègre, separating france from the val d'andorre, crosses the garonne to attain the peaks of the pyrénées-occidentales, and so, via the forêt d'iraty, and through the pays basque, finally comes to the banks of the bidassoa, between hendaye and irun-feuntarrabia. the treaty of verdun gave the territory of france as extending up to the pyrenees _and beyond_ (to include the comté de barcelone), but this limit in time was rearranged to stop at the mountain barrier. the graft didn't work! roussillon remained for long in the possession of the house of aragon, and its people were, in the main, closely related with the catalans over the border, but the treaty of the pyrenees, in , definitely acquired this fine wine-growing province for the french. the frontier of the pyrenees is much better defended by natural means than that of the alps. for four hundred kilometres of its length--quite two-thirds of its entirety--the passages and breaches are inaccessible to an army, or even to a carriage. from the times of hannibal and charlemagne up to the wars of the empire only the extremities have been crossed for the invasion of alien territory. it is in these situations that one finds the frontier fortresses of to-day; at figueras and gerone in spain; in france at bellegarde (col de perthus), prats-de-mollo, mont louis, villefranche and perpignan, in the east; and at portalet, navarrino, saint-jean-pied-de-port (guarding the col de ronçevaux) and bayonne in the west. bayonne and perpignan guard the only easily practicable routes (paris-madrid and paris-barcelona). hannibal and charlemagne are the two great names of early history identified with the pyrenees. hannibal exploited more than one popular scenic touring ground of to-day, and for a man who is judged only by his deeds--not by his personality, for no authentic portrait of him exists, even in words--he certainly was endowed with a profound foresight. charlemagne, warrior, lawgiver and patron of letters, predominant figure of a gloomy age, met the greatest defeat of his career in the pyrenees, at ronçevaux, when he advanced on spain in . close by the cap cerbère, where french and spanish territory join, is the little town and pass of banyuls. this col de banyuls was, in , the witness of a supreme act of patriotism. the spaniards were biding their time to invade france via roussillon, and made overtures to the people of the little village of banyuls--famous to-day for its _vins de liqueur_ and not much else, but at that time numbering less than a thousand souls--to join them and make the road easy. the _procureur du roi_ replied simply: "_les habitants de banyuls étant français devaient tous mourir pour l'honneur et l'indépendance de la france_." three thousand spaniards thereupon attacked the entire forces of the little commune--men, women and children--but finding their efforts futile were forced to retire. this ended the "battle of banyuls," one of the "little wars" that historians have usually neglected, or overlooked, in favour of something more spectacular. on the old "route royale" from paris to barcelona, via perpignan, are two chefs-d'oeuvre of the mediæval bridge-builder, made before the days of steel rails and wire ropes and all their attendant ugliness. these are the pont de perpignan over the basse, and the pont de céret on the tech, each of them spanning the stream by one single, graceful arch. the latter dates from , and it is doubtful if the modern stone-mason could do his work as well as he who was responsible for this architectural treasure. one finds a bit of superstitious ignorance once and again, even in enlightened france of to-day. it was not far from here, on the road to the col de banyuls, that we were asked by a peasant from what country we came. he was told by way of a joke that we were chinese. "_est-ce loin?_" he asked. "_deux cents lieues!_" "_diable! c'est une bonne distance!_" one suspects that he knew more than he was given credit for, and perhaps it was he that was doing the joking, for he said by way of parting: "_ma foi, c'est bien triste d'être si loin de votre mère._" what a little land of contrasts the region of the pyrenees is! it is all things to all men. from the low-lying valleys and sea-coast plains, as one ascends into the upper regions, it is as if one went at once into another country. certainly no greater contrast is marked in all france than that between the hautes-pyrénées and the landes for instance. the hautes-pyrénées of to-day was formerly made up of bigorre, armagnac and the extreme southerly portion of gascogne. cæsar called the people tarbelli, bigerriones and flussates, and visigoths, franks and gascons prevailed over their destinies in turn. in the early feudal epoch bigorre, "the country of the four valleys," had its own counts, but was united with béarn in , becoming a part of the patrimony which henri quatre brought ultimately to the crown of france. antiquities before the middle ages are rare in these parts, in spite of the memories remaining from roman times. perhaps the greatest of these are the baths and springs at cauterets, one of them being known as the bains des espagnoles and the other as the bains de cesar. these unquestionably were developed in roman times. the chief architectural glory of the region is the ancient city of st. bertrand, the capital of comminges, the ancient _lugdunum convenarum_ of strabon and pliny. its fortifications and its remarkable cathedral place it in the ranks with carcassonne, aigues-mortes and béziers. [illustration: _a mountaineer of the pyrenees_] the manners and customs of the bigordans of the towns (not to be confounded with the bigoudens of brittany) have succumbed somewhat to the importation of outside ideas by the masses who throng their baths and springs, but nevertheless their main characteristics stand out plainly. quite different from the béarnais are the bigordans, and, somewhat uncharitably, the latter have a proverb which given in their own tongue is as follows:--"_béarnès faus et courtès._" neighbourly jealousy accounts for this. the béarnais are morose, steady and commercial, the bigordans lively, bright and active, and their sociability is famed afar. in the open country throughout the pyrenees, there are three classes of inhabitants, those of the mountains and high valleys, those of the slopes, and those of the plains. the first are hard-working and active, but often ignorant and superstitious; the second are more gay, less frugal and better livers than the mountaineers; and those of the plains are often downright lazy and indolent. the mendicant race, of which old writers told, has apparently disappeared. there are practically no beggars in france except gypsies, and there is no mistaking a gypsy for any other species. in general one can say that the inhabitants of the high pyrenees are a simple, good and generous people, and far less given to excess than many others of the heterogeneous mass which make up the population of modern france. simple and commodious and made of the wool of the country are the general characteristics of the costumes of these parts, as indeed they are of most mountain regions. but the distinctive feature, with the men as with the women, is the topknot coiffure. in the plains, the men wear the pancake-like _béret_, and in the high valleys a sort of a woollen bonnet--something like a phrygian cap. with the women it is a sort of a hood of red woollen stuff, black-bordered and exceedingly picturesque. "_c'est un joli cadre pour le visage d'une jolie femme_," said a fat commercial traveller, with an eye for pretty women, whom the writer met at a tarbes table d'hôte. a writer of another century, presumably untravelled, in describing the folk of the pyrenees remarked: "the highlanders of the pyrenees put one in mind of scotland; they have round, flat caps and loose breeches." never mind the breeches, but the _béret_ of the basque is no more like the tam-o'-shanter of the scot than is an anchovy like a herring. an english traveller once remarked on the peculiar manner of transport in these parts in emphatic fashion. "with more sense than john bull, the pyrenean carter knows how to build and load his wagon to the best advantage," he said. he referred to the great carts for transporting wine casks and barrels, built with the hind wheels much higher than the front ones. it's a simple mechanical exposition of the principle that a wagon so built goes up-hill much easier. here in the hautes-pyrénées they speak the speech of languedoc, with variations, idioms and bizarre interpolations, which may be spanish, but sound like arabic. at any rate it's a beautiful, lisping _patois_, not at all like the speech of paris, "twanged through the nose," as the men of the midi said of it when they went up to the capital in revolutionary times "to help capture the king's castle." the great literary light of the region was despourrins, a poet of the eighteenth century, whose verses have found a permanent place in french literature, and whose rhymes were chanted as were those of the troubadours of centuries before. to just how great an extent the _patois_ differs from the french tongue the following verse of despourrins will show:-- "aci, debat aqueste peyre, repaüse lou plus gran de touts lou médecis, qui de poü d'està chens besis, en a remplit lou cimetyre. "ici, sous cette pierre, repose le plus grand de tous les médicins, qui de peur d'être sans voisins en a rempli le cimetière." a humourist also was this great poet! throughout the pyrenean provinces, and along the shores of the mediterranean, from catalonia to the bouches-du-rhône are found the gitanos, or the french gypsies, who do not differ greatly from others of their tribe wherever found. this perhaps is accounted for by the fact that the shrines of their patron saint--sara, the servant of the "three maries" exiled from judea, and who settled at les saintes maries-de-la-mer--was located near the mouth of the rhône. this same shrine is a place of pilgrimage for the gypsies of all the world, and on the twenty-fourth of may one may see sights here such as can be equalled nowhere else. not many travellers' itineraries have ever included a visit to this humble and lonesome little fishing village of the bouches-du-rhône, judging from the infrequency with which one meets written accounts. gypsy bands are numerous all through the départements of the south of france, especially in hérault and the pyrénées-orientales. like most of their kind they are usually horse-traders, and perhaps horse-stealers, for their ideas of honesty and probity are not those of other men. they sometimes practise as sort of quack horse-doctors and horse and dog clippers, etc., and the women either make baskets, or, more frequently, simply beg, or "_tire les cartes_" and tell fortunes. they sing and dance and do many other things honest and dishonest to make a livelihood. their world's belongings are few and their wants are not great. for the most part their possessions consist only of their personal belongings, a horse, a donkey or a mule, their caravan, or _roulotte_, and a gold or silver chain or two, ear-rings in their ears, and a knife--of course a knife, for the vagabond gypsy doesn't fight with fire-arms. the further one goes into the french valleys of the pyrenees the more one sees the real gitanos of spain, or at least of spanish ancestry. like all gypsy folk, they have no fixed abode, but roam and roam and roam, though never far away from their accustomed haunts. they multiply, but are seldom cross-bred out of their race. it's an idyllic life that the gitano and the romany-chiel leads, or at least the poet would have us think so. "upon the road to romany it's stay, friend, stay! there's lots o' love and lots o' time to linger on the way; poppies for the twilight, roses for the noon, it's happy goes as lucky goes to romany in june." but as the frenchman puts it, "look to the other side of the coin." brigandage is the original profession of the gypsy, though to-day the only stealing which they do is done stealthily, and not in the plain hold-up fashion. they profess a profound regard for the catholic religion, but they practise other rites in secret, and form what one versed in french catholicism would call a "_culte particulière_." it is known that they baptize their newly-born children _as often as possible_--of course each time in a different place--in order that they may solicit alms in each case. down-right begging is forbidden in france, but for such a purpose the law is lenient. [illustration: _gitanos from spain_] they are gross feeders, the gitanos, and a fowl "a little high" has no terrors for them; they have even been known to eat sea-gulls, which no white man has ever had the temerity to taste. it has been said that they will eat cats and dogs and even rats, but this is doubtless another version of the chinese fable. at any rate a mere heating of their viands in a saucepan--not by any stretch of the imagination can it be called cooking--is enough for them, and what their dishes lack in cooking is made up by liberal additions of salt, pepper, _piment_ (which is tobacco or something like it), and saffron. as to type, the french gitanos are of that olive-brown complexion, with the glossy black hair, usually associated with the stage gypsy, rather small in stature, but well set up, strong and robust, fine eyes and features and, with respect to the young women and girls (who marry young), often of an astonishing beauty. in the course of a very few years the beauty of the women pales considerably, owing, no doubt, to their hard life, but among the men their fine physique and lively emotional features endure until well past the half-century. the gypsies are supposedly a joyful, amiable race; sometimes they are and sometimes they are not; but looking at them all round it is not difficult to apply the verses of béranger, beginning: "sorciers, bateleurs ou filous reste immonde d'un ancien monde gais bohémiens, d'où venez-vous." one other class of residents in the pyrenees must be mentioned here, and that is the family of ursus and their descendants. the bears of the pyrenees are of two sorts; the dignified _ours des pyrénées_ is a versatile and accomplished creature. sometimes he is a carnivorous beast, and sometimes he is a vegetarian pure and simple--one of the kind which will not even eat eggs. the latter species is more mischievous than his terrible brother, for he forages stealthily in the night and eats wheat, buckwheat, maize, and any other breakfast-food, prepared or semi-prepared, he finds handy. the carnivorous breed wage war against cattle and sheep, or did when they were more numerous, so that all live stock were obliged to be enclosed at night. curiously enough, both species are fattest in winter, when conditions of life are supposed to be the hardest. there are wolves, too, in the pyrenees, but they are not frequently met with. a bear will not attack a wolf, but a number of wolves together will attack a bear. chapter v roussillon and the catalans [illustration: map of roussillon] roussillon is a curious province. "roussillon is a bow with two strings," say the inhabitants. the workers in the vineyards of other days are becoming fishermen, and the fishermen are becoming vineyard workers. the arts of neptune and the wiles of bacchus have however conspired to give a prosperity to roussillon which many more celebrated provinces lack. the roussillon of other days, a feudal power in its time, with its counts and nobles, has become but a département of latter-day france. the first historical epochs of roussillon are but obscurely outlined, but they began when hannibal freed the pyrenees in , and in time the romans became masters here, as elsewhere in gaul. then there came three hundred years of visigoth rule, which brought the saracens, and, in , pepin claimed roussillon for france. then began the domination of the counts. first they were but delegates of the king, but in time they usurped royal authority and became rulers in their own right. roussillon had its own particular counts, but in a way they bowed down to the king of aragon, though indeed the kings of france up to louis ix considered themselves suzerains. by the treaty of corbeil louis ix renounced this fief in to his brother king of aragon. at the death of james i of aragon his states were divided among his children, and roussillon came to the kings of majorca. wars within and without now caused an era of bloodshed. jean ii, attacked by the men of navarre and of catalonia, demanded aid of louis xi, who sent seven hundred lances and men, and three hundred thousand gold crown pieces, which latter the men of roussillon were obliged to repay when the war was over. jean ii, comte de roussillon, hedged and demanded delay, and in due course was obliged to pawn his countship as security. this the roussillonnais resented and revolt followed, when louis xi without more ado went up against perpignan and besieged it on two occasions before he could collect the sum total of his bill. charles viii, returning from his italian travels, in a generous frame of mind, gave back the province to the king of aragon without demanding anything in return. ferdinand of aragon became in time king of spain, by his marriage with isabella, and roussillon came again directly under spanish domination. meantime the geographical position of roussillon was such that it must either become a part of france or a buffer-state, or duelling ground, where both races might fight out their quarrels. neither françois i nor louis xiii thought of anything but to acquire the province for france, and so it became a battle-ground where a continuous campaign went on for years, until, in fact, the grand condé, after many engagements, finally entered perpignan and brought about the famous treaty of the pyrenees, signed on the ile des faisans at the other extremity of the great frontier mountain chain. the antique monuments of roussillon are not many; principally they are the roman baths at arles-sur-tech, the tomb of constant, son of constantine, at elne, and an old mohammedan or moorish mosque, afterwards serving as a christian church, at planes. the ancient city of ruscino, the chief roman settlement, has practically disappeared, a tower, called the tor de castel-rossello, only remaining. impetuosity of manner, freedom in their social relations, and a certain egotism have ever been the distinctive traits of the roussillonnais. it was so in the olden times, and the traveller of to-day will have no difficulty in finding the same qualities. pierre de marca first discovered, and wrote of these traits in , and his observations still hold good. long contact with spain and catalonia has naturally left its impress on roussillon, both with respect to men and manners. the spanish tone is disappearing in the towns, but in the open country it is as marked as ever. there one finds bull-fights, cock-fights, and wild, abandoned dancing, not to say guitar twanging, and incessant cigarette rolling and smoking, and all sorts of moral contradictions--albeit there is no very immoral sentiment or motive. these things are observed alike of the roussillonnais and the catalonians, just over the border. [illustration: _catalans of roussillon_] the bull-fight is the chief joy and pride of the people. the labourer will leave his fields, the merchant his shop, and the craftsman his atelier to make one of an audience in the arena. not in spain itself, at barcelona, bilboa, seville or madrid is a bull-fight throng more critical or insistent than at perpignan. he loves immensely well to dance, too, the roussillonnais, and he often carries it to excess. it is his national amusement, as is that of the italian the singing of serenades beneath your window. on all great gala occasions throughout roussillon a place is set apart for dancing, usually on the bare or paved ground in the open air, not only in the country villages but in the towns and cities as well. the dances are most original. ordinarily the men will dance by themselves, a species of muscular activity which they call "_lo batl_." a _contrepas_ finally brings in a mixture of women, the whole forming a mélange of all the gyrations of a dervish, the swirls of the spanish dancing girl and the quicksteps of a virginia reel. the music of these dances is equally bizarre. a flute called _lo flaviol_, a _tamborin_, a _hautboy_, _prima_ and _tenor_, and a _cornemeuse_, or _borrassa_, usually compose the orchestra, and the music is more agreeable than might be supposed. in roussillon the religious fêtes and ceremonies are conducted in much the flowery, ostentatious manner that they are in spain, and not at all after the manner of the simple, devout fêtes and _pardons_ of bretagne. the fête de jeudi-saint, and the fête-dieu in roussillon are gorgeous indeed; sanctuaries become as theatres and tapers and incense and gay vestments and chants make the pageants as much pagan as they are christian. the coiffure of the women of roussillon is a handkerchief hanging as a veil on the back of the head, and fastened by the ends beneath the chin, with a knot of black ribbon at each temple. [illustration: _the women of roussillon_] their waist line is tightly drawn, and their bodice is usually laced down the front like those of the german or tyrolean peasant maid. a short skirt, in ample and multifarious pleats, and coloured stockings finish off a costume as _unlike_ anything else seen in france as it is _like_ those of catalonia in spain. the great spanish cloak, or _capuchon_, is also an indispensable article of dress for the men as well as for the women. the men wear a tall, red, liberty-cap sort of a bonnet, its top-knot hanging down to the shoulder--always to the left. a short vest and wide bodied pantaloons, joined together with yards of red sash, wound many times tightly around the waist, complete the men's costume, all except their shoes, which are of a special variety known as _spardilles_, or _espadrilles_, another spanish affectation. the speech of roussillon used to be catalan, and now of course it is french; but in the country the older generations are apt to know much catalan-spanish and little french. just what variety of speech the catalan tongue was has ever been a discussion with the word makers. it was not spanish exactly as known to-day, and has been called _roman vulgaire_, _rustique_, and _provincial_, and many of its words and phrases are supposed to have come down from the barbarians or the arabs. in the catalan tongue already had a poetic art, a dictionary of rhymes, and a grammar, and many inscriptions on ancient monuments in these parts (eighth, ninth and tenth centuries) were in that tongue. in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the catalan tongue possessed a written civil and maritime law, thus showing it was no bastard. a fatality pursued everything catalan however; its speech became spanish, and its nationality was swallowed up in that of castille. at any rate, as the saying goes in roussillon,--and no one will dispute it,--"one must be a catalan to understand catalan." the pays-de-fenouillet, of which st. paul was the former capital, lies in the valley of the agly. saint-paul-de-fenouillet is the present commercial capital of the region, if the title of commercial capital can be appropriately bestowed upon a small town of two thousand inhabitants. the old province, however, was swallowed up by roussillon, which in turn has become the département of the pyrénées-orientales. the feudality of these parts centred around the château de fenouillet, now a miserable ruin on the road to carcassonne, a few kilometres distant. there are some ruined, but still traceable, city walls at saint-paul-de-fenouillet, but nothing else to suggest its one-time importance, save its fourteenth-century church, and the great tower of its ancient chapter-house. nearer perpignan is latour-de-france, the frontier town before richelieu was able to annex roussillon to his master's crown. latour-de-france also has the débris of a château to suggest its former greatness, but its small population of perhaps twelve hundred persons think only of the culture of the vine and the olive and have little fancy for historical monuments. here, and at estagel, on the perpignan road, the catalan tongue is still to be heard in all its silvery picturesqueness. estagel is what the french call "_une jolie petite ville_;" it has that wonderful background of the pyrenees, a frame of olive-orchards and vineyards, two thousand inhabitants, the hotel gary, a most excellent, though unpretentious, little hotel, and the birthplace of françois arago as its chief sight. besides this, it has a fine old city gate and a great clock-tower which is a reminder of the belfry of bruges. the wines of the neighbourhood, the _macabeu_ and the _malvoisie_ are famous. north of estagel, manners and customs and the _patois_ change. everything becomes languedocian. in france the creation of the modern departments, replacing the ancient provinces, has not levelled or changed ethnological distinctions in the least. the low-lying, but rude, crests of the corbières cut out the view northward from the valley of the agly. the whole region roundabout is strewn with memories of feudal times, a château here, a tower there, but nothing of great note. the château de queribus, or all that is left of it, a great octagonal thirteenth-century donjon, still guards the route toward limoux and carcassonne, at a height of nearly seven hundred metres. in the old days this route formed a way in and out of roussillon, but now it has grown into disuse. cucugnan is only found on the maps of the etat-major, in the post-office guide, and in daudet's "lettres de mon moulin." we ourselves merely recognized it as a familiar name. the "curé de cucugnan" was one of daudet's heroes, and belonged to these parts. the provençal literary folks have claimed him to be of avignon; though it is hard to see why when daudet specifically wrote c-u-c-u-g-n-a-n. nevertheless, even if they did object to daudet's slander of tarascon, the provençaux are willing enough to appropriate all he did as belonging to them. the catalan water, or wine, bottle, called the _porro_, is everywhere in evidence in roussillon. perhaps it is a mediterranean specialty, for the sicilians and the maltese use the same thing. it's a curious affair, something like an alchemist's alembic, and you drink from its nozzle, holding it above the level of your mouth and letting the wine trickle down your throat in as ample a stream as pleases your fancy. those who have become accustomed to it, will drink their wine no other way, claiming it is never so sweet as when drunk from the _porro_. "_du miel délayé dans un rayon de soleil._" * * * * * "_boire la vie et la santé quand on le boit c'est le vin idéal._" apparently every catalan peasant's household has one of these curious glass bottles with its long tapering spout, and when a catalan drinks from it, pouring a stream of wine directly into his mouth, he makes a "study" and a "picture" at the same time. a variation of the same thing is the gourd or leathern bottle of the mountaineer. it is difficult to carry a glass bottle such as the _porro_ around on donkey back, and so the thing is made of leather. the neck of this is of wood, and a stopper pierced with a fine hole screws into it. it comes in all sizes, holding from a bottleful to ten litres. the most common is a two-litre one. when you want to drink you hold the leather bag high in the air and pour a thin stream of wine into your mouth. the art is to stop neatly with a jerk, and not spill a drop. one _can_ acquire the art, and it will be found an exceedingly practical way to carry drink. it is a curious, little-known corner of europe, where france and spain join, at the eastern extremity of the pyrenees, at cap cerbère. one read in classic legend will find some resemblance between cap cerbère and the terrible beast with three heads who guarded the gates of hell. there may be some justification for this, as pomponius mela, a latin geographer, born however in andalusia, wrote of a _cervaria locus_, which he designated as the _finis galliæ_. then, through evolution, we have _cervaria_, which in turn becomes the catalan village of _cerveia_. this is the attitude of the historians. the etymologists put it in this wise: _cervaria_--meaning a wooded valley peopled with _cerfs_ (stags). the reader may take his choice. at any rate the catalan cerbère, known to-day only as the frontier french station on the line to barcelona, has become an unlovely railway junction, of little appeal except in the story of its past. in the twelfth century the place had already attained to prominence, and its feudal seigneur, named rabedos, built a public edifice for civic pride, and a church which he dedicated to san salvador. in guillem de pau, a noble of the rank of _donzell_, and a member of a family famous for its exploits against the moors, became seigneur de cerbère, and the one act of his life which puts him on record as a feudal lord of parts is a charter signed by him giving the fishing rights offshore from collioure, for the distance of ten leagues, to one pierre huguet--for a price. thus is recorded a very early instance of official sinning. one certainly cannot sell that which he has not got; even maritime tribunals of to-day don't recognize anything beyond the "three mile limit." the seigneurs of pau, who were baillis de cerbère, came thus to have a hand in the conduct of affairs in the mediterranean, though their own bailiwick was nearer the atlantic coast. at this time there were nine vassal chiefs of families who owed allegiance to the head. after the fourteenth century this frontier territory belonged, for a time, to the seigneurs des abelles, their name coming from another little feudal estate half hidden in one of the mediterranean valleys of the pyrenees. the chapel of cerbère, founded by rabedos in the twelfth century, had fallen in ruins by the end of the fourteenth century, but many pious legacies left to it were conceded to the _clercs bénéficiaires_, a body of men in holy orders who had influence enough in the courts of justice to be able to claim as their own certain "goods of the church." louis xiv cut short these clerical benefits, however, and gave them--by what right is quite vague--to his _maréchal_, joseph de rocabruna. some two centuries ago cerbère possessed something approaching the dignity of a château-fortress. an act of the th may, , refers to the château de caroig, perhaps the quer-roig. the name now applies, however, only to a mass of ruins on the summit of a near-by mountain of the same name. not every one in the neighbourhood admits this, some preferring to believe that the same heap of stones was once a signal tower by which a warning fire was built to tell of the approach of the saracens or the pirates of barbary. it might well have been both watch-tower and château. chapter vi from perpignan to the spanish frontier [illustration: coat of arms parpignan] once perpignan was a fortified town of the first class, but now, save for its old citadelle and the castillet, its warlike aspect has disappeared. one of guy de maupassant's heroes, having been asked his impressions of algiers, replied, "_alger est une ville blanche!_" if it had been perpignan of which he was speaking, he would have said: "_perpignan est une ville rouge!_" for red is the dominant colour note of the entire city, from the red brick castillet to the sidewalks in front of the cafés. colour, however, is not the only thing that astonishes one at perpignan; the _tramontane_, that cruel northwest wind, as cruel almost as the "mistral" of provence, blows at times so fiercely that one wonders that one brick upon another stands in place on the grand old castillet tower. the brick fortifications of perpignan are, or were, wonderful constructions, following, in form and system, the ancient roman manner. it was a sacrilege to strip from the lovely city of perpignan its triple ramparts and citadelle, leaving only the bare walls of the castillet, the sole remainder of its strength of old. perpignan's walls have disappeared, but still one realizes full well what an important strategic point it is, guarding, as it does, the eastern gateway into spain. all the cities of the midi possess some characteristic by which they are best known. toulouse has its _capitole_, nîmes its _arena_, arles its alyscamps, pau its château, and perpignan its castillet. built entirely of rosy-red brick, its battlemented walls rise beside the quai de la basse to-day as proudly as they ever did, though shorn of their supporting ramparts, save the porte notre dame adjoining. that fortunately has been spared. above this porte notre dame is a figure of the madonna, which, as well as the gate, dates from the period when the kings of aragon retook possession of the ephemeral royaume de majorque, of which perpignan was the capital,--a glory, by the way, which endured less than seventy years, but which has left a noticeable trace in all things relating to the history of the region. in the tenth century perpignan was known only as "villa perpiniani," indeed it so remained until it was conquered by louis xiii, when it became definitely french. bloody war, celebrated sieges, ravages by the pest, an earthquake or two, and incendiaries without number could not raze the city which in time became one of the great frontier strongholds of france. the place de la loge, the great café centre of perpignan, is unique among the smaller cities of france. here is animation at all hours of the day--and night, a perpetual going and coming of all the world, a veritable rialto or a rue de la paix. it is the business centre of the city, and also the centre of its pleasures, a veritable forum. cafés are all about; even the grand old _loge de mer_, a delicious construction of the fourteenth century, is a café. [illustration: _porte notre dame and the castillet, perpignan_] what a charming structure this loge is! its fourteenth-century constructive elements have been further beautified with late flowering gothic of a century and a half later, and its great bronze lamps suggest a symbolism which stands for eternity, or at any rate bespeaks the solidity of perpignan for all time. beside the loge is the hôtel de ville, with its round-arched doorways and windows, iron-barred in real mediæval fashion, with dainty colonnettes between. next is the ancient palais de justice, adjoining the hôtel de ville. it has a battery of mullioned twin windows of narrow aperture, and is in perfect keeping with the mediæval trinity of which it is a part. the cathedral of st. jean is another of perpignan's historical monuments, but it is far from lovely at first glance, an atrocious façade having been added by some "restorer" in recent times with more suitable ideas for building fortresses than churches. the tower of the cathedral is modern and, taken as a whole, is undeniably effective with its iron cage and bell-rack. the original tower fell two centuries ago during an extra violent blow of the _tramontane_. passing centuries have changed perpignan but little, and aside from the boulevards and malls the streets are narrow and tortuous and almost devoid of sidewalks. there are innumerable little bijou houses of gothic or renaissance times, and in one narrow street, called quaintly main de fer, one sees a real, unspoiled bit of the sixteenth century. one curious house, now occupied by the cercle de l'union, dates from , and was erected for one sancho or xanxo. its interior, so far as its entrance hall and stairway are concerned, remains as it was when first built. the rue père pigne has a legend connected with it which is worth recounting. the père pigne, or pigna, as his name was in catalan-spanish days, was a cattle-herder in the upper valley of the tet, beside the village of llagone. weary of his lonely life he whispered to the rocks and rills his desire for a less rude calling elsewhere, and the river took him up in its arms and washed him incontinently down on to the lowland plain of roussillon, and, by some occult means or other, suggested to the old man that his mission in life was to found there a fertile, prosperous city. thus perpignan came to be founded. there may be doubts as to the authenticity of the story, but there was enough of reality attached to it to have led the city fathers to name a street after the hero of the adventure. since the demolishment of its walls perpignan has lost much of its mediæval character, but nothing can take away the life and gaiety of its streets and boulevards, its shops, its hotels and cafés. perpignan comes very near being the liveliest little capital of old france existing under the modern republic of to-day. the population is cosmopolitan, like that of marseilles, and every aspect of it is picturesque. the vegetable sellers, the fruit merchants, the water and ice purveyors, all dark-eyed catalan girls, are delightful in face, figure and carriage. their baggy white coiffes set off their dark complexions and jet black hair. the men of this race are more serious when they are at business (they are gay enough at other times) and you may see twenty red onion or garlic dealers and never see a smile, whereas an orange seller, a woman or girl, always has her mouth open in a laugh and her headdress is always bobbing about; nothing about her is passive and life to her is a dream, though it is serious business to the men. the taste of the catalans of perpignan for bright colouring in their dress is akin to that of their brothers and sisters in spain. the fact that both slopes of the eastern pyrenees were under the same domination up to the reign of louis xiii may account for this. the citadelle of perpignan is closed to the general tourist. none may enter without permission from the military authorities, and that, for a stranger, is difficult to obtain. the great gateway to the citadelle is a marvel of originality with its four archaic caryatides. within is the site of the ancient palace of the kings of majorca, but the primitive fragments have been rebuilt into the later works of louis xi, charles v and vauban until to-day it is but a species of fortress, and not at all like a great domestic establishment such as one usually recognizes by the name of palace. the Église de la real, beside the citadelle, was built in the fourteenth century and is celebrated for the council held here in by the anti-pope, pierre de luna. there are some bibliographical gems in perpignan's bibliothèque which would make a new-world collector envious. there are numerous rare incunabulæ and precious manuscripts, the most notable being the "missel de l'abbaye d'arles en vallespir" (xiith century) and the "missel de la confrere," illustrated with miniatures (xvth century), worthy, each of them, to be ranked with king rené's "book of hours" at aix so far as mere beauty goes. the habituated french traveller connects _rilettes_ with tours, the cannebière with marseilles, les lices with arles, and, with perpignan, the _platanes_--great plane-trees, planted in a double line and forming one of the most remarkable promenades, just beyond the castillet, that one has ever seen. it is a prado, a corso, and a rambla all in one. the carnival de perpignan is as brilliant a fête as one may see in any spanish or italian city, where such celebrations are classic, and this allée des platanes is then at its gayest. another of the specialties of perpignan is the _micocoulier_, or "_bois de perpignan_," something better suited for making whip handles than any other wood known. each french city has its special industry; it may elsewhere be _bérets_, _sabots_, truffles, pork-pies or sausages, but here it is whips. perpignan has given two great men to the world, jean blanca and hyacinthe rigaud. jean blanca, bourgeois de perpignan, was first consul of the city when louis xi besieged it in . his son had been captured by the besiegers and word was sent that he would be put to death if the gates were not opened forthwith. the courageous consul replied simply that the ties of blood and paternal love are not great enough to make one a traitor to his god, his king and his native land. his son was, in consequence, massacred beneath his very eyes. hyacinthe rigaud was a celebrated painter, born at perpignan in the eighteenth century. his talents were so great that he was known as the _van dyck français_. canet is a sort of seaside overflow of perpignan, a dozen kilometres away on the shores of the mediterranean. on the way one passes the scant, clumsy remains of the old twelfth-century château roussillon, now remodelled into a little ill-assorted cluster of houses, a chapel and a storehouse. the circular tower, really a svelt and admirable pile, is all that remains of the château of other days, the last vestige of the dignity that once was ruscino's, the ancient capital of the comté de roussillon. [illustration: chÂteau roussillon] at canet itself there are imposing ruins, sitting hard by the sea, of centuries of regal splendour, though now they rank only as an attraction of the humble little village of roussillon. the belfry of canet's humble church looks like a little brother of that of "perpignan-le-rouge" and points plainly to the fact that styles in architecture are as distinctly local as are fashions in footwear. canet to-day is a watering place for the people of perpignan, but in the past it was venerated by the holy hermits and monks of roussillon for much the same attractions that it to-day possesses. saint galdric, patron of the abbey of saint martin du canigou, and, later, saints abdon and sennen were frequenters of the spot. rivesaltes, practically a suburb of perpignan, a dozen kilometres north, is approached by as awful a road as one will find in france. the town will not suggest much or appeal greatly to the passing traveller, unless indeed he stops there for a little refreshment and has a glass of _muscat_, that sweet, sticky liquor which might well be called simply raisin juice. it is a "_specialité du pays_," and really should be tasted, though it may be had anywhere in the neighbourhood. it is a wine celebrated throughout france. at salces, on the route nationale, just beyond narbonne and rivesaltes, is an old fortification built by charles v on one of his ambitious pilgrimages across france. a great square of masonry, with a donjon tower in the middle and with walls of great thickness, it looks formidable enough, but modern krupp or creusot cannon would doubtless make short work of it. a dozen kilometres to the south of perpignan is elne, an ancient cathedral town. from afar one admires the sky line of the town and a nearer acquaintance but increases one's pleasure and edification. the phoenicians, or the iberians, founded the city, perhaps, five hundred years before the beginning of the christian era, and hannibal in his passage of the pyrenees rested here. another five hundred years and it had a roman emperor for its guardian, and constantine, who would have made it great and wealthy, surrounded it with ramparts and built a donjon castle, of which unfortunately not a vestige remains. ages came and went, and the city dwindled in size, and the church grew poor with it, until at last, in , pope clement viii (a french pope, by the way) authorized its bishop to move to perpignan, where indeed the see has been established ever since. of the past feudal greatness of elne only a fragmentary rampart and the fortified portes de collioure and perpignan remain. the rest must be taken on faith. nevertheless, elne is a place to be omitted from no man's itinerary in these parts. the great wealth and beauty of elne's cathedral cannot be recounted here. they would require a monograph to themselves. little by little much has been taken from it, however, until only the glorious fabric remains. to cite an example, its great high altar, made of beaten silver and gold, was, under the will of the canons of the church themselves, in the time of louis xv, sent to the mint at perpignan and coined up into good current _écus_ for the benefit of some one, history does not state whom. from the beautiful cloister, in the main a tenth-century work, and the largest and most beautiful in the pyrenees, one steps out on a little _perron_ when another ravishing mediterranean panorama unfolds itself. there are others as fine; that from the platform of the château at carcassonne; from the terrace at pau; or from the citadel-fortress church at béziers. this at elne, however, is the equal of any. below are the plains of roussillon and vallespir, red and green and gold like a _tapis d'orient_, with the albéres mountains for a background, while away in the distance, in a soft glimmering haze of a blue horizon, is the mediterranean. it is all truly beautiful. in the direction of the spanish frontier argelès-sur-mer comes next. it has historic value and its inhabitants number three thousand, though few recognize this, or have even heard its name. as a matter of fact, it might have become one of the great maritime cities of the eastern slope of the pyrenees except that fickle fate ruled otherwise. the name of argelès-sur-mer figured first in a document of lothaire, king of france, in ; and, three centuries later, it was the meeting-place between the kings of majorca and aragon and the princes of roussillon, when, at the instigation of philippe le bel, an expiring treaty was to be renewed. the city at that time belonged to the royaume de majorque, and pierre iv of aragon, in the château d'amauros, defended it through a mighty siege. five hundred metres above the sea, and to be seen to-day, was also the tour des pujols, another fortification of the watch-tower or block-house variety, frequently seen throughout the pyrenees. at the taking of roussillon by louis xi, argelès-sur-mer was in turn in possession of the king of aragon and the king of france. under louis xiii the city surrendered with no resistance to the maréchal de la meilleraye; and later fell again to the spaniards, becoming truly french in . it was a _ville royale_ with a right of vote in the catalonian parliament, and enjoyed great privileges up to the revolution, a fact which is plainly demonstrated by the archives of the city preserved at the local mairie. in the spanish flag again flew from its walls; but the brave dugommier, the real saviour of this part of the midi of france in revolutionary times, regained the city for the french for all time. five kilometres south of argelès-sur-mer is collioure, the ancient port illiberries, the seaport of elne. it is one of the most curiously interesting of all the coast towns of roussillon. here one sees the best of the catalan types of roussillon, gentle maidens, coiffe on head, carrying water jugs with all the grace that nature gave them, and rough, hardy, red-capped sailors as salty in their looks and talk as the sea itself. collioure is not a _grande ville_. even now it is a mere fishing port, and no one thinks of doing more than passing through its gates and out again. nevertheless its historic interest endures. from the fact that roman coins and pottery have been found here, its bygone position has been established as one of prominence. in the seventh century it was in the hands of the visigoths and three centuries later lothaire, king of france, gave permission to wifred, comte de roussillon et d'empories, to develop and exploit the ancient settlement anew. here, in , guillaume de puig d'orphila founded a dominican convent; and it is the Église de collioure of to-day, sitting snugly by the entrance to the little port, that formed the church of the old conventual establishment. in the anti-pope benoit xiii, pierre de luna, took ship here, frightened from france by the menaces of sigismond. louis xi, when he sought to reduce roussillon, would have treated collioure hardly, but so earnest and skilful was its defence that it escaped the indignities thrust upon elne and perpignan. the kings of spain for a time dominated the city, and during their rule the fortress known to-day as the fort st. elne was constructed. [illustration: collioure] one of the red-letter incidents of collioure was the shipwreck off its harbour of the infanta of spain, as she was en route by sea from barcelona to naples in . a galley slave carried the noble lady on his shoulders as he swam to shore. news of the adventure came to the bishop of elne who was also plain jean terès, a catalan and governor of the province; and he caused the unfortunate lady to be brought to the episcopal palace for further care. in return the princess used her influence at court and had the prelate made archbishop of tarragona, viceroy of catalonia, and counsellor to the king of spain. of the _forçat_ who really saved the lady, the chroniclers are blank. one may hope that he obtained some recompense, or at least liberty. there are numerous fine old gothic and renaissance houses here, with carved statues in niches, hanging lamps, great bronze knockers, and iron hinges, interesting enough to incite the envy of a curio-collector. collioure has a great fête on the sixteenth of august of each year, the fête de saint vincent. there is much processioning going and coming from the sea in ships and gaily decorated boats, and after all fireworks on the water. the religious significance of it all is lost in the general rejoicing; but it's a most impressive sight nevertheless. collioure is also famous for its fishing. the sardines and anchovies taken offshore from collioure are famous all over france and russia where gastronomy is an art. two classic excursions are to be made from collioure; one is to the hermitage of notre dame de consolation, and the other to the abbey of valbonne. the first is simply a ruined hermitage seated on a little verdure-clad plateau high above the vineyards and olive orchards of the plain; but it is remarkably attractive, and it takes no great wealth of imagination to people the courtyard with the holy men of other days. now its ruined, gray walls are set off with lichens, vines and rose-trees; and it is as quiet and peaceful a retreat from the world and its nerve-racking conventions as may be found. the abbey of valbonne is practically the counterpart of notre dame de consolation so far as unworldliness goes. it was founded in , but left practically deserted from the fifteenth century, after the invasion of roussillon by louis xi. the tour massane, a great guardian watch-tower, dominates the ruins and marks the spot where yolande, a queen of aragon, lies buried. [illustration: _château d'ultrera_] inland from collioure, perhaps five kilometres in a bee line, but a dozen or more by a sinuous mountain path, high up almost on the crest of the albères, is the château fort of ultrera. its name alone, without further description, indicates its picturesqueness, probably derived from the _castrum vulturarium_, or nest of vultures of roman times. what the history of this stronghold may have been in later mediæval times no one knows; but it was a roman outpost in the year and later a visigoth stronghold. it was a fortress guarding the route to and from spain via narbonne, salies, ruscino, elne, saint andré, pave and so on to the col de la carbossière. now this road is only a mule track and all the considerable traffic between the two countries passes via the col de perthus to the westward. the peak upon which sits ultrera culminates at a height of five hundred and seventeen metres, and rises abruptly from the seashore plain in most spectacular fashion. the ruins are but ruins to be sure, but the grim suggestion of what they once stood for is very evident. en route from perpignan or collioure one passes the ermitage de notre dame de château, formerly a place of pious pilgrimage, and where travellers may still find refreshment. banyuls-sur-mer is the last french station on the railway leading into spain. at banyuls even a keen observer of men and things would find it hard, if he had been plumped down here in the middle of the night, to tell, on awaking in the morning, whether he was in spain, italy or africa. the country round about is a blend of all three; with, perhaps, a little of greece. it possesses a delicious climate and a flora almost as sub-tropical and as varied as that of madeira. no shadow hangs over banyuls-sur-mer. the sea scintillates at its very doors; and, opposite, lie the gracious plains and valleys which reach to the crowning crests of the pyrenees in the southwest. it is an ancient bourg, and its history recurs again and again in that of roussillon. turn by turn one reads in the pages of its chroniclers the names of the comtes d'empories-roussillon, and the rois de majorque et d'aragon. lothaire and the then reigning comte d'empories came to an arrangement in the tenth century whereby the hill above the town was to be fortified by the building of a château or _mas_. this was done; but the seaport never prospered greatly until the union of france and roussillon, when its people, whose chief source of prosperity had been a contraband trade, took their proper place in the affairs of the day. the national convention subsequently formulated a decree that the "_banyulais ayant bien merité de la patrie_," and ordered that an obelisk be erected commemorative of the capitulation of the spaniards. for long years this none too lovely monument was unbuilt,--"_banyuls est si loin de paris_," said the habitant in explanation--but to-day it stands in all its ugliness on the quay by the waterside. chapter vii the canigou and andorra there is a section of the pyrenees that may well be called "the unknown pyrenees." the main chain has been travelled, explored and exploited for long years, but the canigou, lying between the rivers tet and tech, has only come to be known since half a dozen years ago when the french alps club built a châlet-hotel on the plateau of cortalets. this is at an altitude of , metres, from which point it is a two hour and a half climb to the summit. all the beauties of the main chain of the pyrenees are here in this side-long spur just before it plunges its forefoot into the blue waters of the mediterranean. it is majestic, and full of sweet flowering valleys stretching off northward and eastward. unless one would conquer the andes or the himalayas he will find the canigou, puig, campiardos, or puigmal, from eight to ten thousand feet in height, all he will care to undertake without embracing mountaineering as a profession. the great charm of the canigou is its comparatively isolated grandeur; for the mountains slope down nearly to sea level, before they rise again and form the main chain. a makeshift road runs up as far as the club's châlet, but walking or mule back are the only practicable means of approach. to-day it is all primitive and unspoiled, but some one in the neighbourhood has been to switzerland and learned the rudiments of "exploitation" and every little while threatens a funicular railway--and a tea room. in the châlet are twenty-five beds ready for occupancy, at prices ranging from a franc and a half to two francs and a half in summer. in winter the establishment is closed; but those venturesome spirits who would undertake the climb may get a key to the snow-buried door at perpignan. one may dispute the fact that canigou is as fine as mont blanc, mount mckinley or popocatepetl, but its three thousand majestic metres of tree-grown height are quite as pleasing and varied in their outline as any other peak on earth. the savoyard says: "_ce n'est tout de même pas le mont blanc avec ses , mètres_," and you admit it, but one doesn't size up a mountain for its mere mathematical valuation. the canigou stands out by itself, and that is why its majesty is so impressive. this is also true of mont ventoux in provence, but how many tourists of the personally conducted order realize there are any mountains in europe save the alps and its kingly mont blanc--which they fondly but falsely believe is in switzerland. high above, as the pilgrims of to-day wind their way among the moss-grown rocks of the mountainside, rises the antique romano-byzantine tower and ruins of the old abbey of saint martin. built perilously on a rocky peak, the abbey is a regular eagle's nest in fact and fancy. in grandiose melancholy it sits and regards the sweeping plains of roussillon as it did nearly a thousand years ago. the storms of winter, and the ravages incident to time have used it rather badly. it has been desecrated and pillaged, too, but all this has been stopped; and the abbey church has, with restoration and care, again taken its place among the noble religious monuments of france. [illustration: the pilgrimage to st. martin] at the beginning of the eleventh century the comte de cerdagne and conflent, and his wife guifred, gave this eerie site, at an altitude of considerably more than a thousand metres above the sea, to a community of benedictine monks for the purpose of founding a monastery. ten years later the bishop oliba, of vic-d'osona in catalonia, consecrated the church and put it under the patronage of saint martin; and a bull of pope sergius iv, dated and preserved in the musée at perpignan, confirmed the act and granted the institution the privilege of being known as a mitred abbey, bestowing on its governor the canonical title. it is this antique monastery which rises to-day from its ruins. it has been sadly robbed in times past of columns, capitals and keystones, and many a neighbouring farm-house bears evidence of having, in part, been built up from its ruins. the yearly catalan pilgrimage to st. martin de canigou and the services held in the ruined old abbey are two remarkably impressive sights. the soft, dulcet catalan speech seems to lend itself readily to the mother tongue of latin in all its purity. a spanish poet of some generations ago, jacinto verdaguer--called the mistral-espagnol--wrote a wonderfully vivid epic, "canigou," with, naturally, the old abbey in the centre of the stage. in verdaguer's charming poem, written in the catalan tongue, the old abbey tower is made to moan:--"_campanes ja no tinch_"--"_bells i have no longer_." this is no longer true, for in the omnific "Évêque de canigou" (really the bishop of perpignan) caused to be hung in the old crenelated tower a new peal, and to-day there rings forth from the campanile such reverberating melody as has not been known for centuries: "_campanes ja tinch_"--"_i have my bell; oliba has come to life again; he has brought them back to me_." the present bishop of perpignan, monseigneur de carsalade du pont, in recent years took steps to acquire proprietorship in the abbey church, that it might be safe from further depredations, and solicited donations throughout his diocese of perpignan and catalonia for the enterprise. in , this prelate and his "faithful" from all the catalan country, in spain as well as france, made the fête de saint martin ( th november) memorable. to give a poetic and sentimental importance to this occasion the bishop invited the "consistoire" of the "jeux floraux" of barcelona to hold their forty-fourth celebration here at the same time. on a golden november sunlit day, amid the ring of mountains all resplendent with a brilliant autumn verdure, this grandest of all fêtes of st. martin was held. in the midst of the throng were the bishop of perpignan in his pontifical robes, and the mitred abbé de la trappe--a venerable monk with snowy beard and vestments. at the head of the procession floated the reconstituted banner of the comte guifred, bearing the inscription "_guifre par la gracia de dieu comte de cerdanya y de conflent_." the local clergy from all over roussillon and catalonia were in line, and thousands of lay pilgrims besides. at the church, when the procession finally arrived, was celebrated a pontifical mass. at the conclusion of this religious ceremony the catalans of barcelona took possession of the old basilica and the "_fête littéraire_" commenced. the emotion throughout both celebrations was profound, and at the end there broke out seemingly interminable applause and shouts of "_vive la catalogne!_" "_vive le roussillon._" "_vive barcelone!_" "_vive perpignan!_" back of the canigou, between it and the main chain of the pyrenees, is the smiling valley of the tech and vallespir. the route from perpignan into spain passes by le boulou, on the tech. if one is en route to barcelona, and is not an automobilist, let him make his way to le boulou, which is really an incipient watering-place, and take the diligence up over the col de perthus and down into spain on the other side. the hasty travellers may prefer the "paris-barcelone express," but they will know not the joy of travel, and the entrance into spain through the cut of cerbère is most unlovely. france has fortified the col de perthus, but spain only guards her interests by her _carabiniers_ and _douaniers_. the little bourg of perthus consists of but one long main street, formed in reality by the "route internationale," of which one end is french and the other, the calle mayor, is spanish. above the village is fort bellegarde. it looks imposing, but if guns could get near enough it would doubtless fall in short order. it was built by vauban under louis xiv, in , on a mamelon nearly fifteen hundred feet above the pass, and its situation is most commanding. to the west was another gateway into spain, once more frequented than the col de perthus, but it has been made impracticable by the military strategists as a part of the game of war. just beyond le boulou is céret, a little town at an elevation of a couple of hundred metres above the sea. céret's bridge has been attributed to the romans, and to the devil. the round loophole, on either side of the great arch, is supposed to have been a malicious afterthought of the engineers who built the bridge to head off the evil influences of the devil who set them to the task. the application is difficult to follow, and the legend might as well apply to the eyes painted on the bows of a chinese junk. as a matter of record the bridge was built in , by whom will perhaps never be known. amélie-les-bains is ten kilometres higher up in the valley of tech, and has become a thermal station of repute, due entirely to the impetus first given to it by the spouse of france's "citizen king" in , whose name it bears. bagnères-de-luchon, or more familiarly luchon, is called the queen of pyrenean watering-places. if this is so amélie-les-bains is certainly the princess, with its picturesque ring of mountain background, and its guardian sentinel the canigou rising immediately in front. it enjoys a climate the softest in all the pyrenees, a sky exempt of all the vicissitudes of the seasons, and a winter without freezing. just north of amélie-les-bains is the little village of palada. it sits halfway up the mountainside, beneath the protection of a once formidable château, to-day in ruins, its gray green stones crumbling before the north wind which blows here in the winter months with a severity that blows knots from their holes,--at least this is the local description of it, though the writer has never experienced the like. the inhabitants of the poor little village of palada got hot-headed in , when paris was under the commune, and had a little affair of their own on the same order. the whole valley of the tech, being a near neighbour of spain, has that hybrid french-spanish aspect which gives a distinctive shade of life and colour to everything about. the red cap of the catalan is as often seen as the blue hat of the languedoçian. at arles-sur-tech, not for a moment to be confounded with arles-en-provence, is a remarkable series of architectural monuments, as well as a charming old church which dates back to the twelfth century, and a roman sarcophagus which mysteriously fills itself with water, and performs miracles on the thirtieth of each july. within the church are the relics of the christian martyrs, abdon and sennen, brought from rome in the ninth century. the charming little mountain town is at once an historic and a religious shrine. high up in the valley of the tech is prats-de-mollo, with its guardian fortress of lagarde high above on the flank of a hill. this tiny fortress looks hardly more than a block-house to-day, but in its time it was ranked as one of the best works of vauban. to keep it company, one notes the contrasting ruins of the feudal château de peille hard by. the town itself is fortified by a surrounding rampart, still well preserved, with great gates and pepper-box towers well distributed around its circumference. in olden times these ramparts held off the besieging kings of aragon, but to-day they would quickly succumb to modern guns and ammunition. along with its bygone attractions prats-de-mollo is trying hard to become a resort, and there are hotels of a modernity and excellence which are surprising for a small town of twenty-five hundred inhabitants, so far off the beaten track. in spite of this no amount of improvements and up-to-date ideas will ever eradicate the mediæval aspect of the place, unless the walls themselves are razed. its churches, too, are practically fortresses, like those of its neighbour arles, and the whole aspect of the region is warlike. the principal church, which dominates the city with its great roman tower, is a remarkable construction in more ways than one. it is a veritable church militant, for from its great crenelated tower one may pass by an underground vaulted gallery to and from fort lagarde. there is no such view to be had up and down the valley and off towards the spanish frontier as from its platform. the interior is most curious; more spanish than french in its profuse application of gold and tinsel. a gigantic _rétable_ of the time of louis xiv is the chief artistic accessory within. there is no carriage road from prats into spain, but a mule track leads to the spanish village of camprodon. in a little corner of the pyrenees, between vallespir and the valley of the tech--where lie céret, arles and prats-de-mollo--and the valley of the tet, around the western flank of the canigou, is the cerdagne, a little district of other days, known to-day only to travellers to or from perpignan or quillan into andorra, via hospitalet or bourg-madame. vauban fortified the col de la perche on the spanish border to protect the three districts ceded to louis xiii by spain--cerdagne, capcir and conflent. almost the whole of the cerdagne is mountains and valleys; and until one reaches the valley of the tet, at villefranche or prades, one is surrounded by a silent strangeness which is conducive to the thought of high ideals and the worship of nature, but drearily lonesome to one who likes to study men and manners. this is about the wildest, ruggedest, and least spoiled corner of france to-day. nothing else in the pyrenees or the alps can quite approach it for solitude. villefranche--conflent and barcelonnette in the basses-alpes might be sisters, so like are they in their make-up and surroundings. each have great fortresses with parapets of brick, and great stairways of ninety steps leading up from the lower town. the surrounding houses--half-fortified, narrow-windowed, and bellicose-looking--stand as grim and silent to-day as if they feared imminent invasion. far away in the historic past villefranche was founded by a comte de cerdagne who surrounded himself with a little band of adventurers who were willing to turn their hand to fighting, smuggling or any other profitable business. vauban took this old foundation and surrounded it with walls anew, and gave the present formidable aspect to the place, building its ramparts of the red marble or porphyry extracted from the neighbouring mountains. its naturally protected position, set deep in a rocky gorge, gave added strength to the fortress. louis xiv, in one of his irrational moments, built a château here and proposed living in it, but fate ruled otherwise. about the only connection of the king with it was when he chained up four women in a dungeon. the chains and rings in the walls may be seen to-day. villefranche, its fortifications and its château are admirable examples of the way of doing things in roussillon between the tenth and fourteenth centuries; and the town is typically characteristic of a feudal bourg, albeit it has no very splendid or magnificent appointments. prades, just east of villefranche, dates its years from the foundation of charles-le-chauve in , and has a fourteenth and fifteenth century château (in ruins) affectionately referred to by the habitant as "la reine marguerite." assiduous research fails however to connect either marguerite de france or marguerite de navarre with it or its history. [illustration: _villefranche_] near villefranche is the little paradise of vernet. it contains both a new and an old town, each distinct one from the other, but forming together a delightful retreat. it has a château, too, which is something a good deal better than a ruin, though it was dismantled in the seventeenth century. vernet has a regular population of twelve hundred, and frequently as many more visitors. this is what makes the remarkable combination of the new and the old. the ancient town is built in amphitheatre form on a rocky hillside above which rises the parish church and the château which, since its partial demolition, has lately been restored. the new vernet, the thermal resort, dates from , when it first began to be exploited as a watering-place, and took the name of vernet-les-bains for use in the guide books and railway timetables. naturally this modern-built town with its hotels, its casino and its bath houses, is less lovely and winsome than its older sister on the hill. there are twelve springs here, and some of them were known to the romans in the tenth century. on towards the frontier and the mountain road into the tiny pyrenean state of andorra is mont louis. just before mont louis, on the main road leading out from perpignan, one passes below the walls of the highest fortress in france. within a couple of kilometres of mont louis, at the little village of planes, is one of the most curious churches in france. it is what is known as a "round church," and there are not many like it in or out of france, if one excepts the baptistries at pisa and ravenna, and at aix-en-provence, and charlemagne's church at aix-la-chapelle. this Église de planes is more like a mosque than a church in its outlines, and its circular walls with its curious mission-like bell-tower (surely built by some spanish _padre_) present a ground plan and a sky line exceedingly bizarre. beyond mont louis and close under the shadow of spain is bourg-madame. a peculiar interest attaches to bourg-madame by reason of the fact that it is a typical franco-spanish frontier town, a mixture of men and manners of the two nations. it sits on one side of the tiny river sevre, which marks the frontier at this point, a river so narrow that a plank could bridge it, and the comings and goings of french and spanish travellers across this diminutive bridge will suggest many things to a writer of romantic fiction. bourg-madame is a good locale for a novel, and plenty of plots can be had ready-made if one will but gossip with the french and spanish gendarmes hanging about, or the driver of the diligence who makes the daily round between bourg-madame and puigcerda in spain. in there was held a great fête at bourg-madame and puigcerda, in celebration of the anniversary of the signing of the franco-spanish convention of , relative to the trans-pyrenean railways. it was all very practical and there was very little romance about it though it was a veritable fête day for all the mountaineers. the mayors from both the french and spanish sides of the frontier, and the municipal councillors and other prominent persons from barcelona met at the baths of escalde, at an altitude of fourteen hundred metres. m. delcassé, the french minister of foreign affairs, described the various stages of franco-spanish relations leading up to the convention as to the trans-pyrenean railways, which he hoped to see rapidly constructed. he said that while in office he had done all in his power to unite france and spain. "he drank to his dear friends of spain, to the noble spanish nation, to its young sovereign, who had only to show himself to the public to win universal sympathy, to the gracious queen, daughter of a great country, the friend of france, who never tired of formulating good wishes for the prosperity and grandeur of valiant spain." after the fêtes on the french side, the party crossed the frontier and continued this international festival at puigcerda. the fêtes ended long after midnight, after a gala performance at the theatre, at which the marseillaise and the spanish national air were enthusiastically cheered. the french highroad turns northwest at bourg-madame, and via porta and porté and the tour de carol--perhaps a relic of the moors, but more likely a reminder of charlemagne, who chased them from these parts--one comes to hospitalet, from which point one enters andorra by crossing the main chain of the pyrenees at the col de puymorins. "a beggarly village," wrote a traveller of hospitalet, just previous to the revolution, "with a shack of an inn that made me almost shrink. some cutthroat figures were eating black bread, and their faces looked so much like galley-slaves that i thought i heard their chains rattle. i looked at their legs, but found them free." there's good material here for a novel of adventure, or was a hundred years ago, but now the still humble inn of hospitalet is quiet and peaceful. [illustration: arms of andorra] the little republic of andorra, hidden away in the fastnesses of the pyrenees between france and spain, its allegiance divided between the bishop of urgel in spain and the french government, is a relic of mediævalism which will probably never fall before the swift advance of twentieth century ideas of progress. at least it will never be over-run by automobiles. from french or spanish territory this little unknown land is to be reached by what is called a "_route carrossable_," but the road is so bad that the sure-footed little donkeys of the pyrenees are by far the best means of locomotion unless one would go up on foot, a matter of twenty kilometres or more from hospitalet in spanish or porté in french territory. this is a good place to remark that the donkeys of the pyrenees largely come from spain, but curiously enough the donkeys and mules of spain are mostly bred in the vendée, just south of the loire, in france. the political status of andorra is most peculiar, but since it has endured without interruption (and this in spite of wars and rumours of war) for six centuries, it seems to be all that is necessary. a relic of the middle ages, andorra-viella, the city, and its six thousand inhabitants live in their lonesome retirement much as they did in feudal times, except for the fact that an occasional newspaper smuggled in from france or spain gives a new topic of conversation. this paternal governmental arrangement which cares for the welfare of the people of andorra, the city and the province, is the outcome of a treaty signed by pierre d'urg and roger-bernard, the third comte de foix, giving each other reciprocal rights. there's nothing very strange about this; it was common custom in the middle ages for lay and ecclesiastical seigneurs to make such compacts, but the marvel is that it has endured so well with governments rising and falling all about, and grafters and pretenders and dictators ruling every bailiwick in which they can get a foothold. feudal government may have had some bad features, but certainly the republics and democracies of to-day, to say nothing of absolute monarchies, have some, too. the ways of access between france and andorra are numerous enough; but of the eight only two--and those not all the way--are really practicable for wheeled traffic. the others are mere trails, or mule-paths. the people of andorra, as might be inferred, are all ardent catholics; and for a tiny country like this to have a religious seminary, as that at urgel, is remarkable of itself. public instruction is of late making headway, but half a century ago the shepherd and labouring population--perhaps nine-tenths of the whole--had little learning or indeed need for it. their manners and customs are simple and severe and little has changed in modern life from that of their great-great-great-grandfathers. each family has a sort of a chief or official head, and the eldest son always looks for a wife among the families of his own class. seldom, if ever, does the married son quit the paternal roof, so large households are the rule. in a family where there are only girls the eldest is the heir, and she may only marry with a cadet of another family by his joining his name with hers. perhaps it is this that originally set the fashion for hyphenated names. the andorrans are generally robust and well built; the maladies of more populous regions are practically unknown among them. this speaks much for the simple life! costumes and dress are rough and simple and of heavy woollens, clipped from the sheep and woven on the spot. public officers, the few representatives of officialdom who exist, alone make any pretence at following the fashions. the women occupy a very subordinate position in public affairs. they may not be present at receptions and functions and not even at mass when it is said by the bishop. crime is infrequent, and simple, light punishments alone are inflicted. things are not so uncivilized in andorra as one might think! in need all men may be called upon to serve as soldiers, and each head of a family must have a rifle and ball at hand at all times. in other words, he must be able to protect himself against marauders. this does away with the necessity of a large standing police force. commerce and industry are free of all taxation in andorra, and customs dues apply on but few articles. for this reason there is not a very heavy tax on a people who are mostly cultivators and graziers. there is little manufacturing industry, as might be supposed, and what is made--save by hand and in single examples--is of the most simple character. "made in germany" or "fabriqué en belgique" are the marks one sees on most of the common manufactured articles. "those terrible germans!" is a trite, but true saying. the andorrans are a simple, proud, gullible people, who live to-day in the past, of the past and for the past; "_les vallées et souverainetés de l'andorre_" are to them to-day just what they always were--a little world of their own. chapter viii the high valley of the aude the aude, rising close under the crest of the pyrenees, flows down to the mediterranean between narbonne and béziers. it is one of the daintiest mountain streams imaginable as it flows down through the gorges de st. georges and by axat and quillan to carcassonne, and the following simple lines by auguste baluffe describe it well. "dans le fond des bleus horizons, les villages ont des maisons toutes blanches, que l'on aperçoit à travers les bois, formant des rideaux verts de leurs branches." at carcassonne the aude joins that natural waterway of the pyrenees, the garonne, through the canal du midi. this great canal-de-deux-mers, as it is often called, connecting with the garonne at toulouse, joins the mediterranean at the golfe des lions, with the atlantic at the golfe de gascogne, and serves in its course carcassonne, narbonne and béziers. the canal du midi was one of the marvels of its time when built ( ), though it has since been superseded by many others. it was one of the first masterpieces of the french engineers, and may have been the inspiration of de lesseps in later years. boileau in his "epitre au roi," said:-- "j'entends déjà frémir les deux mers étonnées de voir leurs flots unis au pied de pyrénées." south of carcassonne and limoux, just over "the mountains blue" of which the old peasant sang, is st. hilaire, the market town of a canton of eight hundred inhabitants. it is more than that. it is a mediæval shrine of the first rank; for it is the site of an abbey founded in the fifth or sixth century. this abbey was under the direct protection of charlemagne in , and he bestowed upon it "_lettres de sauvegarde_," which all were bound to respect. the monastery was secularized in , but its thirteenth-century church, half romanesque and half gothic, will ever remain as one of the best preserved relics of its age. for some inexplicable reason its carved and cut stone is unworn by the ravages of weather, and is as fresh and sharp in its outlines as if newly cut. within is the tomb of st. hilaire, the first bishop of carcassonne. the sculpture of the tomb is of the ninth century, and it is well to know that the same thing seen in the musée cluny at paris is but a reproduction. the original still remains here. the fourteenth-century cloister is a wonderful work of its kind, and this too in a region where this most artistic work abounds. one's entrance into quillan by road is apt to be exciting. the automobile is no novelty in these days; but to run afoul of a five kilometre procession of peasant folk with all their traps, coming and going to a market town keeps one down to a walking pace. [illustration: _château de puylaurens_] on the particular occasion when the author and artist passed this way, all the animals bought and sold that day at the cattle fair of quillan seemed to be coming from the town. the little men who had them in tow were invariably good-natured, but everybody had a hard time in preventing horses, cows and sheep from bolting and dogs from getting run over. finally we arrived; and a more well-appreciated haven we have never found. the town itself is quaint, picturesque and quite different from the tiny bourgs of the pyrenees. it is in fact quite a city in miniature. though quillan is almost a metropolis, everybody goes to bed by ten o'clock, when the lights of the cafés go out, leaving the stranger to stroll by the river and watch the moon rise over the aude with the ever present curtain of the pyrenees looming in the distance. it is all very peaceful and romantic, for which reason it may be presumed one comes to such a little old-world corner of europe. and yet quillan is a gay, live, little town, though it has not much in the way of sights to attract one. still it is a delightful idling-place, and a good point from which to reach the château of puylaurens out on the perpignan road. puylaurens has as eerie a site as any combination of walls and roofs that one has ever seen. it perches high on a peak overlooking the valley of the boulzane; and for seven centuries has looked down on the comings and goings of legions of men, women and children, and beasts of burden that bring up supplies to this sky-scraping height. to-day the château well deserves the name of ruin, but if it were not a ruin, and was inhabited, as it was centuries ago, no one would be content with any means of arriving at its porte-cochère but a _funiculaire_ or an express elevator. the roads about quillan present some of the most remarkable and stiffest grades one will find in the pyrenees. the automobilist doesn't fear mountain roads as a usual thing. they are frequently much better graded than the sudden unexpected inclines with which one meets very often in a comparatively flat country; nevertheless there is a ten kilometre hairpin hill to climb out of quillan on the road to axat which will try the hauling powers of any automobile yet put on the road, and the patience of the most dawdling traveller who lingers by the way. it is the quick turns, the _lacets_, the "hairpins," that make it difficult and dangerous, whether one goes up or down; and, when it is stated that slow-moving oxen, two abreast, and often four to a cart, are met with at every turn, hauling hundred-foot logs down the mountain, the real danger may well be conceived. axat, the gateway to the haute-vallée is a dozen or more kilometres above quillan, through the marvellous gorges de pierre lys. this is a canyon which rivals description. the magnificent roadway which runs close up under the haunches of the towering rocks beside the river aude is a work originally undertaken in the eighteenth century by the abbé felix arnaud, curé of st. martin-lys, a tiny village which one passes en route. the abbé arnaud who planned to cut this remarkable bit of roadway through the gorges du pierre-lys, formerly a mere trail along which only smugglers, brigands and army deserters had hitherto dared penetrate, and who to-day has the distinction of a statue in the place at quillan, was certainly a good engineer. it is to be presumed he was as good a churchman. the aude flows boldly down between two great beaks of mountains, and here, over-hanging the torrent, the gentle abbé planned that a great roadway should be cut, by the frequent aid of tunnels and galleries and "corniches." and it was cut--as it was planned--in a most masterful manner. one of the rock-cut tunnels is called the "trou du curé," and above its portal are graven the following lines:-- "arrête, voyageurs! le maître des humains a fait descendre ici la force et la lumière. il a dit au pasteur: accomplis mon dessein, et le pasteur des monts a brisé la barrière." surely this is a more noble monument to the abbé arnaud than that in marble at quillan. the actual "gorge" is not more than fifteen hundred metres in length, but even this impresses itself more profoundly by reason of the great height of the rock walls on either side of the gushing river. at saint martin-lys, midway between quillan and axat, is the church where the abbé arnaud served a long and useful life as the pastor of his mountain flock. axat, at the upper end of the gorge, will become a mountain summer resort of the very first rank if a boom ever strikes it; but at present it is simply a delightful little, unspoiled pyrenean town, where one eats brook trout and ortolans in the dainty little hotel saurel-labat, and is lulled to sleep by the purling waters of the aude directly beneath his windows. this quiet little town has a population of three hundred, and is blessed with an electric supply so abundant and so cheap, apparently, that the good lady who runs the all-satisfying little hotel does not think it worth while to turn off the lamps even in the daytime. this is not remarkable when one considers that the electricity is a home-made product of the power of the swift flowing aude, which rushes by axat's dooryards at five kilometres an hour. [illustration: axat] two kilometres above the town are the gorges de st. georges, also with a superb roadway burrowed out of the rock. here is the gigantic _usine-hydro-électrique_ of , horse-power obtained from a three-hundred-foot fall of water. that such things could be, here in this unheard of little corner of the pyrenees, is far from the minds of most european travellers who know only the falls of the rhine at schaffhausen. axat has a ruined château on the height above the town which is a wonderful ruin although it has no recorded history. to imagine its romance, however, is not a difficult procedure if you know the pyrenees and their history. its attractions are indeed many; but it would be a paradise for artists who did not want to go far from their inn to search their subjects. there are in addition a quaint old thirteenth-century church, a magnificently arched stone bridge, and innumerable twisting vaulted passages high aloft near the château. away above axat is the plateau region known as the capcir, thought to be the ancient bed of a mountain lake. it is closed on all sides by a great fringe of mountains, and is comparatively thickly inhabited because of its particularly good pasture lands; and has the reputation of being the coldest inhabited region in france, though it may well divide this honour with the alpine valleys of the tarentaise in savoie. one passes from the capcir into the cerdagne lying to the eastward by the col de casteillon. chapter ix the walls of carcassonne never was there an architectural glory like that of carcassonne. most mediæval fortified bourgs have been transformed out of all semblance to their former selves, but not so carcassonne. it lives to-day as in the past, transformed or restored to be sure, but still the very ideal of a walled city of the middle ages. the stress and cares of commerce and the super-civilization of these latter days have built up a new and ugly commercial city beyond the walls, leaving _la cité_ a lonely dull place where the very spirit of mediævalism stalks the streets and passages, and the ghosts of a past time people the château, the donjon, and the surrounding buildings which once sheltered counts and prelates and chevaliers and courtly ladies. the old cathedral, too, dedicated to st. nazaire, as pure a gothic gem as may be found outside sainte chapelle in paris, is as much of the past as if it existed only in memory, for services are now carried on in a great, gaunt church in the lower town, leaving this magnificent structure unpeopled and alone. carcassonne, as seen from the low-lying plain of the valley of the aude, makes a most charming _motif_ for a picture. in the purple background are the pyrenees, setting off the crenelated battlements of walls, towers and donjon in genuine fairy-land fashion. it is almost too ethereal to be true, as seen through the dim mist of an early may morning. "a wonderful diadem of chiselled stone set in the forehead of the pyrenees," an imaginative frenchman called it. it would not be wise to attempt to improve on this metaphor. this world's wonder--for it is a world's wonder, though not usually included in the magic seven--has enchanted author, poet, painter, historian and architect. who indeed could help giving it the homage due, once having read viollet-le-duc's description in his "dictionnaire raisonée d'architecture," or nadaud's lines beginning:-- "je n'ai jamais vu carcassonne." five thousand people from all over the world pass its barbican in a year, and yet how few one recalls among his acquaintances who have ever been there. it began to dawn upon the french away back in , at the instigation of prosper merimée, that they had within their frontiers the most wonderfully impressive walled city still above ground. it was the work of fifty years to clear its streets and ramparts of a conglomerate mass of parasite structures which had been built into the old fabric, and to reconstruct the roofings and copings of walls and houses to an approximation of what they must once have been. carcassonne is not very accessible to the casual tourist to southern france who thinks to laze away a dull november or january at pau, biarritz, or even on the riviera. it is not in the least inaccessible, but it is not on the direct line to anywhere, unless one is en route from bordeaux to marseilles, or is making a pyrenean trip. at any rate it is the best value for the money that one will get by going a couple of hundred kilometres out of his way in the whole circuit of france. by all means study the map, gentle reader, and see if you can't figure it out somehow so that you may get to carcassonne. carcassonne, the present city, dates from the days of the good saint louis, but all interest lies with its elder sister, _la cité_, a bouquet of walls and towers, just across the eight-hundred-year-old bridge over the aude. close to the feudal city, across the pont-vieux, was the barbican, a work completed under saint louis. it gave immediate access to the city of antiquity, and defended the approaches to the château after the manner of an outpost, which it really was. this one learns from the old plans, but the barbican itself disappeared in . [illustration] carcassonne was a most effective stronghold and guarded two great routes which passed directly through it, one the route de spain, and the other running from toulouse to the mediterranean, the same that scorching automobilists "let out" on to-day as they go from one gaming-table at monte carlo to another at biarritz. the romans first made carcassonne a stronghold; then, from the fifth to the eighth centuries, came the visigoths. the saracens held it for twenty-five years and their traces are visible to-day. after the saracens it came to charlemagne, and at his death to the vicomtes de carcassonne, independent masters of a neighbouring region, who owed allegiance to nobody. this was the commencement of the french dynasty of trencavel, and the early years of the eleventh century saw the court of carcassonne brilliant with troubadours, minstrels and _cours d'amour_. the _cours d'amour_ of adelaide, wife of roger trencavel, and niece of the king of france, were famous throughout the midi. the followers in her train--minstrels, troubadours and lords and ladies--were many, and no one knew or heard of the fair chatelaine of carcassonne without being attracted to her. simon de montfort pillaged carcassonne when raiding the country round about, but meanwhile the old _cité_ was growing in strength and importance, and many were the sieges it underwent which had no effect whatever on its walls of stone. all epochs are writ large in this monument of mediævalism. until the conquest of roussillon, carcassonne's fortress held its proud position as a frontier stronghold; then, during long centuries, it was all but abandoned, and the modern city grew and prospered in a matter-of-fact way, though never approaching in the least detail the architectural magnificence of its hill-top sister. the military arts of the middle ages are as well exemplified at carcassonne as can anywhere be seen out of books and engravings. the entrance is strongly protected by many twistings and turnings of walled alleys, producing a veritable maze. the porte d'aude is the chief entrance, and is accessible only to those on foot. verily, the walls seem to close behind the visitor as he makes his way to the topmost height, up the narrow cobble-paved lanes. four great gates, one within another, and four walls have to be passed before one is properly within the outer defences. to enter the _cité_ there is yet another encircling wall to be passed. carcassonne is practically a double fortress; the distance around the outer walls is a kilometre and a half and the inner wall is a full kilometre in circumference. between these fortifying ramparts unroll the narrow ribbons of roadway which a foe would find impossible to pass. [illustration: _the walls of carcassonne_] finally, within the last line of defence, on the tiny wall-surrounded plateau, rises the old château de trencavel, its high coiffed towers rising into the azure sky of the midi in most spectacular fashion. on the crest of the inner wall is a little footpath, known in warlike times as the _chemin de ronde_, punctuated by forty-eight towers. from such an unobstructed balcony a marvellous surrounding panorama unrolls itself; at one's feet lie the plain and the river; further off can be seen the mountains and sometimes the silver haze shimmering over the mediterranean fifty miles away. centuries of civilization are at one's hand and within one's view. a curious tower--one of the forty-eight--spans the two outer walls. it is known as the tour l'Évêque and possesses a very beautiful glass window. here viollet-le-duc established his bureau when engaged on the reconstruction of this great work. almost opposite, quite on the other side of the _cité_, is the porte narbonnaise, the only way by which a carriage may enter. one rises gently to the plateau, after first passing this monumental gateway, which is flanked by two towers. over the porte narbonnaise is a rude stone figure of dame carcas, the titular goddess of the city. quaint and curious this figure is, but possessed of absolutely no artistic aspect. below it are the simple words, "sum carcas." the tour bernard, just to the right of the porte narbonnaise, is a mediæval curiosity. the records tell that it has served as a chicken-coop, a dog-kennel, a pigeon loft, and as the habitation of the guardian who had charge of the gate. here in the walls of this great tower may still be seen solid stone shot firmly imbedded where they first struck. the next tower, the tour de benazet, was the arsenal, and the tour notre dame, above the porte de rodez, was the scene of more than one "inquisitorial" burning of christians. the second line of defence and its towers is quite as curiously interesting as the first. from within, the porte narbonnaise was protected in a remarkable manner, the château narbonnaise commanding with its own barbican and walls every foot of the way from the gate to the château proper. besides, there were iron chains stretched across the passage, low vaulted corridors, wolf-traps (or something very like them) set in the ground, and loop-holes in the roofs overhead for pouring down boiling oil or melted lead on the heads of any invaders who might finally have got so far as this. the château itself, so safely ensconced within the surrounding walls of the _cité_, follows the common feudal usage as to its construction. its outer walls are strengthened and defended by a series of turrets, and contain within a _cour d'honneur_, the place of reunion for the armour-knights and the contestants in the courts of love. on the ground floor of this dainty bit of mediævalism--which looks livable even to-day--were the seigneurial apartments, the chapel and various domestic offices. beneath were vast stores and magazines. a smaller courtyard was at the rear, leading to the fencing-school and the kitchens, two important accessories of a feudal château which seem always to go side by side. on the first and second floors were the lodgings of the vicomtes and their suites. the great donjon contained a circular chamber where were held great solemnities such as the signing of treaties, marriage acts and the like. to the west of the _cour d'honneur_ were the barracks of the garrison. all the paraphernalia and machinery of a great mediæval court were here perfectly disposed. verily, no such story-telling feudal château exists as that of the château de narbonnais of the trencavels in the old _cité_ of carcassonne. the place du château, immediately in front, was a general meeting-place, while a little to the left in a smaller square has always been the well of bubbling spring-water which on more than one occasion saved the dwellers within from dying of thirst. perhaps, as at pompeii, there are great treasures here still buried underground, but diligent search has found nothing but a few arrowheads or spear heads, some pieces of money (money was even coined here) and a few fragments of broken copper and pottery utensils. finally, to sum up the opinion of one and all who have viewed carcassonne, there is not a city in all europe more nearly complete in ancient constructions, or in better preservation, than this old mediæval _cité_. centuries of history have left indelible records in stone, and they have been defiled less than in any other mediæval monument of such a magnitude. gustave nadaud's lines on carcassonne come very near to being the finest topographical verses ever penned. certainly there is no finer expression of truth and sentiment with regard to any architectural monument existing than the simple realism of the speech of the old peasant of limoux:-- "'i'm sixty years; i'm getting old; i've done hard work through all my life, though yet could never grasp and hold my heart's desire through all my strife. i know quite well that here below all one's desires are granted none; my wish will ne'er fulfilment know, i never have seen carcassonne." * * * * * "'they say that all the days are there as sunday is throughout the week: new dress, and robes all white and fair unending holidays bespeak.' * * * * * "'o! god, o! god, o! pardon me, if this my prayer should'st thou offend! things still too great for us we'd see in youth or near one's long life end. my wife once and my son aignan, as far have travelled as narbonne, my grandson has seen perpignan, but i have not seen carcassonne.'" what emotion, what devotion these lines express, and what a picture they paint of the simple faiths and hopes of man. he never did see carcassonne, this old peasant of limoux; the following lines tell why:-- "thus did complain once near limoux a peasant hard bowed down with age. i said to him, 'my friend, we'll go together on this pilgrimage.' we started with the morning tide; but god forgive. we'd hardly gone our road half over, ere he died. he never did see carcassonne." in august, , a great fête and illumination was given in the old _cité de carcassonne_. all the illustrious languedoçians alive, it would seem, were there, including the _cadets de gascogne_, among them armand sylvestre, d'esparbès, jean rameau, emil pouvillon, benjamin constant, eugène falguière, mercier, jean-paul laurens, et als. all the artifice of the modern pyrotechnist made of the old city, at night, a reproduction of what it must have been in times of war and stress. it was the most splendid fireworks exhibition the world has seen since nero fiddled away at burning rome. "_la cité rouge_," sylvestre called it. "_oh, l'impression inoubliable! oh! le splendide tableau! it was so perfectly beautiful, so completely magnificent! i have seen the kremlin thus illuminated; i have seen old nuremberg under the same conditions, but i declare upon my honour never have i seen so beautiful a sight as the illuminations of carcassonne."_ one view of the _cité_ not often had is from the montagne noire, where, from its supreme height of twelve hundred metres (the pic de nore) there is to be seen such a bird's-eye view as was never conceived by the imagination. on the horizon are the blue peaks of the pyrenees cutting the sky with astonishing clearness; to the eastward is the mediterranean; and northwards are the cevennes; while immediately below is a wide-spread plain peopled here and there with tiny villages and farms all clustering around the solid walls of carcassonne--the _ville_ of to-day and the _cité_ of the past. over the blue hills, southward from carcassonne, lies limoux. limoux is famous for three things, its twelfth-century church, its fifteenth-century bridge and its "_blanquette de limoux_," less ancient, but quite as enduring. if one's hunger is ripe, he samples the last first, at the table d'hôte at the hotel du pigeon. "blanquette de limoux" is simply an ordinarily good white, sparkling wine, no better than saumur, but much better than the hocks which have lately become popular in england, and much, much better than american champagne. the town itself is charming, and the immediate environs, the peasants' cottages and the vineyards, recall those verses of nadaud's about that old son of the soil who prayed each year that he might make the journey over the hills to carcassonne (it is only twenty-four kilometres) and refresh his old eyes with a sight of that glorious mediæval monument. north of carcassonne, between the city and the peak of the montagne noire, is the old château of lastours, a ruined glory of the days when only a hill-top situation and heavy walls meant safety and long life. chapter x the counts of foix the comté de foix and its civilization goes back to prehistoric, gallic and roman times. this much we know, but what the detailed events of these periods were, we know not. archæology alone, by means of remaining monuments in stone, must supply that which history omits. the primitives of the stone age lived mostly in caverns, but here they lived in some species of rude huts or houses. this at any rate is the supposition. with the romans came civic importance; and fortified towns and cities sprang up here and there of which existing remains, as at st. lizier, tell a plain story. the principal historical events of the early years of the middle ages were religious in motive. written records are few, however, and are mostly legendary accounts. dynasties of great families began to be founded in the ninth century; and each region took on different manners and customs. the couserans, a dismemberment of comminges, became practically gascon; while foix cast off from toulouse, had its own development. victor balaguer, the poet, expresses this better than most historians when he says: "_provence et pyrénées, s'écriet-il, portent le deuil du monde latin. le jour où tombèrent ceux de foix tomba aussi la provence_." the resistance of the counts in the famous wars of the albigeois only provoked the incursion of the troops of the cruel simon de montfort. the comte de foix fell back finally on his strong château; and, on the sixteenth of june, , in the presence of the papal legate, representative of the king of france, roger-bernard ii made his submission without reserve. in , under comte roger-bernard iii, the château de foix underwent a siege at the hands of philippe-le-hardi; and, at the end of three days, seeing the preponderance of numbers against him, and being doubtful of his allies, he surrendered. by marriage with marguerite de moncade, daughter of the vicomte de béarn, he inherited the two important fiefs of catalogne and béarn et bigorre, thus preparing the way for possession of the throne of navarre. by the thirteenth century the great feudal families of the midi were dwindling in numbers, and it was this marriage of a comte de foix with the heiress of béarn which caused practically the extinction of one. the modern department of the ariège, of which the ancient comté de foix formed the chief part, possesses few historical monuments dating before the middle ages. there are numerous residential châteaux scattered about, and the most splendid of them all is at foix itself. fine old churches and monasteries, and quaint old houses are numerous; yet it is a region less exploited by tourists than any other in france. not all these historic shrines remain to-day unspoiled and untouched. many of them were destroyed in the revolution, but their sites and their ruins remain. the mountain slopes of this region are thickly strewn with watch-towers and observatories; and though all but fallen to the ground they form a series of connecting historical links which only have to be recognized to be read. the towers or châteaux of quié, tarascon-sur-ariège, gudanne, lourdat and vic-dessos are almost unknown to most travellers. they deserve to become better known, however, especially lourdat, one of the most spectacularly endowed château ruins extant. the fourteenth century was the most brilliant in the history of foix. these were the days of gaston phoebus; and the description of his reception of charles vi of france at mazères, as given by the chroniclers, indicates an incomparable splendour and magnificence. gaston phoebus, like henri de béarn, was what might be called a good liver. here is how he spent his day--when he was not warring or building castles. he rose at noon and after a mass he dined. usually there were a great number of dishes; and, on really great occasions, as on a fête or _festin_, the incredible number of two hundred and fifty. these princes of the pyrenees loved good cheer, and their usage was to surcharge the tables and themselves with the good things until the results were uncomfortable. gaston's two sons, yvain and gratain, usually stood behind him at table, and the youngest son, another gaston, first tried all the dishes before his august father ate of them. he was weak and sickly, a "mild and melancholy figure," and no wonder! the feasting terminated, gaston and his court would pass into the salle de parlement, "where many things were debated," as the chroniclers put it. soon entered the minstrels and troubadours, while in the courts there were trials of skill between the nobles of one house and another, stone throwing, throwing the spear, and the _jeu de paume_. the count--"_toujours magnifique_" (no chronicler of the time neglects to mention that fact)--distributed rewards to the victors. after this there was more eating, or at least more drinking. when he was not sleeping or eating or amusing himself, or conducting such affairs as he could not well depute to another, such as the planning and building of castles, gaston occupied himself, like many other princes of his time, with belles-lettres and poesy. he had four _secrétaires_ to do his writing; and it is possible that they may have written much which is attributed to him, if the art of employing literary "ghosts" was known in that day. he composed _chansons_, _ballades_, _rondeaux_ and _virelais_, and insisted on reading them aloud himself, forbidding any one to make a comment on them. how many another author would like to have the same prerogative! gaston phoebus de foix, so named because of his classic beauty, was undoubtedly a great author in his day. this bold warrior wrote a book on the manners and usage of hunting in mediæval times, entitled the "_miroir de phoebus_;" and, while it might not pass muster among the masterpieces of later french literature, it was a notable work for its time and literally a mirror of contemporary men and manners in the hunting field. gaston de foix was another gallant noble. he died at the age of twenty-four at the battle of ravenna in . jacques fournier, who became pope benoit xii, also came from foix. the honour of being the most celebrated of the counts of foix may well be divided by gaston phoebus ( - ) and henri quatre ( - ). the latter was the last of the famous counts of the province; and he it was who united it with the royal domain of france, thus sinking its identity for ever, though his predecessors had done their utmost to keep its independence alive. during the hundred years war the comtes de foix, masters of the entire middle chain of the pyrenees, were the strongest power in the southwest; and above all were they powerful because of their alliances and relations with the spanish princes, whose friendship and aid were greatly to be desired, for their support meant success for their allies. this is proven, absolutely, from the fact that, when the english were ultimately driven from france, it was through the aid and support of gaston phoebus himself and his successors, archambaud, jean i and gaston iv. the fifteenth century saw the apogee of the house of foix. one of its princes married madeleine de france, sister of louis xi. the sixteenth century saw sad times during a long civil war of more than thirty years duration. war among the members of a household or among one's own people is really an inexcusable thing. in the comté the abbey of boulbonne was destroyed. at pamiers all the religious edifices were razed; and the abbey of st. volusien at foix, the special pride of the counts for ages, was destroyed by fire. calm came for a period under the reign of henri iv, at paris; but, after his death, local troubles and dissensions broke out again, inspired and instigated by the wily duc de rohan, which culminated at pamiers, where the great condé and montmorenci appeared at the head of their troops. the peace of alais ended this final struggle; and, to assure the security of the country, richelieu gave the order to dismantle all the walls and ramparts of the fortified places in the comté, and all the châteaux-forts as well. this was done forthwith, and that is why many a mediæval château in these parts is in ruins to-day. the château de foix, by reason of its dignity, was allowed to keep its towers and battlemented walls. for a hundred and fifty years, that is up to the revolution, foix was comparatively tranquil. under the reign of louis xiv, however, the region saw the frequent passage of troops and warlike stores as they came and went to the spanish wars. this nearly ruined many dwellers in town and country by reason of the tax they had to pay in money and provisions. like the basques and the béarnais the inhabitants of the ariège, the descendants of the old adherents of the comtes de foix, bear many traces of their former independence and liberty. civilization and their easy, comfortable manner of living have not made of them a very robust race, but they are possessed of much fairness of face and figure and gentleness of manner. the smugglers of feudal times, and considerably later times for that matter, were the pest of the region. it was rude, hard work smuggling wines or tobacco over the mountains, in and out of spain, and its wages were uncertain, but there were large numbers who embarked on it in preference to grazing flocks and herds or engaging in other agricultural pursuits. it was hard work for the smugglers of foix to get their burdens up the mountains, but they had a custom of rolling their load up into great balls bound around with wool and thongs and rolling them down the other side. thus the labour was halved. the _romany chiel_ or gypsy adopted the contraband business readily; and with the competition of the french and spanish, there were lively times on the frontier between foix and gascogne and spain and andorra. m. thiers recounts an adventure in an auberge of the pyrenees with such a crew of bandits, and thought himself lucky to escape with his life. the chief of the band, as the travellers were all sitting around the great log fire, began cleaning his pipe with a long poignard-like knife which, he volunteered, was ready to do other service than whittling bread or tobacco if need be. the night passed off safely enough by reason of the arrival of a squad of gendarmes, but the next night a whole house full of travellers were murdered on the same spot. the roads of the old comté de foix, a very important thing for many who travel by automobile, are throughout excellent and extensive. there are fourteen routes nationales and départementales crossing in every direction. the highway from toulouse to madrid runs via st. girons and bayonne into andorra by way of the valley of the ariège, and to barcelona via perpignan and the col de perthus. the valley of the ariège, to a large extent included in the comté de foix, has a better preserved historical record than its neighbours on the east and west. in the ninth century the ruling comte was allied with the houses of barcelona and carcassonne. his residence was at foix from this time up to the revolution; and his rule embraced the valley of the hers, of which mirepoix was the principal place, the mountain region taken from catalogne, and a part of the lowlands which had been under the scrutiny of the comtes de toulouse. chapter xi foix and its chÂteau foix, of all the préfectures of france of to-day, is the least cosmopolitan. privas, mende and digne are poor, dead, dignified relics of the past; but foix is the dullest of all, although it is a very gem of a smiling, diffident little wisp of a city, green and flowery and astonishingly picturesque. it has character, whatever it may lack in progressiveness, and the brilliant colouring is a part of all the cities of the south. above the swift flowing ariège in their superb setting of mountain and forest are the towers and parapets of the old château, in itself enough to make the name and fame of any city. architecturally the remains of the château de foix do not, perhaps, rank very high, though they are undeniably imposing; and it will take a review of froissart, and the other old chroniclers of the life and times of the magnificent gaston phoebus, to revive it in all its glory. a great state residence something more than a mere feudal château, it does not at all partake of the aspect of a château-fort. it was this last fact that caused the comtes de foix, when, by marriage, they had also become seigneurs of béarn, to abandon it for mazères, or their establishments at pau or orthez. foix nevertheless remained a proud capital, first independent, then as part of the province of navarre, then as a province of the royaume de france; and, finally, as the préfecture of the département of ariège. the population in later times has grown steadily, but never has the city approached the bishopric of pamiers, just to the northward, in importance. many towns in this region have a decreasing population. the great cities like toulouse and bordeaux draw upon the youth of the country for domestic employment; and, lately, as chauffeurs and manicurists, and in comparison to these inducements their native towns can offer very little. if one is to believe the tradition of antiquity the "_rocher de foix_," the tiny rock plateau upon which the château sits, served as an outpost when the phoceans built the primitive château upon the same site. says a renaissance historian: "on the peak of one of nature's wonders, on a rock, steep and inaccessible on all sides, was situated one of the most ancient fortresses of our land." in roman times the site still held its own as one of importance and impregnability. a representation of the château as it then was is to be seen on certain coins of the period. this establishes its existence as previous to the coming of the visigoths in the beginning of the sixth century. the first written records of the château de foix date from the chronicles of , when roger-le-vieux, comte de carcassonne, left to his heir, bernard-roger, "_la terre et le château de foix_." the château de foix owes its reputation to its astonishingly theatrical site as much as to the historic memories which it evokes, though it is with good right that it claims a legendary renown among the feudal monuments of the pyrenees. all roads leading to foix give a long vista of its towered and crenelated château sitting proudly on its own little _monticule_ of rock beside the ariège. its history begins with that of the first comtes de foix, the first charter making mention thereof being the last will and testament of roger-bernard, the first count, who died in . during the wars against the albigeois the château was attacked by simon de montfort three times, in , , , but always in vain. though the surrounding faubourgs were pillaged and burned the château itself did not succumb. it did not even take fire, for its rocky base gave no hold to the flames which burned so fiercely around it. the most important event of the château's history happened in when the comte roger-bernard iii rebelled against the authority of the seneschal-royal of toulouse. to punish so rebellious a vassal, philippe-le-hardi came forthwith to foix at the head of an army, and himself undertook the siege of the château. at the end of three days the count succumbed, with the saying on his lips that it was useless to cut great stones and build them up into fortresses only to have them razed by the first besiegers that came along. whatever the qualifications of the third roger-bernard were, consistent perseverance was not one of them. just previous to , after a series of intrigues with the church authorities, the château became a dependence of the pope of rome; but at a council of the lateran the comte raymond-roger demanded the justice that was his, and the new pope honorius iii made over the edifice to its rightful proprietor. during the wars of religion the château was the storm-centre of great military operations, of which the town itself became the unwilling victim. in the huguenots became masters of the city. under louis xiii it was proposed to raze the château, as was being done with others in the midi, but the intervening appeal of the governor saved its romantic walls to posterity. in the reign of louis xiv the towers of the château were used as archives, a prison and a military barracks, and since the revolution--for a part of the time at least--it has served as a house of detention. when the tragic events of the reformation set all the midi ablaze, and richelieu and his followers demolished most of the châteaux and fortresses of the region, foix was exempted by special orders of the cardinal-minister himself. another war cloud sprang up on the horizon in , by reason of the fear of a spanish invasion; and it was not a bogey either, for in and the spaniards had already penetrated, by a quickly planned raid, into the high valley of the ariège. in civil administration robbed this fine old example of mediæval architecture of many of those features usually exploited by antiquarians. to increase its capacity for sheltering criminal prisoners, barracks and additions--mere shacks many of them--were built; and the original outlines were lost in a maze of meaningless roof-tops. finally, a quarter of a century later, the rubbish was cleared away; and, before the end of the century, restoration of the true and faithful kind had made of this noble mediæval monument a vivid reminder of its past feudal glory quite in keeping with its history. [illustration: _ground plan of the château de foix_] the actual age of the monument covers many epochs. the two square towers and the main edifice, as seen to-day, are anterior to the thirteenth century, as is proved by the design in the seals of the comtes de foix of and now in the _bibliothèque nationale_ in paris. in the fourteenth century these towers were strengthened and enlarged with the idea of making them more effective for defence and habitation. [illustration: chÂteau de foix] the escutcheons of foix, béarn and comminges, to be seen in the great central tower, indicate that it, too, goes back at least to the end of the fourteenth century, when eleanore de comminges, the mother of gaston phoebus, ruled the comté. [illustration: _key of the vaulting, château de foix. showing the arms of the comtes de foix_] the donjon or _tour ronde_ arises on the west to a height of forty-two metres; and will be remarked by all familiar with these sermons in stone scattered all over france as one of the most graceful. legend attributes it to gaston phoebus; but all authorities do not agree as to this. the window and door openings, the mouldings, the accolade over the entrance doorway and the machicoulis all denote that they belong to the latter half of the fifteenth century. these, however, may be later interpolations. originally one entered the château from exactly the opposite side from that used to-day. the slope leading up to the rock and swinging around in front of the town is an addition of recent years. formerly the plateau was gained by a rugged path which finally entered the precincts of the fortress through a rectangular barbican. finally, to sum it up, the pleasant, smiling, trim little city of foix, and its château rising romantically above it, form a delightful prospect. well preserved, well protected, and for ever free from further desecration, the château de foix is as nobly impressive and glorious a monument of the middle ages as may be found in france, as well as chief record of the gallant days of the comtes de foix. foix' palais de justice, built back to back with the rock foundations of the château, is itself a singular piece of architecture containing a small collection of local antiquities. this old maison des gouverneurs, now the palais de justice, is a banal, unlovely thing, regardless of its high-sounding titles. in the bibliothèque, in the hôtel de ville, there are eight manuscripts in folio, dating from the fifteenth century, and coming from the cathedral of mirepoix. they are exquisitely illuminated with miniatures and initials after the manner of the best work of the time. it was that great hunter and warrior, gaston phoebus who gave the château de foix its greatest lustre. it was here that this most brilliant and most celebrated of the counts passed his youth; and it was from here that he set out on his famous expedition to aid his brother knights of the teutonic order in prussia. at gaston's orders the comte d'armagnac was imprisoned here, to be released after the payment of a heavy ransom. as to the motive for this particular act authorities differ as to whether it was the fortunes of war or mere brigandage. they lived high, the nobles of the old days, and froissart recounts a banquet at which he had assisted at foix, in the sixteenth century, as follows:-- "and this was what i saw in the comté de foix: the count left his chamber to sup at midnight, the way to the great salle being led by twelve varlets, bearing twelve illumined torches. the great hall was crowded with knights and equerries, and those who would supped, saying nothing meanwhile. mostly game seemed to be the favourite viand, and the legs and wings only of fowl were eaten. music and chants were the invariable accompaniment, and the company remained at table until after two in the morning. little or nothing was drunk." froissart's description of the table is simple enough, but he develops into melodrama when he describes how the count killed his own son on the same night--a tragic ending indeed to a brilliant banquet. "'ha! traitor,' the comte said in the _patois_, as he entered his sleeping son's chamber; 'why do you not sup with us? he is surely a traitor who will not join at table.' and with a swift, but gentle drawing of his _coutel_ (knife) across his successor's throat he calmly went back to supper." truly, there were high doings when knights were bold and barons held their sway. they could combat successfully everything but treachery; but the mere suspicion of that prompted them to take time by the forelock and become traitors themselves. foix has a fête on the eighth and ninth of september each year, which is the delight of all the people of the country round about. its chief centre is the allées de vilote, a great tree-shaded promenade at the base of the château. it is brilliantly lively in the daytime, and fairy-like at night, with its trees all hung with great globes of light. a grand ball is the chief event, and the "quadrille officiel" is opened with the maire and the préfet at the head. after this comes _la fête générale_, when the happy southrons know no limit to their gaieties. there are three great shaded promenades, and in each is a ball with its attendant music. it is a pandemonium; and one has to be habituated to distinguish the notes of one blaring band from the others. the central park is reserved for the country folk, that on the left for the town folk, and that on the right for the nobility. this, at any rate, was the disposition in times past, and some sort of distinction is still made. in suburban foix, out on the road to pamiers, is the little village of st. jean-de-vergues. it has a history, of course, but not much else. it is a mere spot on the map, a mere cluster of houses on the _grande route_ and nothing more. in the days of the comte roger-bernard, however, when he would treat with the king of france, and showed his willingness to become a vassal, its inhabitants held out beyond all others for an "_indépendance comtale_." they didn't get it, to be sure, but with the arrival of henri quatre on the throne of france, the vassalage became more friendly than enforced. chapter xii the valley of the ariÈge the entire valley of the ariège, from the val d'andorre until it empties into the garonne at toulouse, contains as many historic and romantic reminders as that of any river of the same length in france. saverdun and mazères, between toulouse and pamiers, and perhaps fifty kilometres north of foix, must be omitted from no historical trip in these parts. saverdun sits close beside one of the few remaining columns which formerly marked the boundary between languedoc and gascogne, a veritable historical guide-post. it was one of the former fortified towns of the comté de foix. it is an unimportant and unattractive enough place to-day, if a little country town of france can ever be called unattractive, but it is the head centre of innumerable châteaux and country houses of other days hidden away on the banks of the ariège. mostly they are without a traceable history, but everything points to the fact that they played an important part in the golden days of chivalry, and such names as l'avocat-vieux, frayras, larlenque, madron, pauliac and le vigne--the oldtime manor of the family of mauvasin--will suggest much to any who know well their mediæval history. a diligence runs to-day from saverdun to mazères, the birthplace of the gorgeous and gallant gaston of foix, the hero of ravenna. mazères is a most ancient little town, built on the banks of a small river, the hers, and in the thirteenth century was surrounded by important fortifications, now mostly gone to build up modern garden walls. around the old ramparts has been laid out a series of encircling boulevards, which, as an expression of civic improvement, is far and away ahead of the squares and circles of new western towns in america. the encircling boulevard is one, if not the chief, charm of very many french towns. the ruins of the ancient château where was born the celebrated gaston are still seen, but nothing habitable is left to suggest the luxury amid which the youth was brought up. near by are the châteaux of nogarède and nassaure, each of them reminiscent of family names writ large in the history of foix. another dozen kilometres southward towards foix is pamiers. it is extremely probable that provincial france has changed its manners considerably since the revolution, but one can hardly believe of pamiers, to-day a delightful little valley town, all green and red and brown, that a traveller with a jaundiced eye once called it "an ugly, stinking, ill-built hole with an inn--_of sorts_," this is not the aspect of the city, nor does it describe the hôtel catala. pamiers owes its origin to the erection of a feudal château by comte roger ii on his return from the holy land, and which he called _apamea_ or _apamia_, in memory of his visit to _apamée_ in syria. evolution has readily transformed the name into pamiers. virtually, so far as its lands went, the place belonged to a neighbouring abbey, but as the monks were forced to call upon the comtes de foix to aid them in protecting their property from the comtes de carcassonne, the title rights soon passed to the ruling house of foix. in condé pillaged and sacked the city, and not a vestige now remains of its once proud château, save such portions as may have been built into and hidden in other structures. the site of the old château is preserved in the memory only by the name of castellat, which has been given to a singularly beautiful little park and promenade. it was in the thirteenth century that a bishop of pamiers, the legate of pope boniface viii, insulted philippe-le-bel in full audience of his parlément. the king, resentful, drove him from the council, and a bull of pope boniface delivered the bishop to an ecclesiastical tribunal. so far, so good, but boniface issued another bull demanding that the king of france submit to papal power in matters temporal as well as in matters spiritual. thus a pretty quarrel ensued, beginning with the famous letter from the king, which opened thus: "philippe, by the grace of god, king of the french, to boniface, the pretended pope, has little or no reason for homage...." pamiers itself is a dull little provincial cathedral town, lying low in a circle of surrounding hills. its churches are historically famous, and architecturally varied and beautiful, and the octagonal belfry of its cathedral ( ), in the style known as "_gothic-toulousain_," is particularly admirable. mirepoix, a dozen kilometres east of pamiers, is interesting. the seigneurie of mirepoix became an appanage of guy de levis, maréchal in the army of simon de montfort in the thirteenth century, but the legislators of revolutionary times, disregarding the usage of five centuries, coupled the control of the affairs of the region with those of foix, from which it had indeed been separated long ages before. mirepoix has, nevertheless, an individuality and a history quite its own. in it was made a bishopric, and was under the immediate control of the seneschalship of carcassonne. it had, by parent right, a certain attachment for foix, but by the popular consent of its people none at all; thus it lay practically under the sheltering wing of languedoc. the descendants of guy de levis were distinguished in the army, in diplomacy and held many public offices of trust at paris. under louis xv the last representative of the family was made a "duc, maréchal de france et gouverneur de languedoc." it was his cousin, françois de levis-ajac (from whom levis opposite quebec got its name), who became also maréchal de france, and illustrious by reason of his defence of canada. the château de montségur, in the valley of the hers, was the scene of the last stand of the albigeois tracked to their death by the inquisitors. just westward of foix is la bastide-de-serou, founded in , another of those ancient bastides with which this part of the midi was covered in mediæval times. to-day it is a mere nothing on the map, and not much more in reality, a dull, sad town, whose only liveliness comes from the exploitations of a company whose business it is to dig phosphate and bauxite from the hillsides round about. below la bastide is the château de bourdette, charmingly set about with vines in a genuine pastoral fashion. for a neighbour, not far away, there is also the château de rodes, set in the midst of a forest of mountain ash and quite isolated. either, if they are ever put on the market (for they are inhabitable to-day), would make a good retiring spot for one who wanted to escape the strenuous cares and hurly-burly of city life. south of foix is tarascon-sur-ariège, a name which has a familiar sound to lovers of fiction and readers of daudet. it was not at tarascon-sur-ariège where lived daudet's estimable bachelor, tartarin, but tarascon-sur-rhône in provence. daudet pulled the latter smug little town from obscurity and oblivion--even though the inhabitants said that he had slandered them--but nothing has happened that gives distinction to the tarascon of the pyrenees since the days when its seigneurs inhabited its château. [illustration: _tarascon-sur-ariège_] reminders of the town's mediæval importance are few indeed, and of its château only a lone round tower remains. there are two fortified gateways in the town still above ground, and two thirteenth-century church towers which take rank as admirable mediæval monuments. tarascon was one of the four principal fortified towns of the comté de foix, but suffered by fire, and for ever since has languished and dozed its days away, so that not even a passing automobile will wake its dwellers from their somnolence. tarascon has a fine and picturesque bridge over the ariège which intrudes itself in the foreground from almost every view-point. it is not old, however, but the work of the last century. here nearly everything is of the mouldy past and rusty with age and tradition, though there is a local iron industry something considerable in extent. the highroad from foix into andorra cuts the town directly in halves, and on either side are narrow, climbing streets running up the hillside from the river bank, but architectural or topographical changes have been few since the olden times. tarascon's population--though the place is the market town of the commune--has, in a hundred years, fallen from fifteen hundred to fourteen hundred and forty five, to give exact statistical figures, which are supposed not to lie. such observations in france really prove nothing, not even that signs of progress are wanting, nor that folk are less prosperous; they simply suggest that its cities and towns are self-satisfied and content, and are not ambitious to outdistance their neighbours in alleged civic improvements of doubtful taste--always at the tax-payers' expense. tarascon of itself might well be omitted from a pyrenean itinerary, but when one includes the neighbouring church of notre dame de sabart--a place of pilgrimage for the faithful of the whole region of the pyrenees on the eighth and fifteenth of september--the case were different. it is one of the sights and shrines of the region, as is that of stes. maries-de-la-mer in provence, or notre dame de laghat in the old comté de nice. the old abbey-fortress built here by charlemagne has disappeared, but the great romanesque church, with its three great naves, is avowedly built up from the remains of the former edifice. most of charlemagne's handiwork has vanished throughout his kingdom, but the foundations remain, here and there, and upon them has been built all that is best and most enduring in gaul. in the environs it was planned to make a great centre of affairs, but destiny and the comtes de foix ruled otherwise, though, curiously enough, up to the revolution the "_prétres de sabart_" ruled with an iron-bound supremacy many of the affairs of neighbouring parishes which were no business of theirs. it was church and state again in conflict, but the revolution finished that for the time being. like many of the _pardons_ of brittany, or the fête of les saintes maries in provence, the fête of notre dame de sabart commences as a religious function, but degenerates finally into a _fête profane_, with dancing, bull-baiting, and eating and drinking to the full. it is perhaps not a wholly immoral aspect that the fête takes on; certainly the participants do not act in any manner outrageous; but by contrast the thing is bound to be remarked by westerners, and probably misjudged and set down as something worse than it is. bull-baiting, for instance, sounds bad, but when one learns that it consists only of trying to snatch a ribbon rosette from between the bull's horns--for a prize of three francs for a blue one, and five francs for a red one, the bull carrying the red rosette being, supposedly, more vicious and savage than the others--the whole thing resolves itself into a simple, harmless amusement, far more dangerous for the amateur rosette picker than the bull, who really seems to enjoy it. vic dessos, just southwest of tarascon, is a quaint little mountain town, with the ruins of the château de montréal and a twelfth-century church as attractions for the traveller. the savage surroundings of vic, the denuded mountain peaks, and the deep valleys, bring tempests and thunderstorms in their train with astonishing violence and frequency. the clouds roll down like a pall, suddenly, at any time of the year, and as quickly pass away again. the phenomena have been remarked by many travellers in times past, and one need not fear missing it if he stays anything over three hours within a fifty-kilometre radius. if this offers anything of a sensation to one, vic dessos should be visited. you can arrive by diligence from tarascon, and can get comfortably in out of the rain at the excellent hôtel benazet. from tarascon to ax-les-thermes, still in the valley of the ariège, is twenty-five kilometres of superb roadway. all the way are strung out groups of dainty villages surrounded with cultivated country. here and there is an isolated mass of rock, a round watch-tower, or a ruined fortress, still possessing its crenelated walls to give an attitude of picturesqueness. there are innumerable little villages, a whole battery of them, linked together. at the end of this long peopled highway is an unpretentious mediæval country house, of that class known as a _gentilhommière_, of fawn-coloured stone, and still possessing its two flanking sentinel towers preserved in all the romantic grimness of their youth. at the junction of the ariège with the ascou, the oriège, the lauze and the foins is ax-les-thermes--the ancient _aquæ_ of the romans, and now a "thermal station" of the first rank. primarily ax is noted for its sulphurous waters, but for the lover of romantic days and ways its architectural and historical monuments are of the first consideration. the ruins of the château des maures, the ancient _castel maü_, are the chief of these monuments, while a neighbouring peak of rock bears aloft an enormous square tower surmounted by a statue of the virgin. there are sixty-one "sources" at ax-les-thermes giving a supply of medicinal waters. in part they were known to the romans, and in saint louis founded a hospital here for sick soldiers returning from the crusades. ax-les-thermes is not a howlingly popular watering place, but it is far more delightful than luchon, cauterets or bigorre, if quaintness of architecture, manners and customs, and modesty of hotel prices count for anything. the porte et pont d'espagne at ax is one of the most interesting architectural reminders of the past that one will find throughout the pyrenees. the bridge itself is but a diminutive span carrying a narrow roadway, which if not forbidden to automobile traffic should be, for the negotiating of this bridge and road, and the low, arched gateway at the end, will come very near to spelling disaster for any who undertakes it. throughout the neighbourhood one sees more than an occasional yawning pit's mouth. all through the comté de foix were exploited, and are yet to some extent, iron mines and forges, the latter known as _forges catalans_. roger-bernard, comte de foix, in gave the first charter to the mine-promotors of the neighbourhood, and the industry flourished in many parts of the comté until within a few generations, when, apparently, the supply of mineral was becoming exhausted. at luzenac, on the line between tarascon and ax, one turns off the road and in a couple of hours, if he is a good brisk walker, makes the excursion to the _château-à-pic_ of lourdat. there is a little village of the same name at the base of the rocky peak which holds aloft the château, but that doesn't count. without question this château de lourdat ranks as one of the most spectacular of all the pyrenean châteaux. its rank in history, too, is quite in keeping with its extraordinary situation, though nothing very startling ever happened within its walls. it dates from the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries, and outside that of the capital of foix was the most efficient stronghold the counts possessed. louis xiii demolished the edifice, in part, fearing its powers of resistance, and as a base from which some new project might be launched against him. accordingly, it is a ruin to-day, but in spite of this there are still left four pronounced lines of fortifications before one comes to the inner precincts of the château. for this reason alone it ranks as one of the most strongly defended of all contemporary feudal works. even the old _cité de carcassonne_ has but two encircling walls. the square donjon rising in the middle is in the best style of that magnificent royal builder, gaston phoebus, and is reminiscent of the works of foulques nerra in mid-france. there is also a great ogive-arched portal, or gateway, which made still another defence to be scaled before one finally entered within. in situation and general spectacular effect the château de lourdat takes a very near rank to that rock-perched château at le puy--"the most picturesque spot in the world." [illustration: _château de lourdat_] chapter xiii st. lizier and the couserans le pays de couserans lies in the valley of the salat, in the mid-pyrenees, hemmed in by foix, comminges and spain. its name is derived from the euskarans, an iberian tribe who were here on the spot in the dark ages. the history of the couserans is not known to anything like the extent of its neighbouring states, and is, accordingly, very little travelled by strangers from afar, save long-bearded antiquarians who come to study st. lizier, and regret that they were not obliged to come on donkey-back as of old, instead of by rail or automobile. the trouble with antiquarianism, as a profession, or a passion, is that it leads one to fall into a sleepy unprogressiveness which comports little with the modern means at hand for doing things. a photographic plate of a curious roman inscription is far more truthful and convincing than the most painstaking ruskinese pencil drawing ever limned, and a good "process-cut" of the broad strokes of some facile modern artist's brush is more typical of the characteristics of a landscape than the finest wood or steel engraving our grandfathers ever knew. if you like grand mountains, here in couserans is mont vallier, a superb giant of the central chain of the pyrenees. if it is sweet sloping valleys that you prefer, here they are in all their unspoiled wildness, for the railway actually does stop at st. girons. if an ice-cold mountain stream would please your fancy, there is the salat and its tributaries, flowing down by st. girons and st. lizier into the garonne. and, finally, if you wish to roll back the curtain of time you will see in old st. lizier a stage set with the accessories the reminiscent splendours of which will be scarcely equalled by any other feudal bourg of france. there is no region in the pyrenees of which less is known historically than the valley of the salat. a vicomte reigned here in the sixteenth century, but the seigneury was divided among different branches of the family soon after; and, if they had an archivist among them, he failed to preserve his documents along with the written history of the greater affairs of toulouse and foix. soon religious and civil troubles began to press and much of couserans gave allegiance to neighbouring feudalities, with the result that from the times of henri iv to those of the revolution, not an historical event of note has been chronicled. as one approaches st. girons, the metropolis of the couserans, by road from foix, he passes through the grotto of the mas d'azil, a great underground cave, through which runs a splendid carriage road. it is a work unique among the masterpieces of the road builders of france. this subterranean roadway has, perhaps, a length of half a kilometre and a width of from ten to thirty metres. it is not a stupendous work nor an artistic one, but a most curious one. this grotte de mas d'azil with its great domed gallery can only be likened to a byzantine cupola. this much is natural; but a roadway beneath this noble roof and a parapet alongside are the work of man. it gave shelter to two thousand persons under its damp vault during the wars of religion, in , when the neighbouring calvinists here defended themselves successfully against the catholic army of invaders. the cavern was practically a fortress, then, and an old atlas of the time shows its precise position as being directly behind a little fortified or walled town, the same which exists to-day. the roadway on this old map was marked, as now on the maps of the État-major, as running directly through the "roch du mas," and an engraved footnote to the plate states that the "_rivière passe dessoubs ceste montagne_." when richelieu triumphed against the protestants he razed the fortifications of mas d'azil, as he did others elsewhere. the little town is really delightfully disposed to-day, and has a quaint, old domed church and a fine shaded promenade which would make an admirable stage-setting for a mediæval costume play. at montjoie, on the road to foix, is a curious relic of the past. in the fourteenth century it was a famous walled town of considerable pretensions; but, to-day, a population of a hundred find it hard work to earn a livelihood. the square, battlemented walls of the little bourg are still in evidence, flanked with four tourelles at the corners and pierced with two gates. architecturally it is a mélange of romanesque and gothic. castelnau-durban lies midway between st. girons and foix, and possesses still, with some semblance to its former magnificence though it be a ruin, an old thirteenth-century château. at rimont, near by, is an ancient _bastide royale_, a sort of kingly rest-house or hunting lodge of olden days. the _bastide_ and the _cabanon_ are varieties of small country-houses, one or the other of which may be found scattered everywhere through the south of france, from the pyrenees to the alps. they are low-built, square, red-tiled, little houses, a sort of abbreviated italian villa, though their architecture is more spanish than italian. they are the punctuating notes of every southern french landscape. one cannot improve on an unknown french poet's description of the _bastide_:-- "monuments fastueux d'orgueil ou de puissance, hôtels, palais, châteaux, votre magnificence n'éblouit pas mes yeux, n'inspire pas mes chants. je ne veux célébrer que la maison des champs, la riante bastide...." st. girons has a particularly advantageous and attractive site at the junction of two rivers, the lez and the salat, and of four great transversal roadways. the traffic with the spanish pyrenean provinces has always been very great, particularly in cattle, as st. girons is the nearest large town in france to the spanish frontier. a century ago a traveller described st. girons as a "dull crumbling town," but he died too soon, this none too acute observer. it was near-by st. lizier that had begun to crumble, while st. girons itself was already prospering anew. to-day it has arrived. its definitive position has been established. its affairs augment continually; and it is one of the few towns in these parts which has added fifty per cent. to its population in the last fifty years. st. girons is without any remarkably interesting monuments, though the town is delightfully situated and laid out and there is real character and picturesqueness in its tree-lined promenade along the banks of the salat. originally st. girons was known as bourg-sous-ville, being but a dependency of st. lizier. to-day the state of things is exactly reversed. in the twelfth century it came to have a name of its own, after that of the apostle geronius. in the quartier villefranche, at st. girons, on the left bank of the salat, is the palais de justice, once the old château of the seigneurs, which architecturally ranks second to the old Église de st. vallier with its great romanesque doorway and its crenelated tower like that of a donjon. st. lizier, just out of st. girons on the st. gauden's road, is one of the mediæval glories which exist to-day only in their historic past. [illustration: _st. lizier_] its château, its cathedral and its old stone bridge are unfortunately so weather-worn as to be all but crumbled away; but they still point plainly to the magnificent record that once was theirs. once st. lizier was the principal city of couserans, a region which included all that country lying between the basins of the ariège and the garonne. in roman days it was an important strategic point and bore the imposing name of _lugdunum consoranorum_. later it became a bishopric and preserved all its prerogatives up to the revolution. the cloister of the twelfth and fourteenth-century cathedral has been classed as one of those _monuments historiques_ over which the french minister of beaux arts has a loving care. the château of other days was used also as an episcopal palace, but has undergone to-day the desecration of serving as a madhouse. at each step, as one strolls through st. lizier, he comes upon relics of the past, posterior even to the coming of christianity. on the height of the hill were four pagan temples, one each to the honour of minerva, mars, jupiter and janus. only a simple souvenir of the latter remains to complete the story of their former existence as set forth in the chronicles. there is a two-visaged "janus-head," discovered in , which is now in the old cathedral. to the north of st. lizier, a dozen kilometres or so, is the château de noailhan, dating from the fifteenth century, which is admirable from an architectural point of view. above st. girons, in the valley of the salat, is the quaint little city of seix. it is delightful because it has not been exploited; and if you do not mind a twenty-kilometre diligence ride from st. girons, if travelling by rail, it will give you a practical demonstration of a "rest-cure." the ruins of the châteaux de mirabel and la garde, close to the pont de la saule, recall the fact that charlemagne confided the guarding of these upper valleys of the couserans to the inhabitants of seix, and gave it the dignity of being called a "_ville royale_." in the vallée d'ustou one may see a real novelty in industry which the mountaineers have developed, and a monopoly at that. think of that, ye who talk of the uncommercialism of effete europe! [illustration: _trained bears of the vallée d'ustou_] it is the trade in dancing bears which the _montagnards_ of ustou control. not great, overbearing, ugly, unwholesome-looking animals like grizzlies, nor sleek pale polar bears, but spicy-looking, cinnamon-coloured little bears, as gentle apparently as a shaggy newfoundland, and frequently not much bigger. when one does grow out of his class, and rises head and shoulders above his fellows as he stands on his hind legs, he is a moth-eaten, crotchety specimen whose only usefulness is as a "come-on," or a preceptor, for the younger ones. there's nothing difficult about teaching a bear to dance. at least one so judges from watching the process here; but one needs patience, a will, and must not know fear, for even a dancing bear has wicked teeth and claws; and, his strength, if dormant, is dangerous if he once suspects he is master and not slave. above all the teeth are a great and valuable asset to a dancing bear. a bear who simply struts around and holds his muzzle in air is put in the very rear row of the chorus and called a _sal cochon_, but one who grins and shows his teeth has possibilities in his profession that the other will never dream of. the bears of the country fairs of france are all descended from the best families of ustou; and, whatever their lack of grace may be in the dance, certainly "_personne est plus amoureux dans la société_." all through couserans, particularly along the river valleys, are piquant little villages and smiling peasant folk, ever willing to pass the time of day with the stranger, or discuss the good old days before the railroad came to st. girons, and when st. lizier was looked upon as being a possible religious capital of the world. in the high valleys, above st. girons, in bethmale in particular, one finds still a reminiscence of the past in the picturesque costumes of the peasants not yet fallen before the advance of paris modes. the men wear short red or blue breeches, embroidered with arabesques down the sides, and, on fête-days, a big broad-brimmed hat, and a vest of embroidered velours, with great turned-up sabots, something like those of the ariège. the women have a sort of red bonnet coiffe, held tight around the head by a kind of diadem of ribbon, and a great white-winged cap tumbling to the shoulders. the skirt is short with very many pleats, and there is also the traditional sabot. this is the best description the author, a mere man, can give. high up in this same valley is the little village of biert, once the civil capital of the region, as was st. lizier the religious capital. to-day there are between three and four thousand people here. just above is the col de port, , metres high, leading into the watershed of the ariège and the comté de foix. chapter xiv the pays de comminges on the first steep slope of the pyrenees, bounded on one side by couserans and on the other by bigorre, is the ancient comté de comminges, the territory of the convènes, whose capital was _lugdunum convenarum_, established by pompey from the remains left by the legions of sertorius. under the roman emperors the capital became an opulent city, but to-day, known as st. bertrand de comminges, but seven hundred people think enough of it to call it home. it possesses a historic and picturesque site unequalled in the region, but luchon, montrejeau and st. gaudens have grown at the expense of the smaller town, and its grand old cathedral church and ancient ramparts are little desecrated by alien strangers. the view of comminges from a distance is uncommon and startling. one may see across a valley the outline of every rock and tree and housetop of the little town clustered about the knees of the swart, sturdy church of st. bertrand of comminges, one of the architectural glories of the mediæval builder. the mountains rise roundly all about and give a rough frame to an exquisite picture. what the precise date of the foundation of comminges may be no one seems to know, though st. jerome has said that it was a city built first by the _montagnards_ in b.c. this sacred chronicler called the founders "_brigands_," but authorities agree that he meant merely mountain dwellers. there is a profuse history of all this region still existing in the archives of the département, which ranks among the most important of all those of feudal times still preserved in france. only those of the seine (paris), normandy (rouen) and provence (marseilles and aix) surpass it. in autumn st. bertrand de comminges is an enchanted spot, with all the colours of the rainbow showing in its ensemble. it is grandly superb, the panorama which unrolls from the terrace of the old château, succeeding ranges of the pyrenees rising one behind the other, cloud or snow-capped in turn. st. bertrand, the ancient bishop's seat of comminges, with the fortress walls surrounding the town and towering cathedral is, in a way, a suggestion of st. michel's mount off the normandy coast, except there is no neighbouring sea. it is a townlet on a pinnacle. the constructive elements of the grim ramparts are roman, but mediæval additions and copings have been interpolated from time to time so that they scarcely look their age. in the _ville haute_ were built the cathedral and its dependencies, the château of the seigneurs, and the houses of the noblesse. beyond these, but within another encircling wall, were the houses of the adherents of the counts; while outside of this wall lived the mere hangers-on. this was the usual feudal disposition of things. eighty thousand people once made up the population of st. bertrand. and three great highways, to agen, to dax, and to toulouse, led therefrom. this was the epoch of its great prosperity. it is one of the most ancient roman colonies in aquitaine, and its history has been told by many chroniclers, one of the least profuse being st. gregoire, archbishop of tours. [illustration: _st. bertrand de comminges_] after a frightful massacre in the ninth century the city, its churches, its château and its houses became deserted. it was a century later that saint bertrand de l'isle, who had just been sanctified by his uncle the archbishop at auch, undertook to reconstruct the old city on the ruins of its past. he re-established first the fallen bishopric, and elected himself bishop. this gave him power, and he started forthwith to build the singularly dignified and beautiful cathedral which one sees to-day. comminges was made a comté in the tenth century, and the fief contained two hundred and eighty-eight towns and villages and nine castellanies, all owing allegiance to the comte de comminges. the episcopal jurisdiction varied somewhat from these limits, for it included twenty spanish communes beyond the frontier as well. one enters st. bertrand to-day by the great arched gateway, or porte majou, which bears over its lintel the arms of the cardinal de foix. as a grand historical monument st. bertrand commences well. narrow, crooked, little streets climb to the platform terrace above where sits the cathedral. it is a sad, grim journey, this mounting through the deserted streets, with here and there a gothic or renaissance column built helter-skelter into a house front, and the suggestion of a barred gothic window or a delicate renaissance doorway now far removed from its original functions. at last one reaches a great mass of tumbled stones which one is told is the ruin of the episcopal palace built by st. bertrand himself. but what would you? it is just this atmosphere of antiquity that one comes here to breathe, and certainly a more musty and less worldly one it would be difficult to find outside the catacombs of rome. another city gate, the porte cabirole, still keeps the flame of mediævalism alive; and, near by, is the most interesting architectural bit of all, a diminutive, detached tower-stairway, dating at least from the fifteenth century. it is an admirable architectural note, quite in contrast with all the grimness and sadness of the rest of the ruins. opposite the entrance to the walled city is a curious monumental gateway, better described as a _barbacane_, or perhaps a great watch-tower, through which one has still to pass. the upper town had no source of water supply, so a well was cut down in the rock, and this tower served as its protection. there is another gate, still, in the encircling city walls, the third, the porte de herrison. after this, in making the round, one comes again to the porte majou, by which one entered. rising high above all, on the top of the hill, as does the tower of the abbey on st. michel's mount, is the great, grim, newly coiffed tower of the cathedral of st. bertrand, one of the most amply endowed and luxuriously installed minor cathedrals in all france. its description in detail must be had from other works. it suffices here to state that the cathedral is of the town, and the town is of it to such an intermingled extent that it is almost impossible to separate the history of one from that of the other. the site of the cathedral is that of the old roman citadel. of the edifice built by st. bertrand nothing remains but the first arches of the nave and the great westerly tower, really more like a donjon tower than a church steeple. in fact it is not a steeple at all. the whole aspect of st. bertrand de comminges, the city, the cathedral and the surroundings is militant, and looks as though it might stand off an army as well as undertake the saving of men's souls. the altar decorations, sculptured wood and carved stalls of the interior of this great church are very beautiful. its like is not to be seen in france outside of amiens, albi and rodez. the cloister, too, is superb. the happenings of the city since its reconstruction were not many, save as they referred to religion. two bishops of the see became popes, clement v and innocent viii. the end of the sixteenth century brought the religious wars, and huguenots and calvinists took, and retook, the city in turn. with the revolution came times nearly as terrible; and, in the new order of things following upon the concordat, the bishopric was definitely suppressed. the few hundred inhabitants of to-day live in a city almost as dead as pompeii or les baux. the word comminges signifies an assembly inhabited by the convenæ in the time of cæsar. the inhabitants of feudal times were known as commingeois. "the commingeois are naturally warriors," wrote st. bertrand de comminges, and from this it is not difficult to follow the evolution of their dainty little feudal city, though difficult enough to find the reason for its practical desertion to-day. the comtes de comminges were an able and vigorous race, if we are to believe the records they left behind. there was one, loup-aznar, who lived in , who rode horse-back at the age of a hundred and five, and one of his descendants was married seven times. it was a comte de comminges, in the time of louis xiv, who was compared by that monarch to a great cannon ball, whose chief efficiency was its size. subsequently cannon balls, in france, came to be called "comminges." not a very great fame this, but still fame, and it was still for their warlike spirit that the commingeois were commended. jean bertrand, a one-time archbishop of comminges, became a cardinal of france upon the recommendation of henri ii. the king afterwards confessed that he was persuaded to urge his appointment by diane de poitiers, who was distributing her favours rather freely just at that time. the "mémoires du comte de comminges" was the title borne by one of the most celebrated works of fiction of the eighteenth century--a predecessor of the dumas style of romance. it is a work which has often been confounded by amateur students of french history with the "mémoires de philippe de commines," who lived in another era altogether. the former was fiction, pure and simple, with its scene laid in the little pyrenean community, while the latter was fact woven around the life of one who lived centuries later, in flanders. chapter xv bÉarn and the bÉarnais the béarnais and the basques have no historical monuments in their country anterior to the roman invasion, and for that matter roman monuments themselves are nearly non-existent. medals and coins have been occasionally found which tell a story neglected by the chroniclers, or fill a gap which would be otherwise unbridged, but in the main there is little remaining of a period so far remote, save infrequent fragmentary examples of arab or saracen art. of later times as well, the splendid building eras of gothic and renaissance architecture, there is but little that is monumental, or indeed remarkable for richness. architectural styles were strong and hardy, but most often they were a mélange of foreign forms, combined and presented anew by local builders. this makes for picturesqueness at any rate, so, taken as a whole, what the extreme southwest of france lacks in architectural magnificence it makes up for in quaintness and variety, and above all environment. the historic memories hovering around béarn and navarre are so many and varied that each will have to establish them for himself if any pretence at completeness is to be made, and then the sum total will fall far short of reality. all are dear to the béarnais themselves, from the legendary first sip of wine of the infant henri to the more real, but of still doubtful authenticity, tortoise-shell cradle. one absorbs them all readily enough, on the spot, or in any perusal of french history of the middle ages, and the names of the centulles, the gastons, the marguerites and the henris are ever occurring and recurring whichever by-path one takes. the province of béarn came to the centulle house in the ninth century, and passed by marriage (in ) to that of moncade, from which family it was transferred as a dowry, in , to bernard iii, comte de foix, on condition that béarn and foix should be united in perpetuity. gaston ix, a later descendant, by marrying elénore de navarre, in , united the two sovereignties, and catherine de foix, his sister, in turn made over her hereditary rights to her husband, comte de pentièvre et de périgord. in spite of this, béarn and the béarnais have always kept a distinct and separate identity from that of their allies and associates, and henri, prince de béarn, is as often thought of by the béarnais as henri, roi de navarre, even though the two titles belonged to one and the same person. the most brilliant epoch of béarn was that which began with henri ii and marguerite de valois. the old gothic castle at pau had become metamorphosed into a renaissance palace, and the most illustrious princess of her century drew thither the most reputed savants, litterateurs, and artists in the world, until the little pyrenean capital became known as the "_parnasse béarnais_." jean d'albret and catherine were succeeded by their eldest son, who became henri ii of navarre, and henri i of béarn. this prince was born in the month of august, , and was given the name of henri because it was the name of one of two faithful german pilgrims who passed by, en route to pay their devotions at the shrine of st. jacques de compestelle. the pilgrims were given hospitality by the king of navarre, and, because it was thought meet that the newborn prince should bear a worthy, even though humble name, he was baptized thus, though the proud countrymen of béarn did resent it. the circumstance is curiously worthy of record. béarn and navarre are above all other provinces of france proud indeed of the great names of history, and henri quatre and gaston phoebus were hung well on the line in the royal portrait galleries of their time. the first was more of a good ruler than a gallant chevalier, and the second possessed a regal personality which gave him a place almost as exalted as that of his brother prince. together they gave an indescribable lustre to the country of their birth. in erecting the statue of henri iv in the place royale at pau the béarnais rendered homage to the most illustrious son of béarn. without henri quatre one would not know that béarn had ever existed, for it was he who carried its name and fame afar. luchon, biarritz and pau are known of men and women of all nations as tourist places of a supreme rank, but the mind ever wanders back to the days of the gallant, rough, unpolished henri who went up to paris and, in spite of opposition, became the first bourbon king of the french after the valois line was exhausted. the béarnais--the mountaineers, as they were often contemptuously referred to at the capital--had a time of it making their way at paris, for there was a rivalry and jealousy against the southerners at paris which was only explainable by traditionary prejudice. when catherine de medici was making the first efforts to marry off her daughter marguerite to henri, prince of béarn, the feeling was at its height. it is curious to remark in this connection that the two queens of navarre by the name of marguerite were separated by only a half century of time, and both were to become famous in the world of letters, the first for her "heptameron" and the second for her "mémoires." the daughter of the medici would have none of the rough prince of béarn and told her mother so plainly, resenting the fact that he was a protestant as much as anything. "my daughter, listen," said the queen mother. "this marriage is indispensable for reasons of state. the king, your brother, and i myself, like the king of navarre as little as you do. that little kingdom in the high valleys of the pyrenees is a veritable thorn in our sides, but by some means or other we must pluck it out." "i shall go to nerac, in gascony," the queen mother continued, "to conclude a treaty with my sister, reine jeanne, the mother of henri de béarn. when an alliance is concluded between the queen of navarre and myself your marriage _shall_ take place." this was final! tradition--or perhaps it is a fact, though the average traveller won't remark it--says that the béarnais are an irascible and jealous people. proud they are, but there are no external evidences to show that they are more irascible or jealous than any other folk one meets in the french countryside. in the valleys the type is more delicate than that of the inhabitants of the mountain slopes, and throughout they are fervidly religious without being in the least fanatical. the same tradition that says the béarnais are rough, irascible spirits, says also that they seek for a summary personal vengeance rather than let the process of law take its course. there's something of philosophy in this, if it's true, but again it is reiterated there are no visible signs that the peasant of béarn is of the knife-drawing class of humanity to which belong sicilians and gypsies. the writer on more than one occasion has been stalled in the pyrenees while blazing an automobile trail up some valley road that he ought not to have attempted, and has found the béarnais a faithful, willing worker in helping him out of a hole (this is literal), and glad indeed to accept such an honorarium as was bestowed upon him. nothing of brigandage in this! the passing times change men and manners, and when it is recorded by the préfet of the basses-pyrénées that no department ever had so much law-business going on before in its courts, it shows at least that if the béarnais do have their little troubles among themselves, they are now a law-loving, law-abiding people. they are good livers and drinkers too, of much the same stamp as the gallant gascons, of whom dumas wrote. it was in a béarnais inn that the prince de conti saw the following couplet chalked upon the wall: "je m'apuelle robineau, et je bois mon vin sans eaux." whereupon he added: "et moi, prince de conti, sans eaux je le bois aussi." the sentiment is not very high; window-pane poetry and the like never does soar; but it is significant of the good living of past and present times in france, and in these parts in particular. the peasant dress of the béarnais is the same throughout all the communes. they wear a woollen head-dress, something like that of the basques. it is round, generally brown, and usually drawn down over the left ear in a most _dégagé_ fashion. the student of paris' latin quarter is a poor copy of a béarnais so far as his cap goes. in some parts of the plain below the foot-hills of the pyrenees,--around tarbes for example,--the cap is replaced by a little round hat, a sort of a cross between that sometimes worn by the breton, and a "bowler" of the vintage of ' . a long blouse-like coat, or jacket, is worn, and woollen breeches and gaiters, of such variegated colouring as appeals to each individual himself. in style the costume of the béarnais is national; in colour it is anything you like and individual, but mostly brown or gray of those shades which were the progenitors of what we have come to know as khaki. the shepherds and cattle guardians, indeed all of the inhabitants of the higher valleys and slopes, dress similarly, but in stuffs of much coarser texture and heavier weight, and wear quite as much clothing in summer as in the coldest days of winter. the béarnais speak a _patois_, or idiom, composed of the structural elements of celtic, latin and spanish. it is not a language, like the breton or the basque, but simply a hybrid means of expression, difficult enough for outsiders to become proficient in, but not at all unfamiliar in sound to one used to the expressions of the latin races. it is more like the provençal of the bouches-du-rhône than anything else, but very little like the romance tongue of languedoc. in cadence the béarnais _patois_ is sweet and musical, and the literature of the tongue, mostly pastoral poetry, is of a beauty approaching the epilogues of virgil. the _patois_ is the speech of the country people, and french that of the town dwellers. the educated classes may speak french, but, almost without exceptions, they know also the _patois_, as is the case in provence, where the _patois_ is reckoned no _patois_ at all, but a real tongue, and has the most profuse literature of any of the anciently spoken tongues of france. the following lines in the béarnais _patois_ show its possibilities. they were sung when jeanne de navarre was giving birth to the infant prince who was to become henri iv. _"nouste dame deü cap deü poün,_ _adyudat-me à d'acquest'hore;_ _pregats au dioü deü ceü_ _qu'emboulle bié delioura ceü,_ _d'u maynat qu'em hassie lou doun_ _tou d'inqu' aü haut dous mounts l'implore_ _adyudat-me à d'acquest'hore."_ the significance of these lines was that the queen prayed god that she might be delivered of her child without agony, but above all that it might be born a boy. béarn was fairly populous in the old days with a well distributed population, and the towns were all relatively largely inhabited. now, in some sections, as in the pays de baretous, for example, the region is losing its population daily, and in half a century the figures have decreased something like thirty per cent. like many other pyrenean valleys the population has largely emigrated to what they call "les amériques," meaning, in this case, south or central america, never north america. buenos ayres they know, also "la ville de mexique," but new york is a vague, meaningless term to the peasant of the french pyrenees. the _bastides_,--the country houses, often fortified châteaux with dependencies,--originally a béarnais institution, often remained stagnant hamlets or villages instead of developing into prosperous towns as they did elsewhere in the midi of france, particularly in gascogne and languedoc. many a time their sites had been chosen fortunately, but instead of a bourg growing up around them they remained isolated and backward for no apparent reason whatever. this has been the fate of labastide-ville-franche in béarn. one traces readily enough the outlines of the original _bastide_, but more than all else marvels at the great, four-storied donjon tower, planned by the father of the illustrious gaston phoebus of foix. this sentinel tower stood at the juncture of the principalities of béarn, bidache and navarre. gaston phoebus finished this great donjon with the same generous hand with which he endowed everything he touched, and it ranks among the best of its era wherever found. the _bastide_ and its dependencies grew up around the foot of this tower, but there is nothing else to give the little town--or more properly village--any distinction whatever; it still remains merely a delightful old-world spot, endowed with a charming situation. it calls itself a _rendezvous commercial_, but beyond being a cattle-market of some importance, thanks to its being the centre of a spider's web of roads, not many outside the immediate neighbourhood have ever heard its name mentioned, or seen it in print. in this same connection it is to be noted that all of béarn and the basque provinces are celebrated for their cattle. what arabia is to the horse, the pyrenean province of béarn, more especially the gracious valley of barétous, called the "jardin de béarn," is to the bovine race. another delightful, romantic corner of béarn is the valley of the aspe. urdos is its principal town, and here one sees ancient customs as quaint as one is likely to find hereabouts. urdos is but a long-drawn-out, one-street village along the banks of the gave d'aspe, but it is lively and animated with all the gaiety of the latin life. on a fête day omnibuses, country carts, donkeys, mules and even oxen bring a very respectable crowd to town, and there is much merry-making of a kind which knows not modern amusements in the least degree. continuous dancing,--all day and all night--interspersed with eating and drinking suffices. something of the sort was going on, the author and artist thought, when they arrived at five on a delightful june day; but no, it was nothing but the marriage feast of a local official, and though all the rooms of the one establishment which was dignified by the name of a hotel were taken, shelter was found at an humble inn kept by a worthy widow. she certainly was worthy, for she charged for dinner, lodging, and coffee in the morning, for two persons, but the small sum of six francs and didn't think the automobile, which was lodged in the shed with the sheep and goats and cows, was an excuse for sticking on a single sou. she was more than worthy; she was gentle and kind, for when a fellow traveller, a french alpinist, would find a guide to show him the way across the mountain on the morrow, and so on down into the val d'ossau, she expostulated and told him that the witless peasant he had engaged to show him the road had never been, to her knowledge, out of his own commune. her interrogation of the unhappy, self-named "guide" was as sharp a bit of cross-questioning as one sees out of court. "no, he knew not the route, but all one had to do was to go up the mountain first and then down the other side." all very well, but which other side? there were many ramifications. he was sure of being able to find his way, he said, but the frenchman became suspicious, and the bustling landlady found another who _did_ know, and would work by some other system than the rule of thumb, which is a very bad one for mountain climbing. this time the intrepid tourist found a real guide and not a mere "_cultivateur_," as the mistress of the inn contemptuously called the first. chapter xvi of the history and topography of bÉarn the old vicomté de béarn lay snug within the embrace of the pyrenees between foix, comminges and basse navarre. it was further divided into various small districts whose entities were later swallowed by the parent state, and still later by the royal domain under the rule of henry iv. there is one of these divisions, which not every traveller through the smiling valleys of the pyrenees knows either by name or history. it is the pays de bidache, formerly the principality of bidache, a tiny kingdom whose sovereign belonged to the house of grammont. this little principality was analogous to that of liechtenstein, lying between switzerland and austria. nothing remains but the title, and the grammonts, who figure in the noblesse of france to-day, are still by right princes de bidache, the eldest of the family being also duc de guiche. the château of the grammonts at bidache, which is a town of eight or nine hundred inhabitants, sits high on the hill overlooking the town. it is in ruins, but, nevertheless, there are some very considerable vestiges remaining of the glories that it possessed in the times of henri iv when the house of grammont was at its greatest height. in the little village church are the tombs of the sires de grammont, notably that of the maréchal antoine iii, who died in . bidache was made a _duché-pairie_ for the family de grammont, who, by virtue of their letters patent, were absolute sovereigns. the princes de bidache, up to the revolution, exercised all the rights of a chief of state, a curious latter day survival of feudal powers. tradition plays no small part even to-day in the affairs of the de grammonts, and the old walls of the family château could tell much that outsiders would hardly suspect. one fact has leaked out and is on public record. the sons born in the family are usually named agenor, and the daughters corisande, names illustrious in the golden days of béarnais history. throughout all this ancient principality of bidache the spirit of feudality has been effaced in these later republican days, a thing the kings of france and navarre and the parlément de pau could not accomplish. as in other parts of béarn and the basque provinces, it is now entirely swallowed by "_la nationalité française_." the duc de grammont still possesses the château de guiche, and the non-forfeitable titles of his ancestors; but, virtually, he is no more than any other citizen. just north from bidache, set whimsically on a hillside above the adour, is the feudal village of hastingues. it was an english creation, founded by john of hastings towards , for edward i. it is crowded to the very walls with curious old houses in which its inhabitants live with much more tranquillity than in feudal times. the fourteenth-century fortifications are still much in evidence. up the river from hastingues is peyrehorade, or in the old béarnais tongue pérorade, literally _roche-percée_. it is the metropolis of the region, and has a population of twenty-five hundred simple folk who live tight little lives, and not more than once in a generation get fifty miles away from their home. the vicomtes d'orthe fortified the city in olden times, and the ruined château-fort of aspremont on the hillside overlooking the river valley and the town tells the story of feudal combat far better than the restored and made-over edifices of a contemporary period. its pentagonal donjon of the sixteenth century is as grim and imposing a tower of its class as may be conceived. below, along the river bank, is the sixteenth-century château of montréal, its walls still standing flanked with grim, heavy, uncoiffed towers. it is all sadly disfigured, like its fellow on the heights; but the very sadness of it all makes it the more emphatic as a historical monument of the past. in the villages round about the dominant industry appears to be _sabot_-making, as in the basque country it is the making of _espadrilles_. each is a species of shoe-making which knows not automatic machinery, nor ever will. lying between basse navarre and béarn was the pays de soule, with mauléon and tardets as its chief centres of population. the district has a bit of feudal history which is interesting. it was a region of mediocre extent--not more than thirty leagues square--but with a political administration more complex than any gerrymandering administration has dared to conceive since. the district was divided into three _messageries_, haute soule, basse soule and arbailles. each of these divisions had at its head a functionary called a _messager_, and each was in turn divided again into smaller parcels of territory called _vics_, each of which had a sort of beadle as an official head, called a _degan_. popular election put all these officials in power, but the courts of justice were administered by the king of france, as heir to the kings of navarre. mauléon takes its name from the old château which in the local tongue was known as malo-leone. mainly it is of the fifteenth century. the interior court has been made over into a sort of formal garden, quite out of keeping with its former purpose, and by far the most impressive suggestions are received from the exterior. there are the usual underground prisons, or _cachots_, which the guardian takes pleasure in showing. from the _chemin de ronde_, encircling the central tower, one has a wide-spread panorama of the gave de mauléon as it rushes down from its cradle near the crest of the pyrenees. mauléon is the centre for the manufacture of the local pyrenean variety of footwear called _espadrilles_, a sort of a cross between a sandal and a moccasin, with a rope sole. the population who work at this trade are mostly spaniards from ronça, pamplona and in fact all aragon. this accounts largely for mauléon's recent increase in population, whilst most other neighbouring small towns have reduced their ranks. for this reason mauléon is a phenomenon. paris and the great provincial capitals, like marseilles, bordeaux and rouen, constantly increase in numbers, but most of the small towns of france either stand still, or more likely fall off in numbers. here at this little pyrenean centre the population has doubled since the franco-prussian war. the historical monuments of mauléon are not many, but the whole ensemble is warm in its unassuming appeal to the lover of new sensations. the lower town is simply laid out, has the conventional tree-bordered promenade of a small french town, its _fronton de pelote_ (the national game of these parts), a fine old renaissance house called the hôtel d'andurrian, and a cross-surmounted column which looks ancient, and is certainly picturesque. dumas laid the scene of one of his celebrated sword and cloak romances here at mauléon, but as the critics say, he so often distorted facts, and built châteaux that never existed, the scene might as well have been somewhere else. this is not saying that they were not romances which have been seldom, if ever, equalled. they were indeed the peers of their class. let travellers in france read and re-read such romances as the d'artagnan series, or even monte cristo, and they will fall far more readily into the spirit of things in feudal times than they will by attempting to digest carlylean rant and guide-book literature made in the british museum. dumas, at any rate, had the genuine spirit of the french, and with it well-seasoned everything he wrote. the story of agenor de mauléon, a real chevalier of romance and fable, is very nearly as good as his best. leaving tardets by the route d'oloron, one makes his way by a veritable mountain road. its rises and falls are not sharp, but they are frequent, and on each side rear small, rocky peaks and great _mamelons_ of stone, as in the val d'enfer of dante. montory is the first considerable village en route, and if french is to-day the national language, one would not think it from anything heard here offhand, for the inhabitants speak mostly basque. in spite of this, the inhabitants, by reason of being under the domination of oloron, consider themselves béarnais. montory, and the barétous near-by, have intimate relations with spain. all aragon and navarre, at least all those who trade horses and mules, come through here to the markets of gascogne and poitou. frequently they don't get any farther than oloron, having sold their stock to the béarnais traders at this point. the béarnais horse-dealers are the worthy rivals of the maquignons of brittany. the next village of the barétous is lanne, huddled close beneath the flanks of a thousand-metre peak, called the basse-blanc. lanne possesses a diminutive château--called a _gentilhommière_ in olden times, a name which explains itself. the edifice is not a very grand or imposing structure, and one takes it to be more of a country-house than a stronghold, much the same sort of a habitation as one imagines the paternal roof of d'artagnan, comrade of the mousquetaires, to have been. aramits, near by, furnished, with but little evolution, one of the heroic names of the d'artagnan romances, it may be remarked. if one cares to linger in a historic, romantic literary shrine, he could do worse than stay at aramits' hôtel loubeu. as for the inner man, nothing more excellent and simple can be found than the fare of this little country inn of a practically unknown corner of the pyrenees. a diligence runs out from oloron, fourteen kilometres, so the place is not wholly inaccessible. lanne's humble château, nothing more than a residence of a poor, but proud seigneur of gascogne, is an attractive enough monument to awaken vivid memories of what may have gone on within its walls in the past, and in connection with the neighbouring venerable church and cemetery suggests a romance as well as any dumb thing can. aramits is bereft of historical monuments save the mairie of to-day, which was formerly the chamber of the syndics who exercised judiciary functions here (and in the five neighbouring villages) under the orders of the États de béarn. another delightful and but little known corner of béarn is the valley of the aspe, leading directly south from oloron into the high valley of the pyrenees. the pas d'aspe is at an elevation of seventeen hundred metres. majestic peaks close in the valley and its half a dozen curious little towns; and, if one asks a native of anything so far away as pau or mauléon, perhaps fifty miles as the crow flies, he says simply: "_je ne sais pas! je ne peux pas savoir, moi, je passe tous mes jours dans la vallée d'aspe._" even when you ask the route over the mountain, that you may make your way back again by the val d'ossau, it is the same thing; they have never been that way themselves and are honest enough, luckily, not to give you directions that might put you off the road. directly before one is the pic d'anie, the king mountain of the chain of the pyrenees between the aspe and the sea to the westward. urdos is the last settlement of size as one mounts the valley. above, the carriage road continues fairly good to the frontier, but the side roads are mere mule paths and trails. one of these zigzags its way craftily up to the fort d'urdos or portalet. here the grim walls, with their machicolations and bastions and redoubts cut out from the rock itself, give one an uncanny feeling as if some danger portended; but every one assures you that nothing of the sort will ever take place between france and spain. this fortification is a very recent work, and formidable for its mere size, if not for the thickness of its walls. it was built in - , at the time when lyons, paris and other important french cities were fortified anew. war may not be imminent or even probable, but the best safeguard against it is protection, and so the spaniards themselves have taken pattern of the french and erected an equally imposing fortress just over the border at the col de lladrones, in the valley of the aragon, and still other batteries at canfranc. one of the topographic and scenic wonders of the world which belongs to béarn is the cirque de gavarnie, that rock-surrounded amphitheatre of waterfalls, icy pools and caverns. of the cirque de gavarnie, victor hugo wrote:-- "quel cyclope savant de l'âge évanoui, quel être monstrueux, plus grand que les idées, a pris un compas haut de cent mille coudées et, le tournant d'un doigt prodigieux et sûr, a tracé ce grand cercle au niveau de l'azur?" just below the "cirque" is the little village of gavarnie, which before the revolution was a property of the maltese order, it having previously belonged to the templars. vestiges of their former _presbytère_ and of their lodgings may be seen. a gruesome relic was formerly kept in the church, but it has fortunately been removed to-day. it was no less than a dozen bleached skulls of a band of unfortunate chevaliers who had been decapitated on the spot in some classic encounter the record of which has been lost to history. above gavarnie, on the frontier crest of the pyrenees, is the famous brèche de roland. one remembers here, if ever, his schoolboy days, and the "song of roland" rings ever in his ears. "high are the hills and huge and dim with cloud; down in the deeps and living streams are loud." the brèche de roland, with the col de roncevaux, shares the fame of being the most celebrated pass of the pyrenees. it is a vast rock fissure, at least three hundred feet in height. as a strategic point of defence against an invading army or a band of smugglers ten men could hold it against a hundred and a hundred against a thousand. at each side rises an unscalable rock wall with a height of from three to six hundred feet. the legend of this famous brèche is this: roland mounted on his charger would have passed the pyrenees, so giving a swift clean cut of his famous sword he clave the granite wall fair in halves, and for this reason the mountaineers have ever called it the brèche de roland. the tours de marboré were built in the old days to further defend the passage, a sort of a trap, or barbican, being a further defence on french soil. the aspect roundabout is as of a desert, except that it is mountainous, and the gray sterile juts of rock and the snows of winter--here at least five months of the year--might well lead one to imagine it were a pass in the himalayas. bordering upon béarn on the north is the ancient comté d'armagnac, a detached corner of the duché de gascogne, which dates its history from the tenth century. it passed to henri d'albret, king of navarre, in , and by reason of belonging to the crown of navarre came to france in due course. the ancient family of armagnac had many famous names on its roll: the first comte bernard, the founder; bernard ii, who founded the abbey of saint pé; gerard ii, successor of the preceding and a warrior as well; bernard iii, canon of sainte-marie d'auch; gerard iii, who united the comté de fezensac with armagnac; bernard v, who, in league with the comtes de toulouse, went up against saint louis; gerard v, who became an ally of the english king; bernard vi, who warred all his life with roger-bernard, comte de foix, on the subject of the succession of the vicomté de béarn, to which he pretended; jean ii, who terminated the quarrel with the house of foix; bernard vi, the most famous warrior of his race, whose name is written in letters of blood in the chronicles of the wars of the armagnacs and jean iv, who was called "comte par la grace de dieu." chapter xvii pau and its chÂteau [illustration: _pau and the surrounding country_] [illustration: _arms of the city of pau_] pau, _ville d'hiver mondaine et cosmopolite_, is the way the railway-guides describe the ancient capital of béarn, and it takes no profound knowledge of the subtleties of the french language to grasp the significance of the phrase. if pau was not all this it would be delightful, but what with big hotels, golf and tennis clubs, and a pack of fox-hounds, there is little of the sanctity of romance hanging over it to-day, in spite of the existence of the old château of henri iv's bourbon ancestors. the life of pau, in every phase, is to-day ardent and strenuous, with the going and coming of automobile tourists and fox hunters, semi-invalids and what not. in the gallant days of old, when princes and their followers held sway in the ancient béarnaise capital, it was different, quite different, and the paternal château of the d'albrets was a great deal more a typical château of its time than it has since become. if the observation is worth anything to the reader "_pau est la petite nice des pyrénées_." this is complimentary, or the reverse, as one happens to think. pau's attractions are many, in spite of the fact that it has become a typical tourist resort. the château itself, even as it stands in its reconstructed form, is a pleasing enough structure, as imposingly grand as many in touraine. this palace of kings and queens, which saw the birth of the béarnais prince who was to reign at paris, has been remodelled and restored, but, in spite of this, it still remains the key-note of the whole gamut of the charms of pau, and indeed of all béarn. the revolution and louis philippe are jointly responsible for much of the garish crudity of the present arrangement of the château de pau. the mere fact that the edifice was a prison and a barracks from to accounts for much of the indignity thrust upon it, and of the present furnishings--always excepting that exceedingly popular tortoise-shell cradle--only the wall tapestries may be considered truly great. in spite of this, the memories of the d'albrets, of henri iv, of gaston, and of the "marguerite des marguerites" still hang about its apartments and corridors. the vicomte de béarn who had the idea of transferring his capital from morlaas to pau was a man of taste. at the borders of his newly acquired territory he planted three _pieux_ or _pau_, and this gave the name to the new city, which possessed then, as now, one of the most admirable scenic situations of france, a terrace a hundred feet or more above the gave, with a mountain background, and a low-lying valley before. the english discovered pau as early as , fifty years before lord brougham discovered cannes. it was arthur young, that indefatigable traveller and agriculturalist, who stood as godfather to pau as a tourist resort, though truth to tell he was more interested in industry and turnip-growing than in the butterfly doings of "_les éléments étrangers_" in french watering places of to-day. throngs of strangers come to pau to-day, and its thirty-five thousand souls make a living from the visitors, instead of the ten thousand of a century and a quarter ago. the people of pau, its business men at any rate, think their city is the chief in rank of the basses-pyrénées. figures do not lie, however, and the local branch of the banque de france ranks as number sixty-five in volume of business done on a list of a hundred and twenty-six, while bayonne, the real centre of commercialism south of bordeaux, is numbered fifteen. in population the two cities rank about the same. the real transformation of pau into a city of pleasure is a work, however, of our own time. it was in the mid-nineteenth century that the capital of béarn came to be widely known as a resort for semi-invalids. just what degree of curative excellencies pau possesses it is not for the author of this book to attempt to state, but probably it is its freedom from cold north and east winds. otherwise the winter climate is wintry to a certain degree, and frequently damp, but an appreciable mildness is often to be noted here when the riviera is found in the icy grip of the rhône valley _mistral_. the contrast of the new and the old at pau is greatly to be remarked. there are streets which the french describe as _neuves et coquettes_, and there are others grim, mossy and as dead as pompeii, as far as present-day life and surroundings are concerned. formerly the river hédas, or more properly a rivulet, filled the moat of the château of the kings of navarre, but now this is lacking. the château has long been despoiled of its furnishings of the time of henri iv and his immediate successors. nothing but the mere walls remain as a souvenir of those royal days. the palatial apartments have been in part destroyed, and in part restored or remodelled, and not until napoleon iii were steps taken to keep alive such of the mediæval aspect as still remained. pau, with all its charm and attraction for lovers of history and romance, has become sadly over-run of late with diversions which comport little enough with the spirit of other days. fox-hunting, golf tournaments and all the anglo-saxon importations of a colony of indulgent visitors from england and america are a poor substitute for the jousting tournaments, the _jeux de paume_ and the pageants of the days of the brave king of navarre. still pau, its site and its situation, is wonderfully fine. pau is the veritable queen of the pyrenean cities and towns, and mingles all the elements of the super-civilization of the twentieth century with the sanctity of memories of feudal times. the palais d'hiver shares the architectural dignity of the city with the château, but a comparison always redounds to the credit of the latter. below the terrace flows the gave de pau, and separates the verdant faubourg of jurançon from the parent city. the sunlight is brilliant here, and the very atmosphere, whether it be winter or summer, is, as jean rameau puts it, like the laughter of the béarnais, scintillating and sympathetic. the memories of the past which come from the contemplation of the really charming historical monuments of pau and its neighbourhood are admirable, we all admit, but it is disconcerting all the same to read in the local paper, in the café, as you are taking your appetizer before dinner, that "the day was characterized with fine weather and the pau fox-hounds met this morning at the poteau d'escoubes, some twenty kilometres away to the north. a short run uncovered a fox in a spinny, and in time he was 'earthed' near lascaveries!" this is not what one comes to the south of france to find, and the writer is uncompromisingly against it, not because it is fox-hunting, but because it is so entirely out of place. the early history of the city of pau is enveloped in obscurity. some sort of a fortified residence took shape here under centulle iv in the ninth century, and this noble vicomte was the first to be freed of all vassalage to the duc d'aquitaine, and allowed the dignity of independent sovereignty. on the occasion when the bishop amatus of oloron, the legate of the pope gregory vii, came to confer upon centulle the title of comte, in place of that of vicomte which he had inherited from his fathers, a ceremony took place which was the forerunner of the brilliant gatherings of later days. says the chronicler: "the drawbridge of the château lowered before the papal legate, and as quickly as possible he delivered himself of the _mandement_ of the pope, a document which meant much to the future history of béarn." pau owes its fame and prosperity to the building of a château here by the béarnais princes. to shelter and protect themselves from the incursions of the saracens a fortress-château was first built high on a plateau overlooking the valley of the ossau. possession was taken of the ground necessary for the site by a bargain made with the inhabitants, whereby a certain area of paced-off ground was to be given, by the original dwellers here, in return for the privilege of always being present (they and their descendants) at the sittings of the court. just who built or planned the present château de pau appears to be doubtful. of course it is not a thoroughly consistent or homogeneous work; few mediæval châteaux are. that master-builder gaston certainly had something to do with its erection, as froissart recounts that when this prince came to visit the comte d'armagnac at tarbes he told his host that "_il y a faisait édifier un moult bel chastel en la ville de pau, au dehors la ville sur la rivière du gave_." the great tower is, as usual, credited to gaston, and it is assuredly after his manner. old authors nodded, and sometimes got their facts mixed, so one is not surprised to read on the authority of another chronicler of the time, the abbé d'expilly, that "the château de pau was built by alain d'albret during the regency of henri ii, towards ." favyn, in his "histoire de navarre," says, "_henri ii fit bastir à pau une maison assez belle et assez forte selon l'assiette du pays_." these conflicting statements quite prepare one to learn that michaud in his "marguerite de valois" says that that "friend of the arts and humanity" built the "palais de pau." these quotations are given as showing the futility of any historian of to-day being able to give unassailable facts, even if he goes to that shelter under which so many take refuge--"original sources." one learns from observation that pau's château, like most others of mediæval times, is made up of non-contemporaneous parts. it is probable that the original edifice served for hardly more than a country residence, and that another, built by the vicomtes de béarn, replaced it. this last was grand and magnificent, and with various additions is the same foundation that one sees to-day. it was in the fifteenth century that the present structure was completed, and the gathering and grouping of houses without the walls, all closely hugging the foot of the cliff upon which stood the château, constituted the beginnings of the present city. it was in that gaston iv, comte de foix, and usurper of the throne of navarre, established his residence at pau, and accorded his followers, and the inhabitants of the immediate neighbourhood, such privileges and concessions as had never been granted by a feudal lord before. a parlément came in time, a university, an academy of letters and a mint, and pau became the accredited capital of béarn. [illustration: château de pau] the development of pau's château is most interesting. it was the family residence of the reigning house of béarn and navarre, and the same in which henri iv first saw light. in general outline it is simple and elegant, but a ruggedness and strength is added by the massive donjon of gaston phoebus, a veritable feudal pile, whereas the rest of the establishment is built on residential lines, although well fortified. other towers also give strength and firmness to the château, and indeed do much to set off the luxurious grace of the details of the main building. on the northeast is the tour de montauset of the fourteenth century, and also two other mediæval towers, one at the westerly and the other at the easterly end. the tour neuve, by which one enters, does not belie its name. it is a completely modern work. numerous alterations and repairs have been undertaken from time to time, but nothing drastic in a constructive sense has been attempted, and so the _cour d'honneur_, by which one gains access to the various apartments, remains as it always was. within, the effect is not so happy. there are many admirable fittings and furnishings, but they have been put into place and arranged often with little regard for contemporary appropriateness. this is a pity; it shows a lack of what may be called a sense of fitness. you do not see such blunders made at langeais on the loire, for instance, where the owner of the splendid feudal masterpiece which saw the marriage of anne de bretagne with charles viii has caused it to be wholly furnished with _contemporary_ pieces and decorations, _or excellent copies of the period_. better good copies than bad originals! the châteaux of france, as distinct from fortified castles merely, are what the french classify as "_gloires domestiques_," and certainly when one looks them over, centuries after they were built, they unquestionably do outclass our ostentatious dwellings of to-day. there are some excellent gobelin and flemish tapestries in the château de pau, but they are exposed as if in a museum. still no study of the work of the tapestry weavers would be complete without an inspection and consideration of these examples at pau. the chief "curiosity" of the château de pau is the tortoise-shell cradle of henri of béarn. it is a curio of value if one likes to think it so, but it must have made an uncomfortable sort of a cradle, and the legend connected with the birth of this prince is surprising enough to hold one's interest of itself without the introduction of this doubtful accessory. however, the recorded historic account of the birth of henri iv is so fantastic and quaint that even the tortoise-shell cradle may well be authentic for all we can prove to the contrary. there is a legend to the effect that henri d'albret, the grandfather of henri iv, had told his daughter to sing immediately an heir was born: "_pour ne pas faire un enfant pleureux et rechigné_." the devoted and faithful jeanne chanted as she was bid, and the grandfather, taking the child in his arms and holding it aloft before the people, cried: "_ma brebis a enfanté un lion._" the child was then immediately given a few drops of the wine of jurançon, grown on the hill opposite the château, to assure a temperament robust and vigorous. as every characteristic of the infant prince's after life comported well with these legendary prophecies, perhaps there is more truth in the anecdote than is usually found in mediæval traditions. another account has it that the first nourishment the infant prince took was a "goutte" (_gousse_) of garlic. this was certainly strong nourishment for an infant! the wine story is easier to believe. the "chanson béarnais" sung by queen jeanne on the birth of the infant prince has become a classic in the land. as recalled the béarnais _patois_ opened thus:-- "nostre dame deou cap deou poun, ajouda me a d'aqueste hore." in french it will be better understood:-- "notre dame du bout du pont, venez à mon aide en cette heure! priez le dieu du ciel qu'il me délivre vite; qu'il me donne un garçon. tout, jusqu'au haut des monts, vous implore. notre dame du bout du pont, venez à mon aide en cette heure." it was in the little village of billère, on the lescar road, just outside the gates of pau, that the infant henri was put _en nourrice_. the little prince de viane, the name given the eldest son of the house of navarre, was later confided to a relative, suzanne de bourbon, baronne de miossens, who lived in the mountain château of coarraze. the education of the young prince was always an object of great solicitude to the mother, jeanne d'albret. for instructor he had one la gaucherie, a man of austere manners, but of a vast erudition, profoundly religious, but doubtful in his devotion to the pope and church of rome. the child henri continued his precocious career from the day when he first became a _bon vivant_ and a connoisseur of wine. by the age of eleven he had translated the first five books of cæsar's commentary, and to the very end kept his literary tastes. he planned to write his mémoires to place beside those of his minister, sully, and the work was actually begun, but his untimely death lost it to the world. another dramatic scene of history identified with the pau château of the d'albrets was when henri iv took his first armour. as he was out-growing the early years of his youth, the queen of navarre commanded the appearance at the palace of all the governors of the allied provinces. the investiture was a romantic and imposing ceremony. the boy prince was given a suit of coat armour, a shield and a sword. a day on horseback, clad in full warrior fashion, was to be the beginning of his military education. all the world made holiday on this occasion; for three days little was done by the retainers save to sing praises and shout huzzas for their king to be. for the seigneurs and their ladies there were comedies and dances, and for all the people of gascogne who chose to come there were great fêtes, cavalcades and open-air amusements on the plain of pau below the castle. the culmination of the fête was on the evening of the third day. the young prince of navarre, dressed as a simple béarnais, with only a gold fleur-de-lis on his _béret_, as a mark of distinction, came out and mingled with his people. as a finishing ceremony the prince took again his sword, and, amid the shouts and acclamations of the populace, plunged it to the hilt in a tall _broc_, or jug, of wine, and raised it--as if in benediction--first towards the people, then towards the army, then towards the ladies of the court--as a sign of an unwritten pact that he would ever be devoted to them all. the sun fell behind the crests of the pyrenees just as this ceremony was finished, and the youth, saluting the smiling king and queen,--his father and mother--left with his "_gens d'armes pour faire le tour de sa gascogne_." the memory of henri quatre remains wondrous vivid in the minds of all the béarnais, even those of the present day, and peasant and bourgeois alike still talk of "_notre henri_," when recounting an anecdote or explaining the significance of some historic spot. well, why not! henri lived in a day when men made their mark with a firmer, surer hand, than in these days of high politics and socialistics. the béarnais never forget that henri, prince de béarn--the rough mountaineer, as he was called at paris--was a joyous compatriot, a lover and a poet, and that he knew the joys of passion and the sorrows of suffering as well as any man of his time. the following old chanson, sung to-day in many a peasant farmhouse of béarn proves this:-- "le coeur blessé, les yeux en larmes, ce coeur ne songe qu'à vos charmes, vous êtes mon unique amour; près de vous je soupire, si vous m'aimez à votre tour, j'aurai tout ce que je désire...." under the reign of louis xiv the inhabitants of pau would have erected a statue in honour of the memory of the greatest of all the béarnais--of course henri iv--but the insistent louis would have none of it, and told them to erect a statue to the reigning monarch or none at all. nothing daunted the béarnais set to work at once and an effigy of louis xiv rose in place of henri the mountaineer, but on the pedestal was graven these words: "_a ciou qu'ils l'arrahil de nouste grand enric._" "to him who is the grandson of our great henri." one of the great names of pau is that of jean de gassion, maréchal de france. he was born at pau in . at rocroi the grand condé embraced him after the true french fashion, and vowed that it was to him that victory was due. he was full of wise saws and convictions, and proved himself one of france's great warriors. the following epigrams are worthy of ranking as high as any ever uttered:-- "in war not any obstacle is insurmountable." "i have in my head and by my side all that is necessary to lead to victory." "i have much respect, but little love for the fair sex." (he died a _célibataire_.) "my destiny is to die a soldier." "i get not enough out of life to divide with any one." this last expression was gallant or ungallant, selfish or unselfish, according as one is able to fathom it. at any rate de gassion was a great soldier and served in the calvinist army of the duc de rohan. the following "_mot_" describes his character: "will you be able to follow us?" asked de rohan at the battle of the pont de camerety in gascogne. "what is to hinder?" demanded the future maréchal of france, "you never go too fast for us, except in retreat." he recruited a company of french for the aid of gustavus adolphus in his campaign in upper saxony, and presented himself before that monarch on the battle field with the following words: "sire, i come with my frenchmen; the mention of your name has induced them to leave their homes in the pyrenees and offer you their services...." at the battle of leipzig ( ) gassion and his men charged three times and covered themselves with glory. the "histoire de maréchal de gassion," by the abbé de pure, and another by his almoner duprat, an "eloge de gassion" (appearing in the eighteenth century), are most interesting reading. de gassion it would seem was one of the chief anecdotal characters of french history. another of the shining lights of pau (though he was born at gan in the suburbs) was pierre de marca, an antiquarian whose researches on the treasures of béarn have made possible the writings of hundreds of his followers. he was born in pau a few years before henri iv, and died an archbishop of paris in . his epitaph is a literary curiosity. "ci-git monseigneur de marca, que le roi sagement marqua pour le prelate de son eglise, mais la mort qui le remarqua et qui se plait à la surprise tout aussitôt le demarqua." chapter xviii lescar, the sepulchre of the bÉarnais the antique city of beneharnum is lost in modern lescar, though, indeed, lescar is far from modern, for it is unprogressive with regard to many of those up-to-date innovations which city dwellers think necessary to their existence. lescar was the religious capital of béarn, and its bishops were, by inheritance, presidents of the parliament and seigneurs of their diocesan city. lescar is by turns gay and sad; it is gay enough on a sunday or a fête day, and sad and diffident at all other times, save what animation may be found in its market-place. architecture rises to no great height here, and, beyond the picturesque riot of moss-grown roof-tops and tottering walls, there is not much that is really remarkable of either gothic or renaissance days. the ancient cathedral, with a weird triangular façade, belongs to no school, not even a local one, and is unspeakably ugly as a whole, though here and there are gems of architectural decoration which give it a certain fantastic distinction. lescar is but a league distant from pau, but not many of those who winter in that delightful city ever come here. "the normans razed it in , when it was rebuilt on the side of a hill in the midst of a wood." this was the old chronicler's description, and it holds good to-day. usually travellers find the big cities like pau or tarbes so irresistible that they have no eye for the charm of the small town. the country-side they like, and the cities, and yet the dull, little, sleepy old-world towns whose names are never mentioned in the newspapers, and often nowhere but on the road maps of the automobilist, are possessed of many pleasing attributes for which one may look in vain in more populous places. lescar has some of these, one of them being its hôtel uglas. lescar is a good brisk hour and a half's stroll from pau, the classic constitutional recommended by the doctors to the semi-invalids who are so frequently met with at pau, and is a humble, dull bourgade even to-day, sleepy, rustic, and unprogressive, and accordingly a delightful contrast to its ostentatious neighbour. poor lescar, its fall has been profound since the days when it was the beneharnum of the romans. its bishopric has been shredded into nonentity, and its ancient cathedral disfigured by interpolated banalities until one can hardly realize to-day that it was once a metropolitan church. st. denis, as the old cathedral of lescar is named, was once the royal burial-place of béarn, as was its namesake just outside of paris the sepulchre of the kings of france. here the béarnais royalties who were kings and queens of navarre came to their last long slumbers. side by side lie the centulles and the d'albrets. the cathedral sits upon a terrace formed of the ancient ramparts of the old city, and right here is the chief attraction and charm of lascarris, "_la ville morte_." lascarris, as it was known before it became simply lescar, was built up anew after the primitive city had been destroyed by the saracens in . this rampart terrace has one great architectural monument, formerly a part of the ancient fortress, a simple, severe tower in outline, but of most complicated construction, built up of bands of brick and stone in a regular building-block fashion, a caprice of some local builder. through this tower one gains access to the cathedral, which shows plainly how the affairs of church and state, and war and peace, were closely bound together in times past. this little brick and stone tower is the only remaining fragment of the fourteenth-century fortress-château known as the fort de l'esquirette. within the cathedral were formerly buried jeanne d'albret, catherine de navarre, marguerite de valois, and other béarnais sovereigns, but no monuments to be seen there to-day antedate the seventeenth century, those of the béarnais royalties having been destroyed either by the calvinists or later revolutionists. catherine of béarn was buried here in the cathedral of lescar in spite of her wish that she should be entombed at pamplona beside the kings of navarre. the ceremony of the funeral of marguerite de navarre is described in detail in a document preserved in the bibliothèque nationale at paris. it recounts that among those present were the kings of navarre and france, the duchesse d'estonteville, the duc de montpensier, m. le prince, the duc de nevers, the duc d'aumale, the duc d'Étampes, the marquis du mayne, m. de rohan and the duc de vendomois, with the vicomte de lavedan as the master of ceremony. as is still the custom in many places in the pyrenees, there was a great feasting on the day of the interment, the chief mourners eating apart from the rest. charles de sainte-marthe wrote the funeral eulogy, in latin and french, and ronsard, the prince of poets, wrote an ode entitled "hymne triomphale." three nieces of jane seymour, wife of henry viii of england, composed four _distiques_, in latin, greek, italian, and french, entitled "tombeau de marguerite de valois, reine de navarre." valentine d'arsinois gave publicity to this work in the following words: "musarum decima, et charitum quarta, inclyta regum et soror et conjux margaris illa jacet." this in french has been phrased thus: "soeur et femme de roys, la reine marguerite des muses la dixième et leur plus cher souci et la quatrième charité la reine du savoir gît sous ce marbre-ci." throughout the valley of the gave d'ossau, and from lescar all the way to lourdes on the gave de pau, the chief background peak in plain view is always the pic du midi d'ossau. this the peasant of the neighbourhood knows by no other name than "_la montagne_." "what mountain?" you ask, but his reply is simply "_je ne sais pas--la montagne._" it should not be confounded with the pic du midi de bigorre. between pau and lescar, lying just northward of the gave, is the last vestige of an incipient desert region called to-day la lande de pont-long. it now blossoms with more or less of the profusion which one identifies with a land of roses, but was formerly only a pasture ground for the herders of the val d'ossau, who, by a certain venturesome spirit, crossed the gave de pau at some period well anterior to the foundation of the city of pau and thus established certain rights. it was these sheep and cattle raisers who ceded the site of the new city of pau to the vicomtes de béarn. henri ii de navarre, grandfather of henri iv, would have fenced off these ossalois, but every time he made a tentative effort to build a wall around them they rose up in their might and tore it down again. in vain the béarnais of the valley tried to preëmpt the rights of the _montagnards_, and willingly or not they perforce were obliged to have them for neighbours. this gave saying to the local diction "_en despicit deus de pau, lou pounloung ser sera d'aussau_." intrigue, feudal warfare and oppression could do nothing towards recovering this preempted land, and only a process of law, as late as , finally adjudicated the matter, when the ossalois were bound by judgment to give certain reciprocal rights in their high valleys to any of the lowland population who wanted to pasture their flocks in the mountains for a change of diet. it is a patent fact that the sheep of all the midi of france thrive best in the lowlands in winter and in the mountains in summer. it is so in the pyrenees and it is so in the basses-alpes, which in summer furnish pasturage for the sheep of the crau and the camargue, even though they have to march three hundred or more kilometres to arrive at it. closely allied with lescar is the ancient capital of béarn, morlaas. after the destruction of lescar by the normans morlaas became the residence of the vicomtes de béarn. its history is as ancient and almost as important as that of its neighbour. the romans here had a mint and stamped money out of the copper they took from the neighbouring hills. the visigoths, the franks, the ducs de gascogne and the vicomtes de béarn all held sway here for a time, and the last built a pretentious sort of an establishment, the first which the town had had which could be dignified with the name of a palace. this palace was called la fourquie and has since given its name to a hill outside the proper limits of the present town, still known as vieille fourquie. morlaas is a mere nonentity to-day, though it was the capital of béarn from the time of the destruction of lescar by the saracens until the thirteenth century, when the vicomtes removed the seat of the government to pau. the town is practically one long, straight _grand rue_, with only short tributary arteries running in and from the sides. the Église sainte foy at morlaas is a real antiquity, and was founded by centulle, the fourth vicomte, in . there are still vestiges of the ancient ramparts of the city to be seen, and the great market held every fifteen days, on the place de la fourquie, is famous throughout béarn. altogether morlaas should not be omitted from any neighbouring itinerary, and the local colour to be found on a market day at morlaas' snug little hôtel des voyageurs will be a marvel to those who know only the life of the cities. morlaas is one of the good things one occasionally stumbles upon off the beaten track; and it is not far off either; just a dozen kilometres or so northwest of pau. morlaas' importance of old is further enhanced when one learns that the measure of morlaas was the basis for the measure used in the wine trade of all gascony, and the same is true of the _livre morlan_, and the _sou morlan_, which were the monetary units of gascony and a part of languedoc. chapter xix the gave d'ossau on ascending the gave d'ossau, all the way to laruns and beyond, one is impressed by the beauty of the snow-crested peaks before them, unless by chance an exceptionally warm spell of weather has melted the snow, which is quite unlikely. you can name every one of the peaks of the pyrenees with the maps and plans of joanne's guide, but you will glean little specific information from the peasants en route, especially the women. "_attendez, monsieur, je vais demander à mon mari_," said a buxom, lively-looking peasant woman when questioned at laruns. her "mari" came to the rescue as well as he was able. "_ma foi, je ne sais pas trop_," he replied, "_mais peut être_....;" there was no use going any further; all he knew was that the mountains were the pyrenees, and were the peaks high or low, to him they were always "les pyrénées" or "_la montagne_." not far from pau, on mounting the gave d'ossau, is gan, one of the thirteen ancient cities of béarn. in a modest castle flanked by a tiny pepper-box tower pierre de marca, the historian of béarn, first saw the light, some years after the birth of henri iv. a little further on, but hemmed in among the high mountains between the valley of the ossau and the pau, is a tiny bourg bearing the incongruous name of bruges. it is not a simple coincidence in name, with the well-known belgium port, because the records show that this old feudal _bastide_ was originally peopled by exiled flemings, who gave to it the name of one of their most glorious cities. the details of this foreign implantation are not very precise. the little bourg enjoyed some special privileges, in the way of being immune from certain taxes, up to the revolution. there are no architectural monuments of splendour to remark at bruges, and its sole industries are the manufacture of _espadrilles_, or rope-soled shoes, and _chapelets_, the construction of these latter "objects of piety" being wholly in the hands of the women-folk. [illustration: _espadrille-makers_] like many a little town of the pyrenees, laruns, in the val d'ossau, is a reminder of similar towns in the savoian alps-barcelonnette, for instance. they all have a certain grace and beauty, and are yet possessed of a hardy character which gives that distinction to a mountain town which one lying in the lowlands entirely lacks. here the houses are trim and well-kept, even dainty, and the church spire and all the dependencies of the simple life of the inhabitants speak volumes for their health and freedom from the annoyances and cares of the big towns. laruns merits all this, and is moreover more gay and active than one might at first suppose of a little town of scarce fifteen hundred inhabitants. this is because it is a centre for the tourist traffic of eaux-bonnes and eaux-chaudes, not greatly higher up in the valley. there are many quaint old gothic houses with arched windows and doorways, and occasionally a curious old buttress, but all is so admirably kept and preserved that the whole looks like a newly furbished stage-setting. for a contrast there are some renaissance house fronts of a later period, with here and there a statue-filled niche in the walls, and a lamp bracket which would be worth appropriating if that were the right thing to do. there is a picturesqueness of costume among the women-folk of laruns, too. they wear a sort of white cap or bonnet, covered with a black embroidered fichu, and a coloured shawl and apron which gives them a holiday air every day in the week. when it comes sunday or a fête-day they do the thing in a still more startling fashion. the coiffes and costumes of france are fast disappearing, but in the pyrenees, and in brittany, and in just a few places along some parts of the coast line bordering upon the bay of biscay, they may still be found in all their pristine quaintness. the fête dieu procession (the thursday after trinity) at laruns is an exceedingly picturesque and imposing celebration. here in the pious cortège one sees more frequent exhibitions of the local costumes of the country than at any other time or place. the tiny girls and the older unmarried girls have all the picturesque colouring that brilliant neckerchiefs, fichus and foulards can give, with long braided tresses like those of marguerite, except that here they are never golden, but always sable. the matrons are not far behind, but are more sedately clothed. the men have, to a large extent, abandoned the ancient costume of their forefathers, save the _béret_ and a high-cut pantaloon, which replaces the vest. but for these two details one finds among the men a certain family resemblance to a carpenter or a boiler maker of paris out at courbevoie for a happy sunday. the procession at the fête dieu at laruns is very calm and dignified, but once it is dispersed, all thoughts of religion and devoutness are gone to the winds. then commences the invariable dance, and they don't wait for night to begin. most likely this is the first _bal d'Été_, though usually this comes with easter in france. the dance is the passion of the people of the pays d'ossau, but this occasion is purely a town affair, and you will not see a peasant or a herder from the countryside among all the throng of dancers. their great day in town comes at quite another season of the year, in the autumn, in the summer of saint martin, which in america we know as the indian summer. on the highroad, not far from laruns, is a great oak known locally as the "arbre de l'ours" because on more than one occasion in the past a bear or a whole family of them has treed many an unfortunate peasant travelling by this route. this may have been a danger once, but the bears have now all retreated further into the mountains. they are not by any means impossible to find, and not long since one read in the local journal that three were killed, practically on the same spot, not far above laruns, and that a sporting russian prince had killed two within a week. in the high valley of the ossau the bear is still the national quadruped, and the arms of the district represent a cow struggling with a bear and the motto viva la tacha, which in french means simply vive la vache. near laruns is the little village of louvie-soubiron which takes its name from an ancient seigneurie of the neighbourhood. it has no artistic embellishments worthy of remark, but on this spot was quarried the stone from which were carved the symbolical statues of the great cities of france surrounding the place de la concorde at paris. the ancient capital of ossau was bielle, and up to the revolution the assemblies of the ancient government were held here. it hardly looks its part to-day. the population is but seven hundred, and it is not even of the rank of a market-town. traditions still persist, however, and delegates from all over the pays d'ossau meet here at least once a year to discuss such common interests as the safeguarding of forests and pastures. in a small chamber attached to the little parish church is preserved the ancient coffer, or strong box, of the old republic of ossau. it is still fastened by three locks, the keys being in the possession of the mayors of bielle, of laruns, and of saint colome. ten kilometres from laruns is eaux-bonnes. their virtues have been known for ages. the béarnais who so well played their parts at the ill-fated battle of pavia were transported thither that they might benefit from these "waters of the arquebusade," as the generic name is known. a further development came under the leadership of a certain comte de castellane, préfet of the department under the great napoleon. he indeed was the real exploiter, applying some of the ideas which had been put into practice in the german spas. he set to with a will and beautified the little town, laid out broad tree-lined avenues, and made a veritable little paradise of this rocky gorge. the little bourg is therefore to-day what the french describe as "_amiable_," and nothing else describes it better. the town itself is dainty and charming enough, but mostly its architectural characteristics are of the villa order. the church is modern and everybody is "on the make." it is not that the population are swindlers,--far from it; but they have discovered that by exploiting tourists and "_malades imaginaires_" for three months in the year they can make as ample a living as by working at old-fashioned occupations for a twelvemonth. a sign on one house front tells you that a "guide-chasseur" lives there, and that he will take you on a bear hunt--_prix à forfait_; which means that if you don't get your bear you pay nothing to your guide; but you have given him a fine ten-days' excursion in the mountains, _at your expense_ for his food and lodging nevertheless, beside which he has had the spending of your money for the camp equipment and supplies. he really would make a very good thing, even if you did not have to pay him a bonus for every bear sighted, not shot, mind you, for all the guide undertakes to do is to point out the bear, if he can. another very business-like sign may be seen at eaux-bonnes,--that of a transatlantic steamship company. they gather traffic, the steamship agents, even here in the fastnesses of the pyrenees, and amerique du sud especially is still depopulating southern france. eaux-chaudes is another neighbouring thermal station. as its name implies, it is a _source_ of hot water, and was already famous in the reign of henri iv. the little community points out with pride that the archives record the fact that this monarch "took the waters here with much benefit." the little pyrenean village of gabas lies high up the valley under the shelter of the pic du midi d'ossau. it is not greatly known to fame; it is what the french call a hamlet with but a few chimneys. a late census gave it twenty-three inhabitants, but probably the most of these have departed in the last year or so to become _femmes de chambre_ and _garçons de café_ in the big towns. the place is, however, very ancient, and was the outgrowth of a little settlement which surrounded a chapel built as early as , and a sort of resting-house or hospital for pilgrims who passed this way in mediæval times. this establishment was known as santa-christina, and was consecrated to the pilgrims going and coming from saint jacques de compostelle. plastered up recently on the wall of the mayor's office in the little village was a placard addressed to the "messieurs d'ossau," by the conseiller d'arrondissement. this singular form of address is a survival of the ancient constitution of this little village, which, in times past, when everything else round about was feudal or monarchial, was sort of demi-republican. the "messieurs d'ossau" recognized no superior save the prince of béarn, and considered him only as a sort of a titular dignitary with no powers over them worth speaking of. here in the communes of laruns and arudy the peasants have certain rights of free pasture for their flocks and herds, a legacy which came originally through the generosity of henri iv, and which no later rule of monarchy or republic has ever been able to assail. the "messieurs d'ossau" also had the ancient right of gathering about the same council table with the vicomtes of béarn when any discussion of the lands included in the territorial limits of béarn was concerned. chapter xx tarbes, bigorre and luchon there is a clean-cut, commercial-looking air to tarbes, little in keeping with what one imagines the capital of the hautes-pyrénées to be. local colour has mostly succumbed to twentieth-century innovations in the train of great hotels, tourists and clubs. in spite of this, the surrounding panorama is superb; the setting of tarbes is delightful; and at times--but not for long at a time--it is really a charming town of the midi. tarbes possessed a château of rank long years ago; not of so high a rank as that of pau, for that was royal, but still a grand and dignified château, worthy of the seigneurs who inhabited it. raymond i fortified the place in the tenth century, and all through the following five hundred years life here was carried on with a certain courtly splendour. to-day the château, or what is left of it, serves as a prison. the unlovely cathedral at tarbes was once a citadel, or at least served as such. it must have been more successful as a warlike accessory than as a religious shrine, for it is about the most ungracious, unchurchly thing to be seen in the entire round of the pyrenees. the chief architectural curiosity of tarbes is the lycée, on whose portal (dated ) one reads: "may this building endure until the ant has drunk the waters of the ocean, and the tortoise made the tour of the globe." it seems a good enough dedication for any building. the ever useful froissart furnishes a reference to tarbes and its inns which is most apropos. travellers even in those days, unless they were noble courtiers, repaired to an inn as now. the messire espaing de lyon, and the maître jehan froissart made many journeys together. it was here under the shelter of the pyrenees that the maître said to his companion: "et nous vînmes à tarbes, et nous fûmes tout aises à l'hostel de l'etoile.... c'est une ville trop bien aisée pour séjourner chevaux: de bons foins, de bons avoines et de belles rivières." tarbes is something of an approach to this, but not altogether. the missing link is the hostel de l'Étoile, and apparently nothing exists which takes the place of it. from the fourteenth century to the twentieth century is a long time to wait for hotel improvements, particularly if they have not yet arrived. the great marché de tarbes is, and has been for ages, one of its chief sights, indeed it is the rather commonplace modern city's principal picturesque accessory, if one excepts its grandly scenic background. every fifteen days throughout the year the market draws throngs of buyers and sellers from the whole region of the western pyrenees. in the very midst of the most populous and wealthy valleys and plains of the pyrenees, one sees here the complete gamut of picturesque peoples and costumes in which the country abounds. here are the béarnais, agile and gay, and possessed of the very spirit associated with henri iv. they seat themselves among their wares, composed of woollen stuffs and threads, pickled meats, truffles, potatoes, cheeses of all sorts, agricultural implements--mostly primitive, but with here and there a gaudy south bend or milwaukee plough--porcelain, coppers, cattle, goats, sheep and donkeys, and a greater variety of things than one's imagination can suggest. it is almost the liveliest and most populous market to be seen in france to-day. the gaudy umbrellas and tents cover the square like great mushrooms. there are much picturesqueness and colour, and lively comings and goings too. this is ever a contradiction to the reproach of laziness usually applied to the care-free folk of the midi. in olden times the market of tarbes was the resort of many spanish merchants, and they still may be distinguished as donkey-dealers and mule traders, but the chief occupants of the stalls and little squares of ground are the dwellers of the countryside, who think nothing of coming in and out a matter of four or five leagues to trade a side of bacon--which they call simply _salé_--for a sheep or a goat, or a sheep or a goat for a nickel clock, made in connecticut. it's as hard for the peasant to draw the line between necessities and superfluities as it is for the rest of us, and he is often apt to put caprice before need. neighbouring close upon tarbes is the ancient feudal bourg of ossun, which most of the fox-hunters of pau, or the pilgrims of lourdes, know not even by name. it's only the traveller by road--the omnipresent automobilist of to-day--who really stands a chance of "discovering" anything. the art of travel degenerated sadly with the advent of the railway and the "personally conducted pilgrimage," but the automobile is bringing it all back again. the bicycle stood a chance of participating in the same honour at one time, but folk weren't really willing to take the trouble of becoming a vagabond on wheels. ossun was the site of a roman camp before it became a feudal stronghold, and with the coming of the château and its seigneurs, in the fifteenth century, it came to a prominence and distinction which made of it nearly a metropolis. to-day it is a dull little town of less than two thousand souls, but with a most excellent hotel, the galbar, which is far and away better (to some of us) than the popular hotels of pau, tarbes or luchon. the château of ossun, or so much of it as remains, was practically a fortress. what it lacks in luxury it makes up for in its intimation of strength and power, and from this it is not difficult to estimate its feudal importance. the roman camp, whose outlines are readily defined, was built, so history tells, by one crassus, a lieutenant of cæsar. it was an extensive and magnificent work, a long, sunken, oblong pit with four entrances passing through the sloping dirt walls. four or five thousand men, practically a roman legion, could be quartered within. it was from the château d'odos, near tarbes, in the month of december, , that the queen of navarre observed the comet which was said to have made its appearance because of the death of pope paul iii. says brantome: "she jumped from her bed in fright at observing this celestial phenomenon, and presumably lingered too long in the chill night, for she caught a congestion which brought about her death eight days later, st december, , in the fifty-eighth year of her age." according to hilarion de coste her remains were transported to pau, and interred in the "_principal église_," but others, to the contrary, say that she was buried in the great burial vault at lescar. this is more likely, for an authentic document in the bibliothèque nationale describes minutely the details of the ceremony of burial "_dans l'antique cathédrale de lescar_." on the landes des maures, near by, was celebrated a bloody battle in the eighth century between the saracens and the inhabitants of the country. gruesome finds of "skulls of extraordinary thickness" have frequently been made on this battlefield. just what this description seems to augur the writer does not know; perhaps some ethnologist who reads these lines will. at any rate the combatants must have died _hard_. [illustration: _a shepherd of bigorre_] following up the valley of the adour one comes to the bagnères de bigorre in a matter of twenty-five kilometres or so. bagnères de bigorre is a hodge-podge of a name, but it is the "bath" of france, as an englishman of a century ago called it. there are other resorts more popular and fashionable and more wickedly immoral, such as vichy, aix les bains and even luchon, but still bigorre remains the first choice. from the times of the romans, throngs have been coming to this charming little spot of the pyrenees where the mineral waters bubble up out of the rock, bringing health and strength to those ill in mind and body. pleasure seekers are here, too, but primarily it is the baths which attract. there are practically no monuments of bygone days here, but fragmentary relics of one sort or another tell the story of the waters from roman times to the present with scarcely a break. arreau, seven leagues from bigorre, towards the heart of the pyrenees, through the val d'arreau, certainly one of the most picturesquely unspoiled places in all the pyrenees, is a relic of mediævalism such as will hardly be found elsewhere in the whole chain of mountains from the atlantic to the mediterranean. its feudal history was fairly important, but its monuments of the period, save its churches and its market house or "halle," have practically disappeared. whatever defences there may have been, have been built into the town's fine stone houses and bridges, but the roman tower of st. exupère, and the primitive church now covered by notre dame show its architectural importance in the past. by reason of being one of the gateways through the pyrenees into spain (by the valley of the arreau and the _portes_, so called, of plan and vielsa) arreau enjoys a franco-espagnol manner of living which is quaint beyond words. it is the nearest thing to andorra itself to be found on french soil. luchon is situated in a nook of the larboust surrounded with a rural beauty only lent by a river valley and a mountain background. the range to the north is bare and grim, but to the southward is thickly wooded, with little eagles'-nest villages perched here and there on its flanks and peaks, in a manner which leads one to believe that this part of the pyrenees is as thickly peopled as switzerland, where peasants fall out of their terrace gardens only to tumble into those of a neighbour living lower down the mountain-side. the surroundings of luchon are indeed sublime, from every point of view, and one's imagination needs no urging to appreciate the sentiment which is supposed to endow a "nature-poet." yes, luchon is beautiful, but it is overrun with fashionables from all over the world, and is as gay as biarritz or nice. "_la grande vie mondaine_" is the key-note of it all, and if one could find out just when was the off-season it would be delightful. of late it has been crowded throughout the year, though the height of fashion comes in the spring. outside of its sulphur springs the great world of fashion comes here to dine and wine their friends and play bridge. luchon has a history though. as a bathing or a drinking place it was known to the romans as _onesiorum thermæ_ and was mentioned by strabo as being famous in those days. there were many pagan altars and temples here erected to the god ilixion, which by evolution into luchon came to be the name by which the place has latterly been known. in , by marriage, luchon was transferred from the house of comminges to that of aragon, but later was returned to the comtes de comminges and finally united with france in under charles vii, retaining, however, numerous ancient privileges which endured until the end of the seventeenth century. this was the early history of luchon. its later history began when, in , the local waters were specially analyzed and a boom given to a project to make of the place a great spa. the city itself is the proprietor of all the springs and its administrative sagacity has been such that fifty thousand visitors are attracted here within the year. chapter xxi by the blue gave de pau the gave de pau, a swiftly-flowing stream which comes down from its icy cradle in the cirque de gavarnie and joins with the adour near bayonne's port, winds its way through a gentle, smiling valley filled with gracious vistas, historic sites and grand mountain backgrounds. next to the æsthetic aspects of the gave de pau are its washhouses. the writer in years of french travel does not remember to have seen a stream possessed of so many. one sees similar arrangements for washing clothes all over france, but here they are exceedingly picturesque in their disposition, and the workers therein are not of the zola-amazon type, nor of the withered beldam class. how much better they wash than others of their fraternity elsewhere is not to be remarked. there are municipal washhouses in some of the larger towns of france, great, ugly, brick, cement and iron structures, but as the actual washing is done after the same manner as when carried on by the banks of a rushing river or a purling brook there is not much to be said in their favour that cannot as well be applied to the washhouses of pau, oloron or orthez in navarre, and artist folk will prefer the latter. coarraze, twenty kilometres above pau, on the banks of the gave, is a populous centre where the hum of industry, induced by the weavers who make the _toile du béarn_, is the prevailing note. _toile du béarn_ and _chapelets_ are the chief output of this little bourg, and many francs are in circulation here each saturday night that would probably be wanting except for these indefatigable workers who had rather bend over greasy machines at something more than a living wage, than dig a mere existence out of the ground. the little bourg is dull and gray in colour, only its surroundings being brilliant. its situation is most fortunate. opposite is a great tree-covered plateau, a veritable terrace, on which is a modern château replacing another which has disappeared--"_comme un chevreau en liberté_," says the native. [illustration: _château de coarraze_] it was in this old château de coarraze that the youthful henri iv was brought up by an aunt, _en paysan_, as the simple life was then called. perhaps it was this early training that gave him his later ruggedness and rude health. the château has been called royal, and its construction has been attributed to henri iv, but this is manifestly not so. only ruined walls and ramparts, and the accredited facts of history, remain to-day to connect henri iv with the spot. the château virtually disappeared in a revolutionary fury, and only the outline of its former walls remains here and there. a more modern structure, greatly resembling the château at pau, practically marks the site of the former establishment endowed with the memory of henri iv's boyhood. froissart recounts a pleasant history of the château de coarraze and its seigneur. a certain raymond of béarn had acquired a considerable heritage, which was disputed by a catalan, who demanded a division. raymond refused, but the catalan, to intimidate his adversary, threatened to have him excommunicated by the pope. threats were of no avail, and raymond held to his legacy as most heirs do under similar claims. one night some one knocked loudly at raymond's door. "who is there?" he cried in a trembling voice. "i am orthon, and i come on behalf of the catalan." after a parley he left, nothing accomplished, but returned night after night in some strange form of man or beast or wraith or spook or masquerader and so annoyed raymond that he was driven into madness, the catalan finally coming to his own. at nay, gaston phoebus is said to have built a sort of modest country house which in later centuries became known simply as la maison carrée. perhaps gaston phoebus built it, and perhaps he did not, for its architecture is of a very late renaissance. at any rate it has a charming triple-galleried house-front, quite in keeping with the spirit of mediævalism which one associates with a builder who has "ideas" and is not afraid of carrying them out, and this was gaston's reputation. the house is on record as having one day been occupied by the queen of navarre, jeanne d'albret. just beyond coarraze is betharrem whose "calvary" and church are celebrated throughout the midi. from the fifteenth of august to the eighth of september it is a famous place of pilgrimage for the faithful of béarn and bigorre, a veritable new jerusalem. its foundation goes back to antiquity, but its origin is not unknown, if legend plays any part in truthful description. one day, too far back to give a date, a young and pious maiden fell precipitately into the gave. she could not swim and was sinking in the waters, when she called for the protection of the virgin mary. at that moment a tree trunk, leaning out over the river, gave way and fell into the waters; the maiden was able to grasp it and keep afloat, and within a short space was drifted ashore. there is nothing very unplausible about this, nothing at all miraculous; and so it may well be accepted as a legend based on truth. a modest chapel was built near at hand, by some pious folk, to commemorate the event, or perhaps it was built--as has been claimed--by gaston iv himself, on his return from the crusades in the middle of the twelfth century. the latter supposition holds good from the fact that the place bears the name of the city by the jordan. montgomery burned the chapel during the religious wars, but again in the seventeenth century, hubert charpentier, _licencié_ of the sorbonne, came here and declared that the configuration of the mountain resembled that where took place the crucifixion, and accordingly erected a calvary dedicated to "our lady," "in order," as he said, "to revivify the faith which calvinism had nearly extinguished." saint-pé-de-bigorre, lying midway between pau and lourdes, is an ideally situated, typical small town of france. it is not a resort in any sense of the word, but might well be, for it is as delightful as any pyrenean "station" yet "boomed" as a cure for the ills of folk with imaginations. it is a genuine garden-city. its houses, strung out along the banks of the gave, are wall-surrounded and tree-shaded, nearly every one of them. but one hotel extends hospitality at saint pé to-day, but soon there will be a dozen, no doubt, and then saint pé will be known as a centre where one may find "_all the attractions of the most celebrated watering-places_." to-day saint pé depends upon its ravishing site and its historic past for its reason for being. it derives its name from the old abbey of saint-pé-de-générès (sanctus petrus de generoso), founded here in the eleventh century, by sanchez-guillaume, duc de gascogne, in commemoration of a victory. this monastery, with its abbatial church, was razed during the religious wars by the alien montgomery who outdid in these parts even his hitherto unenviable cruelties. the church was built up anew, from such of its stones as were left, into the present edifice which serves the parish, but nothing more than the tower and the apse are of the original structure. to lourdes is but a dozen kilometres by road or rail from saint pé. in either case one follows along the banks of the gave with delightful vistas of hill and dale at every turn, and always that blue-purple curtain of mountains for a background. lourdes is perhaps the most celebrated, if not the most efficacious, pilgrim-shrine in all the world. it's a thing to see, if only to remark the contrasting french types among the pilgrims that one meets there--the breton from pont aven or quimperlé, the norman from the pays de caux, the parisian, the alsaçien, the niçois and the tourangeau. all are here, in all stages of health and sickness, vigorous and crippled. the shrine of "our lady of lourdes" is all things to all men. lourdes is a beastly, unclean, and uncomfortable place in which to linger, in spite of its magnificent situation, and its great and small hotels with all manner of twentieth-century conveniences. it's a plague-spot on fair france, looking at it from one point of view; and a living superstition of christendom from another. the medical men of france want to close it up; the churchmen and hotel keepers want to keep it open. arguments are puerile, so there the matter stands; and neither side has gained an appreciable advantage over the other as yet. lourdes was one day the capital of the ancient seigneurie, lavedan-en-bigorre, and at that time bore the name of mirambel, which in the _patois_ of the region signified beautiful view. originally it was but a tiny village seated at the foot of a rock, and crowned by the same château which exists to-day, and which in its evolution has come down from a _castellum-romain_, a carlovingian bastille, a capetian and english prison of state, a hospital for the military, a barracks, to finally being a musée. of the château of the feudal epoch nothing remains save two covered ways, the donjon, a sixteenth-century gate and a drawbridge, this latter probably restored out of all semblance to its former outlines. one of these covered ways gave access to the upper stages with so ample a sweep that it became practically a horse stairway upon which cavaliers and lords and ladies reined their chargers. [illustration: chÂteau de lourdes] the donjon is manifestly a near relation to that of gaston phoebus at foix, though that prince had no connection with the château. transformation has changed all but its outlines, its fosse has become a mere sub-cellar, and its windows have lost their original proportions. the château de lourdes was undoubtedly a good defence in its day in spite of its present attenuated appearance. in it resisted the troops of charles v, commanded by the duc d'anjou. under the ancient french monarchy its career was most momentous, though indeed merely as a prison of state, or a house of detention for political suspects. many were the "_lettres de cachet_" that brought an unwilling prisoner to be caged here in the shadow of the pyrenees, as if imbedded in the granite of the mountains themselves. the rock which supports the château rises a hundred metres or so above the gave. a great square mass--the donjon--forms the principal attribute, and was formerly the house of the governor. this donjon with a chapel and a barracks has practically made up the ensemble in later years. here, on one of the counterforts of the pyrenees, just beyond the grim old château, and directly before the celebrated pic du ger, now desecrated by a cog-railway, where the seven plains of lavedan blend into the first slopes of the mountains, were laid the first stones of the basilique de lourdes in . previously the site was nothing more than a moss-grown grotto where trickled a fountain that, for ages, had been the hope of the incurably ill, who thought if they bathed and drank and prayed that miracles would come to them and they would be made whole again. the fact that the primitive, devout significance of this sentiment has degenerated into the mere pleasure seeking of a mixed rabble does not affect in the least the simple faith of other days. the devout and prayerful still come to bathe and pray, but they are lost in the throng of indiscriminately "conducted" and "non-conducted" tourists who make of the shrine of our lady of lourdes a mere guide-book sight to be checked off the list with others, such as the bridge of sighs, the pyramids of gizeh, the tour eiffel, or hampton court,--places which once seen will never again be visited. to-day only the smaller part of the visitors, among even the french themselves, excepting the truly devout, who are mostly bretons--will reply to the question as to whether they believe in lourdes: "_oui, comme un article de foi_." no further homily shall be made, save to say that the general aspect of the site is one of the most picturesque and enchanting of any in the pyrenees--when one forgets, or eliminates, the signs advertising proprietary condiments and breakfast foods. it doesn't matter in the least whether one frenchman says: "_c'est ma foi_;" or another "_c'est un scandale_;" the landscape is gloriously beautiful. of the grotto itself one can only remark that its present-day garnishings are blatant, garish and offensive. the great, slim basilica rises on its monticule as was planned. it has been amply endowed and extravagantly built. before it is a _perron_, or more properly a _scala-sancta_, and the whole is so theatrically disposed, with a great square before it, that one can quite believe it all a stage-setting and nothing more. as a place of pilgrimage, lourdes is perhaps the most popular in all the world, certainly it comes close after jerusalem and rome. alphonse xiii, the present ruler of spain, made his devotions here in august, . argelès is practically a resort, and has the disposition of a normandy village; that is, its houses are set about with trees and growing verdure of all sorts. for this reason it is a delightful garden city of the first rank. argelès' chief attraction is its site; there are no monuments worth mentioning, and these are practically ruins. argelès is a watering-place pure and simple, with great hotels and many of them, and prices accordingly. above argelès the gave divides, that portion to the left taking the name of gave de cauterets, while that to the right still retains the name of gave de pau. cauterets has, in late years, become a great resort, due entirely to its waters and the attendant attractions which have grouped themselves around its _établissement_. the beneficial effect of the drinking or bathing in medicinal waters might be supposed to be somewhat negatived by bridge and baccarat, poker and "_petits chevaux_" but these distractions--and some others--seem to be the usual accompaniments of a french or german spa. [illustration: _cauterets_] "_c'est le premier jour de septembre que les bains des pyrénées commencent à avoir de la vertu._" thus begins the prologue to marguerite de navarre's "heptameron." the "season" to-day is not so late, but the queen of navarre wrote of her own experiences and times, and it is to be presumed she wrote truly. a half a century ago cauterets was a dirty, shabby village, nearly unknown, but the exploiter of resorts got hold of it, and with a few medical endorsements forthwith made it the vogue until now it is as trim and well-laid-out a little town as one will find. the town is a gem of daintiness, in strong contrast to the surrounding melancholy rocks and forests of the mountainside. peaks, approximating ten thousand feet in height, rise on all sides, and dominate the more gentle slopes and valleys, but still the general effect is one of a savage wildness, with which the little white houses of the town, the electric lights and the innumerable hotels--a round score of them--comport little. certainly the beneficial effects accruing to semi-invalids here might be supposed to be great--if they would but leave "the game" alone. a simple mule path leads to the col de riou back of cauterets, though it is more frequented by tourists on foot than by beasts of burden. here on the col itself, in plain view of the pic du midi and its sister peaks, the touring club has erected one of those admirable guide-book accessories, a "_table d'orientation_." on its marbled circumference are traced nearly three hundred topographical features of the surrounding landscape, and a study of this well-thought-out affair is most interesting to any traveller with a thought above a table d'hôte. throughout the region of the pyrenees these circular "_tables d'orientation_," with the marked outlines of all the surrounding landscape, are to be found on many vantage grounds. the principal ones are:-- on the ramparts of the château de pau. the col d'aspin. the col de riou. platform of the tour massey at tarbes. platform de mouguerre. summit of the pic du midi. summit of the cabaliros. summit of the canigou. over the col de riou and down into the gave de pau again, and one comes to luz. luz is curiously and delightfully situated in a triangular basin formed by the water-courses of the gave de pau and the gave de barèges. practically luz is a _ville ancienne_ and a _ville moderne_, the older portion being by far the most interesting, though there is no squalor or unusual picturesqueness. civic improvements have straightened out crooked streets and razed tottering house fronts and thus spoiled the picture of mediævalism such as artists--and most others--love. a ruined fortress rises on a neighbouring hill-top which gives a note of feudal times, but the general aspect of luz, and its neighbouring pretty suburb of st. sauveur, each of them possessed of thermal establishments, are resorts pure and simple, which, indeed, both these places were bound to become, being on the direct route between pau and tarbes and gavarnie, and neighbours of cauterets and barèges. barèges lies just eastward of luz on a good carriage road. like bagnères-de-bigorre, it is an oddly named town which depends chiefly upon the fact that it is a celebrated thermal station for its fame. it sits thirteen hundred metres above the sea, and while bright and smiling and gracious in summer, in winter it is as stern-visaged as a harpy, and about as unrelenting towards one's comfort. only this last winter the mountain winds and snows caved in barèges' casino and a score of houses, killing several persons. there is no such a storm-centre in the pyrenees. barèges has got a record no one will envy, though the efficacy of its waters makes them worthy rivals of those of bigorre and cauterets. the fame of barèges' waters goes back to the days of the young duc du maine, who came here with madame de maintenon, in , on the orders of the doctor of the king. in a military hospital was founded here to receive the wounded of the seven years war. barèges is one of the best centres for mountain excursions in the pyrenees. the town itself is hideous, but the surroundings are magnificent. above saint sauveur, luz and cauterets, in the valley of the gaube, rises the majestic vignemale, whose extreme point, the pic longue, reaches a height of three thousand, two hundred and ninety-eight metres, which is the greatest height of the french pyrenees. in the year , on the occasion of the coming of the queen of holland, spouse of louis bonaparte, to the bains de saint sauveur, an unknown muse of poesy sang the praise of this great mountain as follows:-- "roi des monts: despote intraitable. toi qui domine dans les airs, toi dont le trône inabordable appelle et fixe les éclairs! fier vignemale, en vain ta cime s'entoure d'un affreux abime de niège et de débris pierreux; une nouvelle bérénice ose, à côte du précipice, gravir sur ton front sourcilleux!" each of the thermal stations in these parts possesses its own special peak of the pyrenees. luchon has the nethou; bigorre the pic du midi de bagnères; eaux-bonnes the balaitous; eaux-chaudes the pic du midi d'ossau; vernet the canigou and saint sauveur and cauterets the vignemale. the vignemale, composed of four peaks, each of them overreaching three thousand, two hundred metres, encloses a veritable river of ice. its profound crevasses and its _mer de glace_ remind one of the alps more than do the accessories of any other peak of the pyrenees. the ascension of the vignemale, from cauterets or luz, is the classic mountain climb of the pyrenees. no peak is more easy of access, and none gives so complete an idea of the ample ranges of the pyrenees, from east to west, or north to south. chapter xxii oloron and the val d'aspe oloron, at the confluence of the gave d'ossau and the gave d'aspe, has existed since roman times, when it was known as iluro, finally changing to oloro and olero. it was sacked by the saracens in , and later entirely ruined by the normans. centulle, vicomte de béarn, reëstablished the city, and for a time made it his residence. the roads and lanes and paths of the neighbourhood of oloron offer some of the most charming promenades of the region, but one must go on foot or on donkey-back (the latter at a cost of five francs a day) to discover all their beauties. the highroads of the pyrenees are a speedy and a short means of communication between two points, but the delicate charm of the region is only discovered by following the by-roads, quite away from the beaten track. oloron will some day be an artists' resort, but it hasn't been exploited as such yet. it sits delightfully on the banks of the two gaves, and has all the picturesqueness that old tumble-down gothic and renaissance houses and bridges can suggest, the whole surrounded with a verdure and a rocky setting which is "all things to all (painter) men." in reality oloron is a triple city, each quite distinct from one another: sainte-marie, the episcopal city, with the cathedral and the bishop's palace; sainte-croix, the old feudal bourg; and the quartier neuve, the quarter of the railway station, the warehouses and all the smug commercialism which has spoiled many a fair landscape elsewhere. the feudal sainte-croix has character; the episcopal sainte-marie dignity. in sainte-croix the houses rise up from the surface of the gave in the most entrancing, damp picturesqueness imaginable as the waters flow swiftly down towards orthez. back from the river, the houses are mounted on tortuous hillsides, with narrow, silent streets, as if they and their inhabitants all lived in the past. on the very crest of the hill is the Église sainte-croix, founded in the ninth century by one of the vicomtes de béarn, a monument every whit as interesting as the great cathedral lower down. the diocese of saint-marie d'oloron was the least wealthy of any of mediæval france. its government allowance was but thirteen thousand francs, and this sum had to be divided with the bishop of lescar. on the other hand, the city of oloron itself was important and wealthy in its own right. in the faubourg of sainte-croix one remarks as real a mediævalism as exists anywhere in france to-day. its streets are narrow and silent, and therein are found many examples of domestic habitations dating back to roman times. these are very rare to-day, even in southern gaul, where the hand of progress is supposed to be weak. interspersed with these romanesque houses are admirable works of the gothic and renaissance periods. there is very little that is modern. of the old city walls but little evidence remains. a kind of rampart is seen here and there built into other structures, and one, at least, of the watch-towers is left, of the dozen or more that once existed. sainte-croix still has, however, an archaic aspect which bids fair not to change within the lives of the present generation. the chief industries of oloron are the making of _espadrilles_, and the weaving of "toile du béarn," a species of linen with which housewives all over these parts stock their linen closets once in a lifetime, and which lasts till they die, or perhaps longer, and is handed down to their daughters and granddaughters. another echo of protestantism in béarn still reverberates at oloron. a one-time bishop of oloron, a protégé of marguerite de navarre, became a disciple of martin luther. he was named roussel, and had been a professor of philosophy in the university of paris. he had travelled in germany, had met luther, and had all but accepted his religion, when, returning to béarn, he came into favour with the learned marguerite, who nominated him bishop of oloron. he hesitated between the two religions, knowing not which to take. meantime he professed both one and the other; in the morning he was for rome, and in the evening for luther; and preaching thus in the churches and temples he became a natural enemy of both parties. one day he was summarily despatched by a blow with a hatchet which one of his parishioners had concealed upon his person as he came to church. for this act the murderer was, in the reign of henri iv, made bishop of oloron in the unworthy roussel's place. six kilometres from oloron, at eysus, a tiny hamlet too small to be noted in most guide books, is an old _château de plaisance_ of the vicomtes de béarn. folks had the habit, even in the old days, of living around wherever fancy willed--the same as some of us do to-day. it has some advantages and not many disadvantages. back of oloron, towards the foot-hills of the pyrenees, is another of those little kingdoms which were scattered all over france, and which only geographers and antiquarians know sufficiently well to be able to place offhand. this is the barétous, and very curious it is with the survival of its old customs and costumes. up to aramits the routes are much frequented, but as one penetrates further into the fastnesses of the mountains, there is an immense sadness that is as entrancing as the most vivid gaiety. pushing through to the spanish frontier, fifty kilometres or more beyond aramits, a whole kaleidoscope of mountain charms unrolls itself at every step. at the spanish frontier limit, a quaint and curious ceremony is held on the thirteenth of july in each year by the baretains and their spanish neighbours. the baretains, by an ancient right, pasture their flocks up in the high valleys of the ronçal, and, to recognize the right of the ronçalois to keep them out of their pasturage if they so chose, the baretains pay them homage. the ceremony is carried out before a notary, seven _jurats_ being the representatives of the baretains, each armed with a pike, as are the representatives of ronçal. the first lay down their pikes before the latter, and, in a second layer, their points turned towards the béarnais capital, are placed those of the ronçalois. then a shout of acclamation goes up and rends the air: "patz abantz! patz abantz! patz abantz!--peace for the future!" this is the signal for a general rejoicing, and a merry-making of dancing and eating and drinking, not far different from other fêtes. it is the setting that makes it so remarkable, and the quaint costumes and customs of the men and women of two nations mingling in a common fête. this franco-espagnol ceremony is accomplished with much éclat on a little square of ground set off on the maps of the État major as "champ de foire français et espagnol." tradition demands that three cows be given or offered to the spanish by the french for the privilege of pasturage over the border in the spanish valleys. the cows are loosed on the _champ de foire_, and if they remain for half an hour without crossing the line into france again they belong to the spanish. if, on the other hand, one or more cross back into france they remain the property of the french. formerly three horses were used for this part of the function, but as they were bound to have a white star on the forehead, and as that variety of beast is rare in these parts, a compromise was made to carry out the pact with the cows. the most historic spot in the gave d'aspe is unquestionably sarrance. notre dame de sarrance is a venerable and supposedly miraculous statue. numbers of pilgrims have visited the shrine in times past, among them the none too constant louis xi, who, if he was devoted to our lady of cléry and notre dame de embrun, was ready to bow down before any whom he thought might do him a good turn. certainly sarrance's most favourite memory is that of the celebrated marguerite de navarre. if she did not write, she at least conceived the idea of her "heptameron" here, if history is to be believed. the title page of this immortal work reads as follows, l'heptameron "des nouvelles de très illustré et très excellente princesse, marguerite de valois, reine de navarre." the history of the inception of these tales is often inexactly recounted at this late day, but in the main the facts seem to be as follows:-- in september ( ?), when the queen and her followers were journeying from cauterets to tarbes, the waters of the gave overflowed their banks and destroyed the bridge of sarrance. the party stopped first at the abbaye de saint savin, and again at the monastère de notre dame de sarrance. ten days were necessary to repair the bridge which had been carried away, and time apparently hung heavy on the hands of every one. to break the ennui of their sojourn in the company of these austere monks of sarrance, the royal party sought what amusements they might. in the morning all met with the dame oysille, the eldest of the company, when they had an hour's reading of the scriptures. after this there was a mass; then at ten o'clock they dined; finally each retired to his room--"_pour ses affaires particulières_," says the old record--presumably to sleep, though it was early in the day for that. in the afternoon ("_depuis midi jusques à quatres heures_," ran the old chronicle) they all assembled in the meadow by the river's bank beneath the trees, and each, seated at his ease, recounted such salacious satires and tales as would have added to the fame of boccaccio. this procedure went on until the tellers of tales were interrupted by the coming of the prior who called them to vespers. these tales or "_contes_," or "_petites histoires_," or whatever one chooses to call them, free of speech and of incident as was the custom of the time, were afterwards mothered by the queen of navarre, and given to the world as the product of her fertile mind. judging from their popularity at that time, and since, the fair lady must have been a wonderful storyteller. the gentle slopes of a prairie along the banks of the gave near by is the reputed spot where these tales were told,--a spot "where the sun could not pierce the thick foliage," certainly romantically and picturesquely endowed. the site is charming, and one can picture the scene all out again for himself if he is possessed of the least bit of imaginative sense. still following the valley of the aspe upward, one comes next to bedous, really a pretentious little city, but unheard of by conventional travellers. everything begins to take on a spanish hue, and the church, dating from , is more spanish than french in its architecture and all its appointments. all the commercial life of the valley centres here, and a mixed franco-espagnol traffic goes on. it is principally the trading of cattle, sheep and wool, with an occasional porker or a donkey sold, or bargained for, on the side. bedous has been marked out as being the terminus of a railway line yet to be built. until the times shall be propitious for pushing the railway on into spain the town will remain simply what it has been for centuries. when that day comes, much of the charm of the region will be gone. the automobile is no such desecrator as the railway, let scoffers say what they will. in the valley of the aspe, with snow-capped mountains in full view, there is a surprising softness of climate all through the year. in this valley was the last refuge of protestantism in the days of the religious wars, and the little village of bedous still possesses a "temple" and a "pastor." above bedous, towards the crest of the pyrenees, is accous, and as one progresses things become more and more spanish, until the sign "_posada_" is as frequent as "_auberge_." accous offers no curiosities to visitors, but it was here that victor hugo gave the last glimpses of jean valjean when the police were close upon his trail; "at the place called the _grange de doumec_, near the hamlet of chavilles," ran the romance. from this point the valley of the aspe opens almost perpendicularly into the heart of the rock wall of the pyrenees; it is a veritable chasm in its upper reaches; and in this rocky defile was once a tiny feudality, absorbed and later wiped into oblivion by the revolution. beyond sarrance are urdos and somport and the fortress of portalet. the route was known to the ancients as that through which the saracens came from spain to over-run southern gaul. somport was the _summus pyreneus_ of the old-time historians of the romans. chapter xxiii orthez and the gave d'oloron orthez is another of those cities of the pyrenees which does not live up to its possibilities, at least not in a commercial sense. nevertheless, some of us find it all the more delightful for that. it is a city where the relics of the middle ages and the renaissance are curiously intermingled, and if one within its walls so chose he could imagine himself as living in the past as well as in the present, and this in spite of the fact that the city has been remodelled and restored in certain quarters out of all semblance to its former self. there is little or nothing remaining of that time which froissart described with such minuteness when writing of the court at orthez' château. all that remains of this great pile is the tour de moncade, but from its grandeur and commanding site one realizes well enough that in its time it was hardly overshadowed by the better preserved edifices at pau and foix. at the northeast of orthez, on a hill overlooking the city is an ancient, rectangular tower, its sides mellowed by ages, and its crest in ruins. "_savez-vous ce que sont ces ruines?_" you ask of any one, and they will tell you that it is all that remains of the fine chateau of gaston phoebus. fêtes and crimes were curiously intermingled within its walls, for always little rivulets of blood flowed in mediæval times as the accompaniment of the laughter of the feast. gaston de foix, after the burning of his château, came to orthez in the thirteenth century, and began the citadel of orthez--the "_château-noble_" of the chronicles of froissart. the edifice played an important rôle in the history of béarn. at that time gaston was a vassal of edward iii of england who was then making a crusade in the east. on his return he found this "_château-noble_" already built, and his surprise was great, for he knew not what it portended. he concluded that it could only mean the rebellion of his vassal, and he ordered the seneschal of gascony to demand the surrender of the property. when this was refused edward seized it and all the domains of béarn, and sent gerard de laon as envoy to put the new political machinery in running order. the envoy entered orthez without the least obstacle being put in his way, but in an instant the gates were closed and he was made a prisoner. irritated by this outrage, edward, at the head of an imposing army, marched on orthez. gaston, seized with fear, lost his head, and made up his mind to surrender before he was attacked. no protestations of future devotion to his overlord would, however, be accepted, and edward made him prisoner on the spot. to regain his liberty, gaston promised to turn over the "fortresse d'orthez" but, when he was set free, he established himself with a doubled garrison behind his walls and prepared for resistance. edward pleaded for justice and honourable dealing, and a quarrel, long and animated, followed. the affair took on such proportions that the pope sent his legate, as an intermediary, to make peace. gaston would hear of no compromise, and called upon the king of france to take his part. a sort of council was finally arranged, during which gaston became so exasperated that he threw his glove in the face of the english king. he begged the king's pardon afterwards, and an agreement was reached whereby everything was left as it had been before the quarrel began. many imperishable souvenirs are left of the reign at orthez of the brilliant gaston de foix, when tourneys and fêtes followed in rapid succession. it was orthez' most brilliant epoch. it was here, to the court of gaston phoebus, that messire jehan froissart came, in , and stayed three weeks and some of his most brilliant pages relate to this visit. of his host, the chronicler said: "_de toutes choses il est si parfait_." gaston phoebus was so powerful and magnificent a seigneur in his own right, and his castle at orthez was such a landmark of history that louis xi--who conceded little enough to others as a usual thing--said to his followers as he was passing through béarnais territory on a pilgrimage: "_messeigneurs, laissez l'epée de france, nous sortons ici du royaume_." gaston phoebus was the most accomplished seigneur of his time, and he had for his motto "_toquos-y se gaasos_"--"attack who dares." one day, in the month of august, , on returning from a bear hunt, greatly fatigued, he was handed a cup from which to drink. he drank from the cup and instantly expired. was he poisoned? that is what no one knows. it was the custom of the time to make away with one's enemies thus, and in this connection one recalls that gaston himself killed his own son because he would not eat at table. [illustration: _the pont d'orthez_] orthez was deserted by the court for pau, and in time the natural destruction of wind and weather, and the hand of man, stripped the château to what one sees to-day. the pont d'orthez is a far better preserved monument of feudal and warlike times, and it was a real defence to the city, as can be readily understood by all who view it. its four hardy arches span the gave as they did in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. it was from the summit of one of the sentinel towers of this most remarkable of mediæval bridges that the soldiers of montgomery obliged the monks to throw themselves into the river below. the "brothers of the bridge" were a famous institution in mediæval times, and they should have been better treated than they usually were, but too frequently indeed they were massacred without having either the right or the means to defend themselves. the history of montgomery's connection with orthez, or more particularly the pont d'orthez, reads almost as if it were legend, though indeed it is truth. the story is called by the french historians "la chronique de la tour des caperas." jeanne d'albret, the mainstay of protestantism in her day, wished to make orthez the religious capital, and accordingly she built here a splendid church in which to expound the theories of calvin and brought "professors" from scotland and england to preach the new dogma. orthez became at once the point of attack for those of the opposite faith, and as horrible a massacre as was ever known took place in the streets of orthez and gave perhaps the first use of the simile that the river flowed as a river of blood. priests and monks were the special prey of the protestants, while they themselves were being attacked from without. one by one as they were hunted out from their hiding-places the priests and lay brothers were pushed from the parapet of the bridge into the gave below. if any gained the banks by swimming they were prodded and stabbed by still other soldiery with lances, and from this great _noyade_ the great tour des caperas became known as the tour des prêtres. to-day montauban and orthez have relatively the largest protestant populations of any of the cities of france. the old route royale between bayonne and the capital of béarn and navarre passed through orthez, and the same narrow streets, irregular, badly paved, and badly kept up, are those which one traverses to-day on entering and leaving the city. one great improvement has been made in the ancient quarter of the town--though of course one does not know what historical souvenirs it may have supplanted--and that is the laying out of a _mail_ or mall, planted on either side with great elms, and running from the banks of the gave to the fine fifteenth-century--but still gothic--church, well at the centre of the town. the "_jambons de bayonne_" are mostly cured at orthez, and it is indeed the leading industry of the city. the porkers of orthez may not be corn fed, but they are well and cleanly nourished, which is more than can be said of many "domesticated pigs" in new and old england, which are eaten with a great relish by those who have brought them up. in the religious wars orthez played a grand rôle, and in it was the scene of one of the great struggles of france against alien invasion of her territory. just north of the city, on the height of a flanking hill, wellington--at the head of a force very much superior, let no one forget--inflicted a bloody defeat on maréchal soult. the duc de dalmatie lost, it is recorded, nearly four thousand men, but he wounded or killed six thousand in the same engagement. general foy here received his fourth wound on the field of battle. orthez is one of the really great feudal cities of the south of france. in the ninth century it was known as orthesium, and belonged to the vicomtes de dax, who, only when they were conquered by gaston iii, prince of béarn, ceded the city to the crown of béarn and navarre. it was in the château of orthez that the unfortunate blanche of castille, daughter of the king of aragon, was poisoned by her sister, the wife of gaston iv, comte de foix. this was one of the celebrated crimes of history, though for that matter the builder of the château, the magnificent (_sic_) gaston phoebus, committed one worthy to rank with it when he killed his brother and "propre fils" on the mere suspicion that they might some day be led to take sides against him. orthez flourished greatly under its protestant princes, but it waned and all but dwindled away in the unpeaceful times immediately following upon the revocation of the edict of nantes. the cessation of the practice of the arts of industry, and very nearly those of commerce, left the city poor and impoverished, and it is only within recent generations that it has arisen again to importance. the donjon of moncade is all that remains of the once proud château where gaston phoebus held more than one brilliant court on his excursions beyond the limits of his beloved foix. it dominates the whole region, however, and adds an accentuated note of grimness to the otherwise gay melody of the gave as it flows down to join the adour from the high valleys of the pyrenees. on the opposite hillside is a memorial in honour of the brave general foy, which will recall to some the victory of wellington over soult, and to others, who have not forgotten their dumas, the fact that it was general foy who first gave the elder dumas his start as writer of romances. salies de béarn is a near neighbour of orthez, and can be omitted from no pyrenean itinerary. the bustling little market-town and watering-place combined dates, as to the foundation of its great industry, back to the tenth century, when the duc de gascogne gave to the monks of the monastery of saint pé an establishment ready fitted that they might commence the industry of recovering salt from the neighbouring salt springs. all through mediæval times, and down as late as , the industry was carried on under the old concession. all the distractions of a first-class watering-place may be had here to-day, and the "season" is on from may to september. the city is the birthplace of colonel dambourges, who became famous for his defence of quebec against the english in . at salies is still the house which sheltered jeanne d'albret when she took the waters here, and not far away is the spot where died gaston phoebus, as he was returning from a bear hunt. these two facts taken together make of salies hallowed historic ground. at salies de béarn one recalls a scrap of literary history that is interesting; dumas père certainly got inspiration for the names of his three _mousquetaire_ heroes from hereabouts. not far away is athos--which he gave to the comte de la fère, while aramits and artagnan are also near-by. in any historical light further than this they are all unimportant however. six kilometres to the northward is the château de bellocq, a fine mediæval country house (fourteenth century), though unroofed to-day, the residence of jeanne d'albret when she sojourned in the neighbourhood. the walls, flanked with four great round towers, are admirably preserved, and the vaulting and its ribs, two square towers and a great entrance gate show the manner of building of the time with great detail. five leagues from orthez, on a little valley plain, watered by the gave d'oloron, is the tiny little city of navarreux. its population is scarce above a thousand, but it is the centre of affairs for twenty-five communes, containing perhaps twelve thousand souls. it is a typical, bustling, little pyrenean metropolis, and the comings and goings on market-day at the little hôtel de france are as good an illustration of the life and manners of a people of small affairs as one will find in a year of travel. henri d'albret of navarre picked out the site of the city in the midst of this fertile plain, and planned that it should increase and multiply, if not in population, at least in prosperity, though it was at first a "private enterprise," like richelieu's garden-city in touraine. the preëminence of navarreux was short lived. henri d'albret had built it on the squared-off, straight-street, chicago plan, had surrounded it with walls, and even had a fortress built by vauban, in the expectation of making it the commercial capital of the pyrenees, but man proposes, and the lines of communication or trade disposes, and many a thought-to-be-prosperous town has finally dwindled into impotency. there was a good deal in the favour of navarreux; its situation was central, and it was surrounded by a numerous population, but its dream was over in a couple of hundred years and the same year ( ) saw both its grandeur and its decadence. to-day it remains still a small town, tied to the end of an omnibus line which runs out from orthez a dozen or fifteen kilometres away. the fortifications of vauban are still there and a remarkable old city gate, called the porte st. antoine, a veritable gem of feudal architecture. the very dulness and disappointment of the place appeal to one hugely. one might do worse than doze away a little while here after a giddy round at pau or biarritz. navarreux is of the past and lives in the past; it will never advance. as a fortress it has been unclassed, but its walls one day guarded--as a sort of last line of defence--the route from spain via ronçevaux and saint-jean-pied-de-port. in those days it certainly occupied a proud position in intent and in reality, as its citadel sat high on a little terrace-plateau, dominated in turn by the red dome of its church still higher up. the effect is still much the same, impotent though the city walls and ramparts have become. [illustration: the walls of navarreux] the route into navarreux from the south is almost a tree-shaded boulevard, and crosses the gave on an old five-arched bridge, so narrow that one vehicle can scarcely pass,--to say nothing of two. this picturesque bridge was also the work of henri d'albret, the founder of the primitive city. this first foundation was a short distance from the present village. its founder in a short time came to believe he had made a mistake, and that the bourg as it was placed would be too difficult to defend, so he tore it down in real northwest dakota fashion, and built the present city. louis xiv and vauban had great plans for it, and would have done much, but oloron in time relieved it of all pretensions to a distinction, as, in turn, pau robbed oloron. between navarreux and sauveterre, along the gave d'oloron, is a whole string of little villages and hamlets whose names are scarcely ever mentioned except by the local postman. it is a winsome valley, and the signs of civilization, pale though they be, throw no ugly shadows on the landscape. midway between these two little centres is audaux, which possesses a vast seventeenth-century château, flanked with a series of high coiffed pavilions and great domes, like that of valençay in touraine. its history is unimportant, and is rather vague, but a mere glance at its pompous ornateness is a suggestion of the great contrast between the châteaux of the north and centre of france and those of the midi. in the north the great residential châteaux, as contrasted with the fortress-châteaux, were the more numerous; here the reverse was the case, and the feudal château, which was more or less of a fortress, predominated. the château d'audaux, sitting high on its own little plateau, and surrounded by great chestnut trees, is almost the peer of its class in these parts--from a grandiose architectural view point at any rate. sauveterre, twenty kilometres from navarreux, is one of those old-time bourgs which puts its best side forward when viewed from a distance. really it is nothing but a grim old ruin, so far as its appeal for the pilgrim goes. close acquaintance develops a squalor and lackadaisical air which is not in the least in keeping with that of its neighbours. it is the ensemble of its rooftops and its delightful site which gives sauveterre almost its only charm. in the middle ages it was a fortified town which played a considerable part in olden history. to-day the sole evidence that it was a place of any importance is found in a single remaining arch of its old bridge, surmounted by a defending tower similar to those which guard the bridges at orthez and cahors, but much smaller. there is another relic still standing of sauveterre's one-time greatness, but it is outside the town itself. the grim, square donjon of the old château de montréal rises on a hilltop opposite the town, and strikes the loudest note of all the superb panorama of picturesque surroundings. it was the guardian of the fate of sauveterre in feudal times, and it is the guardian, or beacon, for travellers by road to-day as they come up or down the valley. within the town there is, it should be mentioned, a really curious ecclesiastical monument, the thirteenth-century church, with a combination of romanesque and gothic construction which is remarkable; so remarkable is it that in spite of its lack of real beauty the french government has classed it as a "_monument historique_." the sublime panorama of the pyrenees frames the whole with such a gracious splendour that one is well-minded to take the picture for the sake of the frame. this may be said of tarbes as well, which is a really banal great town, but which has perhaps the most delightful pyrenean background that exists. sauveterre is another centre for the manufacture of rope-soled _espadrilles_, which in anglo-saxon communities are used solely by bathers at the seaside, but which are really the most comfortable and long-enduring footwear ever invented, and are here, and in many other parts of france, worn by a majority of the population. up out of the valley of the oloron and down again into that of the bidouze, a matter of eighteen or twenty kilometres, and one comes to saint-palais which formerly disputed the title of capital of french navarre with saint-jean-pied-de-port. this was because henri d'albret, king of navarre, established his _chancellerie_ here after the loss of pamplona to spain. saint-palais is what the french call a "_ville mignonne_." nothing else describes it. it sits jauntily perched on a tongue of mother earth, at the juncture of the joyeuse and the bidouze, and its whitewashed houses, its tiled roofs and its washed-down dooryards and pavements suggest that some of its inhabitants must one day have been in holland, a place where they pay more attention to this sort of house-cleaning than anywhere else. saint-palais has no historical monuments; all is as new and shining as monte carlo or the digue at ostend, but its history of long ago is important. before it was the seat of the sovereign court of french navarre and possessed a mint where the money of the little state was coined. the most distinctive architectural monument of saint-palais, the modern church and the hybrid palais de justice being strictly ineligible, is the _fronton_ for the game of _pelote_, saint-palais being one of the head centres for the sport. arthur young, a great traveller, an agriculturist, and a writer of repute, passed this way in . he made a good many true and just observations, more or less at hazard, of things french, and some others that were not so just. the following can hardly be literally true, and if true by no means proves that jacques bonhomme is not as good a man as his cousin john bull, nor even that he is not as well nourished. "_chacun à son gout!_" he said, writing of the operation of getting dinner at his inn: "i saw them preparing the soup, the colour of which was not inviting; ample provision of cabbage, grease and water, and about as much meat, for a score of people, as half a dozen suffolk farmers would have eaten, and grumbled at their host for short commons." what a condemnation to be sure, and what an unmerited one! the receipt is all right, as far as it goes, but he should have added a few leeks, a couple of carrots and an onion or two, and then he would have composed a _bouilli_ as fragrant and nourishing as the englishman's chunks of blood-red beef he is for ever talking about. our "agriculturist" only learned half his lesson, and could not recite it very well at that. in the midst of a great plain lying between saint-palais, saint-jean-pied-de-port and bayonne, perhaps fifty kilometres south of the left bank of the adour, are the neighbouring little towns of iholdy and armendarits. the former is the market town of a vast, but little populated, canton, and a village as purely rustic and simple as one could possibly imagine. iholdy and its few unpretentious little shops and its quaint unworldly little hotel caters only to a thin population of sheep and pig growers, and their wants are small, save when they go afield to peyrehorade, st. jean or bayonne. one eats of the products of the country here, and enjoys them, too, even if mutton, lamb and little pig predominate. the latter may or may not be thought a delicacy, but certainly it was better here than was ever met with before by the writer of these lines; and no prejudice prevented a second helping. armendarits, iholdy's twin community, saw the birth of renaud d'elissagory, who built what was practically the first gunboat. the birthplace of "_petit renaud_," as he was, and is still, affectionately called, the inventor of _galiotes à bombes_, is still inhabited and reckoned as one of the sights of these parts. chapter xxiv the birth of french navarre [illustration] basse-navarre or navarre-française, together with béarn, made, under the emperor hadrian, a part of aquitaine. the roman conquest of gaul was the first impetus given towards a coherent massing of the peoples. formerly there had been many tribes and races, but the three divisions made by the romans reduced things to a minimum. cisalpine gaul was that part where the inhabitants wore a sort of adaptation of the roman toga. in trans-alpine gaul, situated in the rhône basin and along the mediterranean between italy and spain, the inhabitants wore _braies_ or _bragues_--a sort of jacket extending down almost to the knees, a detail of dress which has evolved itself into the blouse, and perhaps even the great cloak of the mountaineers of the pyrenees. the remainder of ancient gaul was known as the country where the natives wore their long hair hanging,--literally the _gaule chevelue_. through the times of cæsar the divisions became indifferently known by various names, until with augustus there came to be four great divisions, the narbonnaise, aquitaine, lyonnaise and belgique. towards the fifth century the vascons, or gascons, the ancient inhabitants of spanish cantabria, established themselves snugly in these well protected valleys of the pyrenees. they warred with the saracens, and for five centuries were in a continual uproar of battle and bloodshed. among themselves, the dukes and counts of gascogne quarrelled continuously, and disputed the sovereignty of the country with the vicomtes de béarn. in the ninth century a treaty was consummated which assured to bernard, comte d'armagnac, the comté de gascogne, and to gaston de centulle the suzerainty of béarn, while navarre came by heritage to the comtes de champagne, and in the thirteenth century to philippe-le-bel as a dot with jeanne, his wife. in the same manner it came to the house of evreux through jeanne ii, daughter of louis-le-hutin. with the marriage of blanche ii, the grand-daughter of jeanne ii, navarre passed to the king of aragon and to eléonore, and later with the comté de foix et de bigorre and the vicomté de béarn, went to jean, sieur d'albret, with whom the history of the kingdom is so commonly associated. jean d'albret ii, by reason of his marriage with catherine of béarn, the heiress to the crown of navarre, became joint ruler of the kingdom. he was a gentle, easy-going prince, liberal, but frivolous, and loved no serious occupation in life. he was popular to excess and dined, say the chronicles, "without ceremony, with any one who asked him," a custom which still obtains with many who are not descendants of a king of navarre. he danced frequently in public with the wives and daughters of his subjects, a democratic proceeding which was not liked by his court, who told him that he "danced on a volcano." this in a measure was true, for he lost that part of the kingdom known as spanish navarre to ferdinand of aragon. up to the commencement of the sixteenth century, the royaume de navarre occupied both slopes of the pyrenees and had pamplona for its capital, but in , ferdinand the catholic, of aragon, with the approbation of the pope, usurped most of the territory and left the king of navarre, the legitimate sovereign, only a small morsel eight leagues long by five in width, with st. jean-pied-de-port as its principal city. a picturesque figure was ferdinand, king of aragon on his own part, king of castille by his wife isabella, and king of grenada by conquest; "a heritor of three bastard crowns," he was called. at his death he was succeeded by the infamous and cruel charles v. that which remained, french navarre, was the portion of the united kingdom lying on the french slopes of the pyrenees. the loss of the spanish province was really due to the excommunication of jean d'albret and catherine by the pope, thus giving the catholic ferdinand power to compel a division. the then ruling monarchs of béarn and navarre came to a sad realization of their position. it was this circumstance which gave birth to one of the famous _mots_ of history. "if we had not been born, we would not have lost navarre," said the unhappy catherine to her spouse. previously, though, the region had been known as basse-navarre; and in spanish, navarra baja, and had had its _États_ or _parlement_, and its own special laws. its _parlement_ was composed of three orders, the clergy, the noblesse and the _tiers_. two great families stood out in basse-navarre in these times above all others, the seigneurs de grammont et bidache and those of lux and ostabat. béarn at the time was composed of twelve ancient baronies, the bishoprics of lescar and oloron, and the seigneuries of navailles, andoins, lescun, correze, miossens, arros and lons. french navarre--the navarre-française--was by this time a reality and has been variously known since to historians; to the french as basse-navarre and navarre du nord; to the spaniards as navarra baja; to the basques as navarra-deca-ports, and navarra-françia; and to the kings of france as the royaume de navarre. henri, son of jean d'albret, married the first marguerite de valois, sister of françois i, the "marguerite of marguerites." the only daughter of this marriage was wed with antoine bourbon-vendome and became the mother of henri iv. by an edict of louis xiii united the crown of france with that of navarre, béarn and the other patrimonial states. such is the evolution of the little royaume de navarre and its incorporation into french domain. the king of navarre's title was a formidable one, and even included the word monsieur. princes, bishops, popes and saints were at that time known as monsieur, a title even more dignified than monseigneur, and the "_messieurs de france_" were as much of the noblesse of france as were the "_milords d'angleterre_" of the nobility of england. the full title of the king of navarre in the fifteenth century was as follows:-- monsieur françois-phoebus, par la grace de dieu, roi de navarre, duc de nemours, de guandi, de montblanc et de penafiel, et, par la même grace comte de foix, seigneur de béarn, comte de bigorre et de rivegorce, vicomte de castelbon, de marsau, gavardan et nébouzan, seigneur de la ville de valaguer et pair de france. [illustration: catherine de foix et jean iii d'albret -------------------+------------------ | ---+--------+-----+----+-----+-------+----------+--------------+--- | | | | | | | | madeleine jean andre | | | | | | | | | | +------------+ +--+ | | | | | | | | henri i isabelle, anne, catherine, "fils naturel" de béarn et ii de married married who became of jean iii navarre--d'albret. rené, jean, the abbesse d'albret. - . vicomte comte of la he became married, in , de rohan d'astarac trinite at Évêque de marguerite caen in comminges d'angouleme, normandy duchesse d'alençon [maltese cross] | +--------+----------+-------------+---------------+ | | | | jeanne d'albret. jean princesse princesse - . married ( ), in , guillaume duc de cleves. this marriage annulled . married ( ), in , antoine de bourbon. [maltese cross] | --------+---+-----------+--------+-------+--------+--------+-------- | | | | | | henri de bourbon louis | princesse | | duc de beaumont comte de marl | | | | | | | | | +--------------------+ +------------+ | | | | henri ii de béarn, catherine, charles iii de navarre ( ) et who married "batart du iv de france, henri de roi." called le grand. lorraine, he also became married ( ), in , duc de bar Évêque de marguerite de valois comminges whom he repudiated and afterwards in , (she died archevêque sans posterity). de rouen married ( ), in , marie de medici [maltese cross] | louis xiii roi de france et navarre . union of the two kingdoms, france and navarre . ] [illustration: _the arms of navarre_] the arms of navarre have ever been a mystery to antiquarians, but it seems there is some semblance of basque tradition and folk-lore in it all, in that there is an old basque game which is played upon a diagram, or scale, traced upon the ground, and following the principal outlines of the blazonings of the ancient kings of navarre. which came first, the hen or the egg? authorities differ, and so it is with the basque game of _laz marellas_, and the royal arms of the navarres. labastide says the game came down from the time when the basques of to-day were originally phoenicians. if this be so, the royal arms were but a copy of something that had gone before. certainly they form as curious and enigmatic an armorial device as is found in heraldry. the royaume de navarre has so completely disappeared and been so absorbed by france that it takes a considerable knowledge of geography and history to be able to place it precisely upon the map of modern europe, hidden away as it was in what are now the two arrondissements of bayonne and saint-palais. they were a noble race, the men of béarn and navarre, the basques especially, and the questionable traits of the _cagots_ and gypsies have left but little impress on the masses. henri iv, faithful in his sentiment for his first subjects, would have shown them his predilection by allowing them to remain an independent monarchy. he would not that the kingdom of his mother be mingled with that of france, but intriguing counsel prevailed and the alliance was made, though navarre escaped conquest and was still ruled by the sceptre of its legitimate sovereign. how near france came to being ruled by navarre instead of navarre by france is recalled by the following bit of recorded history. when philippe v (le long) came to the throne of france ( ) his right was contested by many princes. among others the crown was claimed by jeanne de navarre, but an assembly of bishops, seigneurs and bourgeois of paris declared for the salic law--which proscribed the right to rule the french to one of the female sex, and this against feudal rights as they were known and protected in the satellite kingdoms surrounding the royal domain. it was agreed later (by philippe-le-long) that if the widow of louis x should have another female child, the rights appertaining to navarre should belong to her and her stepsister jeanne, making it an independent monarchy again. when philippe-le-bel came to the throne of france it was his wife jeanne who, by common consent, administered the affairs of navarre. she chased the aragonians and castilians from her fair province, and put her people into a state of security hitherto unknown. "she held," said mézeray the historian, "every one enchanted by her eyes, her ears, and her heart, and she was equally eloquent, generous and liberal." a veritable paragon of a woman evidently. henri ii, son of catherine and jean d'albret ii, succeeded to the throne of french navarre at the age of thirteen. he followed the french king, françois, to italy, and was made prisoner at the unfortunate battle of pavia, finally escaping through a ruse. françois premier, king of france, and henri d'albret, king of navarre, each nourished an equal aversion for the king of spain, the prime cause of that fateful day at pavia. the first hated the spanish monarch as a rival; the second as the usurper of his lands. they united arms, but the battle of pavia, when "all was lost save honour," gave matters such a setback that naught but time could overcome them. it was henri ii's marriage with marguerite of valois, the duchesse d'alençon, in , by which he acquired the armagnac succession as a gift from his brother-in-law, françois premier, that brought to navarre's crown nearly all of guyenne. in the young king died at pau, leaving a daughter, jeanne d'albret, who with her second husband, antoine de bourbon, duc de vendome, succeeded to the throne. the new rulers did not attempt or accomplish much, save to embrace calvinism with zeal. suffice to recall the well-known facts that antoine died in from a wound received in the siege of rouen, and that jeanne herself died from the poison of the wicked catherine de medici's gloves at paris. their son, henri iii of navarre, was the henri iv of france. born at pau in , he was first only the comte de viane. when he came to paris he would not have allied his pyrenean possessions with those of france but for the pressure brought to bear upon him. he declared that his ancestral lands should remain entirely separate, but the procureur general, la guesle, forced his hand, and it was thus that the royaume de france became augmented by basse-navarre, the comtés d'armagnac, foix, d'albret and bigorre, the duché de vendome, the comté de périgord and the vicomté de limoges. the story of béarn and navarre, for most folk, begins with those kings of navarre who were also kings of france. the first of these was the white-plumed knight henri iii, prince of béarn, who became henri iv of france. the france of the valois, which strain died with henri iii, murdered by the black monk clement, was much more narrow in its confines than now. in the northeast it lacked lorraine, franche comté, bresse, dombes and bucey; in the south roussillon, béarn and basse-navarre, and there was a sort of quasi-independence observed by the former great states of bretagne, bourgogne and dauphiné. with the coming of the king of navarre to the throne of france, the three great movements which took place in the religious situation, the manners and customs of the court and noblesse, and in the aspirations of the people gave an aspect of unity and solidarity to france. the religious question was already momentous when henri iv was crowned, and protestantism and its followers were gaining ground everywhere, though the real français--the guises and the bourbons, the princes of lorraine and the "princes of the blood"--were on the side of catholicism, and had their swords ever unsheathed in its behalf. the court, in the midst of this great religious quarrel, was also in a state of transition. catherine and her gay troupe of damsels had passed, as also had charles ix, who died shortly after the huguenot massacre of st. bartholomew's night. his brother, and successor to the throne, henri iii, duc d'anjou, was a weakling, and he too died miserably at the point of the assassin's knife, and few seemed to regret the passing of him who devoted himself more to monkeys, parrots and little dogs than to statecraft. henri of béarn was the strong man in public view, and of him great things were expected by all parties in spite of his professed calvinism of the time. it was during the reign of the feeble-witted henri iii that henri, king of navarre, became the titular head of the huguenots; thus abjuring the catholic religion that he had previously embraced under pressure. the protestant league became a powerful institution, and the _gentilshommes_ of béarn, guienne, poitou and dauphiné became captains in the cause, just as the _gentilshommes_ of picardie and artois became captains of catholicism. the whole scheme was working itself out on traditional hereditary lines; it was the protestantism of the mountains against the catholicism of the lowlands. as for the people, the masses, they simply stood by and wondered, ready for any innovation which augured for the better. [illustration: _arms of henri iv of france and navarre_] this was the state of france upon the coming of henri iv to the throne, and the joining of basse-navarre and béarn to the royal domain. unquestionably it is a fact that the feudality in france ceased only with the passing of louis xi, and the change in the pyrenean states was contemporary. the renaissance made great headway in france, after its importation from italy at the hands of charles viii and his followers. constantinople had been taken; art and letters were everywhere in the ascendency; printing had been invented; and america was on the verge of being discovered. the golden days of the new civilization were about dawning. the renaissance here in béarn and navarre, under the shadow of the pyrenees, flowered as it did nowhere else out of italy, so far as its application to life and letters went. many celebrated litterateurs and poets had been persecuted and chased from france, and here they found a welcome refuge. to remark only two, desperriers and marat, it is interesting to note that the sympathetic marguerite of navarre took them under her patronage, and even made them _valets de chambre_. marguerite's passions were, according to the historians, noble, but according to the romancers they were worldly. said erasmus: "_elle était chaste et peu sujette aux passions_," and contemporary historians agree with him; while marat, the poet _valet de chambre_, wrote the following:-- "que je suis serf d'un monstre fort étrange, monstre je dis, car pour tout vrai, elle a corps féminin, coeur d'homme et tête d'ange." in brantome, the chronicler, had finished his military career and was retained by henri iii of france as a gentleman of the bed-chamber. here he passed through many affairs of intrigue and the heart. in he received a mission to go and interview the king of navarre, for which he received the sum of six hundred _écus soleil_. what the subject of this mission was no one knows; there is no further mention of it either in the works of brantôme or the letters of the king of navarre, but at any rate he became enamoured of marguerite, and his account of his first meeting with her is one of the classic documents of french history. "i dare to say," said he, "that she was _si belle et si admirable_ that all the three hundred persons of the assembly were ravished and astounded." it is on marguerite of navarre, no less than on the plumed henry, that the popular interest in navarre and its history has been built. _a brief chronology of french and spanish navarre_ spanish navarre came to be annexed to the spanish crown in through the efforts and energies of ferdinand the catholic king of aragon. french navarre virtually came to france in , but its independent monarchs since that time have been: jeanne ii (et philippe) charles ii (le mauvais) charles iii jean ii (et blanche) eléonore phoebus de foix catherine (et jean d'albret ii) henri ii jeanne d'albret (et antoine de bourbon) henri iii - it was henri iii of navarre who became henri iv of france and it was he who first brought the little kingdom to the crown of france, the double title being borne by his successors up to the abdication of charles x in . chapter xxv the basques [illustration: _the basque country_] most people, or certainly most women, connect the name basque with a certain article of ladies' wearing apparel. just what its functions were, when it was in favour a generation ago, a mere man may not be supposed to know. théophile gautier has something to say on the subject, so he doubtless knew; and victor hugo delivered himself of the following couplet:-- "c'était plaisir de voir danser la jeune fille; sa basquine agitait ses pailettes d'azur." the french basques are divided into three families, the souletins, the bas-navarrais and the labourdins. they possess, however, the same language and other proofs of an identical origin in the simplicity and quaintness of their dress and customs. the labourdin basques inhabit the plains and valleys running down to the sea at the western termination of the pyrenees, and live a more luxurious life than the navarrais, even emigrating largely, and entering the service of the merchant and naval marine; whereas the navarrais occupy themselves mostly with agriculture (and incidentally are the largest meat eaters in france) and contribute their services only to the army. the contrast between the sailor and fisher folk of the coast, and the soldiers and farmers of the high valleys is remarkable, as to face and figure, if not readily distinguishable with respect to other details. the labourdin basques have a traditional history which is one of the most interesting and varied records of the races of western europe. in olden times the golfe de gascogne was frequented by great shoals of whales, and the basques, harpooning them and killing them in the waters of their harbours, came to control the traffic. when the whale industry fell off, and the whales themselves receded to the south seas, the basques went after them, and for long they held the supremacy as before, finally chasing them again to the newfoundland banks, which indeed it is claimed the basques discovered. at any rate the whaling industry proved a successful and profitable commerce for the basques, and perhaps led the way for their migration in large numbers to south america and other parts of the new world. among the basques themselves, and perhaps among others who have given study to the subject, the claim is made that they were the real discoverers of the new world, long before columbus sighted the western isles. thus is the columbus legend, and that of leif, son of eric, shattered by the traditions of a people whom most european travellers from overseas hardly know of as existing. it seems that a spanish basque, when on a voyage from bayonne to madeira, was thrown out of his course and at the mercy of the winds and waves, and finally, after many weeks, landed on the coast of hayti. columbus is thus proved a plagiarist. the basques as a race, both in france and in spain, are a proud, jovial people, not in the least sullen, but as exclusive as turtle-doves. unlike most of the peasants of europe, whether at work or play, they march with head high, and beyond a grave little bow, scarcely, if ever, accost the stranger with that graciousness of manner which is usually customary with the farmer folk of even the most remote regions in france, those of the cevennes or the upper valleys of dauphiné or savoie. upon acquaintance and recognition of equality, the basques become effusive and are undoubtedly sincere. they don't adopt the mood for business purposes as does the norman or the niçois. the traditions of the basques concerning their ancestors comport exactly with their regard for themselves, and their pride of place is noticeable to every stranger who goes among them. they believe that they were always an independent people among surrounding nations of slaves, and, since it is doubtful if the romans ever conquered them as they did the other races of gaul, this may be so. the very suggestion of this superior ancestry accounts for many of their manners and customs. full to overflowing with the realization of their "_noblesse collective_," they have an utter contempt for an individual nobility that borders close upon radicalism and republicanism. the greatest peer among them is the oldest of the house (_eteheco-sémia_) and he, or she, is the only individual to whom is paid a voluntary homage. like the children of abraham, the basques are, away from the seacoast, for the most part tenders of flocks and herds, and never does one meet a basque in the mountains or on the highroads but what he finds him carrying a _baton_ or a goad-stick, as if he were a maréchal de france in embryo. it is their "_compagnon de voyage et de fête_," and can on occasion, when wielded with a sort of jiu-jitsu proficiency, be a terrible weapon. as many heads must have been cracked by the _baton_ of the basque, as by the shillelagh of the irishman, always making allowance for the fact that the basque is less quarrelsome and peppery than pat. there is absolutely no question but that the basques are hospitable when occasion arises, and this in spite of their aloofness. in this respect they are like the arabs of the desert. and also like the hebrews, the basques are very jealous of their nationality, and have a strong repugnance against alliances and marriages with strangers. the activity and the agility of the basques is proverbial, in fact a proverb has grown out of it. "_leger comme un basque_," is a saying known all over france. the basque loves games and dances of all sorts, and he "makes the fête" with an agility and a passion not known of any other people to a more noticeable extent. a fête to the basque, be it local or national, is not a thing to be lightly put aside. he makes a business of it, and expects every one else to do the same. there is no room for onlookers, and if a tourney at _pelota_--now become the new sport of paris--is on, it is not the real thing at all unless all have a hand in it in turn. there are other _pelota_ tourneys got up at biarritz, bayonne and feuntarrabia for strangers, but the mountain basque has contempt for both the players and the audience. what he would think of a sixty or eighty thousand crowd at a football or a cricket game is too horrible for words. _pelota basque_ has its home in the basque country, both in the french and spanish provinces, and the finest players of _pelota_ come from here. _pelota basque_ is played in various parts of spain, as well as _pelota_ which is played with the three walls and the open hand, and thus the two games are found in the same country at the same time, though differing to no small extent. it is to be regretted that there is not more literature connected with the game. the history of ball games is always interesting, and _pelota_ is without doubt worthy of almost as much research as has been expended on the history of tennis. in spain _pelota_ is largely played at san sebastian, bilbao, madrid, barcelona. there are three walls, and the game is played by four players, two on each side. before the three-wall game was ever thought of, _pelota basque_ was played in the principal cities of the basque country, and it is still played on one wall in such cities as st. jean-de-luz, biarritz, cambo, dax, mauléon, bordeaux, and even at paris, and is recognized as the superior variety. this was explained over the signatures of a group of professional players who introduced the game to paris as follows:-- [illustration: _the game of pelota_] "we, the _pelotarie_ playing here, can play either on _frontones_ of the spanish or basque form; but there is no doubt that the latter is the better game, and we feel we must state that the measures of the court, and the wall, and its top curves are the same in the paris _fronton_ as at st. jean-de-luz, which is considered by all authorities an ideal court. here we play three against three, and all the '_aficionados_' who have witnessed a game of basque _pelota_ are unanimous in saying it is a sport of a high grade, although different from the three-wall game. "we, the undersigned, are the recognized champions of _pelota basque_. eloy, _of the barcelona's fronton_. melchior, _of san sebastian's fronton_. velasco, _of biarritz and bilbao's fronton_. leon diharce, _of paris and buenos ayres fronton_." it is by the word _euskualdunac_ that the basques are known among themselves. their speech has an extraordinary sound, the vowels jumping out from between the consonants as a nut shell crushes in a _casse-noisette_. no tongue of europe sounds more strange to foreign ears, not even hungarian. on the other hand a basque will speak french perfectly, without the slightest accent, when he feels like it, but his béarnais neighbour makes a horrible mess of it, mixing parisian french with his chattering _patois_. what a language and what a people the basques are, to be sure! some day some one will study them profoundly and tell us much about them that at present we only suspect. this much we know, they are allied to no other race in europe. perhaps the basques _were_ originally arabs. who knows? a young basque woman who carries a water-jug on her head, and marches along with a subtle undulation of the hips that one usually sees only in a desert arab or a corsican girl, certainly is the peer of any of the northern europeans when it comes to a ravishing grace and carriage. it is the pays basque which is the real frontier of france and spain, and yet it resembles neither the country to the north nor south, but stands apart, an exotic thing quite impossible to place in comparison with anything else; and this is equally true of the men and women and their manners and customs; the country, even, is wild and savage, but gay and lively withal. one may not speak of two peoples here. it is an error, a heresy. on one side, as on the other, it is the same race, the same tongue, the same peoples--in the basses-pyrenees of modern france as in the provinces of guipuzcoa, navarre and biscaye of modern spain. the only difference is that in france the peasant's _béret_ is blue, while in spain it is red. the antiquity of _la langue escuara_ or _eskual-dunac_ is beyond question, but it is doubtful if it was the speech of adam and eve in their terrestrial paradise, as all genuine and patriotic basques have no hesitancy in claiming. at a geographical congress held in london in a m. l. d'abartiague claimed relationship between the basques of antiquity and the aborigines of the north american continent. this may be far-fetched or not, but at any rate it's not so far-flung as the line of reasoning which makes out adam and eve as being the exclusive ancestors of the basques, and the rest of us all descended from them. curiously enough the spanish basques change their mother-tongue in favour of castilian more readily than those on the other side of the bidassoa do for french. the spanish basques to-day number perhaps three hundred and fifty thousand, though included in fiscal returns as castilians, while in france the basques number not more than one hundred and twenty thousand. there are two hundred thousand basques in central and south america, mostly emigrants from france. the basque language is reckoned among the tongues apportioned to gaul by the geographer balbi; the greco-latine, the germanic, the celtic, the semitic, and the basque; thus beyond question the basque tongue is a thing apart from any other of the tongues of europe, as indeed are the people. the speech of the basque country is first of all a _langue_, not a corrupted, mixed-up _patois_. authorities have ascribed it as coming from the phoenician, which, since it was the speech of cadmus, the inventor of the alphabet, was doubtless the parent of many tongues. the educated basques consider their "tongue" as one much advanced, that is, a veritable tongue, having nothing in common with the other tongues of europe, ancient or modern, and accordingly to be regarded as one of the mother-tongues from which others have descended. it bears a curious resemblance to hebrew, in that nearly all appellatives express the qualities and properties of those things to which they are applied. from the point of grammatical construction, there is but one declension and conjugation, and an abundance of prepositions which makes the spoken speech concise and rapid. basque verbs, moreover, possess a "familiar" singular and a "respectful" singular--if one may so mark the distinction, and they furthermore have a slight variation according to the age and sex of the person who speaks as well as with regard to the one spoken to. really, it beats esperanto for simplicity, and the basque tongue allows one to make words of indeterminate length, as does the german. it is all things to all men apparently. _ardanzesaroyareniturricoborua_, one single word, means simply: "the source of the fountain on the vineyard-covered mountain." its simplicity may be readily understood from the following application. the basque "of bayonne" is _bayona_; "from bayonne," _bayonaco_; "that of bayonne," _bayonacoa_. the ancient and prolific basque tongue possesses a literature, but for all that, there has never yet been discovered one sole public contract, charter or law written in the language. it was never the official speech of any portion of the country, nor of the palace, nor was it employed in the courts. the laws or _fueros_ were written arbitrarily in latin, spanish, french and béarnais, but never in basque. the costume of the basque peasant is more coquettish and more elegant than that of any other of the races of the midi, and in some respects is almost as theatrical as that of the breton. all over europe the characteristic costumes are changing, and where they are kept very much to the fore, as in switzerland, tyrol and in parts of brittany, it is often for business purposes, just as the yodlers of the alps mostly yodel for business purposes. the basque sticks to his costume, a blending of spanish and something unknown. he, or she, in the basque provinces knows or cares little as to what may be the latest style at paris, and bowler hats and _jupes tailleurs_ have not yet arrived in the basque countryside. one has to go into biarritz or pau and look for them on strangers. for the basque a _béret bleu_ (or red), a short red jacket, white vest, and white or black velvet corduroy breeches are _en régle_, besides which there are usually white stockings, held at the knees by a more or less fanciful garter. on his feet are a rough hob-nailed shoe, or the very reverse, a sort of a moccasin made of corded flax. a silk handkerchief encircles the neck, as with most southern races, and hangs down over the shoulders in what the wearer thinks is an engaging manner. on the days of the great fêtes there is something more gorgeous still, a sort of a draped cloak, often parti-coloured, primarily the possession of married men, but affected by the young when they try to be "sporty." the _tambour de basque_, or drum, is a poor one-sided affair, all top and no bottom; virtually it is a tambourine, and not a drum at all. one sees it all over the basque country, and it is as often played on with the closed fists as with a drumstick. like most of the old provincials of france, the basques have numerous folk-songs and legends in verse. most frequently they are in praise of women, and the basque women deserve the best that can be said of them. the following as a sample, done into french, and no one can say the sentiment is not a good deal more healthy than that of isaac watts's "hymns." "peu de femmes bonnes sont bonnes danseuses, bonne danseuse, mauvaise fileuse; mauvaise fileuse, bonne buveuse, des femmes semblables sont bonnes à traiter à coups de baton." in the basque country, as in brittany, the clergy have a great influence over the daily life of the people. the basques are not as fanatically devout as the bretons, but nevertheless they look to the _curé_ to explain away many things that they do not understand themselves; and let it be said the basque _curé_ does his duty as a leader of opinion for the good of one and all, much better than does the country squire in england who occupies a somewhat analogous position. it is through the church that the euskarian population of the basses-pyrenees have one of their strongest ties with traditional antiquity. the _curés_ and the communicants of his parish are usually of one race. there is a real community of ideas. as for the education of the new generation of basques, it is keeping pace with that of the other inhabitants of france, though in times past even rudimentary education was far behind, and from the peasant class of only a generation or so ago, out of four thousand drawn for service in the army, nearly three hundred were destitute of the knowledge of how to read and write. in ten years, however, this percentage has been reduced one half. the emigration of the basques has ever been a serious thing for the prosperity of the region. thirteen hundred emigrated from the "basque française" (for south and central america) and fifteen hundred from the "basque espagnole." in figures this emigration has been considerably reduced of late, but the average per year for the last fifty years has been (from the basse-pyrenees département alone) something like seventeen hundred. the real, simon-pure basque is seen at his best at saint jean-pied-de-port, the ancient capital of french navarre. "_urtun hiriti urrumoffagariti_," say the inhabitants: "far from the city, far from health." this isn't according to the doctors, but let that pass. to know the best and most typical parts of the basque country, one should make the journey from saint jean-pied-de-port to mauléon and tardets. here things are as little changed from mediævalism as one will find in modern france. one passes from the valley of the nive into the valley of the bidouze. there are no railways and one must go by road. the road is excellent moreover, though the distance is not great. here is where the automobilist scores, but if one wants to take a still further step back into the past he may make the forty kilomètres by diligence. this is a real treat too, not at all to be despised as a means of travel, but one must hurry up or the three franc diligence will be supplanted by a "light railway," and then where will mediævalism come in. all the same, if you've got a feverish automobile panting outside st. jean's city gate, jump in. there are numerous little villages en route which will not detain one except for their quaintness. one passes innumerable oxen, all swathed in swaddling clothes to keep off the flies and plodding slowly but surely along over their work. a train of spanish mules or smaller donkeys pulling a long wagon of wood or wool is another common sight; or a man or a woman, or both, on the back of a little donkey will be no novelty either. this travel off the beaten track, if there is not much of note to stop one, is delightful, and here one gets it at its best. stop anywhere along the road at some inn of little pretence and you will fare well for your _déjeuner_. it will be very homely, this little basque inn, but strangers will do very well for their simple wants. all one does is to ask "avez-vous des oeufs? avez-vous du jambon? du vin, je vous prie!" and the smiling rosy-cheeked _patronne_, whose name is jeanne, jeannette, jeanneton, jeannot or margot--one or the other it's bound to be--does the rest with a cackling "ha! he! eh ben! eh ben!" and you will think you never ate such excellent ham and eggs in your life as this bayonne ham and the eggs from basque chickens--and the wine and the home-made bread. it's all very simple, but an escoffier could not do it better. the peasant's work in the fields in the basque country may not be on the most approved lines, and you can't grow every sort of a crop here in this rusty red soil, but there is a vast activity and an abundance of return for the hard workers, and all the basques are that. the plough is as primitive as that with which the egyptian fellah turns up the alluvial soil of the nile, but the basque makes good headway nevertheless, and can turn as straight a furrow, up the side of a hill or down, as most of his brothers can on the level. in the church at bunus is a special door reserved in times past for the descendants of the arabs who had adopted christianity. here in the basque country you may see the peasants on a fête day dance the fandango with all the ardour and the fervour of the andalusians themselves. besides the fandango, there is the "_saute basque_," a sort of a hop-skip-and-a-jump which they think is dancing, but which isn't the thing at all, unless a grasshopper can be said to dance. "le chevalet" is another basque dance whose very name explains itself; and then there is the "tcherero," a minuet-sort of a dance, wholly by men, and very graceful and picturesque it is, not at all boisterous. the peasants play the _pastoral_ here as they do in languedoc and provence, with good geniuses and evil geniuses, and all the machinery that isaac watts put into his hymns for little children. here the grown men and women take them quite as seriously as did the children of our nursery days. [illustration: "_le chevalet_"] in the basses-pyrénées, besides the basques, is distinguishable another race of dark-skinned, under-sized little men, almost of the japanese type, except that their features are more regular and delicate. they are descendants of the saracen hordes which overran most of southern gaul, and here and there found a foothold and left a race of descendants to tell the story. the saracens of the basque country were not warlike invaders, but peaceful ones who here took root, and to-day are known as agotacs-cascarotacs. it is not difficult to distinguish traces of african blood among them, just the least suspicion, and they have certain religious rites and customs--seemingly pagan--which have nothing in common with either the basques or the french. they are commonly considered as pariahs by other dwellers roundabout, but they have a certain individuality which would seem to preclude this. they are more like the "holy men" of india, than they are like mere alms beggars, and they have been known to occupy themselves more or less rudely with rough labour and agricultural pursuits. they have their own places in the churches, those who have not actually died off, for their numbers are growing less from day to day. it can be said, however, that--save the _cagots_ and _cretins_--they are the least desirable and most unlikable people to be found in france to-day. they are not loathsome, like lepers or _cretins_ or _goitreux_, but they are shunned by all mankind, and for the most part remain well hidden in obscure corners and culs-de-sac of the valleys away from the highroads. the spanish gypsies are numerous here in the basque country, as might be expected. they do not differ greatly from the accepted gypsy type, but their marriage customs are curious. as a local authority on gypsy lore has put it: "an old pot serves as a _curé_ and notary--_u bieilh toupi qu'ous sert de curé de nontari_." the marriageable couple, their parents and their friends, assemble in a wood, without priest or lawyer, or any ceremony which resembles an official or religious act. an earthenware pot is thrown in the air and the broken pieces, as it tumbles to the ground, are counted. the number of pieces indicate the duration of the partnership in years, each fragment counting for a year. simple, isn't it! chapter xxvi saint-jean-pied-de-port and the col de ronÇevaux saint-jean-pied-de-port, the ancient capital of basse-navarre, is the gateway to one of the seven passes of the pyrenees. to-day it is as quaint and unworldly as it was when capital of the province. its aspect is truly venerable, and this in spite of the fact that it is the chief town of a canton, and transacts all the small business of the small officialdom of many square leagues of country within its walls. there is no apparent approach to saint-jean-pied-de-port, as one comes up the lower valley of the nive; it all opens out as suddenly as if a curtain were withdrawn; everything enlarges and takes on colouring and animation. the walled and bastioned little capital of other days was one of the _clés_ of france in feudal times, and it lives well up to its traditions. saint-jean-pied-de-port is a little town, red and rosy, as a frenchman--certainly a poet, or an artist--described it. there is no doubt but that it is a wonder of picturesqueness, and its old walls and its great arched gateway tell a story of mediævalism which one does not have to go to a picture fairy book to have explained. all is rosy, the complexions of the young basque girls, their costumes, the brick and stone houses and gates, and the old bridge across the nive; all is the colour of polished copper, some things paler and some deeper in tone, but all rosy red. there's no doubt about that! along the river bank the houses plunge directly into the water without so much as a skirt of shore-line. saint-jean-pied-de-port, its ancient ramparts and its river, is a combination of bruges and venice. its _citadelle coiffe_ tells of things that are militant, and its fifteenth-century church of those that are spiritual. between the two comes much history of the days when the little bourg was the weight in the balance between french and spanish navarre. [illustration: _the quaint streets of saint-jean-pied-de-port_] the streets are calm, but brilliant with all the rare colourings of the artist's palette, not the least of these notes of colour being the milk jugs one sees everywhere hung out, strongly banded with great circles of burnished copper, and ornamented with a device of the royal crown, the fleur-de-lis, the initial =h= and the following inscription: "_à le grand homme des pays béarnais et basques_." no one seems to know the exact significance of this milk jug symbolism, but the jugs themselves would make good souvenirs to carry away. all around is a wonderful wooded growth, fig-trees, laurels and all the semi-tropical flora usually associated with the mediterranean countries, including the _châtaigniers_, whose product, the chestnut, is becoming more and more appreciated as an article of food. saint-jean-pied-de-port was, and is, the guardian of one of the most facile means of communication between france and spain, the route de pamplona via ronçevaux; facile because it has recently been rendered suitable for carriage traffic, whereas, save the coast routes on the east and west, no other is practicable. in the great tower and fortifications of saint-jean-pied-de-port were razed by order of the king of navarre. the decree, dated and signed from "_notre château de pau_," read in part thus:-- "_know you that the demolition of the walls of the city of saint-jean-pied-de-port is not made for any case of crime or felony or suspicion against the inhabitants ... and that we consider said inhabitants still as good, faithful vassals and loyal subjects._" the existing monuments of saint-jean-pied-de-port are many, though no royal residences are left to remind one of the days when kings and queens tarried within its walls. instead one must be content with the knowledge that the city grew up from a roman bourg which in the ninth century was replaced with the predecessor of the later capital. its name, even in this early day, was saint-jean-le-vieux, and it was not until the eleventh or twelfth centuries that the present city took form, founded doubtless by the garcias, who were then kings of all navarre. saint-jean belonged to spain, as did all the province on the northern slope of the pyrenees, until the treaty of , and the capital of the kingdom was pamplona. under the three reigns preceding the french revolution the city was the capital of french navarre, but the french kings, some time before, as we have seen, deserted it for more sumptuous and roomy quarters at pau, which became the capital of béarn and navarre. the chief architectural characteristics, an entrancing mélange of french and spanish, are the remaining ramparts and their ogive-arched gates, the vieux pont and its fortified gateway, and the fifteenth and sixteenth century church. the local fête (august fifteenth-eighteenth) is typical of the life of the basques of the region, and reminiscent, in its "charades," "bals champêtres," "parties de pelote," "mascarades," and "danses allegoriques" of the traditions of the past. saint-jean-pied-de-port lies in the valley of the nive, and st. Étienne-de-baigorry, just over the crest of the mountains, fifteen kilometres away, in the val de baigorry, is the chief town of a commune more largely peopled than that presided over by saint-jean-pied-de-port. really the town is but a succession of hamlets or quarters, but it is interesting because of its church, with its great nave reserved exclusively for women, even to-day--as was the ancient basque custom--and the château d'echaux sitting above the town. the château was the property of the ancient vicomtes of baigorry, and is a genuine mediæval structure, with massive flanking towers and a surrounding park. one of the vicomtes de baigorry, bertrand d'echaux, was also bishop of bayonne, and afterwards almoner to louis xiii. that monarch proposed to pope urban viii to make his almoner a cardinal, but death overtook him first. the nephew of this bertrand d'echaux, jean d'olce, was also a bishop of bayonne, and it was to him, in the church of st. jean de luz, fell the honour of giving the nuptial benediction to louis xiv and the infanta marie-thérèse upon their marriage. the château de baigorry of the echaux belonged later to the comte harispe, one of the architects of the military glory of france. he first engaged in warfare as a simple volunteer, but died _senateur_, _comte_, and _maréchal_ of france. there is a first class legend connected with the daughter of the chatelain of d'echaux. a certain warrior, baron of the neighbouring château of lasse, became enamoured of the daughter of the seigneur d'echaux, vicomte de baigorry, and in spite of the reputation of the suitor of being cruel and ungallant the vicomte would not willingly refuse the hand of his daughter to so valiant a warrior, so the young girl--though it was against her own wish--became la baronne de lasse. the marriage bell echoed true for a comparatively long period; it was said that the soft character of the lady had tempered the despotism of her husband. one day a young follower of thibaut, comte de champagne, returning from pamplona in spain, knocked at the door of the château de lasse and demanded hospitality, as was his chevalier's right. the young knight and madame la baronne fell in love at first sight, but not without exciting the suspicions of the baron, who, by a subterfuge, caught the loving pair in their guilt. he threw himself upon the young gallant, pierced his heart with a dagger-thrust, cut him into pieces, and threw them into the moat outside the castle walls. an improvised court of justice was held in the great hall of the castle, and the vassals, fearing the wrath of their overlord, condemned the unhappy woman to death, by being interred in a dungeon cave and allowed to starve. when the vicomte de baigorry heard of this, he marched forthwith against his hard-hearted son-in-law, and after a long siege took the château. just previously the baron committed suicide, anticipating the death that would have awaited him. this is tragedy as played in mediæval times. between saint-jean-pied-de-port and saint-etienne-de-baigorry, just by the side of the road, is the ruined château of farges, a famous establishment in the days of the first napoleon's empire, though a hot-bed of political intrigue. its architectural charms are not many or great, the garden is neglected, and the gates are off their hinges. the whole resembles those scotch manors now crumbling into ruin, of which sir walter has given so many descriptions. at ascarat, too, is a house bearing a sculpture of a cross, a mitre, and two mallets interlaced on its façade, with the date . it is locally called "la maison ancienne," but the present occupant has given it frequent coats of whitewash and repaired things here and there until it looks like quite a modern structure. above saint-jean-pied-de-port, on the road to arnéguy, is the little hamlet of lasse, with a church edifice of no account, but with a ruined château donjon that possesses a historic, legendary past. it recalls the name of the baron who had that little affair with the daughter of the vicomte de baigorry. in the heart of the pyrenees, twenty kilometres above saint-jean-pied-de-port, is val carlos and the col de ronçevaux, where fell roland and archbishop turpin in that bloody rout of charlemagne. blood flowed in rivers. literature more than history, though the event was epoch-making in the latter sense, has made the story famous. the french call it a _drame militaire_, and this, as well as anything, gives a suggestion of its spectacular features all so fully set forth in a cycle of chivalrous legends in the famous song of roland. the alps divide their warlike glories with napoleon and hannibal, but the pyrenees will ever have charlemagne for their deity, because of this affair at ronçevaux. charlemagne dominated everything with his "host of christendom," and the people on the pyrenees say to-day: "there are three great noises--that of the torrent, that of the wind in the pines, and that of the army of charlemagne." he did what all wise commanders should do; he held both sides of his defensive frontier. "when charlemagne had given his anger room, and broken saragossa beneath his doom, and bound the valley of ebro under a bond, and into christendom christened bramimond." all who recall the celebrated retreat of charlemagne and the shattering of his army, and the paladin roland, by the rocks rolled down upon them by the basques will have vivid emotions as they stand here above the magnificent gorge of val carlos and contemplate one of the celebrated battle-fields of history. the abbey of ronçevaux, a celebrated and monumental convent, has been famous long years in history. the _royale et insigne collegiale_, as it was known, was one of the most celebrated sanctuaries in christendom, and takes its place immediately after the shrines of jerusalem, rome, and st. jacques de compostelle, under the immediate protection of the holy see, and under the direct patronage of the king of spain, who nominates the prior. this dignitary and six canons are all that exist to-day of the ancient military order of ronçevaux, called by the spanish ronçevalles, and by the basques orhia. there's not much else at ronçevaux save the monastery and its classic gothic architectural splendours, a few squalid houses, and an inn where one may see as typical a spanish kitchen as can be found in the depths of the iberian peninsula. here are all the picturesque spanish accessories that one reads of in books and sees in pictures, soldiers playing guitars, and muleteers dancing the fandango, with, perhaps, a carmencita or a mercédès looking on or even dancing herself. pamplona in spain, the old kingly capital of navarre, is eighty kilometres distant. one leaves saint-jean-pied-de-port by diligence at eleven in the morning, takes _déjeuner_ at val carlos, and at two in the afternoon takes the spanish diligence and sleeps at burgette, leaving again at four in the morning and arriving at pamplona at eight. this is a classic excursion and ought to be made by all who visit the pyrenees. val carlos is the spanish customs station, and soon after one passes through the magnificent rocky défile de val carlos and finally over the crest of the pyrenees by either the port d'ibañeta or the col de ronçevaux, at a height of one thousand and fifty-seven metres. the route from ronçevaux to pamplona is equally as good on spanish soil as it was on french--an agreeable surprise to those who have thought the good roads' movement had not "arrived" in spain. the diligence may not be an ideally comfortable means of travel, but at least it's a romantic one, and has some advantages over driving from saint jean in your own, or a hired, conveyance, as an expostulating frenchman we met had done. he freed the frontier all right enough, but within a few kilometres was arrested by a roving spanish officer who turned him back to the official-looking building--which he had no right to pass without stopping anyway--labelled "aduana nacional" in staring letters, that any passer-by might read without straining his eyes. "surely he would never have driven by in this manner," said the dutiful functionary, "unless he was intending to sell the horse and carriage and all that therein was, without acquitting the lawful rights which would enable a royal government to present a decent fiscal balance sheet." pamplona is the end of our itinerary, and was the capital of spanish navarre. it's not at all a bad sort of a place, and while it doesn't look french in the least, it is no more primitive than many a french city or town of its pretentions. it has a population of thirty thousand, is the seat of a bishop, has a fine old cathedral, a bull ring--which is a sight to see on the fête day of san sebastian (january twentieth)--and a hotel called _la perla_ which by its very name is a thing of quality. chapter xxvii the valley of the nive there is no more gracious little river valley in all france than that of the nive, as it flows from fabled ronçevaux by saint-jean-pied-de-port, bidarray and cambo, to the gulf of gascony, down through the fertile pyrenean slopes. ronsard sang of the loir at vendome and his rhymes have become classic; but much of the phrasing might apply here. all about is a profound verdure, a majesty, and a magnificence of colour which will ravish the heart of an artist, be he realist or impressionist. from the very first, the nive flows between banks wide and sinuous, and in its lower reaches, between cambo and the sea, takes on an amplitude that many longer and more pretentious streams lack utterly. by a rock-cut way, the nive passes from french navarre into the pays de labourd, an ancient fief of feudal times, between cambo and the pas de roland. the legend which has perpetuated the death of roland and so many of the rear-guard of charlemagne's army gives an extraordinary interest to this otherwise striking region. here the nive narrows its banks and tumbles itself about in a veritable fury of foam, and whether the sword stroke of the paladin roland made the passage possible, as it did in the famous "brèche," or not has little to do with one of the strikingly sentimental episodes of legendary history. if it took place anywhere likely enough it happened here also. between the pas de roland and saint-jean-pied-de-port one passes bidarray and a curious donkey-back bridge, and the famous bassin de bidarray, famous only because it is a cavern underground, for it does not differ greatly in appearance from others of its family. above bidarray is the superb cone of mondarrain, crowned with the ruins of a feudal castle. the following legend of a dragon who once lived in a cavern on the banks of the nive is worthy of preserving in print; at any rate it sounds plausible, as told the writer by an old dealer in _bérets_ and _sabots_. he had an eye for the picturesque, though, and if his facts are correct he would make a very good historian. a young bayonnais went out one day to attack this fabled monster whom no one yet had been able to kill. by name he was gaston armaud de belzunc, and his father was governor of bayonne in . after a day and a half of journeying, the young tartarin of other days came upon his quarry. the beast, furious, jumped upon the cavalier and threw him to the ground, but his lance pierced the scaly neck and so weakened the monster that man and beast grappled together. the two died, and gaston's companions, who had ungallantly fled precipitately at the first encounter, found them later laced in each other's embrace. to perpetuate the memory of this act of bravery, the king of navarre granted the family de belzunc the privilege of adding a dragon to its arms. up to the revolution there existed a fund in behalf of the clergy of a bayonne church to pray for the repose of the soul of this gallant young knight of the middle ages. high above the banks of the upper reaches of the nive are the grim ruins of the château de laustan. practically it was, in its palmy days, a fortress-château. it was built by the seigneur de laustan, who possessed great privileges in the neighbourhood, to turn the tide of aggression of his jealous neighbours, and of the spaniards. it was constructed of a sort of red sandstone, with walls of great thickness, as evidences show to-day, and must have been a very successful feudal habitation of its class. the family de laustan was one of the most celebrated in basse-navarre. it gave three archbishops to spain, and its archives are now kept in the royal library at madrid. cambo, in the mid-valley of the nive, is as delightful a spot of its class as is marked on any map, far more so than many pretentious resorts where bridge, baccarat and the bumptious pretence of its habitués are the chief characteristics. cambo is simple, but pleasant, and besides its quiet, peaceful delights it has two historical institutions which are as un-french as they are really and truly basque. first: its remarkable church, with its golden _rétable_ and its galleries surrounding the nave, is something distinctively local, as is also its churchyard. the other feature is the court or _fronton_ where is played the _jeu de paume_, or, to give it its basque nomenclature, _pelota_. here meet from time to time, all through the year, the most famous players of the french basque country and of guipuzcoa, the chief spanish centre, across the border. this game of _pelota_ is the passion of the basques, but as the habitant says, "the game plays out the player, and in four or five years his suppleness disappears, his muscles become hardened, and he is superannuated." still one cannot get away from the fact that cambo's present-day vogue is wholly due to the coming of edmond rostand. it was famous before, among a select few, but the craze is on, and the land-boomer and the resort-exploiter have already marked its acres for their own. rostand's country home "arnaga" is something like a palace of an arabian nights tale. the walls of the apartments, whose windows look out over the crests of the pyrenees, are covered with paintings by some of the most celebrated french artists. one room has a decorated frieze taken from the ever-delightful tales immortalized by andersen and the grimm brothers, and the gem of this poet's dwelling is madame rostand's boudoir. familiar stories of "cinderella" and the "beauty and the beast" are told again, with a wealth of colour and fantasy, by that whimsical artist jean weber. this artistic retreat is a happy combination of byzantine palace and basque chalet. here rostand lives part of the year, with his wife and son, in a retirement only broken to receive a friend, who is supposed never to speak of the strenuous life. to escape from the continual excitement of city life and the feverish fashionable resorts, and also to be able to devote himself entirely to work, the creator of "cyrano" fled to this spot eight years ago. arnaga is not constructed along the conventional lines of the french château, but looks rather like a moorish palace as it stands on a high hill, surrounded by parks and terraces, and the wonderful basque landscape. on one side the castle or palace, or château, or whatever you choose to call it, overlooks a verdant plain sprinkled with semi-tropical blossoms and watered by the winding stream of the nive. on the other rise the majestic pyrenees, which, in the glory of the southern sunset, flush to a deep crimson and then pale to a sombre purple. surely it is an ideal spot and will be till the madding crowd comes and sets this ideal litterateurs' and artists' retreat in an uproar, as it did Étretat and st. raphael in the days of alphonse karr. rostand's earnings as a dramatist might not suffice to keep up such a pretentious establishment, but since he is married to the daughter of a paris banker the thing seems simpler. "the fame of cambo is only just coming to be widespread. this is due to the fact that the great poet and playwright whose fame rests upon having invented a _papier-maché_ nose for his chief creation has made it so." this was the rather unkindly criticism of a brother professional (a french playwright) jealous, presumably, of rostand's fame, and must not be taken seriously. rostand's house is one of the sights of cambo, but as a frenchman wrote: "_m. rostand n'est pas toujours à sa fenêtre_." still the house is there and those who would worship at the shrine from without may do so. to get in and out of cambo one passes over a tiny bridge, so narrow that one conveyance must wait while another crosses. as the same observant frenchman said: "no wonder m. rostand does not quit cambo if he has to cross a bridge like this!" automobiles especially have an annoying time of it, and the new "automobile _corne quadruple_" as it whistles out the famous air: "_je suis le pâtre des montagnes_," will not turn a basque peasant and his donkey aside once the latter has set his forefoot on the curious old bridge. at cambo the bathing establishment is in a half-hidden, tree-grown corner on the banks of the transparent nive. cambo, in spite of having "arrived" to a position of affluence and popularity, is but a commune of the canton of espelette, whose market-town itself has but a population of fifteen hundred souls, though it draws half as many again to its bosom each bi-weekly market day, mostly basques from spain. espelette is full of curious old basque houses, and its manners and customs are quaint and queer; in short it is most interesting, though if you stop for lunch at any one of its four or five little inns you will most likely want to get back to cambo by diligence for the night. espelette's chief industry is tanning leather and making those curious basque shoes called _espadrilles_. above cambo, a dozen kilometres, are the châteaux teillery and itxassou. itxassou possesses a richly endowed church, with an entire silver-gilt altar, the gift of a "basque-americain" of the eighteenth century, pedro d'echegaray. chapter xxviii bayonne: its port and its walls [illustration] the foundation of bayonne is lost in the obscurity of ages, but it was the capital of the basque country. three distinct _quartiers_ are formed by the flowing waters of the nive and the adour, communication being by a series of exceedingly picturesque, if not exactly serviceable, bridges. the bridges of bayonne are famous in the eyes of artists, and lovers of damp, moss-grown and weathered masonry, but an engineer of this age of steel would consider them inefficient abominations, and not at all suited to a great port and sous-préfecture such as bayonne. one of the finest works of vauban, the fortress builder, was the defences of bayonne. the walls and ramparts were exceedingly efficacious in times past (though to-day they look flimsy enough), and crowning all, was a superb fortress at the juncture of the two rivers which come together here, flowing from the fastnesses of the pyrenees to the sea. the allées marines at bayonne, a sort of tree-covered jetty-promenade, are a unique feature in civic embellishment. the water-gate at bordeaux is fine, and so is the thames embankment in london, and the battery in new york, but those allées at bayonne lead them all. the adour, coursing its way to the sea down through bayonne, was fickle enough one day to leave its bed, and force an outlet three leagues or more away, threatening disaster to bayonne's port. the citizens rose in might and took counsel, and decided that something must be done or they would die of sheer ennui, if not of poverty. there came to the rescue one louis de foix, the same who had been the architect of spain's escurial, and in he harnessed the water's flow and returned it to its ancient bed. [illustration: _a gateway of bayonne_] bayonne glories in the fact that she has never submitted to a foreign yoke, and when taken from the english, who had usurped it as a plantagenet birthright, by charles vii, in the fifteenth century, the people of bayonne recognized that they had come to their own again through the efforts of their fellow basques. the city's device "_nunquam polluta_" is distinctly appropriate. it was to bayonne that françois premier came to meet his court, after his days of imprisonment at madrid, as the hostage of his old enemy charles v. he was confined only in the luxuriously appointed palace at madrid, but, as he himself said, "the cage was none the less a cage for being gilded." here at bayonne awaited françois' mother, his sister marguerite, and a gay court of followers, not forgetting "a brilliant _parterre_ of young beauties assembled in their train," as du bellay puts it. françois' adoration for "brilliant _parterres_" of young ladies was ever one of his failings, and the master of ceremonies of the temporary court of bayonne thought enough of his position to get together an entrancing bevy, the most beautiful among them all being the famous anne de pisseleu, she who was afterwards to become the duchesse d'Étampes. diane de poitiers was there too, having come to bayonne as lady in waiting to the regent, but it was anne de pisseleu who won françois' favour of the moment, and he even allowed her to publicly refer to the insistent diane as "an old hag," and declare that she herself was born on diane's wedding day. this was after he had put aside diane. vicomte d'orth was governor of bayonne on that dread bartholomew's night when the tocsin rang out all over the french domain. he wrote to charles ix as follows, showing the fidelity and steadfastness of the people of these parts, when in more frigid climes they lost their heads in an uncontrollable fury: "i have communicated the letter of your majesty to the garrison, and to the inhabitants of the city; i have found only brave soldiers and good citizens and not a single murderer." bayonne to-day is frankly commercial; its docks and wharves are possessed of a considerable deep-sea traffic; and one sees three-masters from the banks of newfoundland, and cargo-boats from senegal, side by side at its quays. it is, too, the distributing depot for the whole basque country, the chief market where the peasant goes to buy seth thomas clocks and smith and wesson revolvers, each made in belgium most likely; in england and america the cry is "made in germany;" in france, it's "made in belgium." all of the basque country, and a part of béarn, depend on bayonne for certain supplies; even biarritz and saint-jean-de-luz are but its satellites. walckenaer's "géographie des gauls" says the evolution of the name bayonne was from the basque lapurdam, "city of thieves," but nothing to-day about her warm welcome for strangers justifies this, so it were best forgot. bayonne in the old days--and to some extent to-day--spoke intermittently gascon, français, béarnais and spanish, and it is this notable blend of peoples and tongues that makes it so charming. the _quartier landais_ was the mother city of bayonne, the oldest portion out of which the other faubourgs grew. within the old walls, and in the narrow streets, all is mediæval even now, but in the newer quarters the straight, rectangular lines of streets and sidewalks are, as the french call them, _à l'américaine_. the pont mayou at bayonne is the liveliest, gayest spot in all the basque country. it is the virtual centre of this ancient capital. bayonne's cathedral is lovely enough when viewed from afar, particularly the ensemble of its spires with the roof-tops of the town--a sort of reminiscence of nuremberg--and this in spite of the fact that taine in his description of it called it ugly. in the olden times, the city had an important jewish quarter, whose inhabitants were an overflow of those expelled from spain and portugal. this little city of the landes became a miniature frankfort, and had three synagogues where the rabbis held services in the spanish tongue. the phenomenon has disappeared, by a process of evolution and infusion, and one no more remarks the jewish type as at all distinct from the basque. an incident happened at bayonne fort during the peninsular war which seems to have been greatly neglected by historians, though gleig, the novelist, in "the subaltern," makes much of it. the english, believing that peace had been declared, resented an unprovoked french sortie from bayonne's citadel on the tenth of april, . this was the last british fight on french soil, if fight it was. a number of the guards, including four officers, died of wounds received at this engagement. the following anonymous verses tell the story well: "for england here they fell. yon sea-like water guards each hero's grave. far pyrenean heights, mindful, attest that here our bravest and our best their supreme proof of love and loyalty gave, dying for england well. "among those distant heights, had many a day the wrathful cannon roared. through black ravine and sunny field of spain war's headlong torrent rolled amain. irun's defile and bidassoa's ford beheld a hundred fights. "last, by this sea-like wave, threatening the fort our martial lines were drawn. fierce broke upon their watch at midnight hour the swift sortie, the bullets' shower. red carnage ceased with slowly wakening dawn. france keeps the true and brave." a kilometre or two outside the walls of bayonne--the same which defied the british in --is a guide-post bearing the inscription (the writer thinks in english) "to the guards' cemetery." down a by-road around a turning or two, and past a score of vine-clad cottages of basque peasants one comes to the spot in question, a little railed-in plot of hallowed ground. here are seen the original weather-worn headstones of nearly a century ago, and a newer series, practically replicas of the former. there is also a tablet stating that on this spot stood the "third guards camp." that is all. it resembles the conventional cemetery not at all, and may be considered a memorial, nothing more. certainly there is nothing pathetic or sad about it, for all is green and bright and smiling. if one can put themselves in this mood it is certainly a good one in which to make a pilgrimage to a city of the dead. there is another warlike reminiscence connected with bayonne, which is worth recalling, and that is that bayonne was the birthplace of the bayonet, as was troyes (in france) the birthplace of that species of weights which is not avoirdupois. a mid-victorian writer in england criticized dickens' story in _household words_, called "perils of certain english prisoners," wherein the soldiers carried bayonets in their muskets and cartridges in their haversacks. this particular critic nodded, as they sometimes do. cartridges were invented in , and bayonets first made their appearance at bayonne in , and the scene of dickens' tale was laid a hundred or two years later. those who think that york ham, which even the french know as _jambon d'yorck_, is a superlative sort of pig-product, should become acquainted with the _jambons de bayonne_, from basque pigs, cured with the natural salts of the commune of salies. there is no room left for comparison with other hams. those of bayonne are the peers of their class, not forgetting even the sugar-cured variety of the old dominion. there is a considerable chocolate business at bayonne, too, though not with the interior, which mostly gets its supplies from paris, but with the french colonies, notably with the tiny market of st. pierre-et-miquelon, which, by some business pact or reasoning, is held to be sacred to the chocolate manufacturers of bayonne. chapter xxix biarritz and saint-jean-de-luz [illustration: _biarritz and the surrounding country_] if bayonne is the centre of commercial affairs for the basque country, its citizens must at any rate go to biarritz if they want to live "the elegant and worldly life." the prosperity and luxury of biarritz is very recent; it goes back only to the second empire, when it was but a village of a thousand souls or less, mostly fishermen and women. the railway and the automobile omnibus make communication with bayonne to-day easy, but formerly folk came and went on a donkey side-saddle for two, arranged back to back, like the seats on an irish jaunting-car. if the weight were unequal a balance was struck by adding cobble-stones on one side or the other, the patient donkey not minding in the least. this astonishing mode of conveyance was known as a _cacolet_, and replaced the _voitures_ and _fiacres_ of other resorts. an occasional example may still be seen, but the _jolies basquaises_ who conducted them have given way to sturdy, bare-legged basque boys--as picturesque perhaps, but not so entrancing to the view. to voyage "_en cacolet_" was the necessity of our grandfathers; for us it is an amusement only. napoleon iii, or rather eugénie, his spouse, was the faithful godfather of biarritz as a resort. the villa eugénie is no more; it was first transformed into a hotel and later destroyed by fire; but it was the first of the great battery of villas and hotels which has made biarritz so great that the popularity of monte carlo is steadily waning. biarritz threatens to become even more popular; some sixteen thousand visitors came to biarritz in , but there were thirty-odd thousand in ; while the permanent population has risen from two thousand, seven hundred in the days of the second empire to twelve thousand, eight hundred in . the tiny railway from bayonne to biarritz transported half a million travellers twenty years ago, and a million and a half, or nearly that number in ; the rest, being millionaires, or gypsies, came in automobiles or caravans. these figures tell eloquently of the prosperity of this _villégiature impériale_. the great beauty of biarritz is its setting. at monte carlo the setting is also beautiful, ravishingly beautiful, but the architecture, the terrace, monaco's rock and all the rest combine to make the pleasing ensemble. at biarritz the architecture of its casino and the great hotels is not of an epoch-making beauty, neither are they so delightfully placed. it is the surrounding stage-setting that is so lovely. here the jagged shore line, the blue waves, the ample horizon seaward, are what make it all so charming. [illustration: biarritz] biarritz as a watering-place has an all the year round clientèle; in summer the spanish and the french, succeeded in winter by americans, germans, and english--with a sprinkling of russians at all times. biarritz, like pau, aside from being a really delightful winter resort, where one may escape the rigours of murky november to march in london, is becoming afflicted with a bad case of _la fièvre du sport_. there are all kinds of sports, some of them reputable enough in their place, but the comic-opera fox-hunting which takes place at pau and biarritz is not one of them. it is entirely out of place in this delightful southland, and most disconcerting it is as you are strolling out from biarritz some bright january or february morning, along the st. jean-de-luz road, to be brushed to one side by a cantering lot of imitation sportsmen and women from overseas, and shouted at as if you had no rights. this is bad enough, but it is worse to have to hear the talk of the cafés and hotel lounging-rooms, which is mostly to the effect that a fox was "uncovered" near the ninetieth kilometre stone on the route d'espagne, and the "kill" was brought off in the little chapel of the penitents blanc, where, for a moment, you once loitered and rested watching the blue waves of the golfe of gascogne roll in at your feet. it is indeed disconcerting, this eternal interpolation of inappropriate manners and customs which the _grand monde_ of society and sport (_sic_) is trying to carry round with it wherever it goes. to what banal depths a jaded social world can descend to keep amused--certainly not edified--is gathered from the following description of a "gymkhana" held at biarritz at a particularly silly period of a silly season. it was not a french affair, by the way, but gotten up by visitors. the events which attracted the greatest interest were the "_concours d'addresse_," and the "pig-sticking." for the first of these, a very complicated and intricate course was laid out, over which had to be driven an automobile, and as it contained almost every obstacle and difficulty that can be conceived for a motor-car--except a police trap, the strength and quality (?) of the various cars as well as the skill (??) of the drivers, were put to a very severe test. mr ---- was first both in "tilting at the ring" and in the "pig-sticking" contests, the latter being the _best_ item of the show. one automobile, with that _rara avis_, a flying (air-inflated dummy) pig attached to it, started off, hotly pursued by another, with its owner, lance in hand, sitting beside the chauffeur. the air-inflated quarry in the course of its wild career performed some curious antics which provoked roars of laughter. of course every one was delighted and edified at this display of wit and brain power. the memory of it will probably last at biarritz until somebody suggests an automobile race with the drivers and passengers clad in bathing suits. the gambling question at biarritz has, in recent months, become a great one. there have been rumours that it was all to be done away with, and then again rumours that it would still continue. finally there came the clemenceau law, which proposed to close all public gambling-places in france, and the smaller "establishments" at biarritz shut their doors without waiting to learn the validity of the law, but the municipal casino still did business at the old stand. the mayor of biarritz has made strenuous representations to the minister of the interior at paris in favour of keeping open house at the basque watering-place, urging that the town would suffer, and monte carlo and san sebastian would thrive at its expense. this is probably so, but as the matter is still in abeyance, it will be interesting to see how the situation is handled by the authorities. the picturesque "plage des basques" lies to the south of the town, bordered with high cliffs, which in turn are surmounted with terraces of villas. the charm of it all is incomparable. to the northwest stretches the limpid horizon of the bay of biscay, and to the south the snowy summits of the pyrenees, and the adorable bays of saint-jean-de-luz and fontarabie, while behind, and to the eastward, lies the quaint country of the basques, and the mountain trails into spain in all their savage hardiness. the offshore translucent waters of the gulf of gascony were the _sinus aquitanicus_ of the ancients. a colossal rampart of rocks and sand dunes stretches all the way from the gironde to the bidassoa, without a harbour worthy of the name save at bayonne and saint-jean-de-luz. here the atlantic waves pound, in time of storm, with all the fury with which they break upon the rocky coasts of brittany further north. perhaps this would not be so, but for the fact that the iberian coast to the southward runs almost at right angles with that of gascony. as it is, while the climate is mild, biarritz and the other cities on the coasts of the gulf of gascony have a fair proportion of what sailors the world over call "rough weather." the waters of the gascon gulf are not always angry; most frequently they are calm and blue, vivid with a translucence worthy of those of capri, and it is that makes the "plage de biarritz" one of the most popular sea-bathing resorts in france to-day. it is a fashionable watering-place, but it is also, perhaps, the most beautifully disposed city to be found in all the round of the european coast line, its slightly curving slope dominated by a background terrace decorative in itself, but delightfully set off with its fringe of dwelling-houses, hotels and casinos. ostend is superbly laid out, but it is dreary; monte carlo is beautiful, but it is _ultra_; while trouville is constrained and affected. biarritz has the best features of all these. the fishers of biarritz, living mostly in the tiny houses of the quartier de l'atalaye, like the basque sailors of bayonne and saint-jean-de-luz, pursue their trade to the seas of iceland and spitzbergen. as a whaling-port, before nantucket and new bedford were discovered by white men, biarritz was famous. a "_lettre patent_" of henri iv gave a headquarters to the whalers of the old basque seaport in the following words: "un lieu sur la coste de la mer oceane, qu'il se decouvre de six et set lieus, tous les navaires et barques qui entrent et sortent de la coste d'espaiñe." a dozen miles or so south of biarritz is saint-jean-de-luz. the coquettish little city saw in olden times the marriage of louis xiv and marie thérèse of spain, one of the most brilliant episodes of the eighteenth century. in the town is still pointed out the maison lohabiague, a queer little angle-towered house, not in the least pretentious, where lived for a time the future queen and anne d'autriche as well. it is called to-day the maison de l'infante. there is another historic edifice here known as the château louis xiv, built by him as a residence for occupation "on the day of his marriage." it was a whim, doubtless, but a worthy one. [illustration: _st.-jean-de-luz_] st.-jean-de-luz has become a grand pleasure resort, and its picturesque port has little or no commercial activity save such as is induced by its being a safe port of shelter to which ships may run when battled by adverse winds and waves as they ply up and down the coasts of the gascon gulf. the ancient marine opulence of the port has disappeared entirely, and the famous _goëlettes basques_, or what we would call schooners, which hunted whales and fished for cod in far-off waters in the old days, and lent a hand in marine warfare when it was on, are no more. all the waterside activity to-day is of mere offshore fishing-boats. vauban had planned that saint-jean-de-luz should become a great fortified port. its situation and surroundings were admirably suited to such a condition, but the project was abandoned by the authorities long years since. the fishing industry of saint-jean-de-luz is very important. first there is "_la grande pêche_," carried on offshore by several small steamers and large _chaloupes_, and bringing to market sardines, anchovies, tunny, roach, and _dorade_. then there is "_la petite pêche_," which gets the shallow-bottom fish and shellfish, such as lobsters, prawns, etc. the traffic in anchovies is considerable, and is carried on by the coöperative plan, the captain or owner of the boat taking one part, the owner of the nets three parts of one quarter of the haul; and the other three-quarters of the entire produce being divided equally among the crew. similar arrangements, on slightly varying terms, are made as to other classes of fish. saint-jean-de-luz had a population of ten thousand two centuries ago; to-day it has three thousand, and most of those take in boarders, or in one way or another cater to the hordes of visitors who have made of it--or would if they could have suppressed its quiet basque charm of colouring and character--a little brighton. not all is lost, but four hundred houses were razed in the mid-eighteenth century by a tempest, and the stable population began to creep away; only with recent years an influx of strangers has arrived for a week's or a month's stay to take their places--if idling butterflies of fashion or imaginary invalids can really take the place of a hard-working, industrious colony of fishermen, who thought no more of sailing away to the south antarctic or the banks of newfoundland in an eighty-ton whaler than they did of seining sardines from a shallop in the gulf of gascony at their doors. enormous and costly works have been done here at saint-jean-de-luz since its hour of glory began with the marriage of louis xiv with the infanta of spain, just after the celebrated treaty of the pyrenees. the ambitious louis would have put up his equipage and all his royal train at bayonne, but the folk of saint-jean would hear of nothing of the sort. the mere fact that saint-jean could furnish fodder for the horses, and bayonne could not, was the inducement for the royal cortège to rest here. because of this event, so says tradition, the king's equerries caused the great royal portal of the church to be walled up, that other royalties--and mere plebeians--might not desecrate it. history is not very ample on this point, but local legend supplies what the general chronicle ignores. on the banks of the nivelle, in the days of louis xiii, were celebrated shipyards which turned out ships of war of three hundred or more tons, to battle for their king against spain. in , too, saint-jean-de-luz furnished fifty ships to richelieu to break the blockade of the ile of ré, then being sustained by the english. one recalls here also the sad affair of the connétable de bourbon, his conspiracy against the king of france, and how when his treachery was discovered he fled from court, and, "accompanied by a band of gentlemen," galloped off toward the spanish frontier. here at saint-jean-de-luz, almost at the very entrance of the easiest gateway into spain through the pyrenees, bourbon was last seen straining every power and nerve to escape those who were on his trail, and every wit he possessed to secure an alliance with the spanish on behalf of his tottering cause. "by our lady," said the king, "such treason is a blot upon knighthood. bourbon a man as great as ourselves! can he not be apprehended ere he crosses the frontier?" but no, bourbon, for the time, was safe enough, though he met his death in italy at the siege of rome and his projected spanish alliance never came off anyway. ten or twelve kilometres beyond saint-jean-de-luz is urrugne and its clock tower. victor hugo rhymed it thus: "...urrugne, nom rauque dont le nom a la rime répugne," and his words, and the latin inscription on its face, have served to make this little basque village celebrated. "vulnerant omnes, ultima necat." travellers by diligence in the old days, passing on the "route royale" from france to spain, stopped to gaze at the _horloge d'urrugne_, and took the motto as something personal, in view of the supposed dangers of travelling by road. to-day the automobilist and the traveller by train alike, rush through to hendaye, with never a thought except as to what new form of horror the customs inspection at the frontier will bring forth. urrugne is worth being better known, albeit it is but a dull little basque village of a couple of thousand inhabitants, for in addition it has a country inn which is excellent of its kind, if primitive. all around is a delightful, green-grown landscape, from which, however, the vine is absent, the humidity and softness of the climate not being conducive to the growth of the grape. in some respects the country resembles normandy, and the basques of these parts, curiously enough, produce cider, of an infinitesimal quantity to be sure, compared to the product of normandy or brittany, but enough for the home consumption of those who affect it. chapter xxx the bidassoa and the frontier in the western valleys of the pyrenees, opening out into the landes bordering upon the golfe de gascogne, rises the little river bidassoa, famous in history and romance. to the basques its name is bastanzubi, and its length is but sixty-five kilometres. in the upper valley, in spanish territory, is elizondo, the tiny capital of olden times, and three other tiny spanish towns whose names suggest nothing but an old-world existence. in its last dozen or fifteen kilometres the bidassoa forms the boundary between france and spain, and mid-stream--below hendaye, the last french station on the railway between paris and madrid--is the famous ile des faisans. all of this is classic ground. just across the river from hendaye is irun, the first station on the spanish railway line. it offers nothing special in the way of historical monuments, save a fourteenth-century hôtel de ville and innumerable old houses. its characteristics are as much french as spanish, and its speech the same, when its people don't talk basque. [illustration: _ile des faisans_] a historic incident of the ile des faisans was the famous affair of , when, after the battle of pavia, and françois premier had been made prisoner by charles v, the former was _exchanged_ against his two children as hostages. three years later the children themselves were redeemed by another _exchange_, this time of much gold and many precious "relics," as one learns from the old chronicles. in , on the same classic spot, as far from spanish territory as from french, anne of austria, the fiancée of louis xiii, was put into the hands of the french by the spanish, who received in return elizabeth of france, fiancée of philippe iii. quite a mart the ile des faisans had become! the culminating event was the signing of the celebrated traité des pyrénées, on november th, . when françois premier, fleeing from madrid, where he had been the prisoner of charles v, first set foot upon french soil again at this imaginary boundary line, he said: "at last i am a king again! now i am really free." it was only through the efforts of his sister that françois was able to escape his royal jailer. he had made promises which he did not intend to live up to; the king perjured himself but he saved france. he rode with all speed from madrid to meet his boys, the dauphin and the duc d'orleans, who were to replace him as hostages at madrid. on the river's edge the sons were awaiting their father, with an emotion too vivid for description. they had no fear, and they entered willingly into the plan which was laid down for them, but the meeting and the parting was most sad. wild with excitement of liberty being so near, françois could hardly wait for the ferry to take him across, and even waded into the river to meet it as they pulled towards it. on french soil a splendid retinue awaited him, and once more the french king was surrounded by his luxurious court. to-day the island of pheasants is hardly more than a sand bar, and mazarin and don louis de haro, and their numerous suites would have a hard time finding a foothold. the currents of the river and the ocean have made of it only a pinhead on modern maps. in , at the expense of the two countries, a stone memorial, with an inscription in french and spanish, was erected to mark the site of this fast dwindling island. irun and feuntarrabia, with the three french communes of biriaton, béhobie and hendaye enjoy reciprocal rights over the waters of the estuary of this epoch and history making river. this is the result of an agreement of long years standing, known as the "pacte de famille," an agreement made between the french and spanish basques (those of the _béret bleu_ with the _béret rouge_) with the concurrence of the french and spanish authorities. crossing the pont international between france and spain may prove to be an amusing and memorable sensation. if a man at one end of the bridge offers you an umbrella, or a parasol, to keep off the sun's rays during this promenade, saying that you can leave it with a friend at the other end, don't take it. the other who would take it from you may be prevented from doing so by a spanish gendarme or a customs official, who indeed is just as likely to catch you first. the fine is "easy" enough for this illicit traffic, but the international complications are many and great. so, too, will be the inconveniences to yourself. around the pont international, on both the french and spanish sides, is as queer a collection of stray dogs and cats as one will see out of constantinople. they are of a "_race imprécise, vraies bêtes internationales_," the customhouse officer tells you, and from their looks there's no denying it. they may not be wicked, may only bark and not bite, mew and not scratch, but only they themselves know this. to the rest of us they look suspicious. from hendaye one may enter spain by any one of three means of communication,--by railway, on foot across the pont de béhobie, or by a boat across the bidassoa. the first means is the most frequented; for a _piécette_--that is to say a _pièce blanche_ of spanish money, which has the weight and appearance of a franc, but a considerably reduced value--one can cross by train; a boatman will take you for half the price at any time of the day or night; and by the pont international, it costs nothing. [illustration: _the frontier at hendaye_] this international bridge belongs half to france and half to spain, the post in the middle bearing the respective arms marking the limits of the territorial rights of each. this is one of the most curiously ordained frontiers in all the world. the people of urrugne in france, twenty kilometres distant from the frontier, can hold speech freely in their mother tongue with those of feuntarrabia in spain, but officialdom of the customs and railway organizations at hendaye and irun, next-door neighbours, have to translate their speech from french to spanish and vice versa, or have an interpreter who will. curious anomaly this! hendaye's chief shrine is a modern one, the singularly-built house, on a rock dominating the bay, formerly inhabited by pierre loti, though most of his fellow townsmen knew him only as julian viaud, lieutenant de vaisseau. this, though the commander of the miserable little gunboat called the "_javelot_" stationed always in the bidassoa was an _académicien_. at the french entrance to this important frontier bridge one reads on a panel pont international; and at the spanish end, puente internacional; and here the _gendarme_ of france become the _carabiniero_ of spain. béhobie, at the spanish end of the bridge, the french call "the biggest hamlet in europe." it virtually is a hamlet, but it has some of the largest business and industrial enterprises in the country, for here have been established branch houses and factories of many a great french industry in order to avoid the tariff tax imposed on foreign products in the spanish peninsula. the game has been played before elsewhere, but never so successfully as here. [illustration: _maison pierre loti, hendaye_] on the pointe de ste. anne, the northern boundary of the estuary of the bidassoa, is a monumental château, the work of viollet-le-duc, built by him for the comte d'abbadie. modern though it is, its architectural opulence is in keeping with the knowledge of its builder (the greatest authority on gothic the world has ever known, or ever will know); and as a combination of the excellencies of old-time building with modern improvements, this château d'abbadie stands quite in a class by itself. at the death of the widow of the comte d'abbadie, the château was bequeathed by her to the institut de france. the view seaward from the little peninsula upon which the château sits is marvellously soft and beautiful, and what matter it if the fish of the golfe de fontarabie to the south have no eyes--if indeed his statement be true. no oculist or zoölogist has said it, but a poet has written thus:-- "le poisson qui rouvrit l'oeil mort du vieux tobie se joue au fond du golfe où dort fontarabie." near by is the forêt d'yraty, much like most of the forests of france, except that this is all up and down hill, clinging perilously wherever there is enough loose soil for a tree to take root. the inhabitants tell you of a "wild man" discovered here by the shepherds, in , long before the days of circus wild men. he was tall, well proportioned and covered with hair like a bear, and always in a good humour, though he did not speak an intelligible language. his chief amusement was sheep-stealing, and one day it was determined to take him prisoner. the shepherds and the authorities tried for twenty-five years, until finally he disappeared from view--and so the legend ends. across the estuary of the bidassoa, in truth, the baie de fontarabie, the sunsets are of a magnificence seldom seen. there _may_ be others as gorgeous elsewhere, but none more so, and one can well imagine the same refulgent red glow, of which historians write, that graced the occasion when cristobal colon (or his basque precursor) set out into the west. in connection with all this neighbouring franco-espagnol country of the basques, one is bound to recall the great events of these last years, both at biarritz, and at san sebastian, across the border. the cachet of the king of england's approval has been given to the former, and of that of the king of spain to the latter. already the region has become known as the _côte d'argent_, as is the riviera the _côte d'azure_, and the north brittany coast the _côte d'emeraud_. it was here on the _côte d'argent_ that king alfonso did his wooing, his automobile flashing to and fro between st. sebastian and biarritz, crossing and recrossing the frontier stream of the bidassoa. bridges of stone and steel carry the traffic now, and it passes between irun and hendaye, higher up the river, but in the old days, the days of françois i, the passage was more picturesquely made by ferry. feuntarrabia is but a stone's throw away, sitting, as it were, desolate and forgotten on its promontory beyond the sands, and as the sun sets, flinging its blood-red radiance over sea and shore, the aspect is all very quiet, very peaceful, and fair. it is difficult to realize the stirring times that once passed over the spot, the war thunder that shook the echoes of the hills. may the bloody scenes of the _côte d'argent_ be over for ever, and its future be as happy as king alfonso's wooing. at feuntarrabia, but a step beyond irun, one enters his first typical spanish town. you know this because touts try to sell you, and every one else, a lottery ticket, and because the beggars, who, apparently, are as numerous as their tribe in naples, quote proverbs at your head. you may understand them or you may not, but since spain is the land of proverbs, it is but natural that you should meet with them forthwith. here is one, though it is more like an enigma; and when translated it becomes but an old friend in disguise:-- "un manco escribio una carta, un siega la esta mirando; un mudo la esta leyenda y un sordo la esta escuchando." "a handless man a letter did write, a dumb dictated it word for word; the person who read it had lost his sight, and deaf was he who listened and heard." one need not be a phenomenal linguist to understand this, even in the vernacular. feuntarrabia itself is a cluster of brown-red houses piled high along the narrow streets, with deep eaves over-hanging grated windows, and carved doorways leading to shady courts. there is a certain squalid, gone-to-ruin air about everything, which, in this case, is but a charm; but one can picture from the blazoned stone coats-of-arms seen here and there that the dwellers of olden time were proud and reverend seigneurs. [illustration: _in old feuntarrabia_] feuntarrabia, the little sea-coast town, called even by the french _la perle de la bidassoa_ is contrastingly different to saint-jean-de-luz, though not twenty kilometres away. it is spanish to the core, and on the escutcheon above the city gate one reads an ancient inscription to the effect that it belonged to the kings of castile and was always "a very noble, very loyal, very brave and always faithful city." feuntarrabia was once a fortress of renown, but that was in the long ago. it was a theatre of battles without end. here condé was repulsed, together with the best chivalry of france, and it was then that the grateful spanish king ordered that for evermore it should be styled "the most noble, the most leal, the most valorous of cities"--a title which does actually appear on legal documents unto this day. the duke of berwick, king james stuart's gallant son, once succeeded in taking the place, and it was then so utterly dismantled by the french that it has never since been reckoned among the fortified places of spain. but the city must indeed have felt the old war spirit stir again when it beheld those two great generals, soult and wellington, strive for victory before its hoary walls in . inch by inch the british had forced napoleon's men from spain; and here on the very frontier of france, maréchal soult gathered his forces for one last desperate stand. no british foot, he swore, should dare to touch the soil of france. but one chill october day, when the rain was falling on the broken, trodden vineyards, and the wind came moaning from the sullen sea, the word was given along the english ranks to pass the bidassoa. and across the river came a line of scarlet fighting men, haggard and war-worn, many of them wounded, all of them weary. the result of that day is written on the annals of military glory as "one of the most daring exploits of military genius." long afterwards soult himself acknowledged it was the most splendid episode of the peninsular war. the end. index abbadie, château d', _abelles, seigneurs des_, accous, agde, , , agen, , aigues-mortes, , , _albret family, d'_, , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , - _alphonse xiii_, , amauros, château d', amboise, , amélie-les-bains, , , , andorra, , , , - , , , andorra-viella, _arago, françois_, _aragon, house of_, , , , , , , aramits, - , , _arc, jeanne d'_, archachon, argelès, - , ariège, , arles-en-provence, , arles-sur-tech, , - , armagnac, comté d', , , , , , , _armagnac family, d'_, , - , , armendarits, , _arnaud, abbé felix_, - arnéguy, arques, arreau, - _arsinois, valentine d'_, artagnan, arudy, ascarat, aspremont, château of, - athos, auch, , audaux and its château, _aude, département de l'_, , , avignon, avocat-vieux, l', axat, , , - ax-les-thermes, - , , - badefols, _baluffe, auguste_, bagnères de bigorre, , , , , , bagnères-de-luchon (_see_ luchon) _baigorry, vicomtes de_, - , _balaguer, victor_, banyuls-sur-mer, , , , - barcelona, , , , , , , , , , , barèges, , - barétous, - , - bas-languedoc, , basque provinces, , , , , , - , , , , - basse-navarre, , , , - , basses-pyrénées, , , , , , , bayonne, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , béarn, , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , - , _béarn, vicomtes de_, , , , , , , , , , bedous, - béhobie, , , bellegarde, fortress de, , , , bellocq, château de, - _benoit xii_, _benoit xiii_, _béranger_, bergerac, _bertrand, jean_, betharrem, - bethmale, béziers, , , , , , , biarritz, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , bidache and its château, , - bidarray, , bielle, - biert, - bigorre, , , , , , , , , , , , , , bilboa, billère, biriaton, _blanca, jean_, _boileau_, , _boniface viii_, bordeaux, , , , , , , , , , , , , born, bertrand de, château of, boulbonne, abbey of, _bourbon, antoine de_, _bourbon, connétable de_, - bourdette, château de, bourg-madame, , - _brantome_, , brèche de roland, , - , bruges, , bunus, burgette, burgos, _cæsar_, , , , cahors, camargue, the, , cambo, , , , , - camprodon, canfranc, canet, - capcir, , - carcassonne and its château, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , _carcassonne, counts of_, , carol, tour de, castel-biel, - castelnau-durban, catalogne, , cauterets, , , , , , - , , , , _centulle family_, , , , , , cerbère and its château, - cerdagne, the, - , céret, , , cette, chalosse, , _charlemagne_, , , , , , , - , , , , _charles martel_, - _charles i_, _charles v_, , , , , , , _charles vi_, _charles vii_, , _charles viii_, , , , _charles ix_, , _charpentier, hubert_, chavilles, chelles, chenonceaux, _chilperic_, cirque de gavarnie, , _clement v_, _clement viii_, _clotaire ii_, coarraze and its château, , , , - col de banyuls, , , col de la carbossière, col de la perche, col de lladrones, col de perthus, - , , , , , col de puymorins, col de ronçevaux, , collioure, , , - comminges, comté de, , , , , - , _comminges, comtes de_, , - , - compiègne, _condé_, _"the grand,"_ , , , , conflent, _constant, benjamin_, _constant, son of constantine_, _constantine_, , _conti, prince de_, _convènes, the_, cortalets, coucy, couserans, - , creil, cucugnan, _dambourges_, _dante_, _daudet_, , dax, , _delcassé, m._, _desperriers_, _despourrins_, - _dickens_, - digne, _du bellay_, _dugommier_, _dumas_, , - , , , _duprat_, eaux-bonnes, , , , - , eaux-chaudes, , , - , echaux, château d', , _edward i_, _edward iii_, - _elissagory, renaud d'_, elizondo, elne, , , - , , , _erasmus_, escalde, espelette, estagel, _estarbès, d'_, _evreux family_, _expilly, abbé d'_, eysus, - falaise, _falguière, eugene_, farges, château de, - _favyn_, fenouillet, château de, _ferdinand of aragon_, , - , feuntarrabia, , , , , - figueras, foix and its château, , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , foix, comté de, , , , , , , - , - , , , , - , , , , , , , _foix, counts of_, , - , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , fontainebleau, _foulques, nerra_, , _fournier, gaston_ (see _benoit xii_) _foy, general_, , _françois i_, , , , , , - , - , frayras, _froissart_, , , , , , , , frontignan, gabas, gan, , _garat, m._, gard, , , gascogne, , , , , , , , , _gassion, jean de_, - _gaston phoebus de foix_, , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , _gautier, théophile_, gavarnie, , , , gibraltar, ginestas, gorges de pierre lys, , - gorges de st. georges, , - _grammont family_, - , _gregory vii_, grenada, , grotte de mas d'azil, - gudanne, château de, guiche, château de, _gustavus adolphus_, guienne, , , _hadrian_, _hannibal_, , , _haro, don louis de_, hastingues, haute-garonne, haute-languedoc, , hautes-pyrénées, , , , hendaye, , , , - , _henri ii of france_, , _henri ii of navarre_, , _henri iii of france_, , , _henri iii of navarre_ (see _henri iv of france_) _henri iv of france_, , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , - , , , , - , _henry viii of england_, hérault, , , , hospitalet, , - , _honorius iii_, huesca, _hugo, victor_, , , , _huguet, pierre_, iholdy, , ile des faisans, , , , - _innocent viii_, irun, , - , , , _isabella of castile_, , itxassou, château, _james i of aragon_, _jean ii of roussillon_, - jurançon, , lagarde, fortress of, , la bastide-de-serou, , la garde, château de, _la gaucherie_, laghat, notre dame de, _la guesle_, landes, the, , , , , , languedoc, , , , , , , , , , lanne and its château, - _laon, gérard de_, - laruns, , - , larlenque, lascaveries, lasse and its château, - , lastours, château of, latour-de-france and its château, _laurens, jean paul_, laustan, château de, - le boulon, , le puy, les andelys, lescar, , - , , , _lesseps, de_, les saintes-maries-de-la-mer (_see_ saintes maries) le vigne, _levis, guy de_, , _levis-ajac, françois de_, lézignan, limoux, , , , , , - _littré_, llagone, _lorris, guillaume de_, _lothaire_, , , _loti, pierre_, _louis ix_, , , , , , , _louis x_, , _louis xi_, , - , , , , , , , , , _louis xiii_, , , , , , , , , , , _louis xiv_, , , , , , , , , , , , , , - _louis xv_, , , _louis philippe_, lourdat, château de, , , - lourdes and its château, , , , , , , , - louvie-soubiron, luchon, , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , _luna, pierre de_, , lunel, _luther, martin_, luz, - , , luzenac, lyons, madrid, , , , , , madron, _majorca, kings of_, , , , , _mansard_, _marat_, marboré, tours de, _marca, pierre de_, , , marseilles, , , , , , , mas d'azil, - mauléon and its château, , , - , , , _maupassant, guy de_, maures, château de, _mazarin_, mazères and its château, , , , , , _medici, catherine de_, - , , _meilleraye, maréchal de la_, mende, _mercier_, _mérimée, prosper_, _mézeray_, _michaud_, _mirabel, château de_, mirepoix, , , - _moncade family_, , montauban, , , , , montelimar, _montesquieu_, _montfort, simon de_, , , , _montgomery_, , , montjoie, mont louis, , _montmorenci_, montory, montpellier, , , montréal, château de, , , montrejeau, montségur, château de, morlaas, , , - _nadaud, gustave_, , - , naples, _napoleon i_, , , , , _napoleon iii_, , narbonne, , , , , , nassaure, château de, navarre, , , , , , , , , , , , - , , _navarre family_, , , , , , - navarreux, , - navarrino, nay, , nice, , nîmes, , noailhan, château de, nogarède, château de, nogent, notre dame de château, notre dame de consolation, odos, château d', oloron, , , , , , , - , _orphila, guillaume de puig de_, _orth, vicomte d'_, _orthe, vicomtes d'_, orthez and its château, , , , , - , ossun and its château, - palada, _palissy, bernard_, pamiers, , , , , , - pamplona, , , , , , , , - paris, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , pas de roland, - pau and its château, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _pau, guillem de_, _paul iii_, pave, pays-de-fenouillet, pays-entre-deux-mers, peille, château de, _pentièvre et de périgord, comte de_, _pépin_, pérorade, perpignan, , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , perthus, peyrehorade, , _philippe iii_, , , _philippe iv_, , , , _philippe v_, _pierre iv of aragon_, pierrefonds, planes, , _poitiers, diane de_, , _pompey_, - , _pont, de carsalade du_, - porta, portalet, , porté, , port vendres, _pouvillon, emil_, prades, , prats-de-mollo, , , , - privas, puigcerda, - pujols, tour des, - _puré, abbé de_, puylaurens, château de, , pyrénées-occidentales, , , , pyrénées-orientales, , , , , , , quercy, queribus, château de, quié, château de, quillan, , , - _rabedos_, , _rameau, jean_, , _rené, king_, _richelieu_, , , , , , _rigaud, hyacinthe_, rimont, rivesaltes, , , rodes, château de, _rohan, duc de_, , _roland_, , - , - ronça, ronçevaux, , , , , , - , _ronsard_, , _rostand, edmond_, - rouen, , , _rousseau_, _roussel_, roussillon, , , , , , , , , , - , , , - , , roussillon, château, _roussillon, princes of_, , , ruscino and its château, , , , sabart, notre dame de, - _st. abdon_, st. andré, _st. bernard_, st. bertrand de comminges and its château, , , , - _st. bertrand de l'isle_, - , st. colome, st. Étienne-de-baigorry, , _st. galdric_, st. gaudens, , st. germain, st. giles, st. girons, , , , - , , _st. gregoire_, st. hilaire, - _st. hilaire_, st. jacques de compostelle, st.-jean-de-luz, , , , , , , , , - , st. jean-de-vergues, st. jean-pied-de-port, , , , , , , , , - , - , , , _st. jerome_, st. lizier and its château, , , , - , st. martin, abbey of, - st. martin-lys, , st. palais, - st. paul-de-fenouillet, st. pé-de-bigorre, - st. sauveur, , , , _st. sennen_, _sainte-marthe, charles de_, saintes maries, , - , , salces, salies de béarn, , , , , - , _saluste, guillaume_, san sebastian, , , , sarrance, - , saumur, sauveterre, , - saverdun, , selx, _sergius iv_, _sertorius_, seville, , _sigismond_, somport, _soult, maréchal_, , , - _sully_, _sylvestre, armand_, tarascon and its château, , - , tarbes and its château, , , , , - , , , , , tardets, , , teillery, château, _terès, jean_, _thiers, m._, toulouse, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , tours, _trencavel family_, , ultrera and its château, , _urban viii_, urdos, - , , urgel, urrugne, , ussat, valbonne, abbey of, val carlos, - val d'aran, , vallespir, , _valois, marguerite de_, , , , - , , , - , , - _vauban_, , , , , , , , , , , _verdaguer, jacinto_, - vernet, , , vic-dessos and its château, , villefranche and its château, , - villers-cotterets, _viollet-le-duc_, , , , vittoria, _voltaire_, _weber, jean_, _wellington_, , , , - _young, arthur_, , - * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: pot de vinalgre=> pot de vinaigre {pg } populous and progressve=> populous and progressive {pg } prats de mollo=> prats-de-mollo {pg } in-invariably=> invariably {pg } balls bounds around with wool=> balls bound around with wool {pg } mémoires du philippe de commine=> mémoires de philippe de commine {pg } st. jean-pied-de-porte=> st. jean-pied-de-port {pg } resembles neiher the country=> resembles neither the country {pg } analagous position=> analogous position {pg } but a step belond=> but a step beyond {pg } basses-pyrénêes=> basses-pyrénées {pg } st. jean-pied-de-porte=> st. jean-pied-de-port {pg } => {pg} => {pg} => {pg} => {pg} => the early norman castles of the british isles [illustration: motte-castles from the bayeux tapestry.] the early norman castles of the british isles by ella s. armitage honorary fellow of the society of antiquaries of scotland author of "the childhood of the english nation"; "the connection of england and scotland"; "an introduction to english antiquities," etc., etc. with plans by d. h. montgomerie, f.s.a. london john murray, albemarle street, w. errata page , _note_ .--_for_ "construerat" _read_ "construxerat." page , line .--_for_ "there was only one motte, the site of the castle of the norman giffards is now almost obliterated," _read_ "there was only one motte, site of the castle of the norman giffards, now almost obliterated." page , line .--_for_ " " _read_ " ." page , _note_ .--_for_ "legercestria" _read_ "legecestria." page , line .--delete comma after "castle." page , _note_ .--_for_ "instalment" _read_ "statement." page , _note_ .--_for_ "galloway, wigton, kirkcudbright, and dumfries," _read_ "galloway (wigton, kirkcudbright, and dumfries)." preface some portions of this book have already appeared in print. of these, the most important is the _catalogue raisonné_ of early norman castles in england which will be found in chapter vii., and which was originally published in the _english historical review_ (vol. xix., ). it has, however, been enlarged by the inclusion of five fresh castles, and by notes upon thirty-four others, of which the article in the _review_ gave only the names; the historical notes in that essay being confined to the castles mentioned in domesday book. the chapter on irish mottes appeared in the _antiquary_ (vol. xlii., ), but it has been revised, corrected, and added to. portions of a still earlier paper, read before the society of antiquaries of scotland in march , are incorporated in various parts of the book, but these have been recast in the fuller treatment of the subject which is aimed at here. the rest of the work is entirely new. no serious attempt had been made to ascertain the exact nature of saxon and danish fortifications by a comparison of the existing remains with the historical records which have come down to us, until the publication of mr allcroft's valuable book on _earthwork of england_. the chapters on saxon and danish earthworks in the present volume were written before the appearance of his book, though the results arrived at are only slightly different. in chapter v. an effort is made to trace the first appearance of the private castle in european history. the private castle is an institution which is often carelessly supposed to have existed from time immemorial. the writer contends that it only appears after the establishment of the feudal system. the favourable reception given by archæologists to the paper read before the scottish society led the writer to follow up this interesting subject, and to make a closer study of the motte-castles of wales, scotland, and ireland. the book now offered is the fruit of eleven years of further research. the result of the inquiry is to establish the theory advanced in that earlier paper, that these castles, in the british islands, are in every case of norman origin. the writer does not claim to have originated this theory. dr round was the first to attack (in the _quarterly review_, ) the assertion of the late mr g. t. clark that the moated mound was a saxon castle. mr george neilson continued the same line of argument in his illuminating paper on "the motes in norman scotland" (_scottish review_, vol. xxxii., ).[ ] all that the writer claims is to have carried the contention a stage further, and to have shown that the private castle did not exist at all in britain until it was brought here by the normans. the author feels that some apology is necessary for the enormous length of chapter vii., containing the catalogue of early english castles. it may be urged in extenuation that much of the information it contains has never before appeared in print, seeing that it has been taken from unpublished portions of the pipe rolls; further, that contemporary authorities have in all cases been used, and that the chapter contains a mass of material, previously scattered and almost inaccessible, which is here for the first time collated, and placed, as the author thinks, in its right setting. it is hoped that the chapter will prove a useful storehouse to those who are working at the history of any particular castle mentioned in the list. to many it may seem a waste of labour to devote a whole book to the establishment of a proposition which is now generally adopted by the best english archæologists; but the subject is an important one, and there is no book which deals with it in detail, and in the light of the evidence which has recently been accumulated. the writer hopes that such fuller statement of the case as is here attempted may help not only to a right ascription of british castle-mounds, and of the stone castles built upon many of them, but may also furnish material to the historian who seeks to trace the progress of the norman occupation. students of the architecture of castles are aware that this subject presents much more difficult questions than does the architecture of churches. those who are seriously working on castle architecture are very few in number, and are as yet little known to the world at large. from time to time, books on castles are issued from the press, which show that the writers have not even an idea of the preliminary studies without which their work has no value at all. it is hoped that the sketch of castle architecture from the th century to the th, which is given in the last chapter, may prove a useful contribution to the subject, at any rate in its lists of dated castles. the pipe rolls have been too little used hitherto for the general history of castle architecture, and no list has ever been published before of the keeps built by henry ii. but without the evidence of the pipe rolls we are in the land of guesswork, unsupported, as a rule, by the decorative details which render it easy to read the structural history of most churches. my warmest thanks are due to mr duncan h. montgomerie, f.s.a., for his generous labour on the plans and illustrations of this book, and for effective assistance in the course of the work, especially in many toilsome pilgrimages for the purpose of comparing the ordnance survey with the actual remains. i also owe grateful thanks to mr goddard h. orpen, r.i.a., for most kindly revising the chapter on irish mottes; to mr w. st john hope (late assistant secretary of the society of antiquaries), for information on many difficult points; to mr harold sands, f.s.a., whose readiness to lay his great stores of knowledge at my disposal has been always unfailing; to mr george neilson, f.s.a.scot., for most valuable help towards my chapter on scottish mottes; to mr charles dawson, f.s.a., for granting the use of his admirable photographs from the bayeux tapestry; to mr cooper, author of the _history of york castle_, for important facts and documents relating to his subject; to the rev. herbert white, m.a., and to mr basil stallybrass, for reports of visits to castles; and to correspondents too numerous to mention who have kindly, and often very fully, answered my inquiries. ella s. armitage. westholm, rawdon, leeds. contents page preface vii chapter i introductory chapter ii anglo-saxon fortifications chapter iii anglo-saxon fortifications--continued chapter iv danish fortifications chapter v the origin of private castles chapter vi distribution and characteristics of motte-castles chapter vii the castles of the normans in england chapter viii motte-castles in north wales chapter ix motte-castles in south wales chapter x motte-castles in scotland chapter xi motte-castles in ireland chapter xii stone castles of the norman period appendices a. primitive folk-moots b. watling street and the danelagh c. the military origin of the boroughs d. the words "castrum" and "castellum" e. the burghal hidage f. thelwall g. the word "bretasche" h. the word "hurdicium" i. the word "hericio" k. the castle of yale l. the castle of tullow m. the castle of slane n. the word "donjon" o. the arrangements in early keeps p. keeps as residences q. castles built by henry i. r. the so-called shell keep s. professor lloyd's "history of wales" schedule of english castles from the eleventh century index list of illustrations and plans fig. motte-castles from the bayeux tapestry:--dol, rennes, dinan, bayeux, hastings _frontispiece_ facing page . typical motte-castles:--topcliffe, yorks; laughton-en-le-morthen, yorks; anstey, herts; dingestow, monmouth; hedingham, essex . anglo-saxon ms. of prudentius . wallingford, berks; wareham, dorset . eddisbury, cheshire; witham, essex . plan of towcester about . shoebury, essex . willington, beds . arundel, sussex; abergavenny, monmouth . barnstaple, devon; berkhampstead, herts; bishop's stortford, herts . bourn, lincs; bramber, sussex . caerleon, monmouth; carisbrooke . carlisle; castle acre, norfolk . clifford, hereford; clitheroe, lancs; corfe, dorset . dover (from a plan in the british museum, ) . dunster, somerset; dudley, staffs . durham . ely, cambs; ewias harold, hereford; eye, suffolk . hastings, sussex; huntingdon . launceston, cornwall; lewes, sussex . lincoln . monmouth; montacute, somerset; morpeth, northumberland . norham; nottingham . norwich (from harrod's _gleanings among the castles and convents of norfolk_, p. ) . okehampton, devon; penwortham, lancs; pevensey, sussex . oxford (from _oxonia illustrata_, david loggan, ) . pontefract, yorks; preston capes, northants; quatford, salop . rayleigh, essex; richard's castle, hereford . richmond, yorks; rochester, kent . rockingham, northants . old sarum, wilts . shrewsbury; skipsea, yorks . stafford; tamworth, staffs; stanton holgate, salop; tickhill, yorks . tonbridge, kent; totnes, devon . trematon, cornwall; tutbury, staffs . wallingford, berks . warwick; wigmore, hereford . winchester (from a plan by w. godson, ) . windsor castle (from ashmole's _order of the garter_) . york castle and baile hill (from a plan by p. chassereau, ) . motte-castles of north wales:--mold, welshpool, wrexham, mathraval . motte-castles of south wales:--cilgerran, blaenporth, chastell gwalter . motte-castles of south wales:--builth, gemaron, payn's castle . motte-castles of south wales:--cardiff, loughor . scottish motte-castles:--annan, moffat, duffus, old hermitage . irish motte-castles:--ardmayle, downpatrick, drogheda, castleknock the early norman castles of the british isles chapter i introductory the study of earthworks has been one of the most neglected subjects in english archæology until quite recent years. it may even be said that during the first half of the th century, less attention was paid to earthworks than by our older topographical writers. leland, in the reign of henry viii., never failed to notice the "dikes and hilles, which were campes of men of warre," nor the "hilles of yerth cast up like the dungeon of sum olde castelle," which he saw in his pilgrimages through england. and many of our th- and th-century topographers have left us invaluable notices of earthworks which were extant in their time. but if we turn over the archæological journals of some fifty years ago, we shall be struck by the paucity of papers on earthworks, and especially by the complete ignoring, in most cases, of those connected with castles. the misfortune attending this neglect, was that it left the ground open to individual fancy, and each observer formed his own theory of the earthworks which he happened to have seen, and as often as not, stated that theory as a fact. we need not be surprised to find camden doing this, as he wrote before the dawn of scientific observation; but that such methods should have been carried on until late in the th century is little to the credit of english archæology. mr clark's work on _mediæval military architecture_ (published in ), which has the merit of being one of the first to pay due attention to castle earthworks, counterbalances that merit by enunciating as a fact a mere guess of his own, which, as we shall afterwards show, was absolutely devoid of solid foundation. the scientific study of english earthworks may be said to have been begun by general pitt-rivers in the last quarter of the th century; but we must not forget that he described himself as a pupil of canon greenwell, whose careful investigations of british barrows form such an important chapter of prehistoric archæology. general pitt-rivers applied the lessons he had thus learned to the excavation of camps and dykes, and his labours opened a new era in that branch of research. by accumulating an immense body of observations, and by recording those observations with a minuteness intended to forestall future questions, he built up a storehouse of facts which will furnish materials to all future workers in prehistoric antiquities. he was too cautious ever to dogmatise, and if he arrived at conclusions, he was careful to state them merely as suggestions. but his work destroyed many favourite antiquarian delusions, even some which had been cherished by very learned writers, such as dr guest's theory of the "belgic ditches" of wiltshire. a further important step in the study of earthworks was taken by the late mr i. chalkley gould, when he founded the committee for ancient earthworks, and drew up the classification of earthworks which is now being generally adopted by archæological writers. this classification may be abridged into (_a_) promontory or cliff forts, (_b_) hill forts, (_c_) rectangular forts, (_d_) moated hillocks, (_e_) moated hillocks with courts attached, (_f_) banks and ditches surrounding homesteads, (_g_) manorial works, (_h_) fortified villages. we venture to think that still further divisions are needed, to include ( ) boundary earthworks; ( ) sepulchral or religious circles or squares; ( ) enclosures clearly non-military, intended to protect sheep and cattle from wolves, or to aid in the capture of wild animals.[ ] this classification, it will be observed, makes no attempt to decide the dates of the different types of earthworks enumerated. but a great step forward was taken when these different types were separated from one another. there had been no greater source of confusion in the writings of our older antiquaries, than the unscientific idea that one earthwork was as good as another; that is to say, that one type of earthwork would do as well as another for any date or any circumstances. when it is recognised that large classes of earthworks show similar features, it becomes probable that even if they were not thrown up in the same historic period, they were at any rate raised to meet similar sets of circumstances. we may be quite sure that a camp which contains an area of or acres was not constructed for the same purpose as one which only contains an area of three. we are not concerned here, however, with the attempt to disentangle the dates of the various classes of prehistoric earthworks.[ ] such generalisations are for the most part premature; and although some advance is being made in this direction, it is still impossible to decide without excavation whether a camp of class (_a_) or (_b_) belongs to the stone age, the bronze age, or the iron age. our business is with classes (_d_) and (_e_) of mr gould's list, that is, with the moated hillocks. we shall only treat of the other classes to the extent which is necessary to bring out the special character of classes (_d_) and (_e_). let us look more closely into these earthworks in their perfect form, the class (_e_) of the earthwork committee's list. they consist, when fully preserved, of an artificial hillock, , , , or in some rare instances feet high. the hillock carried a breastwork of earth round the top, which in many cases is still preserved; this breastwork enclosed a small court, sometimes only feet in diameter, in rare cases as large as half an acre; it must have been crowned by a stockade of timber, and the representations in the bayeux tapestry would lead us to think that it always enclosed a wooden tower.[ ] as a rule the hillock is round, but it is not unfrequently oval, and occasionally square. the base of the hillock is surrounded by a ditch. below the hillock is a court, much larger than the small space enclosed on the top of the mount. it also has been surrounded by a ditch, which joins the ditch of the mount, and thus encloses the whole fortification. the court is defended by earthen banks, both on the scarp and counterscarp of the ditch, and these banks of course had also their timber stockades, the remains of which have sometimes been found on excavation.[ ] [illustration: fig. .--typical motte-castles. topcliffe, yorks. laughton-en-le-morthen, yorks. anstey, herts. dingestow, monmouth. hedingham, essex.] these are the main features of the earthworks in question. some variations may be noticed. the ditch is not invariably carried all round the hillock, occasionally it is not continued between the hillock and the court.[ ] sometimes the length of the ditch separating the hillock from the court is at a higher level than the main ditch.[ ] often the ditches were evidently dry from the first, but not infrequently they are wet, and sometimes vestiges of the arrangements for feeding them are still apparent. the hillock is not invariably artificial; often it is a natural hill scarped into a conical shape; sometimes an isolated rock is made use of to serve as a citadel, which saved much spade-work. the shape of the court is very variable: it may be square or oblong, with greatly rounded corners, or it may be oval, or semilunar, or triangular; a very common form is the bean-shaped. the area covered by these fortifications is much more uniform; one of the features contrasting them most strongly with the great prehistoric "camps" of southern england is their comparatively small size. we know of only one (skipsea) in which the bailey covers as much as eight acres; in by far the greater number the whole area included in the hillock, court, and ditches does not exceed three acres, and often it is not more than one and a half.[ ] now this type of fort will tell us a good deal about itself if we examine it carefully. in the first place, its character is more pronounced than that of any other class of earthwork. it differs entirely from the great camps which belong to the tribal period. it was evidently not designed to accommodate a mass of people with their flocks and herds. it is small in area, and its citadel, as a rule, is very small indeed. dr sophus müller, the eminent danish archæologist, when dealing with the specimens of this class of fortification which are to be found in denmark, made the luminous remark that "the fortresses of prehistoric times are the defences of the _community_, north of the alps as in the old classical lands. small castles for an individual and his warrior-band belong to the middle ages."[ ] these words give the true direction to which we must turn for the interpretation of these earthworks. in the second place, this type presents a peculiar development of plan, such as we do not expect to find in the earliest times in these islands. it has a citadel of a most pronounced type. this alone differentiates it from the prehistoric or keltic camps which are so abundant in great britain. it might be too hasty a generalisation to say that no prehistoric camps have citadels, but as a rule the traverses by which some of these camps are divided appear to have been made for the purpose of separating the cattle from the people, rather than as ultimate retreats in time of war. the early german camps, according to köhler, have inner enclosures which he thinks were intended for the residence of the chief; but he calls attention to the great difference between these camps and the class we are now considering, in that the inner enclosure is of much greater size.[ ] it would appear that some of the fortifications in england which are known or suspected to be saxon have also these inner enclosures of considerable size ( acres in the case of witham), but without any vestige of the hillock which is the principal feature of class (_e_). it is clear, in the third place, that the man who threw up earthworks of this latter class was not only suspicious of his neighbours, but was even suspicious of his own garrison. for the hillock in the great majority of cases is so constructed as to be capable of complete isolation, and capable of defending itself, if necessary, against its own court. thus it is probable that the force which followed this chieftain was not composed of men of his own blood, in whom he could repose absolute trust; and the earthworks themselves suggest that they are the work of an invader who came to settle in these islands, who employed mercenaries instead of tribesmen, and who had to maintain his settlement by force. when on further inquiry we find that earthworks of this type are exceedingly common in france, and are generally found in connection with feudal castles,[ ] and when we consider the area of their distribution in the united kingdom, and see that they are to be found in every county in england, as well as in wales and in the normanised parts of ireland and scotland, we see that the norman invader is the one to whom they seem to point. we see also that small forts of this kind, easily and cheaply constructed, and defensible by a small number of men, exactly correspond to the needs of the norman invader, both during the period of the conquest and for a long time after his first settlement here. but it will at once occur to an objector that there have been other invaders of britain before the normans, and it may be asked why these earthworks were not equally suited to the needs of the saxon or the danish conquerors, and why they may not with equal reason be attributed to them. to answer this question we will try to discover what kind of fortifications actually were constructed by the saxons and danes, and to this inquiry we will address ourselves in the succeeding chapters. it will clear the ground greatly if it is recognised at the outset that these earthworks are _castles_, in the usual sense of the word; that is, the private fortified residences of great landowners. it was the chief merit of mr g. t. clark's work on _mediæval military architecture_, that he showed the perfect correspondence in plan of these earthen and timber structures with the stone castles which immediately succeeded them, so that it was only necessary to add a stone tower and stone walls to these works to convert them into a norman castle of the popularly accepted type. we regard the military character of these works as so fully established that we have not thought it necessary to discuss the theory that they were temples, which was suggested by some of our older writers, nor even the more modern idea that they were moot-hills, which has been defended with considerable learning by mr g. l. gomme.[ ] dr christison remarks in his valuable work on scottish fortifications that an overweening importance has been attached to moot-hills, without historical evidence.[ ] and mr george neilson, in his essay on "the motes in norman scotland"[ ] (to which we shall often have occasion to refer hereafter), shows that moot-hill in scotland means nothing but mote-hill, the hill of the mote or _motte_; but that _moots_ or courts were held there, just because it had formerly been the site of a castle, and consequently a seat of jurisdiction.[ ] that some of these hillocks have anciently been sepulchral, we do not attempt to deny. the norman seems to have been free from any superstitious fear which might have hindered him from utilising the sepulchres of the dead for his personal defence; or else he was unaware that they were burial-places. there are some very few recorded instances of prehistoric burials found under the hillocks of castles; but in ordinary cases, these hillocks would not be large enough for the _mottes_ of castles.[ ] there are, however, some sepulchral barrows of such great size that it is difficult to distinguish them from mottes; the absence of a court attached is not sufficient evidence, as there are some mottes which stand alone, without any accompanying court. excavation or documentary evidence can alone decide in these cases, though the presence of an earthen breastwork on top of the mount furnishes a strong presumption of a military origin. but the undoubtedly sepulchral barrows of new grange and dowth in ireland show signs of having been utilised as castles, having remains of breastworks on their summits.[ ] chapter ii anglo-saxon fortifications we have pointed out in the preceding chapter that when it is asked whether the earthworks of the moated mound-and-court type were the work of the anglo-saxons, the question resolves itself into another, namely, did the anglo-saxons build castles? as far as we know, they did not; and although to prove a negative we can only bring negative evidence, that evidence appears to us to be very conclusive. but before we deal with it, we will try to find out what sort of fortifications the anglo-saxons actually did construct. the first fortification which we read of in the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ is that of bamborough, in northumberland. the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ tells us that in ida began to reign in northumberland, and adds that he built "bebbanburh," which was first enclosed with a hedge, and afterwards with a wall. unfortunately this celebrated passage is merely the interpolation of a th-century scribe, and is consequently of no authority whatever,[ ] though there is nothing improbable in the statement, and it is supported by nennius.[ ] ida's grandson ethelfrith gave this fortress to his wife bebba, from whom it received the name of bebbanburh, now bamborough. it was built without doubt on the same lofty insulated rock where the castle now stands; for when it was attacked by penda in , he found the situation so strong that it was impossible to storm it, and it was only by heaping up wood on the most accessible side that he was able to set fire to the wooden stockade.[ ] modern historians talk of this fort as a castle, but all the older authorities call it a town;[ ] nor is there any mention of a castle at bamborough till the reign of william ii. the area of the basaltic headland of bamborough covers - / acres, a site large enough for a city of ida's day. the church of st peter was placed on the highest point. the castle which was built there in norman times does not seem to have occupied at first more than a portion of this site,[ ] though it is probable that eventually the townsmen were expelled from the rock, and that thus the modern town of bamborough arose in the levels below. although - / acres may seem a small size for an _urbs_, it was certainly regarded as such, and was large enough to protect a considerable body of invaders. strange to say, this is the only record which we have of any fortress-building by the invading saxons. until we come to the time of alfred, there is hardly an allusion to any fortification in use in saxon times.[ ] it is mentioned in that the saxons took four towns (_tunas_) of the britons, and the apparent allusion to sieges seems to show that these british towns had some kind of fortification. the three _chesters_, which were taken by the saxons in , gloucester, cirencester, and bath, prove that some roman cities still kept their defences. in the slaughter of cynewulf, king of the west saxons, by the etheling cyneard, is told with unusual detail by the _chronicle_. the king was slain in a _bur_ (bower, or isolated women's chamber[ ]), the door of which he attempted to defend; but this _bur_ was itself enclosed in a _burh_, the gates of which were locked by the etheling who had killed the king, and were defended until they were forced by the king's avengers. here it seems to be doubtful whether the _burh_ was a town or a private enclosure resembling a stable-yard of modern times. the description of the storming of york by the danes in shows that the roman walls of that city were still preserved. these passages are the solitary instances of fortifications in england mentioned by the _chronicle_ before the time of alfred.[ ] the invasions of the danes led at last to a great fortifying epoch, which preserved our country from being totally overwhelmed by those northern immigrants. the little saxon kingdom of wessex was the germ of the british empire. when alfred came to the throne it had already absorbed the neighbouring kingdoms of kent, sussex, and surrey, and the issue hanging in the balance was whether this small english state would survive the desolating flood of pagan barbarism which had already overwhelmed the sister kingdoms of the midlands and the north. it was given to alfred to raise again the fallen standard of christendom and civilisation, and to establish an english kingdom on so sound a basis that when, in later centuries, it successively became the prey of the dane and the norman, the english polity survived both conquests. the wisdom, energy, and steadfastness of king alfred and his children and grandchildren were amongst the most important of the many factors which have helped to build up the great empire of britain. we are concerned here with only one of the measures by which alfred and his family secured the triumph of wessex in her mortal struggle with the danes, the fortifications which they raised for the protection of their subjects. from the pages of the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ we might be led to think that alfred's son and daughter, edward and ethelfleda, were the chief builders of fortifications. but there is ample evidence that they only carried out a systematic purpose which had been initiated by alfred. we know that alfred was a great builder. "what shall i say," cries asser, "of the cities and towns which he restored, and of others which he built which had never existed before! of the royal halls and chambers, wonderfully built of stone and wood by his command!"[ ] the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ notices the restoration of london ( ),[ ] about which two extant charters are more precise.[ ] it also mentions the building of a work (geweorc) at athelney, and another at limene-muthan (doubtless a repair of the roman fort at lympne), and two works built by alfred on the banks of the river lea.[ ] william of malmesbury tells us that in his boyhood there was a stone in the nunnery of shaftesbury which had been taken out of the walls of the town, which bore this inscription: "anno dominicæ incarnationis alfredus rex fecit hanc urbem, dccclxxx, regni sui viii."[ ] ethelred, alfred's son-in-law, built the _burh_ at worcester in alfred's lifetime, as a most interesting charter tells us.[ ] it may be safely assumed, then, that when edward came to the throne he found wessex well provided with defensive places, and that when he and his sister signalised their conquests in the midlands by building strongholds at every fresh step of their advance, they were only carrying out the policy of their father. at the time of alfred's death, and the succession of edward the elder to the crown ( ), ethelfleda, daughter of alfred, was the wife of ethelred, ealdorman of mercia, who appears to have been a sort of under-king of that province.[ ] on the death of ethelred in ,[ ] edward took possession of london and oxford and "of all the lands which owed obedience thereto"--in other words, of that small portion of eastern mercia which was still in english hands; that is, not only the present oxfordshire and middlesex, but part of herts, part of bedfordshire, all buckinghamshire, and the southern part of northants. the watling street, which runs north-west from london to shrewsbury, and thence north to chester and manchester, formed at that time the dividing line between the english and danish rule.[ ] it would seem from the course of the story that after ethelred's death there was some arrangement between ethelfleda and her brother, possibly due to the surrender of the territory mentioned above, which enabled her to rule english mercia in greater independence than her husband had enjoyed. up to this date we find edward disposing of the _fyrd_ of mercia;[ ] this is not mentioned again in ethelfleda's lifetime. nothing is clearer, both from the _chronicle_ and from florence, than that the brother and sister each "did their own," to use an expressive provincial phrase. ethelfleda goes her own way, subduing western mercia, while edward pushes up through eastern mercia and essex to complete the conquest of east anglia. a certain concert may be observed in their movements, but they did not work in company. the work of fortification begun in alfred's reign had been continued by the restoration of the roman walls of chester in , by ethelred and his wife; and ethelfleda herself (possibly during the lingering illness which later chroniclers give to her husband) had built a _burh_ at bremesbyrig. during the twelve years which elapsed between ethelred's death and that of edward in , the brother and sister built no less than twenty-seven _burhs_, giving a total of thirty, if we add chester and bremesbyrig, and worcester, which was built in alfred's reign. now what was the nature of these fortifications, which the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ uniformly calls _burhs_? there is really not the slightest difficulty in answering this question. the word is with us still; it is our word _borough_. it is true we have altered the meaning somewhat, because a borough means now an enfranchised town; but we must remember that it got that meaning because the fortified towns, the only ones which were called _burhs_ or _burgi_, were the first to be enfranchised, and while the fortifications have become less and less important, the franchise has become of supreme importance. bede, in the earliest times of our history, equated _burh_ with _urbs_, a city; alfred in his _orosius_ translates _civitas_ by _burh_;[ ] the anglo-saxon gospels of the th century do the same;[ ] and the confederacy of five danish towns which existed in mercia in the th century is called in contemporary records _fif burga_, the five boroughs.[ ] _burh_ is a noun derived from the word _beorgan_, to protect. undoubtedly its primitive meaning was that of a _protective enclosure_. as in the case of the words _tun_, _yard_, or _garth_, and _worth_ or _ward_, the sense of the word became extended from the protecting bulwark to the place protected. in this sense of a _fortified enclosure_, the word was naturally applied by the anglo-saxons to the prehistoric and british "camps" which they found in britain, such as cissbury. moreover, it is clear that some kind of enclosure must have existed round every farmstead in saxon times, if only as a protection against wolves. the illustrated saxon manuscripts show that the hall in which the thane dwelt, the ladies' bower, the chapel and other buildings dependent on the hall, were enclosed in a stockade, and had gates which without doubt were closed at night.[ ] this enclosure may have been called a _burh_, and the innumerable place-names in england ending in _borough_ or _bury_[ ] seem to suggest that the _burh_ was often nothing more than a stockade, as in so many of these sites not a vestige of defensive works remains.[ ] we may concede that the original meaning of an _enclosure_ was never entirely lost, and that it appears to be preserved in a few passages in the anglo-saxon laws. thus edmund speaks of _mine burh_ as an asylum, the violation of which brings its special punishment; and ethelred ii. ordains that every compurgation shall take place in _thaes kyninges byrig_; and the _rectitudines singularum personum_ tells us that one of the duties of the geneat was to build for his lord, and to hedge his _burh_.[ ] but it is absolutely clear that even in these cases a _burh_ was an enclosure and not a tump; and it is equally clear from the general use of the word that its main meaning was a _fortified town_. athelstan ordains that there shall be a mint in every _burh_; and his laws show that already the _burh_ has its _gemot_ or meeting, and its _reeve_ or mayor.[ ] he ordains that all _burhs_ are to be repaired fourteen days after rogations, and that no market shall be held outside the town.[ ] in the laws of edgar's time not only the borough-moot and the borough-reeve are spoken of, but the _burh-waru_ or burgesses.[ ] _burh_ is contrasted with wapentake as town with country.[ ] [illustration: fig. .--anglo-saxon ms. of prudentius. if we wish to multiply proofs that a _burh_ was the same thing as a borough, we can turn to the anglo-saxon illustrated manuscripts, and we shall find that they give us many pictures of _burhs_, and that in all cases they are fortified towns.[ ] finally, florence of worcester, one of the most careful of our early chroniclers, who lived when anglo-saxon was still a living language, and who must have known what a _burh_ meant, translates it by _urbs_ in nineteen cases out of twenty-six.[ ] his authority alone is sufficient to settle this question, and we need no longer have any doubt that a _burh_ was the same thing which in mediæval latin is called a _burgus_, that is a fortified town, and that our word _borough_ is lawfully descended from it. it would not have been necessary to spend so much time on the history of the word _burh_ if this unfortunate word had not been made the subject of one of the strangest delusions which ever was imposed on the archæological world. we refer of course to the theory of the late mr g. t. clark, who contended in his _mediæval military architecture_[ ] that the moated mound of class (_e_), which we have described in our first chapter, was what the anglo-saxons called a _burh_. in other words, he maintained that the burhs were saxon castles. it is one of the most extraordinary and inexplicable things in the history of english archæology that a man who was not in any sense an anglo-saxon scholar was allowed to affix an entirely new meaning to a very common anglo-saxon word, and that this meaning was at once accepted without question by historians who had made anglo-saxon history their special study! the present writer makes no pretensions to be an anglo-saxon scholar, but it is easy to pick out the word _burh_ in the _chronicle_ and the anglo-saxon _laws_, and to find out how the word is translated in the latin chronicles; and this little exercise is sufficient in itself to prove the futility of mr clark's contention. sentiment perhaps had something to do with mr clark's remarkable success. there is an almost utter lack of tangible monuments of our national heroes; and therefore people who justly esteemed the labours of alfred and his house were pleased when they were told that the mounds at tamworth, warwick, and elsewhere were the work of ethelfleda, and that other mounds were the work of edward the elder. it did not occur to them that they were doing a great wrong to the memory of the children of alfred in supposing them capable of building these little earthen and timber castles for their personal defence and that of their nobles, and leaving the mass of their people at the mercy of the danes. far other was the thought of ethelfleda, when she and her husband built the borough of worcester. as they expressed it in their memorable charter, it was not only for the defence of the bishop and the churches of worcester, but "to shelter all the folk."[ ] and we may be sure that the same idea lay at the founding of all the boroughs which were built by alfred and by edward and ethelfleda. they were to be places where the whole countryside could take refuge during a danish raid. the _chronicle_ tells us in how alfred divided his forces into three parts, the duty of one part being to defend the boroughs; and from this time forth we constantly find the men of the boroughs doing good service against the danes.[ ] it was by defending and thus developing the boroughs of england that alfred and his descendants saved england from the danes. thus far we have seen that all the fortifications which we know to have been built by the anglo-saxons were the fortifications of society and not of the individual. we have heard nothing whatever of the private castle as an institution in saxon times; and although this evidence is only negative, it appears to us to be entitled to much more weight than has hitherto been given to it. some writers seem to think that the private castle was a modest little thing which was content to blush unseen. this is wholly to mistake the position of the private castle in history. such a castle is not merely a social arrangement, it is a political institution of the highest importance. where such castles exist, we are certain to hear of some of them, sooner or later, in the pages of history. we can easily test this by comparing anglo-saxon history with norman of the same period, after castles had arisen in normandy. who among saxon nobles was more likely to possess a castle than the powerful earl godwin, and his independent sons? yet when godwin left the court of edward the confessor, because he would not obey the king's order to punish the men of dover for insulting count eustace of boulogne, we do not hear that he retired to his castle, or that his sons fortified their castles against the king; we only hear that they met together at beverstone (a place where there was no castle before the th century)[ ] and "arrayed themselves resolutely."[ ] neither do we hear of any castle belonging to the powerful earl siward of northumbria, or leofric, earl of mercia. and when godwin returned triumphantly to england in we do not hear of any castles being restored to him. now let us contrast this piece of english history, as told by the _anglo-saxon chronicle_, with the norman history of about the same period, the history of the rebellion of the norman nobles against their young duke, william the bastard. the first thing the nobles do is to put their castles into a state of defence. william has to take refuge in the castle of a faithful vassal, hubert of rye, until he can safely reach his own castle of falaise. after the victory of val-ès-dunes, william had to reduce the castles which still held out, and then to order the destruction of all the castles which had been erected against him.[ ] or let us contrast the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ of with that of , when certain norman barons and bishops in england conspired against the new king, william rufus. the first thing told us is that each of the head conspirators "went to his castle, and manned it and victualled it." then bishop geoffrey makes bristol castle the base of a series of plundering raids. bishop wulfstan, on the other hand, aids the cause of william by preventing an attempt of the rebels on the castle of worcester. roger bigod throws himself into norwich castle, and harries the shire; bishop odo brings the plunder of kent into his castle of rochester. finally the king's cause wins the day through the taking of the castles of tonbridge, pevensey, rochester, and durham. if we reflect on the contrast which these narratives afford, it surely is difficult to avoid the conclusion that if the chronicler never mentions any saxon castles it is because there were no saxon castles to mention. had earl godwin possessed a stronghold in which he could fortify himself, he would certainly have used it in . and as the norman favourites of edward the confessor had already begun to build castles in england, we can imagine no reason why godwin did not do the same, except that such a step was impossible to a man who desired popularity amongst his countrymen. the welshmen, we are told (that is the foreigners, the normans), had erected a castle in herefordshire among the people of earl sweyn, and had wrought all possible harm and disgrace to the king's men thereabout.[ ] the language of the _chronicle_ shows the unpopularity, to say the least of it, of this castle-building; and one of the conditions which godwin, when posing as popular champion, wished to exact from the king, was that the _frenchmen who were in the castle_ should be given up to him.[ ] when godwin returned from his exile, and the normans took to flight, the chronicler tells us that some fled west to pentecost's castle, some north to robert's castle. thus we learn that there were several castles in england belonging to the norman favourites. it is in connection with these norman favourites that the word _castel_ appears for the first time in the _anglo-saxon chronicle_. this is a fact of considerable importance in itself; and when we weigh it in connection with the expressions of dislike recorded above which become much more explicit and vehement after the norman conquest, we cannot but feel that mr freeman's conclusion, that the thing as well as the word was new, is highly probable.[ ] for the hall of the anglo-saxon ealdorman or thane, even when enclosed in an earthwork or stockade, was a very different thing from the castle of a norman noble. a castle is built by a man who lives among enemies, who distrusts his nearest neighbours as much as any foe from a distance. the anglo-saxon noble had no reason to distrust his neighbours, or to fortify himself against them. later historians, who were familiar with the state of things in norman times, tell us frequently of castles in the saxon period; but it can generally be proved that they misunderstood their authorities. the genuine contemporary chroniclers of saxon times never make the slightest allusion to a saxon castle. the word _castellum_, it is true, appears occasionally in anglo-saxon charters, but when it is used it clearly means a town. thus egbert of kent says in : "trado terram intra castelli moenia supranominati, id est hrofescestri, unum viculum cum duobus jugeribus, etc.," where _castellum_ is evidently the city of rochester.[ ] offa calls wermund "episcopus castelli quod nominatur hroffeceastre."[ ] these instances can easily be multiplied. mr w. h. stevenson remarks that "in old-english glosses, from the th century corpus glossary downwards, _castellum_ is glossed by _wic_, that is town."[ ] in this sense no doubt we must interpret asser's "castellum quod dicitur werham."[ ] henry of huntingdon probably meant a town when he says that edward the elder built at hertford "castrum non immensum sed pulcherrimum." he generally translates the _burh_ of the _chronicle_ by _burgus_, and he shows that he had a correct idea of edward's work when he says that at buckingham edward "fecit _vallum_ ex utraque parte aquæ"--where _vallum_ is a translation of _burh_. the difference between a _burh_ and a castle is very clearly expressed by the _chronicle_ in , when it says concerning the restoration of carlisle on its conquest by william rufus, "he repaired the borough (burh) and ordered the castle to be built." the following is a table of the thirty boroughs built by ethelfleda and edward, arranged chronologically, which will show that we never find a _motte_, that is a moated mound, on the site of one of these boroughs unless a norman castle-builder has been at work there subsequently. the weak point in mr clark's argument was that when he found a motte on a site which had once been saxon, he did not stop to inquire what any subsequent builders might have done there, but at once assumed that the motte was saxon. of course, if we invariably found a motte at _every_ place where edward or ethelfleda are said to have built a _burh_, it would raise a strong presumption that mottes and burhs were the same thing. but out of the twenty-five burhs which can be identified, in only ten is there a motte on the same site; and in every case where a motte is found, except at bakewell and towcester, there is recorded proof of the existence of a norman castle. in this list, the _burhs_ on both sides of the river at hertford, buckingham, and nottingham are counted as two, because the very precise indications given in the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ show that each _burh_ was a separate construction. _burhs of ethelfleda._ worcester - a motte and a norman castle. chester a motte and a norman castle. bremesburh unidentified. scærgate unidentified. bridgenorth no motte, but a norman stone keep. tamworth a motte and a norman castle. stafford, n. of sowe no motte and no norman castle. eddisbury no motte and no norman castle. warwick a motte and a norman castle. cyricbyrig (monk's kirby) no motte and no norman castle. weardbyrig unidentified. runcorn no motte; a mediæval castle (?). _burhs of edward the elder._ hertford, n. of lea no motte and no norman castle. hertford, s. of lea a motte and a norman castle. witham no motte and no norman castle. buckingham, s. of ouse no motte and no norman castle. buckingham, n. of ouse a motte and a norman castle. bedford, s. of ouse no motte and no norman castle. maldon no motte and no norman castle. towcester a motte. wigingamere unidentified. huntingdon a motte and a norman castle. colchester no motte; an early norman keep. cledemuthan unidentified. stamford, s. of welland no motte and no norman castle. nottingham, n. of trent a motte and a norman castle. thelwall no motte and no norman castle. manchester no castle on the ancient site. nottingham, s. of trent no motte and no norman castle. bakewell (near to) a motte and bailey. out of this list of the _burhs_ of ethelfleda and edward, thirteen are mentioned as boroughs in domesday book;[ ] and as we ought to subtract five from the list as unidentified, and also to reckon as one the boroughs built on two sides of the river, the whole number should be reduced to twenty-two. so that more than half the boroughs built by the children of alfred continued to maintain their existence during the succeeding centuries, and in fact until the present day. but the others, for some reason or other, did not take root. professor maitland remarked that many of the boroughs of edward's day became rotten boroughs before they were ripe;[ ] and it is a proof of the difficulty of the task which the royal brethren undertook that, with the exception of chester, none of the boroughs which they built in the north-western districts survived till domesday. in all their boroughs, except bakewell, the purpose of defending the great roman roads and the main waterways is very apparent. our list is very far from being a complete list of all the anglo-saxon boroughs existing in edward's day. in the document known as the "burghal hidage" we have another quite different list of thirty-two boroughs,[ ] which, according to professor maitland, "sets forth certain arrangements made early in the th century for the defence of wessex against the danish inroads."[ ] five at least on the list are roman chesters; twenty are mentioned as boroughs in domesday book. there are two among them which are of special interest, because there is reason to believe that the earthen ramparts which still surround them are of saxon origin: wallingford and wareham. both these fortifications are after the roman pattern, the earthen banks forming a square with rounded corners.[ ] see fig. . to complete our knowledge of anglo-saxon fortification, we ought to examine the places mentioned in anglo-saxon charters as royal seats, where possibly defensive works of some kind may have existed. unfortunately we are unable to learn that there are any such works, except at one place, bensington in oxfordshire, where about a hundred years ago "a bank and trench, which seem to have been of a square form," were to be seen.[ ] [illustration:fig. . wallingford, berks. wareham, dorset.] in the following chapter we shall deal in detail with such archæological remains as still exist of the boroughs of edward and ethelfleda, but here we will briefly summarise by anticipation the results to which that chapter will lead. we see that sites defensible by nature were often seized upon for fortification, as at bamborough, bridgenorth, and eddisbury; but that this was by no means always the case, as a weak site, such as witham, for example, was sometimes rendered defensible by works which appear to have fulfilled their purpose. in only one case (witham) do we find an inner enclosure; and as it is of large size ( - / acres) it is more probable that the outer enclosure was for cattle, than that the inner one was designed solely for the protection of the king and his court. we are not told of stone walls more than once (at towcester); but the use of the word _timbrian_, which does not exclusively mean to build in wood,[ ] does not preclude walls of stone in important places. in the square or oblong form, with rounded corners, we see the influence which roman models exercised on eyes which still beheld them existing. we see that the main idea of the borough was the same as that of the prehistoric or british "camp of refuge," in that it was intended for the defence of society and not of the individual. it was intended to be a place of refuge for the whole countryside. but it was also something much more than this, something which belongs to a much more advanced state of society than the hill-fort.[ ] it was a town, a place where people were expected to live permanently and do their daily work. it provided a fostering seat for trade and manufactures, two of the chief factors in the history of civilisation. the men who kept watch and ward on the ramparts, or who sallied forth in their bands to fight the danes, were the men who were slowly building up the prosperity of the stricken land of england. by studding the great highways of england with fortified towns, alfred and his children were not only saving the kernel of the british empire, they were laying the sure foundations of its future progress in the arts and habits of civilised life. chapter iii anglo-saxon fortifications--_continued_ the bare list which we have given of the boroughs of edward and ethelfleda calls for some explanatory remarks. let us take first the boroughs of ethelfleda. worcester.--we have already noticed the charter of ethelred and ethelfleda which tells of the building of the burh at worcester.[ ] there appears to have been a small roman settlement at worcester, but there is no evidence that it was a fortified place.[ ] this case lends some support to the conjecture of dr christison, that the saxons gave the name of _chester_ to towns which they had themselves fortified.[ ] the mediæval walls of worcester were probably more extensive than ethelfleda's borough, of which no trace remains. chester is spoken of by the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ in as "a waste _chester_ in wirral." it had undoubtedly been a roman city, and therefore the work of ethelred and ethelfleda here was solely one of restoration. brompton, who wrote at the close of the th century "a poor compilation of little authority,"[ ] was the first writer to state that the walls of chester were enlarged by ethelfleda so as to take in the castle, which he fancied to be roman;[ ] and this statement, being repeated by leland, has acquired considerable vogue. it is very unlikely that any extension of the walls was made by the mercian pair, seeing that the city was deserted at the time when it was occupied by the danes, only fourteen years before. but it is quite certain that the norman castle of chester lay outside the city walls, as the manor of gloverstone, which was not within the jurisdiction of the city, lay between the city and the castle.[ ] a charter of henry vii. shows that the civic boundary did not extend to the present south wall in his reign. ethelfleda's borough probably followed the lines of the old roman castrum. bremesbyrig.--this place has not yet been identified. bromborough on the mersey has been suggested, and is not impossible, for the loss of the _s_ sometimes occurs in place-names; thus melbury, in wilts, was melsburie in domesday. bremesbyrig was the first place restored after chester, and as the estuary of the dee had been secured by the repair of chester, so an advance on bromborough would have for its aim to secure the estuary of the mersey. it was outside the danish frontier of watling street, and could thus be fortified without breach of the peace in . there is a large moated work at bromborough, enclosing an area of acres, in the midst of which stands the courthouse of the manor of bromborough. but this manor was given by the earl of chester to the monks of st werburgh about , and it is possible that the monks fortified it, as they did their manor of irby in wirral, against the incursions of the welsh. one of the conditions of the earl's grant was that the manor is to be maintained in a state of security and convenience for the holding of the courts appertaining to chester abbey.[ ] thus the fortification appears to be of manorial use, though this does not preclude the possibility of an earlier origin. on the other hand, if bromborough is the same as brunanburh, where athelstan's great battle was fought (and there is much in favour of this), it cannot possibly have been bremesbyrig in the days of edward. another site has been suggested by the rev. c. s. taylor, in a paper on _the danes in gloucestershire_, bromsberrow in s. gloucestershire, one of the last spurs of the malvern hills. here the top of a small hill has been encircled with a ditch; but the ditch is so narrow that it does not suggest a defensive work, and it is remote from any roman road or navigable river. scergeat has not yet been identified. mr kerslake argued with some probability that shrewsbury is the place;[ ] but the etymological considerations are adverse, and it is more likely that such an important place as shrewsbury was fortified before edward's time. leland calls it scorgate, and says it is "about severn side."[ ] it should probably be sought within the frontier of watling street, which ethelfleda does not appear to have yet crossed in . bridgenorth is undoubtedly the bricge of the _anglo-saxon chronicle_, as florence of worcester identifies it with the bridgenorth which robert belesme fortified against henry i. in .[ ] bridgenorth is on a natural fortification of steep rock, which would only require a stout wall to make it secure against all the military resources of the th century. we may therefore be quite certain that it was here ethelfleda planted her borough, and not (as mr eyton unfortunately conjectured) on the mound outside the city, in the parish of oldbury.[ ] this mound was far more probably the site of the siege castle (no doubt of wood) which was erected by henry i. when he besieged the city.[ ] tamworth was an ancient city of the mercian kings, and therefore may have been fortified before its walls were rebuilt by ethelfleda.[ ] the line of the ancient town-wall can still be traced in parts, though it is rapidly disappearing. dugdale says the town ditch was feet broad. tamworth was a borough at the time of domesday. stafford has a motte on which stood a norman castle; but this is not mentioned in the table, because it stands a mile and a half from the town on the _southern_ side of the river sowe, while we are expressly told by florence that ethelfleda's borough was on the _northern_ side, as the town is now. stafford was a domesday borough; some parts of the mediæval walls still remain. the walls are mentioned in domesday book.[ ] eddisbury, in cheshire (fig. ), is the only case in which the work of ethelfleda is preserved in a practically unaltered form, as no town or village has ever grown out of it. the _burh_ stands at the top of a hill, commanding the junction of two great roman roads, the watling street from chester to manchester, and the branch which it sends forth to kinderton on the east. as a very misleading plan of this work has been published in the _journal of the british archæological association_ for , the _burh_ has been specially surveyed for this book by mr d. h. montgomerie, who has also furnished the following description:-- "this plan is approximately oval, and is governed by the shape of the ground; the work lies at the end of a spur, running s.e. and terminating in abrupt slopes to the e. and s. the defences on the n. and w. consist of a ditch and a high outer bank, the proportions of these varying according to the slope of the hill. there are slight remains of a light inner rampart along the western half of this side. the remains of an original entrance (shown in ormerod's _cheshire_) are visible in the middle of the n.w. side, beyond which the ditch and outer bank have been partially levelled by the encroachments of the farm buildings. the defences of the s. side seem to have consisted of a long natural slope, crowned by a steeper scarp, cut back into the rock, and having traces of a bank along its crest. the s.e. end of the spur presents several interesting details, for it has been occupied in mediæval times by a small fortified enclosure, whose defences are apt to be confused with those of the older saxon town. the rock makes a triangular projection at this end, containing the foundations of mediæval buildings,[ ] and strengthened on the n.e. by a slight ditch some to feet below the crest; the rock on the inner side of this ditch has been cut back to a nearly vertical face, while on the outer bank are the footings of a masonry wall extending almost to the point of the spur. there are traces of another wall defending the crest on the n.e. and s.; but the base of the triangle, facing the old enclosure, does not appear to have been strengthened by a cross ditch or bank. "it may be noted that this enclosure presents not the slightest appearance of a motte. it is at a lower level than the body of the hill, and belongs most certainly to the edwardian period of the masonry buildings." [illustration: fig. . eddisbury, cheshire. witham, essex.] warwick castle has a motte which has been confidently attributed to ethelfleda, only because dugdale copied the assertion of thomas rous, a very imaginative writer of the th century, that she was its builder. the borough which ethelfleda fortified probably occupied a smaller area than the mediæval walls built in edward i.'s reign; and it is probable that it did not include the site of the castle, as domesday states that only four houses were destroyed when the castle was built.[ ] the borough was doubtless erected to protect the roman road from bath to lincoln, the foss way, which passes near it. domesday book, after mentioning that the king's barons have houses in the borough, and the abbot of coventry , goes on to say that these houses belong to the lands which the barons hold outside the city, and are rated there.[ ] this is one of the passages from which the late professor maitland concluded that the boroughs planted by ethelfleda and edward were organised on a system of military defence, whereby the magnates in the country were bound to keep houses in the towns.[ ] cyricbyrig.--about this place we adopt the conjecture of dugdale, who identified it with monk's kirby in warwickshire, not far from the borders of leicestershire, and therefore on the edge of ethelfleda's dominions. it lies close to the foss way, and about three miles from watling street; like eddisbury, it is near the junction of two roman roads. there are remains of banks and ditches below the church. dugdale says "there are certain apparent tokens that the romans had some station here; for by digging the ground near the church, there have been discovered foundations of old walls and roman bricks."[ ] possibly ethelfleda restored a roman castrum here. at any rate, it seems a much more likely site than chirbury in shropshire, which is commonly proposed, but which does not lie on any roman road, and is not on ethelfleda's line of advance; nor are there any earthworks there. weardbyrig has not been identified. wednesbury was stated by camden to be the place,[ ] and but for the impossibility of the etymology, the situation would suit well enough. weardbyrig must have been an important place, for it had a mint.[ ] warburton, on the mersey, has been gravely suggested, but is impossible, as it takes its name from st werburgh. runcorn has not a vestige to show of ethelfleda's borough; but local historians have preserved some rather vague accounts of a promontory fort which once existed at the point where the london and north-western railway bridge enters the river. a rocky headland formerly projected here into the mersey, narrowing its course to yards at high water; a ditch with a circular curve cut off this headland from the shore. this ditch, from to feet wide, with an inner bank or feet high, could still be traced in the early part of the th century. eighteen feet of the headland were cut off when the duke of bridgewater made his canal in , and the ditch was obliterated when the railway bridge was built. from the measurements which have been preserved, the area of this fort must have been very small, not exceeding acres at the outside;[ ] and it is unlikely that it represented ethelfleda's borough, as the church, which was of pre-conquest foundation, stood outside its bounds, and we should certainly have expected to find it within. as the norman earls of chester established a ferry at runcorn in the th century, and as a castle at runcorn is spoken of in a mediæval document,[ ] it seems not impossible that there may have been a norman castle on this site, as we constantly find such small fortifications placed to defend a ferry or ford. it is probable that ethelfleda's borough was destroyed at an early period by the northmen, for runcorn was not a borough at domesday, but was then a mere dependency of the honour of halton. _the burhs of edward the elder._ hertford.--two burhs were built by edward at hertford in , one on the north and the other on the south side of the river lea. therefore if a burh were the same thing as a motte, there ought to be two mottes at hertford, one on each side of the river; whereas there is only one, and that forms part of the works of the norman castle. mr clark, with his usual confidence, says that the northern mound has "long been laid low";[ ] but there is not the slightest proof that it ever existed except in his imagination. hertford was a borough at the time of domesday. no earthworks remain. witham (fig. ).--there are some remains of a _burh_ here which are very remarkable, as they show an inner enclosure within the outer one. they have been carefully surveyed by mr f. c. j. spurrell, who has published a plan of them.[ ] each enclosure formed roughly a square with much-rounded corners. the ditch round the outer work was feet wide; the inner work was not ditched. the area enclosed by the outer bank was - / acres, an enclosure much too large for a castle; the area of the inner enclosure was - / acres. as far as is at present known, witham is the only instance we have of an anglo-saxon earthwork which has a double enclosure.[ ] witham is not mentioned as a borough in domesday book, but the fact that it had a mint in the days of hardicanute shows that it maintained its borough rights for more than a hundred years. the name chipping hill points to a market within the borough. buckingham is another case where a _burh_ was built on both sides of the river, and as at hertford, there was only one motte, site of the castle of the norman giffards, now almost obliterated. the river ouse here makes a long narrow loop to the south-west, within which stands the town, and, without doubt, this would be the site of edward's borough. no trace is left of the second borough on the other side of the river. buckingham is one of the boroughs of domesday. bedford has had a motte and a norman castle on the north side of the ouse; but this was not the site of edward's borough, which the _chronicle_ tells us was placed on the south side of that river. on the south side an ancient ditch, or feet broad, with some traces of an inner rampart, semicircular in plan, but with a square extension, is still visible, and fills with water at flood times.[ ] this is very likely to be the ditch of edward's borough. both at bedford and buckingham the _chronicle_ states that edward spent four weeks in building the _burh_. mediæval numbers must never be taken as precise; but the disproportion between four weeks and eight days, the space often given for the building of an early norman castle, corresponds very well to the difference between the time needed to throw up the bank and stockade of a town, and that needed for the building of an earthen and wooden castle. maldon.--only one angle of the earthen bank of edward's borough remains now, but gough states that it was an oblong camp enclosing about acres.[ ] it had rounded corners and a very wide ditch, with a bank on both scarp and counterscarp. maldon was a borough at domesday;[ ] the king had a hall there, but there was never any castle, nor is there any trace of a motte. towcester (fig. ).--there is a motte at towcester, but no direct evidence has yet been found for the existence of a norman castle there, though leland says that he was told of "certen ruines or diches of a castelle."[ ] there was a mill and an oven to which the citizens owed soke,[ ] and the value of the manor, which belonged to the king, had risen very greatly since the conquest;[ ] all facts which render the existence of a norman castle extremely likely. but there can be no question as to the nature of edward's work at towcester, as the _chronicle_ tells us expressly that "he wrought the burgh at towcester with a stone wall."[ ] towcester lies on watling street, and is believed to have been the roman station of lactodorum. baker gives a plan of the remains existing in his time, which may either be those of the roman castrum or of edward's borough.[ ] the area is stated to be about acres. wigingamere.--this place is not yet identified, for the identification with wigmore in herefordshire, though accepted by many respectable writers, will not stand a moment's examination. wigmore was entirely out of edward's beat, and he had far too much on his hands in to attempt a campaign in herefordshire. as wigingamere appears to have specially drawn upon itself the wrath of east anglian and essex danes, it must have lain somewhere in their neighbourhood. the _mere_ which is included in the name would seem to point to that great inland water which anciently stretched southwards from the wash into cambridgeshire. the only approach to east anglia from the south lay along a strip of open chalk land which lay between the great swamp and the dense forests which grew east of it.[ ] here ran the ancient road called the icknield way. on a peninsula which now runs out into the great fens of the cam and the ouse there is still a village called wicken, miles west of the roman road; and possibly, when the land surrounding this peninsula was under water, this bight may have been called wigingamere. this suggestion of course is merely tentative, but what gives it some probability is that the danish army which attacked "the borough at wigingamere" came from east anglia as well as mercia.[ ] [illustration: fig. .--plan of towcester about .] huntingdon.--the borough of huntingdon was probably first built by the danes, as it was only repaired by edward. in leland's time there were still some remains of the walls "in places." huntingdon is one of the _burgi_ of domesday. colchester.--this of course was a roman site, and edward needed only to restore the walls, as the _chronicle_ indicates. colchester was placed so as to defend the river colne, just as maldon defended the estuary of the blackwater. as the repair of colchester and the successful defence of wigingamere were followed the same year by the submission of east anglia, it seems not unlikely that edward's various forces may have made a simultaneous advance, along the coast, and along the roman road by the fen country; but this of course is the merest conjecture, as the _chronicle_ gives us no details of this very important event. cledemuthan.--this place is only mentioned in the abingdon ms. of the _chronicle_, but the year is the date given for its building. this date should probably be transposed to , the year in which, according to florence, edward subjugated east anglia. it is well known how confused the chronology of the various versions of the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ is during the reign of edward the elder.[ ] cley, in norfolk, would be etymologically deducible from clede (the _d_ being frequently dropped, especially in scandinavian districts), and the _muthan_ points to some river estuary. cley is one of the few havens on the north coast of norfolk, and its importance in former times was much greater than now, as is shown not only by the spaciousness of its early english church, but by the fact that the port has jurisdiction for miles along the coast.[ ] it would be highly probable that edward completed the subjugation of east anglia by planting a borough at some important point. but as the real date of the fortification of cledemuthan is uncertain, we must be content to leave this matter in abeyance.[ ] stamford is another case where the _borough_ is clearly said to have been on the side which is opposite to the one where the norman castle stands. edward's borough was on the south side, the motte and other remains of the norman castle are on the north of the welland. it is remarkable that the part of stamford on the south side of the welland is still a distinct liberty; it is mentioned in domesday as the sixth ward of the borough. the line of the earthworks can still be traced in parts. the borough on the north side of the welland was probably first walled in by the danes, as it was one of the five boroughs--stamford, leicester, lincoln, nottingham, and derby--which appear to have formed an independent or semi-independent state in middle england.[ ] stamford is a borough in domesday. nottingham.--the first mention of a fortress in connection with nottingham seems to suggest that it owed its origin to the danes. in the danish host which had taken possession of york in the previous year "went into mercia to nottingham, and there took up their winter quarters. and burgræd king of mercia and his witan begged of ethelred, king of the west saxons, and of alfred his brother, that they would help them, that they might fight against the army. and then they went with the west saxon force into mercia as far as nottingham, and there encountered the army which was in the fortress (geweorc), and besieged them there; but there was no great battle fought, and the mercians made peace with the army."[ ] nottingham became another of the danish five boroughs. the danish host on this occasion came from york, no doubt in ships down the ouse and up the trent. the site would exactly suit them, as it occupied a very strong position on st mary's hill, a height equal to that on which the castle stands, defended on the south front by precipitous cliffs, below which ran the river leen, and only a very short distance from the junction of the leen with the trent, the great waterway of middle england.[ ] portions of the ancient ditch were uncovered in , and its outline appears to have been roughly rectangular, like the danish camp at shoebury. the ditch was about feet wide. the area enclosed was about acres. this borough was captured by edward the elder in , when after the death of his sister ethelfleda he advanced into danish mercia, taking up the work which she had left unfinished.[ ] the _chronicle_ tells us that he repaired the borough (burh), and garrisoned it with both english and danes. two years later, he evidently felt the necessity of fortifying the trent itself, for he built another borough on the south side of the river, and connected the two boroughs by a bridge, which must have included a causeway or a wooden stage across the marshes of the leen. it is not surprising that the frequent floods of the trent have carried away all trace of this second borough.[ ] the important position of nottingham was maintained in subsequent times, and it was still a borough at domesday. thelwall.--according to camden, thelwall explains by its name the kind of work which was set up here, a wall composed of the trunks of trees. this was another attempt to defend the course of the mersey, which was once tidal as far as thelwall. no remains of any fortifications can now be seen at thelwall, which was not one of the boroughs which took root. but the mersey has changed its course very much at this point, even before the making of the ship canal effected a more complete alteration.[ ] manchester.--the _burh_ repaired by edward the elder was no doubt the roman castrum, which was built on the triangle of land between the irwell and the medlock. large portions of the walls were still remaining in stukeley's time, about , and some fragments have recently been unearthed by the manchester classical association. it was one of the smaller kind of roman stations, its area being only acres. manchester is not mentioned as a borough in domesday, but the old saxon town was long known as aldportton, which literally means "the town of the old city." this is its title in mediæval deeds, and it is still preserved in _alport_ street, a street near the remains of the _castrum_.[ ] the later borough of manchester, which existed at least as early as the th century, appears to have grown up round the norman castle, about a mile from the roman castrum.[ ] bakewell.--the vagueness of the indication in the _chronicle_, "nigh to bakewell," leaves us in some doubt where we are to look for this _burh_, which florence calls an _urbs_. just outside the village of bakewell there are the remains of a motte and bailey castle (a small motte and bailey of acres), which are always assumed to be the _burh_ of edward. but the enclosure is far too small for a borough, and edward's burh would certainly have enclosed the church; for though the present church contains no saxon architecture, the ancient cross in the graveyard shows that it stands on a saxon site. it is more reasonable to suppose that edward's borough, if it was at bakewell, has disappeared as completely as those of runcorn, buckingham, and thelwall, and that the motte and bailey belong to one of the many norman castles whose names never appear in history. there is no conclusive evidence for the existence of a norman castle at bakewell, but the names castle field, warden field, and court yard are at least suggestive.[ ] bakewell was the seat of jurisdiction for the high peak hundred in mediæval times.[ ] chapter iv danish fortifications we must now inquire into the nature of the fortifications built by the danes in england, which are frequently mentioned in the _anglo-saxon chronicle_. it has often been asserted, and with great confidence, that the danes were the authors of the moated mounds of class(_e_); those in ireland are invariably spoken of by lewis in his _topographical dictionary_ as "danish raths." this fancy seems to have gone somewhat out of fashion since mr clark's _burh_ theory occupied the field, though mr clark's view is often so loosely expressed as to lead one to think that he supposed all the northern nations to be makers of mottes; in fact, he frequently includes the anglo-saxons under the general title of "northmen"![ ] we must therefore endeavour to find out what the danish fortifications actually were. the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ mentions twenty-four places where the danes either threw up fortifications (between and ) or took up quarters either for the winter, or for such a period of time that we may infer that there was some fortification to protect them. the word used for the fortification is generally _geweorc_, a work, or _fæsten_ (in two places only), which has also the general vague meaning of a _fastness_. there are ten places where these works or fastnesses are mentioned in the _chronicle_:-- . nottingham.--we have already seen that the danish host took up their winter quarters here in , and that there is the highest probability that the borough which edward the elder restored was first built by them. we have also seen that it was a camp of roughly rectangular form, and enclosed a very large area, necessary for great numbers.[ ] . rochester.--this city was besieged by the danes in , and they fortified a camp outside. as the artificial mound called boley hill is outside the city, most topographers have jumped to the conclusion that this was the danish camp. but the character of the danish fortification is clearly indicated in the _chronicle_: "they made a work around themselves," that is, it was an enclosure.[ ] they could hardly have escaped by ship, as they did, if their camp had been above the bridge, which is known to have existed in saxon times. but boley hill is above the bridge. . milton, in kent (middeltune).--hæsten the dane landed at the mouth of the thames with ships, and wrought a _geweorc_ here in . two places in the neighbourhood of milton have been suggested as the site of it, a square earthwork at bayford court, near sittingbourne, and a very small square enclosure called castle rough. neither of these are large enough to have been of any use to a force which came in ships.[ ] steenstrup has calculated that the average number of men in a viking ship must have been from to ; hæsten therefore must have had at least men with him. it is therefore probable that the camp at milton has been swept away. . appledore.--a still larger danish force, which had been harrying the carlovingian empire, came in ships, with their horses, in , and towed their ships "up the river" (which is now extinct) from lymne to appledore, where they wrought a work. there are no earthworks at appledore now, but at kenardington, miles off, there are remains of "a roughly defined rectangular work, situated on the north and east of the church, on the slope of the hill towards the marsh, a very likely place for an entrenchment thrown up to defend a fleet of light-draught ships hauled up on the beach."[ ] the enclosure was very large, one side which remains being feet long.[ ] . benfleet.--here hæsten wrought a work in ; here he was defeated by alfred's forces, and some of his ships burnt. mr spurrell states that there are still some irregular elevations by the stream and about the church, which he believes to be remains of the danish camp.[ ] "as the fleet of ships lay in the beamfleet, it is obvious that the camp must have partaken of the character of a fortified _hithe_, with the wall landward and the shore open to the river and the ships." he also learned on the spot that when the railway bridge across the fleet was being made, the remains of several ancient ships, charred by fire, and surrounded by numerous human skeletons, were found in the mud.[ ] benfleet must have been a very large camp, as not only was the joint army of danes housed in it, that from milton and that from appledore, but they had with them their wives and children and cattle. . shoebury (fig. ).--after the storming of the camp at benfleet by the saxon forces, the joint armies of the danes built another _geweorc_ at shoebury in essex. we should therefore expect a large camp here, and mr spurrell has shown that the area was formerly about a third of a square mile. about half the camp had been washed away by the sea when mr spurrell surveyed it in , but enough was left to give a good idea of the whole. it was a roughly square rampart, with a ditch about feet wide, the ditch having a kind of berm on the inner side. the bank also had a slight platform inside, about feet above the general level.[ ] as hæsten had lost his ships at benfleet, there would be no fortified hithe connected with it, and if there had been, the sea would have swept it away. the camp was abandoned almost as soon as it was made, and the danish army started on that remarkable march across england which the _saxon chronicle_ relates. they were overtaken and besieged by alfred's forces, in a _fastness_ at . buttington, on the severn.--it has sometimes been contended that this was the buttington near chepstow; but as the line of march of the army was "along the thames till they reached the severn, then up along the severn,"[ ] it is more probable that it was buttington in montgomery, west of shrewsbury.[ ] here there are remains of a strong bank with a broad deep ditch, which was evidently part of a rectangular earthwork, as it runs at right angles to offa's dyke, which forms one side of it. it now encloses both the churchyard and vicarage. whether the danes constructed this earthwork, or found it there, we are not told. . there appear to be no remains of the _geweorc_ on the river lea, miles above london, made by the danes in . but miles above london, on the lea, would land us at amwell, near ware. in brayley's _hertfordshire_ it is stated that at amwell, "on the hill above the church are traces of a very extensive fortification, the rampart of which is very distinguishable on the side overlooking the vale through which the river lea flows."[ ] [illustration: fig. . shoebury, essex.] . bridgenorth, or quatbridge.--the winchester ms. of the _chronicle_ says the danes wrought a _geweorc_ at quatbridge, in , and passed the winter there. there is no such place as quatbridge now, only quatford; and seeing there were so few bridges in those days, we are disposed to accept the statement of the worcester ms., which must have been the best informed about events in the west, that bridgenorth was the site of their work, especially as the high rock at bridgenorth offers a natural fortification. the only circumstance that is in favour of quatford is that it is mentioned as a _burgus_ in domesday, which shows that it possessed fortifications of the civic kind; and we shall see later on, that such fortifications were often the work of the danes. but this burgus may more probably have been the work of roger de montgomeri, who planted a castle there in the th century. . tempsford.--here the danes wrought a work in .[ ] there is a small oblong enclosure at tempsford, still in fair preservation, called gannock castle, which is generally supposed to be this danish work. the ramparts are about or feet above the bottom of the moat, which is about feet wide. there is a small circular mound, about feet high, on top of the rampart, which appears to be so placed as to defend the entrance. this mound is "edged all round by the root of a small bank, which may have been the base of a stockaded tower."[ ] this curious little enclosure is different altogether from any of the danish works just enumerated, and it is difficult to see what purpose it could have served. the area enclosed is only half an acre, which would certainly not have accommodated the large army "from huntingdon and from the east angles," which built the advanced post at tempsford as a base for the forcible recovery of the districts which they had lost.[ ] such a small enclosure as this might possibly have been a citadel, but our knowledge of danish camps does not tell us of any with citadels, and it is hardly likely that the democratic constitution of these pirate bands would have allowed of a citadel for the chief. it is far more probable that this work belongs to a later time, and that the danish camp has been swept away by the river.[ ] . reading.--there is no "work" mentioned by the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ at this place, which the danes made their headquarters in , but we add it to the list because asser not only mentions it, but describes the nature of the fortification. it was a _vallum_ drawn between the rivers thames and kennet, so as to enclose a peninsula.[ ] it had several entrances, as the danes "rushed out from all the gates" on the anglo-saxon attack. such a fort belongs to the simplest and easiest kind of defence, used at all times by a general who is in a hurry, and it has therefore no significance in determining the general type of danish works. besides these eleven places where _works_ are mentioned, there are thirteen places where the danes are said to have taken up their winter quarters, and where we may be certain that they were protected by some kind of fortifications. these are thanet, sheppey, thetford, york, london, torkesey, repton, cambridge, exeter, chippenham, cirencester, fulham, and mersey island. four places out of this list--york, london, exeter, and cirencester--were roman _castra_, whose walls were still available for defence. three--thanet, sheppey, and mersey--were islands, and thus naturally defended, being much more insular than they are now.[ ] three--thetford, torkesey, and cambridge--appear as burgi in domesday, showing that they were fortified towns. it is highly probable that the danes threw up the first fortifications of these boroughs. there are no remains of town banks at torkesey; at cambridge the outline of the town bank can be traced in places;[ ] and at thetford there was formerly an earthwork on the suffolk side of the river, which appears to have formed three sides of a square, abutting on the river, and enclosing the most ancient part of the town.[ ] chippenham and repton were ancient seats of the anglo-saxon kings, and may have had fortifications, but nothing remains now. chippenham is a borough by prescription, therefore of ancient date. at fulham, on the thames, there is a quadrangular moat and bank round the bishop of london's palace, which is sometimes supposed to be the camp made by the danes in ; but it may equally well be mediæval. there was formerly a harbour at fulham.[ ] it must be confessed that this list of danish fortresses furnishes us with a very slender basis for generalisation as to the nature of danish fortifications, judging from the actual remains. all we can say is that in six cases out of twenty-four (not including tempsford or fulham) the work appears to have been rectangular. in the case of shoebury, about which we have the best evidence, the imitation of roman models seems to be clear. if we turn from remaining facts to _à priori_ likelihoods, we call to mind that the danes were a much-travelled people, had been in gaul as well as in england, and had had opportunities of observing roman fortifications, as well as much practice both in the assault and defence of fortified places. it may not be without significance that it is not until after the return of "the army" from france that we hear of their building camps at all, except in the case of reading. as far as our information goes, their camps were without citadels. what evidence we have from the other side of the channel supports the same conclusion. richer gives us an account of the storming of a fortress of the northmen at eu, by king raoul, in , from which it is clear that as soon as the king's soldiers had got over the vallum, they were masters of the place; there was no citadel to attack.[ ] dudo speaks of the vikings "fortifying themselves, after the manner of a _castrum_, by heaped up earth-banks drawn round themselves," and it is clear from the rest of his description that the camp had no citadel.[ ] in no case do we find anything to justify the theory that mottes were an accompaniment of danish camps. in five cases out of the twenty-four there are or were mottes at the places mentioned, but in all cases they belonged to norman castles. the magnificent motte called the castle hill at thetford was on the opposite side of the river to the borough, which we have seen reason to think was the site of the danish winter quarters. torkesey in leland's time had by the river side "a hille of yerth cast up," which he judged to be the donjon of some old castle, probably rightly, though we have been unable as yet to find any mention of a norman castle at torkesey; a brick castle of much more recent date is still standing near the river, and probably the motte to which leland alludes was destroyed when this was built. the motte at cambridge is placed inside the original bounds of the borough, and was part of the norman castle.[ ] we have already dealt with the boley hill at rochester, and shall have more to say about it hereafter. the rock motte at nottingham was probably not cut off by a ditch from the rest of the headland until the norman castle was built. [illustration: fig. . willington, beds.] it seems highly probable that besides providing accommodation in their camps for very large numbers of people, the danes sometimes fortified the hithes where they drew up their ships on shore, or even constructed fortified harbours.[ ] we have already quoted mr spurrell's remark on the hithe[ ] at benfleet (p. ), and there is at least one place in england which seems to prove the existence of fortified harbours. this is willington, on the river ouse, in bedfordshire, which has been carefully described by mr a. r. goddard.[ ] this "camp" consists of two wards, and a wide outer enclosure (fig. ). "but one of the most interesting features is the presence of two harbours, contained within the defences and communicating with the river." mr goddard points out that the dimensions of the smaller one are almost the same as those of the "nausts" (ship-sheds or small docks) of the vikings in iceland. he also cites from the _jomsvikinga saga_ the description of a harbour made by the viking palnatoki at jomsborg. "there he had a large and strong sea _burg_ made. he also had a harbour made within the _burg_ in which long ships could lie at the same time, all being locked within the burg." the harbours at willington are large enough to accommodate between twenty-five and thirty-five ships of the danish type. unfortunately there is no historical proof that the willington works were danish, though their construction makes it very likely. nor have any works of a similar character been as yet observed in england, as far as we are aware. but if archæology and topography give a somewhat scanty answer to our question about the nature of danish fortifications, there are other fields of research, opened up of late years, from which we can glean important facts, bearing directly on the subject which we are treating. herr steenstrup's exhaustive inquiry into the danish settlement in england has shown that the way in which the danes maintained their hold on the northern and eastern shires was by planting fortified towns on which the soldiers and peasants dwelling around were dependent.[ ] the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ gives us a glimpse of these arrangements when it speaks of the danes who owed obedience to bedford, derby, leicester, northampton, and cambridge.[ ] it also tells us of the five boroughs, which, as we have already said, appear to have been a confederation of boroughs forming an independent danish state between the danish kingdoms of east anglia and northumbria. the same system was followed by the danes who colonised ireland. "the colony had a centre in a fortified town, or it consisted almost exclusively of dwellers in one. but round this town was a district, in which the irish inhabitants had to pay taxes to the lords of the town."[ ] the irish chronicle called _the wars of the gaedhil and the gaill_ says, further, that norse soldiers were quartered in the country round these towns in the houses of the native irish, and it even says that there was hardly a house without a norseman.[ ] herr steenstrup does not go so far as to assert that this system of quartering obtained in england also; but he shows that it is probable, and we may add that such a system would help to explain the speedy absorption of the danes into the anglo-saxon population, which took place in the danelaw districts.[ ] the large numbers of the danish forces, and the fact that in the second period of their invasions they brought their wives and children with them, would render camps of large area necessary. these numbers alone make it ridiculous to attribute to the danes the small motte castles of class (_e_), whose average area is not more than acres. finally, the danish host was not a feudal host. steenstrup asserts that the principle of the composition of the host was the voluntary association of equally powerful leaders, of whom one was chosen as head, and was implicitedly obeyed, but had only a temporary authority.[ ] we should not, therefore, expect to find the danish camps provided with the citadels by which the feudal baron defended his personal safety. when rollo and his host were coming up the seine, the frankish king raoul sent messengers to ask them who they were, and what was the name of their chief. "danes," was the reply, "and we have no chief, for we are all equal."[ ] that such an answer would be given by men who were following a leader so distinguished as rollo shows the spirit of independence which pervaded the danish hosts, and how little a separate fortification for the chief would comport with their methods of warfare.[ ] we may conclude, then, with every appearance of certainty that the danish camps were enclosures of large area which very much resembled the larger roman _castra_, and that, like these, they frequently grew into towns. placed as they generally were on good havens, or on navigable rivers, they were most suitable places for trade; and it turned out that the danes, who were a people of great natural aptitudes, had a special aptitude for commerce.[ ] dr cunningham remarks that they were the leading merchants of the country, and he attributes to them a large share in the development of town life in england.[ ] the organisation of their armies was purely military, but at the same time democratic; and when it was applied to a settled life in the new country, the organisation of the town was the form which it took. the lagmen of lincoln, stamford, cambridge, chester, and york are a peculiarly scandinavian institution, which we find still existing at the time of the domesday survey.[ ] thus we see that the fortifications of the danes, like those of the anglo-saxons, were the fortifications of the community. and we shall see in the next chapter that this was the general type of the fortifications which were being raised in western europe in the th century. chapter v the origin of private castles we have now seen that history furnishes no instance of the existence of private castles among the anglo-saxons or the danes (previous to the arrival of edward the confessor's norman friends), and we have endeavoured to show that this negative evidence is of great significance. if, assuming that we are right in accepting it as conclusive, we ask why the anglo-saxons did not build private castles, the answer is ready to hand in the researches of the late dr stubbs, the late professor maitland, dr j. h. round, and professor vinogradoff, which have thrown so much fresh light on the constitutional history of england. these writers have made it clear that whatever tendencies towards feudalism there were in england before the conquest, the system of military tenure, which is the backbone of feudalism, was introduced into england by william the conqueror.[ ] "feudalism, in both tenure and government was, so far as it existed in england, brought full-grown from france," says dr stubbs; and this statement is not merely supported, but strengthened, by the work of the later writers named.[ ] the institutions of the anglo-saxons, when they settled in england, were tribal; and though these institutions were in a state of decay in the th century, they were not completely superseded by feudal institutions till after the norman conquest. we should naturally expect, then, that the fortifications erected by the anglo-saxons would be those adapted to their originally tribal state, that is, in the words which we have so often used already, they would be those of the community and not of the individual. and as far as we can discover the character of these fortifications, we find that this was actually the case. as we have seen, we find one of the earliest kings, ida, building for the defence of himself and his followers what bede calls a city; and we find alfred and his children also building and repairing cities, at the time of the danish invasions. the same kind of thing was going on at about the same time in germany and in france. henry the fowler ( - ), that great restorer of the austrasian kingdom, planted on the frontiers which were exposed to the attacks of the danes and huns a number of walled strongholds, not only for the purpose of resisting invasion, but to afford a place of refuge to all the inhabitants of the country. he ordained that every ninth man of the peasants in the district must build for himself and his nine companions a dwelling in the "burg," and provide barns and storehouses, and that the third part of all crops must be delivered and housed in these towns.[ ] in this way, says the historian giesebrecht, he sought to accustom the saxons, who had hitherto dwelt in isolated farms, or open villages, to life in towns. he ordered that all assemblies of the people should be held in towns. giesebrecht also remarks that it is not improbable that henry the fowler had the example of edward the elder of england before his eyes when he established these rows of frontier towns.[ ] the same causes led, on neustrian soil, to the fortification of a number of cities, the walls of which had fallen into decay during the period of peace before the invasions of the danes. thus charles the bald commanded le mans and tours to be fortified "as a defence _for the people_ against the northmen."[ ] the bishops were particularly active in thus defending the people of their dioceses. archbishop fulk rebuilt the walls of rheims, between and ;[ ] his successor, hervey, fortified the town of coucy[ ] (about ); the bishop of cambray built new walls to his city in - ;[ ] and bishop erluin fortified peronne in , "as a defence against marauders, and a refuge for the husbandmen of the country."[ ] but permission had probably to be asked in all these cases, as it certainly had in the last. the carlovingian sovereigns represented a well-ordered state, modelled on the pattern of the roman empire; they were jealous of any attempts at self-defence which did not proceed from the state, and thus as long as they had the power they strove to put down all associations or buildings of a military character which did not emanate from their imperial authority. the history of the th and th centuries is the history of the gradual break-up of the carlovingian empire, and the rise of feudalism on its ruins. in , the year of his death, charles the bald signed a decree making the counts of the provinces, who until then had been imperial officers, hereditary. he thus, as sismondi says, annihilated the remains of royal authority in the provinces.[ ] the removable officers now became local sovereigns. gradually, as the carlovingian empire fell to pieces, the artificial organisation of the feudal system arose to take its place. by the end of the th century the victory of feudalism was complete; and the victory of feudalism was the victory of the private castle. "the very word castle," says guizot, "brings with it the idea of feudal society; we see it rising before us. it was feudalism that built these castles which once covered our soil, and whose ruins are still scattered upon it. they were the declaration of its triumph. nothing like them had existed on gallo-roman soil. before the germanic invasion, the great landed proprietors dwelt either in the cities, or in beautiful houses agreeably situated near the cities."[ ] these gallo-roman villas had no fortifications;[ ] nor were the roman villas in england fortified.[ ] it was the business of the state to defend the community; this was the theory so long sustained by imperial rome, and which broke down so completely under the later carlovingians. in the time of charlemagne and louis le debonnaire, even the royal palaces do not appear to have been fortified. they were always spoken of as _palatia_, never as _castella_. the danes, when they took possession of the palace of nimeguen in , fortified it with ditches and banks.[ ] charles the bald appears to have been the first to fortify the palace of compiègne.[ ] although there can be no doubt that private castles had become extremely common on the mainland of western europe before the end of the th century, it is more difficult than is generally supposed to trace their first appearance. historians, even those of great repute, have been somewhat careless in translating the words _castrum_ or _castellum_ as _castle_ or _château_, and taking them in the sense of the feudal or private castle.[ ] we have already pointed out that these words in our anglo-saxon charters mean a town or village.[ ] the fact is that from roman times until toward the end of the th century the words _castrum_ and _castellum_ are used indifferently for a fortified city or town, or a temporary camp. the expression _civitates et castella_ is not uncommon, and might lead one to think that a distinction was drawn between large and small towns, or forts. but it is far more likely that it is a mere pleonasm, a bit of that redundancy which was always dear to the mediæval scribe who was trying to write well. for as the instances cited in the appendix will prove, we constantly find the words _castrum_ and _castellum_ used for the same town, sometimes even in the same paragraph. later, from the last quarter of the th century to the middle of the th century, these same words are used indifferently for a town or a castle, and it is impossible to tell, except by the context, whether a town or a castle is meant; and often even the context throws no light upon it. this makes it extremely difficult to say with any exactness when the private castle first arose. we seem indeed to have a fixed date in the capitulary of pistes, issued by charles the bald in ,[ ] in which he straightly ordered that all who had made castles, forts, or hedge-works without his permission should forthwith be compelled to destroy them, because through them the whole neighbourhood suffered depredation and annoyance. this edict shows, we might argue, that private castles were sufficiently numerous by the year to have become a public nuisance, calling for special legislation. but the chronicles of the second half of the th century do not reveal any extensive prevalence of private castles. indeed, after studying all the most important chronicles of neustria and austrasia during this period, the present writer has only been able to find four instances of fortifications which have any claim at all to be considered private castles; and even this claim is doubtful.[ ] when we come to the chroniclers of the middle of the th century we find a marked difference. it is true that the words _castrum_, _castellum_, _municipium_, _oppidum_, _munitio_, are still used quite indifferently by flodoard and other writers for one and the same thing, and that in a great many cases they obviously mean a fortified town. but there are other cases where they evidently mean a castle. and if we compare these writers with the earlier ones in the same way as we have already compared the pre-conquest portion of the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ with the chroniclers of the th and th centuries, we find the same contrast between them. in the pages of flodoard or ademar the action constantly turns on the building, besieging, and burning of castles, which by whatever name they are called, have every appearance of being private castles. in fact before we get to the end of the century, the private castle is as much the leading feature of the drama as it is in the th or th centuries. why, then, had the chroniclers no fresh word for a thing which was in its essential nature so novel? the obvious and only answer is that the private castle in its earlier stages was nothing more than an embankment with a wooden stockade thrown round some _villa_ or farm belonging to a private owner, and was therefore indistinguishable in appearance, though radically different in idea, from the fortifications which had hitherto been thrown up for the protection of the community.[ ] how easily we may be mistaken in the meaning of the word _castellum_, if we interpret it according to modern ideas, may be seen by comparing the account of the bridge built by charlemagne over the elbe, in the _annales laurissenses_, with eginhards narrative of the same affair. the former states that charlemagne built a _castellum_ of wood and earth at each end of the bridge, while the latter tells us that it was a _vallum_ to protect a garrison which he placed there. this, however, was a work of public utility, and not a private castle. but scanty as the evidence is, it all leads us to infer that the first private castles were fortifications of this simple nature.[ ] mazières-on-the-meuse, which was besieged for four weeks by archbishop hervey, took its name from the _macerias_ or banks which count erlebald had constructed around it. it is impossible to say whether this enclosure should be called a castle or a town, but in idea it was certainly a castle, since it was an enclosure formed for private, not for public interests. whether these first private castles were provided with towers we have no evidence either to prove or to disprove. no instance occurs from which we can conclude that they possessed any kind of citadel, before the middle of the th century.[ ] but before the century is far advanced, we hear of towers in connection with the great towns, which, whether they were originally mural towers or not, are evidently private strongholds, and may justly be called keeps. the earliest instance known to the writer is in , when the tower of the _presidium_ where herbert count of vermandois had imprisoned charles the simple was burnt accidentally.[ ] this tower must have been restored, as nine years later it withstood a six weeks' siege from king raoul. a possibly earlier instance is that of nantes, where bishop fulcher had made a castle in ; for when this castle was restored by count alan barbetorte ( - ), we are told that he _restored_ the principal tower and made it into his own house.[ ] count herbert built a keep in laon before ; and this appears to have been a different tower to the one attached to the royal house which louis d'outremer had built at the gate of the city.[ ] we hear also of towers at amiens ( ), coucy ( ), chalons ( ), and rheims ( ). all these towers, it will be observed, are connected with towns.[ ] the first stone keep in the country for whose date we have positive evidence, is that of langeais, built by fulk nerra, count of anjou, about the year ; its ruins still exist. but we are concerned more particularly here with the origin of the motte-and-bailey castle. the exact place or time of its first appearance is still a matter of conjecture. certainly there is not a word in the chronicles which is descriptive of this kind of castle before the beginning of the th century.[ ] the first historical mention of a castle which is clearly of the motte-and-bailey kind is in the chronicle of st florent le vieil, where, at a date which the modern biographer of fulk nerra fixes at , we learn that this same count of anjou built a castle on the western side of the hill mont-glonne, at st florent le vieil, on the loire, and threw up an _agger_ on which he built a wooden tower.[ ] in this case the word _agger_ evidently means a motte. but fulk began to reign in ; he was a great builder of castles, and was famed for his skill in military affairs.[ ] one of his first castles, built between and , was at montbazon, not far from tours. about metres from the later castle of montbazon is a motte and outworks, which de salies not unreasonably supposes to be the original castle of fulk.[ ] montrichard, chateaufort, chérament, montboyau, and baugé are all castles built by fulk, and all have or had mottes. montboyau is the clearest case of all, as it was demolished by fulk a few years after he built it, and has never been restored, so that the immense motte and outworks which are still to be seen remain very much in their original state, except that a modern tower has been placed on the motte, which is now called bellevue.[ ] it was a tempting theory at one time to the writer to see in fulk nerra the inventor of the motte type of castle, for independently of his fame in military architecture, he is the first mediæval chieftain who is known to have employed mercenary troops.[ ] now as we have already suggested in chapter i., the plan of the motte-and-bailey castle strongly suggests that there may be a connection between its adoption and the use of mercenaries. for the plan of this kind of castle seems to hint that the owner does not only mistrust his enemies, he also does not completely trust his garrison. the keep in which he and his family live is placed on the top of the motte, which is ditched round so as to separate it from the bailey; the provisions on which all are dependent are stored in the cellar of the keep, so that they are under his own hand; and the keys of the outer ward are brought to him every night, and placed under his pillow.[ ] but unfortunately for this theory, there is some evidence of the raising of mottes at an earlier period in the th century than the accession of fulk nerra. thibault-le-tricheur, who was count of blois and chartres from to , was also a great builder, and it is recorded of him that he built the keeps of chartres, chateaudun,[ ] blois, and chinon,[ ] and the castle of saumur; these must have been finished before . now there was anciently a motte at blois, for in the th century, fulk v. of anjou burnt the whole fortress, "_except the house on the motte_."[ ] there was also a motte at saumur;[ ] and the plan of the castle of chinon is not inconsistent with the existence of a former motte.[ ] these instances seem to put back the existence of the motte castle to the middle of the th century. we know of no earlier claim than this, unless we were to accept the statement of lambert of ardres that sigfrid the dane, who occupied the county of guisnes about the year , fortified the town, and enclosed his own _dunio_ with a double ditch.[ ] if this were true, we have a clear instance of a motte built in the first half of the th century. but lambert's work was written at the end of the th century, with the object of glorifying the counts of guisnes, and its editor regards the early part of it as fabulous. that sigfrid fortified the _town_ of guisnes we can easily believe, as we know the danes commonly did the like (see chapter iv.); but that he built himself a personal castle is unlikely.[ ] it is the more unlikely, because the danes in normandy do not appear to have built personal castles until the feudal system was introduced there by richard sans peur. the settlement in normandy was not on feudal lines. "rollo divided out the lands among his powerful comrades, and there is scarcely any doubt that they received these lands as inheritable property, without any other pledge than to help rollo in the defence of the country."[ ] "the norman constitution at rollo's death can be described thus, that the duke ruled the country as an independent prince in relation to the franks; but for its internal government he had a council at his side, whose individual members felt themselves almost as powerful as the duke himself."[ ] sir francis palgrave asserts that feudalism was introduced into normandy by the duke richard sans peur, the grandson of rollo, towards the middle of the th century. he "enforced a most extensive conversion of allodial lands into feudal tenure," and exacted from his baronage the same feudal submission which he himself had rendered to hugh capet.[ ] it is quite in accordance with this that in the narrative of dudo, who is our only authority for the history of normandy in the th century, there is no mention of a private castle anywhere. we are told that rollo restored the walls and towers of the _cities_ of normandy,[ ] and it is clear from the context that the _castra_ of rouen, fécamp, and evreux, which are mentioned, are fortified cities, not castles. even the ducal residence at rouen is spoken of as a _palatium_ or an _aula_, not as a castle; and it does not appear to have possessed a keep until (as we are told by a later writer) the same duke richard who introduced the feudal system into normandy built one for his own residence.[ ] it is possible that when the feudal oath was exacted from the more important barons, permission was given to them to build castles for themselves; thus we hear from ordericus of the castle of aquila, built in the days of duke richard; the castle of the lords of grantmesnil at norrei; the castle of belesme; all of which appear to have been private castles.[ ] but there seems to have been no general building of castles until the time of william the conqueror's minority, when his rebellious subjects raised castles against him on all sides. "plura per loca aggeres erexerunt, et tutissimas sibi munitiones construxerunt."[ ] it is generally, and doubtless correctly, supposed that _aggeres_ in this passage means mottes, and taking this statement along with the great number of mottes which are still to be found in normandy, it has been further assumed (and the present writer was disposed to share the idea) that this was the time of the first invention of mottes. but the facts which have been now adduced, tracing back the first known mottes to the time of thibault-le-tricheur, and the county of blois, show that the norman claim to the invention of this mode of fortification must be given up. if the normans were late in adopting feudalism, they were probably equally late in adopting private castles, and the fortifications of william i.'s time were most likely copied from castles outside the norman frontier.[ ] it might be thought that the general expectation of the end of the world in the year , which prevailed towards the end of the th century, had something to do with the spread of these wooden castles, as it might have seemed scarcely worth while to build costly structures of stone. but it is not necessary to resort to this hypothesis, because there is quite sufficient evidence to show that long before this forecast of doom was accepted, wood was a very common, if not the commonest, material used in fortification. the reader has only to open his cæsar to see how familiar wooden towers and wooden palisades were to the romans; and he has only to study carefully the chronicles of the th, th, th, and th centuries to see how all-prevalent this mode of fortification continued to be. the general adoption of the feudal system must have brought about a demand for cheap castles, which was excellently met by the motte with its wooden keep and its stockaded bailey. m. enlart has pointed out that wooden defences have one important advantage over stone ones, their greater cohesion, which enabled them to resist the blows of the battering-ram better than rubble masonry.[ ] their great disadvantage was their liability to fire; but this was obviated, as in the time of the romans, by spreading wet hides over the outsides. stone castles were still built, where money and means were available, as we see from fulk nerra's keep at langeais; but the devastations of the northmen had decimated the population of gaul; labour must have been dear, and skilled masons hard to find. in these social and economic reasons we have sufficient cause for the rapid spread of wooden castles in france. the sum of the evidence which we have been reviewing is this: the earliest mottes which we know of were _probably_ built by thibault-le-tricheur about the middle of the th century. but in the present state of our knowledge we must leave the question of the time and place of their first origin open. the only thing about which we can be certain is that they were the product of feudalism, and cannot have arisen till it had taken root; that is to say, not earlier than the th century. chapter vi distribution and characteristics of motte-castles the motte-and-bailey type of castle is to be found throughout feudal europe, but is probably more prevalent in france and the british isles than anywhere else. we say _probably_, because there are as yet no statistics prepared on which to base a comparison.[ ] how recent the inquiry into this subject is may be learned from the fact that krieg von hochfelden, writing in , denied the existence of mottes in germany;[ ] and even cohausen in threw doubt upon them,[ ] although general köhler in had already declared that "the researches of recent years have shown that the motte was spread over the whole of germany, and was in use even in the th and th centuries."[ ] the greater number of the castles described by piper in his work on austrian castles are on the motte-and-bailey plan, though the motte in those mountainous provinces is generally of natural rock, isolated either by nature or art. mottes were not uncommon in italy, according to muratori,[ ] and are especially frequent in calabria, where we may strongly suspect that they were introduced by the norman conqueror, robert guiscard.[ ] it is not improbable that the franks of the first crusade planted in palestine the type of castle to which they were accustomed at home, for several of the excellent plans in rey's _architecture des croisés_ show clearly enough the motte-and-bailey plan.[ ] in most of these cases the motte was a natural rock. on the other hand, we are told by köhler that motte-castles are not found among the slavonic nations, because they never adopted the feudal system.[ ] nor are there any in norway or sweden.[ ] denmark has some, which are attributed by dr sophus müller to the mediæval period.[ ] of course whenever a motte was thrown up, the first castle upon it must have been a wooden one. a stone keep could not be placed on loose soil.[ ] the motte, therefore, must always represent the oldest castle. but there is no reason to think that the motte and its wooden keep were merely temporary expedients, intended always to be replaced as soon as possible by stone buildings. even after stone castles had been fully developed, wood continued to hold its ground as a solid building material until a very late period.[ ] and mottes were used not only throughout the th and th centuries, but even as late as the th. king john built many castles of this type in ireland; and as late as henry iii. ordered a motte and wooden castle to be built in the island of rhé.[ ] muratori gives a much later instance: in can grande caused a great motte to be built near pavia, and surrounded with a ditch and hedge, in order to build a castle on it.[ ] and as will be seen in the next chapter, there is considerable evidence that many mottes in england which were set up in the reign of william i., retained their wooden towers or stockades even till as late as the reign of edward i. the motte at drogheda held out some time against cromwell, and is spoken of by him as a very strong place, having a good graft (ditch) and strongly palisaded.[ ] tickhill castle in yorkshire had a palisade on the counterscarp of the ditch when it was taken by cromwell.[ ] the position of these motte-castles is wholly different from that of prehistoric fortresses. they are almost invariably placed in the arable country, and as a rule not in isolated situations, but in the immediate neighbourhood of towns or villages. it is rare indeed to find a motte-castle in a wild, mountainous situation in england. the only instance which occurs to the writer is that of the motte on the top of the hereford beacon; but there is great probability that this was a post fortified by the bishop of hereford in the th century to protect his game from the earl of gloucester. nothing pointing to a prehistoric origin was found in this motte when it was excavated by mr hilton price,[ ] though the camp in which it is placed is supposed to be prehistoric. the great majority of mottes in england are planted either on or near roman or other ancient roads, or on navigable rivers.[ ] it was essential to the norman settlers that they should be near some road which would help them to visit their other estates, which william had been so careful to scatter, and would also enable them to revisit from time to time their estates in normandy.[ ] the rivers of england were much fuller of water in mediæval times than they are now, and were much more extensively used for traffic; they were real waterways. when we find a motte perched on a river which is not navigable, the purpose probably was to defend some ford, or to exact tolls from passengers. thus the ferry hill (corrupted into fairy hill) at whitwood stands at the spot where the direct road from pontefract to leeds would cross the calder. it was probably not usual for the motte to be dependent on a stream or a spring for its supply of water, and this is another point in which the mediæval castle differs markedly from the prehistoric camp; wells have been found in a number of mottes which have been excavated, and it is probable that this was the general plan, though we have not sufficient statistics on this subject as yet.[ ] occasionally, but very rarely, we find two mottes in the same castle. the only instances in england known to the writer are at lewes and lincoln.[ ] it is not unfrequent to find a motte very near a stone castle. in this case it is either the abandoned site of the original wooden castle, or it is a siege castle raised to blockade the other one. we constantly hear of these siege castles being built in the middle ages; their purpose was not for actual attack, but to watch the besieged fort and prevent supplies from being carried in.[ ] hillocks were also thrown up for the purpose of placing _balistæ_ and other siege engines upon them; but these would be much smaller than mottes, and would be placed much nearer the walls than blockade castles. the mottes of france are in all probability much more decidedly military than those of england. france was a land of private war, after the dissolution of the empire of charlemagne; and no doubt one of the reasons for the rapid spread of the motte-castle, after its invention, was due to the facilities which it offered for this terrible game. in england the reasons for the erection of mottes seem to have been manorial rather than military; that is, the norman landholder desired a safe residence for himself amidst a hostile peasantry, rather than a strong military position which could hold out against skilful and well-armed foes. attached to the castle, both in england and abroad, we frequently find an additional enclosure, much larger than the comparatively small area of the bailey proper. this was the _burgus_ or borough, which inevitably sprang up round every castle which had a lengthened existence. our older antiquaries, finding that the word _burgenses_ was commonly used in domesday in connection with a site where a castle existed, formed the mistaken idea that a _burgus_ necessarily implied a castle. but a _burgus_ was the same thing as a _burh_, that is, a _borough_ or fortified town. it may have existed long before the castle, or it may have been created after the castle was built. the latter case was very common, for the noble who built a castle would find it to his advantage to build a _burgus_ near it.[ ] in exchange for the protection offered by the borough wall or bank, he could demand _gablum_ or rent from the burghers; he could compel them to grind their corn at his mill, and bake their bread at his oven; he could exact tolls on all commodities entering the borough; and if there was a market he would receive a certain percentage on all sales. the borough was therefore an important source of revenue to the baron. domesday book mentions the _new borough_ at rhuddlan, evidently built as soon as the castle had been planted on the deserted banks of the clwydd. in some cases a "new borough" is clearly a new suburb, doubtless having its own fortifications, built specially for the protection of the norman settlers in england, as at norwich and nottingham.[ ] that even in the th century a motte was considered an essential feature of a castle is shown by neckham's treatise "de utensilibus," where he gives directions as to how a castle should be built; the motte should be placed on a site well defended by nature; it should have a stockade of squared logs round the top; the keep on the motte should be furnished with turrets and battlements, and crates of stones for missiles should be always provided, as well as a perpetual spring of water, and secret passages and posterns, by which help might reach the besieged.[ ] what the outward appearance of these motte-castles was we learn from the bayeux tapestry, which gives us several instructive pictures of motte-castles existing in the th century at dol, rennes, dinan, and bayeux.[ ] there is considerable variety in these pictures, and something no doubt must be ascribed to fancy; but all show the main features of a stockade round the top of the motte, enclosing a wooden tower, a ditch round the foot of the motte, with a bank on the counterscarp, and a stepped wooden bridge, up which horses were evidently trained to climb, leading across the moat to the stockade of the motte. in no case is the bailey distinctly depicted, but we may assume that it has been already taken, and that the horsemen are riding over it to the gate-house which (in the picture of dinan) stands at the foot of the bridge. the towers appear to be square, but in the case of rennes and bayeux, are surmounted by a cupola roof. decoration does not appear to be have been neglected, and the general appearance of the buildings, far from being of a makeshift character, must have been very picturesque. the picture of the building of the motte at hastings shows only a stockade on top of the motte; this may be because the artist intended to represent the work as incomplete. what is remarkable about this picture is that the motte appears to be formed in layers of different materials. we might ascribe this to the fancy of the embroiderer, were it not that layers of this kind have occasionally been found in mottes which have been excavated or destroyed. thus the motte at carisbrook, which was opened in , was found to be composed of alternate layers of large and small chalk rubble. in some cases, layers of stones have been found; in others (as at york and burton) a motte formed of loose material has been cased in a sort of pie-crust of heavy clay. in the castle hill at hallaton in leicestershire layers of peat and hazel branches, as well as of clay and stone boulders, were found. but our information on this subject is too scanty to justify any generalisations as to the general construction of mottes. the pictures shown in the bayeux tapestry agree very well with the description given by a th-century writer of the castle of merchem, near dixmüde, in the life of john, bishop of terouenne, who died in . "bishop john used to stay frequently at merchem when he was going round his diocese. near the churchyard was an exceedingly high fortification, which might be called a castle or _municipium_, built according to the fashion of that country by the lord of the manor many years before. for it is the custom of the nobles of that region, who spend their time for the most part in private war, in order to defend themselves from their enemies to make a hill of earth, as high as they can, and encircle it with a ditch as broad and deep as possible. they surround the upper edge of this hill with a very strong wall of hewn logs, placing towers on the circuit, according to their means. inside this wall they plant their house, or keep (arcem), which overlooks the whole thing. the entrance to this fortress is only by a bridge, which rises from the counterscarp of the ditch, supported on double or even triple columns, till it reaches the upper edge of the motte (agger)."[ ] the chronicler goes on to relate how this wooden bridge broke down under the crowd of people who were following the bishop, and all fell feet into the ditch, where the water was up to their knees. there is no mention of a bailey in this account, but a bailey was so absolutely necessary to a residential castle, in order to find room for the stables, lodgings, barns, smithies and other workshops, which were necessary dependencies of a feudal household, that it can seldom have been omitted, and the comparatively rare instances which we find of mottes which appear never to have had baileys were probably outposts dependent on some more important castle. lambert of ardres, the panegyrist of the counts of guisnes,[ ] writing about , gives us a minute and most interesting description of the wooden castle of ardres, built about the year . "arnold, lord of ardres, built on the motte of ardres a wooden house, excelling all the houses of flanders of that period both in material and in carpenter's work. the first storey was on the surface of the ground, where were cellars and granaries, and great boxes, tuns, casks, and other domestic utensils. in the storey above were the dwelling and common living rooms of the residents, in which were the larders, the rooms of the bakers and butlers, and the great chamber in which the lord and his wife slept. adjoining this was a private room, the dormitory of the waiting maids and children. in the inner part of the great chamber was a certain private room, where at early dawn or in the evening or during sickness or at time of blood-letting, or for warming the maids and weaned children, they used to have a fire.... in the upper storey of the house were garret rooms, in which on the one side the sons (when they wished it) on the other side the daughters (because they were obliged) of the lord of the house used to sleep. in this storey also the watchmen and the servants appointed to keep the house took their sleep at some time or other. high up on the east side of the house, in a convenient place, was the chapel, which was made like unto the tabernacle of solomon in its ceiling and painting. there were stairs and passages from storey to storey, from the house into the kitchen, from room to room, and again from the house into the _loggia_ (logium), where they used to sit in conversation for recreation, and again from the loggia into the oratory."[ ] this description proves that these wooden castles were no mere rude sheds for temporary occupation, but that they were carefully built dwellings designed for permanent residence. the description is useful for the light it throws on the stone keeps whose ruins remain to us. they probably had very similar arrangements, and though only their outside walls are now existing, they must have been divided into different rooms by wooden partitions which have now perished.[ ] in this account of lambert's it is further mentioned that the kitchen was joined to the house or keep, and was a building of two floors, the lower one being occupied by live stock, while the upper one was the actual kitchen. we must remember that this account was written at the end of the th century. in the earlier and simpler manners of the th century it is probable that the cooking was more generally carried on in the open air, as it was among the anglo-saxons.[ ] the danger of fire would prevent the development of chimneys in wooden castles; we have seen that there was only one in this wonderful castle of ardres. but even after stone castles became common, we have evidence that the kitchen was often an isolated building in the courtyard. one such kitchen still exists in the monastic ruins of glastonbury. the word _mota_, which was used in the th century for the artificial hills on which the wooden keeps of these castles were placed, comes from an old french word _motte_, meaning a clod of earth, which is still used in france for a small earthen hillock.[ ] the keep itself appears to have been called a _bretasche_, though this word seems to have meant a wooden tower of any kind, and was used both for mural towers and for the movable wooden towers employed for sieges.[ ] at a much later period it was given to the wooden balconies by which walls were defended, but the writer has found no instance of this use of the word before the th century. on the contrary, these wooden galleries for the purpose of defending the foot of the walls by throwing missiles down are called _hurdicia_ or hourdes in the documents, a word of cognate origin to our word _hoarding_.[ ] the word _bretasche_ is also of teutonic origin, akin to the german _brett_, a board. the court at the base of the hillock is always called the _ballium_, _bayle_, or _bailey_, a word for which skeat suggests the latin _baculus_, a stick, as a possible though very doubtful ancestor. the wooden wall which surrounded this court was the _palum_, _pelum_, or _palitium_ of the documents, a word which mr neilson has proved to be the origin of the _peels_ so common in lowland scotland, though it has been mistakenly applied to the towers enclosed by these peels.[ ] the _palitium_ was the stockade on the inner bank of the ditch which enclosed the bailey; but the outer or counterscarp bank had also its special defence, called the _hericio_, from its bristling nature (french _hérisson_, a hedgehog). there can be little doubt that it was sometimes an actual hedge of brambles, at other times of stakes intertwined with osiers or thorns.[ ] thus the words most commonly used in connection with these wooden castles are chiefly french in form, but a french that is tinctured with teutonic blood. this is just what we might expect, since the first castles of feudalism arose on gallic soil (france or flanders), but on soil which was ruled by men of teutonic descent. we may regard it as fairly certain that it was in the region anciently known as neustria that the motte-castle first appeared; and as we have previously shown, there is some reason to think that the centre of that region was the place where it originated. but this must for the present remain doubtful. what we regard as certain is that it was from france, and from normandy in particular, that it was introduced into the british isles; and to those islands we must now turn. chapter vii the castles of the normans in england in this chapter we propose to give a list, in alphabetical order for convenience of reference, of the castles which are known to have existed in england in the th century, because they are mentioned either in domesday book, or in charters of the period, or in some contemporary chronicle.[ ] we do not for a moment suppose that this catalogue of eighty-four castles is a complete list of those which were built in england in the reigns of william i. and william ii. we have little doubt that all the castles in the county towns, such as leicester, northampton, and guildford, and those which we hear of first as the seats of important nobles in the reign of henry ii., such as marlborough, groby, bungay, ongar, were castles built shortly after the conquest, nearly all of them being places which have (or had) mottes. domesday book only mentions fifty castles in england and wales,[ ] but it is well known that the survey is as capricious in its mention of castles as in its mention of churches. it is possible that further research in charters which the writer has been unable to examine may furnish additional castles, but the list now given may be regarded as complete as far as materials generally accessible will allow.[ ] one of the castles mentioned (richard's castle) and probably two others (hereford and ewias) existed before the conquest; they were the work of those norman friends of edward the confessor whom he endowed with lands in england. out of this list of eighty-four castles we shall find that no less than seventy-one have or had mottes. the exceptions are the tower of london, colchester, pevensey, and chepstow, where a stone keep was part of the original design, and a motte was therefore unnecessary: bamborough, peak, and tynemouth, where the site was sufficiently defended by precipices: carlisle and richmond, whose original design is unknown to us: belvoir, dover, exeter, and monmouth, which might on many grounds be counted as motte-castles, but as the evidence is not conclusive, we do not mark them as such; but even if we leave them out, with the other exceptions, we shall find that nearly per cent. of our list of castles of the th century are of the motte-and-bailey type. about forty-three of these castles are attached to towns. of these, less than a third are placed inside the roman walls or the saxon or danish earthworks of the towns, while at least two-thirds are wholly or partly outside these enclosures.[ ] this circumstance is important, because the position outside the town indicates the mistrust of an invader, not the confidence of a native prince. in the only two cases where we know anything of the position of the residence of the saxon kings we find it in the middle of the city.[ ] even when the castle is inside the town walls it is almost invariably close to the walls, so that an escape into the country might always be possible.[ ] of the towns or manors in which these castles were situated, domesday book gives us the value in king edward's and king william's time in sixty-two instances. in forty-five cases the value has risen; in twelve it has fallen; in five it is stationary. evidently something has caused a great increase of prosperity in these cases, and it can hardly be anything else than the impetus given to trade through the security afforded by a norman castle. our list shows that mr clark's confident statement, that the moated mounds were the centres of large and important estates in saxon times, was a dream. out of forty-one mottes in country districts, thirty-six are found in places which were quite insignificant in king edward's day, and only five can be said to occupy the centres of important saxon manors.[ ] in the table in the appendix, the area occupied by the original baileys of the castles in this list has been measured accurately by a planimeter, from the -in. ordnance maps, in all cases in which that was possible.[ ] this table proves that the early norman castles were very small in area, suitable only for the personal defence of a chieftain who had only a small force at his disposal, and absolutely unsuited for a people in the tribal state of development, like the ancient britons, or for the scheme of national defence inaugurated by alfred and edward. we may remark here that in not a single case is any masonry which is certainly early norman to be found on one of these mottes; where the date can be ascertained, the stonework is invariably later than the th century. abergavenny (fig. ).--this castle, being in monmouthshire, must be included in our list. the earliest notice of it is a document stating that hamelin de ballon gave the church and chapel of the castle of abergavenny, and the land for making a _bourg_, and an oven of their own, to the abbey of st vincent at le mans.[ ] the castle occupies a pointed spur at the s. end of the town, whose walls converge so as to include the castle as part of the defence. the motte has been much altered during recent years, and is crowned by a modern building; but a plan in _coxe's tour in monmouthshire_, , shows it in its original round form. the bailey is roughly of a pentagonal shape, covering acre, and is defended by a curtain wall with mural towers and a gatehouse. the ditch on the w. and n. is much filled in and obscured by the encroachment of the town. on the e. the ground descends in a steep scarp, which merges into those of the headland on which the motte is placed.[ ] [illustration: fig. . arundel, sussex. abergavenny, monmouth.] arundel (fig. ).--"the castrum of arundel," says domesday book, "paid _s._ in king edward's time from a certain mill, and _s._ from three boardlands (or feorm-lands), and _s._ from one pasture. now, between the town feorm and the water-gate and the ships' dues, it pays _l._"[ ] _castrum_ in domesday nearly always means a castle; yet the description here given is certainly that of a town and not of a castle. we must therefore regard it as an instance of the fluctuating meaning which both _castrum_ and _castellum_ had in the th century.[ ] arundel is one of the towns mentioned in the "burghal hidage."[ ] but even accepting that the description in domesday refers to the town, we can have very little doubt that the original earthen castle was reared by roger de montgomeri, to whom william i. gave the rapes of arundel and chichester, and whom he afterwards made earl of shrewsbury.[ ] roger had contributed sixty ships to william's fleet, and both he and his sons were highly favoured and trusted by william, until the sons forfeited that confidence. we shall see afterwards that their names are connected with several important castles of the early norman settlement. we shall see also that the rapes into which sussex was divided--chichester, arundel, bramber, lewes, pevensey, and hastings--were all furnished with norman castles, each with the characteristic motte, except pevensey, which had a stone keep. each of these castles, at the time of the survey, defended a port by which direct access could be had to normandy. it was to protect his base that william fortified these important estuaries, and committed them to the keeping of some of the most prominent of the norman leaders. the castle stands on the end of a high and narrow ridge of the south downs, above the town of arundel. it consists of an oblong ward, covering - / acres, in the middle of which, but on the line of the west wall, is a large motte, about feet high, surrounded by its own ditch. the lower and perhaps original bailey is only acres in extent. round the top of the motte is a slightly oval wall, of the kind called by mr clark a shell keep. we have elsewhere expressed our doubts of the correctness of this term.[ ] in all the more important castles we find that the keep on top of the motte has a small ward attached to it, and arundel is no exception to this rule; it has the remains of a tower, as well as the wall round the motte. the tower is a small one, but it is large enough for the king's chamber in times which were not extravagant in domestic architecture. it is probable that this tower, and the stone wall round the motte are the work of henry ii., as he spent nearly _l._ on this castle between the years and . his work consisted chiefly of a wall, a king's chamber, a chapel, and a tower.[ ] the wall of the motte corresponds in style to the work of the middle of his reign; it is built of flints, but cased with caen stone brought from normandy, and has norman buttresses. the original norman doorway on the south side (now walled up) has the chevron moulding, which shows that it is not earlier than the th century. the tower, which we may assume to be the tower of henry ii.'s records, has a round arched entrance, and contains a chapel and a chamber (now ruined) besides a well chamber. there is earlier norman work still remaining in the bailey, namely, the fine gateway, which though of plain and severe norman, is larger and loftier than the early work of that style, and of superior masonry.[ ] the one pipe roll of henry i. which we possess shows that he spent _l._ _s._ _d._ on the castle in , and possibly this refers to this gatehouse.[ ] we know that henry was a great builder, but so was the former owner of this castle, robert belesme, son of roger de montgomeri. the value of the town of arundel had greatly increased since the conquest, at the time of the domesday survey.[ ] bamborough, northumberland.--we first hear of this castle in the reign of rufus, when it was defended against the king by robert mowbray, the rebel earl of northumberland; but there can be little doubt that the earliest castle on this natural bastion was built in the conqueror's reign. in the th century certain lands were held by the tenure of supplying wood to the castle of bamborough, and it was declared that this obligation had existed ever since the time of william i.[ ] william certainly found no castle there, for bamborough had fallen into utter ruin and desolation by the middle of the th century.[ ] william's hold on northumberland was too precarious to give opportunity for so long and costly a work as the building of a stone keep. it is more probable that a strong wooden castle was the fortress of the governors of northumberland under the first norman kings, and that the present stone keep was built in henry ii.'s reign.[ ] there is no motte at bamborough, nor was one needed on a site which is itself a natural motte, more precipitous and defensible than any artificial hill.[ ] as the domesday survey does not extend to northumberland, we have no statement of the value of bamborough. the area of the castle is - / acres. barnstaple, devon (fig. ).--this castle is not mentioned in domesday, but the town belonged to judhael, one of the followers of the conqueror, whose name suggests a breton origin. william gave him large estates in devon and cornwall. a charter of judhael's to the priory which he founded at barnstaple makes mention of the castle.[ ] barnstaple, at the head of the estuary of the taw, was a borough at domesday, and the castle was placed inside the town walls.[ ] the motte remains in good condition; the winding walks which now lead to the top are certainly no part of the original plan, but are generally found in cases where the motte has been incorporated in a garden. there was formerly a stone keep, of which no vestige remains.[ ] the castle seems to have formed the apex of a town of roughly triangular shape. the bailey can just be traced, and must have covered - / acres. the former value of barnstaple is not given in the survey, so we cannot tell whether it had risen or not. [illustration: fig. . barnstaple, devon. bishop's stortford, herts. berkhampstead, herts.] belvoir, leicester.--this castle was founded by the norman robert de todeni, who died in .[ ] it stands on a natural hill, so steep and isolated that it might be called a natural motte. the first castle was destroyed by king john, and the modernising of the site has entirely destroyed any earthworks which may have existed on the hill. there appears to have been a shell wall, from the descriptions given by nicholls and leland.[ ] it was situated in the manor of bottesdene, a manor of no great importance, but which had risen in value at the date of the survey.[ ] berkeley, or ness.--the identity of berkeley castle with the ness castle of domesday may be regarded as certain. all that the survey says about it is: "in ness there are five hides belonging to berkeley, which earl william put out to make a little castle."[ ] earl william is william fitzosbern, the trusty friend and counsellor of the conqueror, who had made him earl of herefordshire. he had also authority over the north and west of england during william's first absence in normandy, and part of the commission he received from william was to build castles where they were needed.[ ] berkeley was a royal manor with a large number of berewicks, and the probable meaning of the passage in domesday is that earl william removed the _geldability_ of the five hides occupying the peninsula or _ness_ which stretches from berkeley to the severn, bounded on the south by the little avon, and appropriated these lands to the upkeep of a small castle. this castle can hardly have been placed anywhere but at berkeley, for there is no trace of any other castle in the district.[ ] earl godwin had sometimes resided at berkeley, but probably his residence there was the monastery which by evil means had come into his hands;[ ] for we never hear of any castle in connection with godwin. but a norman motte exists at berkeley, though buried in the stone shell built by henry ii. mr clark remarks: "if the masonry of berkeley castle were removed, its remains would show a mound of earth, and attached to three sides of it a platform, the whole encircled with a ditch or scarp."[ ] the motte raised by earl william has, in fact, been revetted with a stone shell of the th century, whose bold chevron ornament over the entrance gives evidence of its epoch. what is still more remarkable is that documentary evidence exists to fix the date of this transformation. a charter of henry ii. is preserved at berkeley castle, in which he grants the manor to robert fitzhardinge, pledging himself at the same time to fortify a castle there, according to robert's wish.[ ] robert's wish probably was to possess a stone keep, like those which had been rising in so many places during the th century. but there had been a norman lord at berkeley before fitzhardinge, roger de berkeley, whose representatives only lost the manor through having taken sides with stephen in the civil war.[ ] this roger no doubt occupied the wooden castle on the motte built by william fitzosbern. henry ii.'s shell was probably the first masonry connected with the castle. this remarkable keep is nearly circular, and has three round turrets and one oblong. as the latter, thorpe's tower, was rebuilt in edward iii.'s reign, it probably took the place of a round tower. the keep is built of rubble, and its norman buttresses (it has several later ones) project about a foot. the cross loopholes in the walls are undoubtedly insertions of the time of edward iii. the buildings in the bailey are chiefly of the time of edward iii., but the bailey walls have some norman buttresses, and are probably of the same date as the keep.[ ] this bailey is nearly square, and the motte, which is in one corner, encroaches upon about a quarter of it. the small size of the area which it encloses, not much more than half an acre, corresponds to the statement of domesday book that it was "a little castle." there is no trace of the usual ditch surrounding the motte, and the smallness of the bailey makes it unlikely that there ever was one. a second bailey has been added to the first,[ ] and the whole is surrounded on three sides by a moat, the fourth side having formerly had a steep descent into swamps, which formed sufficient protection.[ ] there is no statement in the survey of the value of ness, but the whole manor of berkeley had risen since the conquest.[ ] berkhampstead, herts (fig. ).--mr d. h. montgomerie rightly calls this a magnificent example of an earthwork fortress.[ ] it is first mentioned in a charter of richard i., which recapitulates the original charter of william, son of robert, count of mortain, in which he gives the chapel of this castle to the abbey of grestein in normandy.[ ] we may, therefore, with all probability look upon this as one of the castles built by the conqueror's half-brother. and this will account for the exceptional strength of the work, which comprises a motte feet high, ditched round (formerly), and a bailey of - / acres, surrounded not only with the usual ditch and banks, but with a second ditch outside the counterscarp bank, which encircles both motte and bailey. at two important points in its line, this counterscarp bank is enlarged into mounds which have evidently once carried wooden towers;[ ] if this arrangement belonged to the original plan, as it most probably did, it confirms a remark which we have made elsewhere as to the early use of wooden mural towers. works in masonry were added to the motte and the bailey banks in the th, th, and th centuries. there are traces of a semicircular earthwork outside the second ditch on the west, which appears to have formed a barbican. but the most exceptional thing about this castle is the series of earthen platforms on the north and east, connected by a bank, and closely investing the external ditch, which were formerly supposed to form part of the castle works. mr w. st john hope has suggested the far more plausible theory that they were the siege platforms erected by louis, the dauphin of france, in . we are told that his engines kept up a most destructive fire of stones.[ ] the value of the manor of berkhampstead had considerably decreased, even since the count of mortain received it.[ ] bishop's stortford, herts (fig. ).--waytemore castle is the name given to the large oval motte at this place, which is evidently the site of the castle of "estorteford," given by william the conqueror to maurice, bishop of london.[ ] the manor of stortford had been bought from king william by maurice's predecessor, william, who had been one of the norman favourites of edward the confessor.[ ] he may have built this castle, but he cannot have built it till after the conquest, as the land did not belong to his see till then. "the castle consists of a large oval motte, × feet at its base, rising feet above the marshes of the river stort, and crowned by a keep with walls of flint rubble, feet thick. on the s. of the motte there are traces of a pentagonal bailey, covering - / acres. it is enclosed on four sides by the narrow streams which intersect the marshes. the dry ditch on the fifth side, facing the motte, is discernible. the castle abuts on the road called the causeway, which crosses the valley; it is in a good position to command both road and river."[ ] the value of the manor had gone down at domesday.[ ] bourn, lincolnshire (fig. ).--the manor of bourn or brune appears to have been much split up amongst various owners at the time of domesday. a breton named oger held the demesne.[ ] a charter of picot, the sheriff of cambridgeshire, a person often mentioned in domesday book, gives the church of brune and the chapel of the castle to the priory which he had founded near the castle of cambridge--afterwards removed to barnwell.[ ] bourn was the centre of a large soke in anglo-saxon times. leland mentions the "grete diches, and the dungeon hill of the ancient castel,"[ ] but very little of the remains is now visible, and the motte has been almost removed. "the castle lies in flat ground, well watered by springs and streams. the motte was placed at the southern apex of a roughly oval bailey, from which it was separated by its own wet ditch, access being obtained through a gatehouse which stood on the narrow neck by which this innermost enclosure, at its n.w. end, joined the principal bailey, which, in its turn, was embraced on all sides but the s. by a second and concentric bailey, also defended by a wet ditch, which broadens out at the s.w. corner into st peter's pool. there is another enclosure beyond this which may be of later date. the inner bailey covers acres. very little is now left of the motte, but a plan made in showed it to be fairly perfect,[ ] and some slight remains of the gatehouse were excavated in that year. the castle is on the line of the roman road from peterborough to sleaford, and close to the roman car-dyke."[ ] the value of bourn had risen at domesday. [illustration: fig. . bourn, lincs. bramber, sussex.] bramber, sussex (fig. ).--of the manor of washington, in which bramber is situated, the survey says that it formerly paid geld for fifty-nine hides; and in one of these hides sits the castle of bramber.[ ] it must not be imagined that the castle _occupied_ a whole hide, which according to the latest computations would average about acres. it is evident that there had been some special arrangement between the king and william de braose, the norman tenant-in-chief, by which the whole geld of the manor had been remitted. the domesday scribe waxes almost pathetic over the loss to the fisc of this valuable prey. "it used to be ad firmam for _l._," he says. the manor of washington belonged to gurth, the brother of harold, before the conquest, but it is clear that bramber was not the _caput_ of the manor in saxon times; nor was washington the centre of a large soke. bramber castle was constructed to defend the estuary of the river, now known as the adur, one of the waterways to normandy already alluded to. the castle occupies a natural hill which forms on the top a pear-shaped area of acres. towards the middle rises an artificial motte about feet high; there is no sign of a special ditch around it, except that the ground sinks slightly at its base. the bailey is surrounded by a very neatly built wall of pebbles and flints, laid herring-bone-wise in places, which does not stand on an earthen bank. the absence of this bank makes it likely, though of course not certain, that this wall was the original work of de braose; the stones of which it is composed would be almost as easily obtained as the earth for a bank. on the line of the wall, just east of the entrance, stands a tall fragment of an early norman tower. the workmanship of this tower, which is also of flints laid herring-bone-wise, with quoins of ashlar, so strongly resembles that of the neighbouring church that it seems obvious that both were built at about the same time.[ ] the church is dedicated to st nicholas, who was worshipped in normandy as early as ;[ ] it was probably the normans who introduced his worship into england. both church and tower are undoubtedly early norman. the motte shows no sign of masonry. the value of the manor of washington had slightly risen since the conquest. bristol.--robert, earl of gloucester, the empress matilda's half-brother and great champion, is always credited with the building of bristol castle; but this is one of the many instances in which the man who first rebuilds a castle in stone receives the credit of being the original founder.[ ] for it is certain that there was a castle at bristol long before the days of earl robert, as the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ mentions it in , when it was held by geoffrey, bishop of coutances, and robert curthose against william ii.; and symeon of durham, in the same year, speaks of it as a "castrum fortissimum." bishop geoffrey held bristol at the date of the domesday survey, and he probably built the castle by william's orders.[ ] it was completely destroyed in (only a few th century arches in a private house now remain), and no trustworthy plan has been preserved, but there is clear evidence that it was a motte-and-bailey castle of the usual norman type.[ ] in stephen's reign it was described as standing on a very great _agger_.[ ] an _agger_ does not necessarily mean a motte, but it is often used for one, and there is other evidence which shows that this is its meaning here. a perambulation of the bounds of bristol in shows that the south-western part of the castle ditch, which enclosed the site of the keep, was called _le mot-dich_; which should certainly be translated the ditch of the motte, and not, as seyer translates it, the moat ditch.[ ] finally, the description of the castle in by major wood, says: "the castle stood upon a lofty steep mount, that was not minable, as lieutenant clifton informed me, for he said the mount whereon the castle stood was of an earthy substance for a certain depth, but below that a firm strong rock, and that he had searched purposely with an auger and found it so in all parts."[ ] he goes on to describe the wall of the bailey as resting on an earthen rampart, testifying to the wooden stockade of the first castle. the great tower of earl robert appears to have been placed on the motte, which must have been of considerable size, as it held not only the keep, but a courtyard, a chapel, and the constable's house, besides several towers on its walls. the whole area of the castle was very nearly acres.[ ] bristol castle was no doubt originally a royal castle, though earl robert of gloucester held it in right of his wife, who had inherited it from her father, robert fitz hamon; but the crown did not abdicate its claim upon it, and after the troubles of , henry ii. caused the son of earl robert to surrender the keep into his hands.[ ] seyer very pertinently remarks that bristol castle "was erected with a design hostile to the town; for it occupies the peninsula between two rivers, along which was the direct and original communication between the town and the main part of gloucestershire."[ ] it was outside the city, and was not under its jurisdiction till james i. granted this authority by charter.[ ] the value t. r. e. is not given in domesday book. buckingham.--the only mention of this castle as existing in the th century is in the _gesta herewardi_,[ ] an undated work which is certainly in great part a romance, but as it is written by some one who evidently had local knowledge, we may probably trust him for the existence of buckingham castle at that date; especially as buckingham was a county town, and one of the boroughs of the burghal hidage, the very place which we should expect to find occupied by a norman castle. this writer speaks of the castle as belonging to ivo de taillebois; this is not inconsistent with the fact shown by domesday book, that the borough belonged to the king. that it was a motte-and-bailey castle is indicated by speed's map of buckingham in ; he speaks of the "high hill," though he only indicates it slightly in his plan, with a shield-shaped bailey. brayley states that the present church is "proudly exalted on the summit of an artificial mount, anciently occupied by a castle."[ ] the castle hill occupies a strong position on the neck of land made by a bend of the river; it extends nearly half-way across it, and commands both town and river. the original earthworks of the castle were destroyed and levelled for the erection of a church in , but the large oval hill remains, having a flat summit about acres in extent, and about feet above the town below. its sides descend in steep scarps behind the houses on all sides but the north-east. there can be no doubt that the motte has been lowered, and thus enlarged, in order to build the church. the foundations of a stone castle were found in digging a cellar on the slope of the motte.[ ] the value of buckingham had considerably risen at the date of domesday.[ ] caerleon, monmouthshire (fig. ).--domesday book speaks of the _castellaria_ of caerleon.[ ] a _castellaria_ appears to have meant a district in which the land was held by the service of castle-guard in a neighbouring castle. the survey goes on to say that this land was waste in the time of king edward, and when william de scohies, the domesday tenant, received it; _now_ it is worth s. _wasta_, mr round has remarked, is one of the pitfalls of the survey. perhaps we shall not be far wrong if we say that in a general way it means that there was nobody there to pay geld. when this occurs in a town it may point to the devastations committed at the conquest; but when it occurs in the country, and when it is accompanied by so clear a statement that the land which was _wasta_ in king edward's time and at the conquest is now producing revenue, the inference would seem to be clear that the castle of caerleon was built on uninhabited land. caerleon, however, had been a great city in roman times, and had kept up its importance at least till the days of edgar, when it is twice mentioned in welsh history.[ ] it must therefore have gone downhill very rapidly. giraldus mentions among the ruins of roman greatness which were to be seen in his day, a gigantic tower, and this is commonly supposed to have belonged to the castle.[ ] it certainly did not, for giraldus is clearly speaking of a roman tower, and the motte of the norman castle not only has no signs of masonry, but has been thrown up over the ruins of a roman villa which had been burnt.[ ] the motte and other remains of the castle are outside the roman _castrum_, between it and the river. the bailey is roughly pentagonal, and covers - / acres. the manor of caerleon was waste t. r. e. and had risen to s. t. r. w.[ ] [illustration: fig. . caerleon, monmouth. carisbrooke.] cambridge.--ordericus tells us that william built this castle on his return from his first visit to yorkshire in ,[ ] and domesday book states that twenty-seven houses were destroyed to make room for the castle.[ ] there can hardly be a clearer statement that the castle was entirely new. we have already seen that there is some probability that cambridge was first fortified by the danes; for though it has been assumed to be a roman castrum, no roman remains have ever been found there, and the names which suggest roman occupation, chesterton and grantchester, are at some distance from cambridge. the castle, according to mr st john hope's plan,[ ] was placed inside this enclosure, and the destruction of the houses to make room for it is thus explained. the motte and a portion of the bank of the bailey are all that now remain of the castle, but the valuable ancient maps republished by mr hope show that the motte had its own ditch, and that the bailey was rectangular. there was formerly a round tower on the motte, which, if it had the cross-loop-holes and machicolations represented in the print published in , was certainly not of norman date. the area of the bailey was - / acres.[ ] the castle was a royal one, and like many royal castles, went early to ruin. henry iv. gave the materials of the hall to the master and wardens of king's hall for building their chapel. the value of cambridge t. r. w. is not given in domesday book. canterbury.--domesday book only mentions this castle incidentally in connection with an exchange of land: "the archbishop has seven houses and the abbot of st augustine fourteen for the exchange of the castle."[ ] it has been too hastily assumed that it was a pre-conquest castle which was thus exchanged for twenty-one houses; but anyone who knows the kind of relations which existed chronically between the archbishop of canterbury and the abbot of st augustine's will perceive that it was an impossibility that these two potentates should have held a castle in common. it was the land for the castle, not the castle itself, which the king got from these ecclesiastics. this is rendered clear by a passage in the chartulary of st augustine's, which tells us that the king, who was mesne lord of the city of canterbury, had lost the rent of thirty-two houses through the exchange of the castle: seven having gone to the archbishop, fourteen to the abbot, and eleven having been destroyed in making the ditch of the castle.[ ] there can scarcely be any doubt that the hillock now known by the ridiculous name of dane john is the motte of this original castle of the conqueror. its proper name, the dungeon hill, which it bore till the th and even the th century,[ ] shows what its origin was; it was the hill on which stood the dungeon or donjon of a norman castle.[ ] the name dane john is not so much a corruption as a deliberate perversion introduced by the antiquary somner about , under the idea that the danes threw up the hill--an idea for which there is not the slightest historical evidence.[ ] we have seen that there is no reason to think that the danes ever constructed fortifications of this kind, and their connection with this earthwork is due to one of those guesses, too common in english archæology, which have no scientific basis whatever. somner makes the important statement that this earthwork was originally outside the city walls. his words are:-- "i am persuaded (and so may easily, i think, anyone be that well observes the place) that the works both within and without the present wall of the city were not counterworks one against the other, as the vulgar opinion goes, but were sometimes all one entire plot containing about acres of ground, of a triangular form (the outwork) with a mount or hill entrenched round within it; and that when first made or cast up it lay wholly without the city wall; and hath been (the hill or mount, and most part also of the outwork), for the city's more security, taken in and walled since; that side of the trench encompassing the mound now lying without and under the wall fitly meeting with the rest of the city ditch, after either side of the earthwork was cut through to make way for it, at the time of the city's inditching."[ ] it is not often we are so fortunate as to have so clear a description of an earthwork which has almost entirely disappeared; but the description is confirmed by stukeley and hasted, and down to the making of the chatham and dover railway in the earthworks of the part of the bailey which was left outside the city wall were still to be seen, and were noticed by mr g. t. clark.[ ] it is clear that somner's description corresponds exactly, even in the detail of size, to the type of a motte-and-bailey castle. there are certain facts, which have not been put together before, which enable us to make a very probable guess as to the date at which this ancient castle was cut through by the newer city bank. the walls of canterbury have never yet received so careful an examination as those of rochester have had from the rev. greville livett;[ ] but the researches of mr pilbrow about thirty years ago showed that the original roman walls included a very small area, which would leave both the motte and the plantagenet castle outside.[ ] certain entries in the _close rolls_ show that the fortification of the town of canterbury was going on in the years - .[ ] but it is too often forgotten that where a wall stands on an earthen bank it is a clear proof that before the wall was built there was a wooden stockade in its place. now the portion of the city wall which encloses the dane john stands on an earthen bank; so, indeed, does the whole wall from the northgate to the castle. it is clear that this piece of bank cannot have been made till the first norman castle, represented by the earthwork, was abandoned; and fortunately we have some evidence which suggests a date for the change. in the _pipe rolls_ of henry ii.'s reign there are yearly entries, beginning in , of s. paid to adeliza fitzsimon "for the exchange of her land which is in the castle of canterbury." there can be little doubt that this land was purchased to build the great plantagenet castle whose splendid keep was once one of the finest in england.[ ] the portion of the castle wall which can still be seen does not stand on an earthen bank, an indication (though not a proof) that the castle was on a new site. henry ii. was a great builder of stone keeps, but he seldom placed them on artificial mottes. it is no uncommon thing to find an old motte-and-bailey castle abandoned for a better or larger site close at hand.[ ] the bailey of the second castle, according to hasted, extended almost to the dane john, which is about feet from the present keep. the part of the older castle which lay outside the new city bank was possessed by a family of the name of chiche from the time of henry ii. to that of edward iv., while the dungeon hill itself remained royal property.[ ] that the new bank was henry ii.'s work we may conjecture from the passages in the _pipe rolls_, which show that between the years and he spent about £ in enclosing the city of canterbury and making a gate. we are therefore not without grounds for concluding that henry ii. was the first to enlarge the city by taking in the dane john, cutting through the ancient bailey, and at the same time enclosing a piece of land for a new stone castle.[ ] the very small sum paid for the city gate ( s., equal to about £ of our money) suggests that the gate put up by henry ii. was a wooden gateway in the new stockaded bank. the stone walls and towers which were afterwards placed on the bank are of much later date than his reign.[ ] the dungeon hill appears to have been used for the last time as a fortification in , when ordnance was placed upon it, and it was ordered to be guarded by the householders.[ ] in it was converted into a pleasure-ground for the city; the wide and deep ditch which had surrounded it was filled up, and serpentine walks cut to lead up to the summit. brayley says that "the ancient and venerable character of this eminence was wholly destroyed by incongruous additions." still, enough remains to show that it was once a very fine motte, such as we might expect the conqueror to raise to hold in check one of the most important cities of his new realm. the value of canterbury had increased from _l._ to _l._ since the days of king edward.[ ] carisbrooke, isle of wight (fig. ).--there can be no doubt that this is the castle spoken of in domesday book under the manor of alwinestone. carisbrooke is in the immediate neighbourhood of alvington. the language in which the survey speaks of this manor is worthy of note. "the king holds alwinestone: donnus held it. it then paid geld as two and a half hides: now as two hides, because the castle sits in one virgate."[ ] certain entries similar to this in other places seem to indicate that there was some remission of geld granted on the building of a castle;[ ] but as here the king was himself the owner, the remission must have been granted to his tenants. the original castle of carisbrooke consists of a high motte, ditched round, placed at the corner of a parallelogram with rounded corners. this bailey, covering - / acres, is surrounded by high banks, which testify to the former presence of a wooden stockade. there is another bailey on the eastern side, called the tilt-yard. the excellent little local guide-book compiled by mr stone calls this a british camp, but there is no reason to believe that it was anything else than what it appears to be--a second bailey added as the castle grew in importance. on the motte is a shell of polygonal form, of rubble masonry, but having quoins of well-dressed ashlar. it is believed to be of the time of henry i., since the author of the _gesta stephani_ states that baldwin de redvers, son of richard de redvers, to whom henry granted the lordship of the isle of wight, had a castle there splendidly built of stone, defended by a strong fortification.[ ] this would indicate that, besides the stone keep, stone walls were added to the earthworks of the domesday castle. the keep is of peculiar interest, as it still retains the remains of the old arrangements in keeps of this style, though of much later date. the motte was opened in , and was found to be composed of alternate layers of large and small chalk rubble.[ ] little attention has hitherto been paid to the construction of these norman mottes, but other instances have been noted which show that they were often built with great care. the whole castle, including the tilt-yard, was surrounded with an elaborate polygonal fortification in elizabeth's reign, when the spanish invasion was expected. the value of the manor of alvington had increased at the time of the survey, though the number of ploughs employed had actually decreased. this increase must have been owing to the erection of the castle, which provided security for trade and agriculture. alvington was not the centre of a large soke in the confessor's time, so it is unlikely that there was any fortification there in saxon days.[ ] carlisle, cumberland (fig. ).--this castle was built by william rufus in , when for the first time cumberland was brought under norman sway. the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ says, "he repaired the _burh_, and reared the castle," a passage which is sufficient of itself to show that _burh_ and castle were two quite different things. carlisle of course was a roman fortress, and needed only the repairing of its walls. the castle was a new thing, and was placed outside the city. its plan, which is roughly a triangle, with the apex formed into a small court by a ditch which (formerly) separated it from the bailey, looks very suggestive of a previous motte and bailey, such as we might expect the norman king to have thrown up. the keep is known to have been built by david, king of scotland, in stephen's reign,[ ] and it is possible that he may have removed the motte. the castle appears to have had a wooden _pelum_ or _palicium_ on its outer banks as late as .[ ] the whole area covers acres. castle acre, norfolk (fig. ).--there can be no doubt that this castle existed in the th century, as william de warenne mentions it in the charter of foundation of lewes priory, one of the most interesting and human of monastic charters.[ ] the earthworks still remaining of this castle are perhaps the finest castle earthworks in england; the banks enclosing the bailey are vast. the large and high motte carries a wall of flint rubble, built outside and thus revetting the earthen bank which formed its first defence. in the small court thus enclosed (about feet in diameter) the foundations of an oblong keep can be discerned. a very wide ditch surrounds the motte, and below it is a horse-shoe bailey, about acres in extent, stretching down to the former swamps of the river nar. on the east side of the motte is a small half-moon annexe, with its own ditch; this curious addition is to be found in several other motte castles,[ ] and is believed to have been a work intended to defend the approach, of the nature of a barbican. on the west side of the motte is the village of castle acre, enclosed in an oblong earthwork with an area of acres. this work now goes by the name of the barbican, but probably this name has been extended to it from a barbican covering the castle entrance (of which entrance the ruins still remain). it is most likely that this enclosure was a _burgus_ attached to the castle. mr harrod, who excavated the banks, found quantities of roman pottery, which led him to think that the work was roman; but as the pottery was all broken, it is more likely that the banks were thrown up on the site of some roman villa.[ ] this earthwork has a northern entrance in masonry, evidently of th century date; and as the scanty masonry remaining of the castle is similar in character, it is probably all of the same date. the area covered by the motte and the two original baileys is - / acres; that of the whole series of earthworks, acres. acre was only a small manor in saxon times; its value at the time of the survey had risen from _l._ to _l._[ ] [illustration: fig. . carlisle. castle acre, norfolk.] chepstow (estrighoel or strigul), monmouthshire.--notwithstanding the fact that there is another castle of the name of strigul about miles from chepstow (known also as troggy castle), it is clear that chepstow is the castle meant by domesday, as the entry speaks of ships going up the river, a thing impossible at strigul.[ ] the castle occupies a narrow ridge, well defended by the river on one side, and on the other by a valley which separates it from the town. there are four wards, and the last and smallest of all seemed to the writer, when visiting the castle, to mark the site of a lowered motte. this opinion, however, is not shared by two competent observers, mr harold sands and mr duncan montgomerie, who had much ampler opportunities for studying the remains. this ward is now a barbican, and the masonry upon it belongs clearly to the th century; it occupies the highest ground in the castle, and is separated from the other wards, and from the ridge beyond it, by two ditches cut across the headland. the adjoining court must have belonged to the earliest part of the castle, as it contains a very remarkable early norman building (splendidly restored in the th century) which is regarded by most authorities as the original hall of william fitzosbern. it must, however, have combined both hall and keep, otherwise the castle was not provided with any citadel, if there was no motte.[ ] what is now the second ward has a norman postern in the south wall, and may have been the bailey to the keep. all the other masonry is of the late early english or the perpendicular period, and the entrance ward is probably an addition of the th century. the shape of all the baileys is roughly quadrangular, except that of the fourth, which would be semicircular but for the towers which make corners to it. the whole area of the castle is - / acres. we are not told what the value of the manor was before william fitzosbern built his castle there, but from the absence of this mention we may infer that the site was waste. it paid _s._ in his time from ships' dues, _l._ in his son earl roger's time, and at the date of the survey it paid the king _l._[ ] chepstow was not the centre of a large soke, and it appears to have owed all its importance to the creation of william fitzosbern's castle. chester.--the statement of ordericus, that william i. founded this castle on his return from his third visit to york, is sufficiently clear.[ ] the very valuable paper of mr e. w. cox on chester castle[ ] answers most of the questions which pertain to our present inquiry. the original castle of chester consisted of the motte, which still remains, though much built over, and the small ward on the edge of which it stands, a polygonal enclosure scarcely an acre in extent. on the motte the vaulted basement of a tower still remains, but the style is so obscured by whitewash and modern accretions that it is impossible to say whether the vaulting is not modern. the first buildings were certainly of wood, but mr cox regarded some of the existing masonry on the motte as belonging to the th century; and this would correspond with the entry in the _pipe rolls_ of _l._ _s._ _d._ spent on the castle by henry ii. in .[ ] the tower, nicknamed cæsar's tower, and frequently mistaken for the keep, is shown in mr cox's paper to be only a mural tower of the th century, probably built when the first ward was surrounded with walls and towers in masonry.[ ] the large outer bailey was first added in the reign of henry iii.[ ] it is further proved by mr cox that chester castle stood outside the walls of the roman city. the manor of gloverstone lay between it and the city, and was not under the jurisdiction of the city until quite recent times.[ ] this disposes of the ball set rolling by brompton at the end of the th century, and sent on by most chester topographers ever since, that ethelfleda, when she restored the roman walls of chester, enlarged their circuit so as to take in the castle. we have already referred to this in chapter iii. chester, as we have seen, was originally a royal castle. and though it was naturally committed to the keeping of the norman earls of chester, and under weak kings may have been regarded by the earls as their own property, no such claim was allowed under a strong ruler. after the insurrection of the younger henry, hugh, earl of chester, forfeited his lands; henry ii. restored them to him in , but was careful to keep the castle in his own hands.[ ] the city of chester, domesday book tells us, had greatly gone down in value when the earl received it, probably in ; twenty-five houses had been destroyed. but it had already recovered its prosperity at the date of the survey; there were as many houses as before, and the ferm of the city was now let by the earl at a sum greatly exceeding the ferm paid in king edward's time.[ ] this prosperity must have been due to the security provided for the trade of chester by the norman castle and norman rule. [illustration: fig. . clifford, hereford. clitheroe, lancs. corfe, dorset.] clifford, herefordshire (fig. ).--it is clearly stated by domesday book that william fitzosbern built this castle on waste land.[ ] at the date of the survey it was held by ralph de todeni, who had sub-let it to the sheriff. in the many castles attributed to william fitzosbern, who built them as the king's vicegerent, we may see an indication that the building of castles, even on the marches of wales, was not undertaken without royal license. in the reign of henry i. clifford castle had already passed into the hands of richard fitz pons, the ancestor of the celebrated house of clifford, and one of the _barons_ of bernard de neufmarché, the norman conqueror of brecon.[ ] the castle has a large motte, roughly square in shape, which must be in part artificial.[ ] attached to it on the south-west is a curious triangular ward, included in the ditch which surrounds the motte. the masonry on the motte is entirely of the "edwardian" style, when keepless castles were built; it consists of the remains of a hall, and a mural tower which is too small to be called a keep. there is also a small court, with a wall which stands on a low bank. below the motte is an irregular bailey of about - / acres, with earthen banks which do not appear to have ever carried any masonry, though in the middle of the court there is a small mound which evidently covers the remains of buildings. the whole area of the castle, including the motte and the two baileys, is about - / acres. the value of the manor had apparently risen from nothing to _l._ _s._ clifford was not the centre of a large soke. clitheroe, lancashire (fig. ).--there is no express mention of this castle in domesday book, but of two places in yorkshire, barnoldswick and calton, it is said that they are in the _castellate_ of roger the poitevin.[ ] a castellate implies a castle, and as there is no other castle in the craven district (to which the words of the survey relate) except skipton, which did not form part of roger's property, there is no reason to doubt that this castle was clitheroe, which for centuries was the centre of the honour of that name. the whole land between the ribble and the mersey had been given by william i. to this roger, the third son of his trusted supporter, earl roger of shrewsbury. one can understand why william gave important frontier posts to the energetic and unscrupulous young men of the house of montgomeri, one of whom was the adviser and architect of william rufus, another a notable warrior in north wales, another the conqueror of pembrokeshire. as it appears from the survey that roger's possessions stretched far beyond the ribble into yorkshire and cumberland, it seems quite possible--though here we are in the region of conjecture--that just as his father and brothers had a free hand to conquer as they listed from the north and south welsh, so roger had a similar commission for the hilly districts still unconquered in the north-west of england. but fortune did not favour the montgomeri family for long. they were exiled from england in for siding with robert curthose, and in the same year we find the castle of clitheroe in the hands of robert de lacy, lord of the great yorkshire fief of pontefract.[ ] the castle of clitheroe stands on a lofty motte of natural rock.[ ] there are no earthworks on the summit, but a stout wall of limestone rubble without buttresses encloses a small court, on whose south-west side stands the keep. it is just possible that the outer wall may be the original work of roger, as limestone rubble would be easier to get than earth on this rocky hill. the keep is small, rudely built of rubble, and has neither fireplace nor garde-robe, nor the slightest ornamental detail--not even a string course. but in spite of the entire absence of ornament, a decorative effect has been sought and obtained by making the quoins, voussoirs, and lintels of a dressed yellow sandstone. the care with which this has been done is inconsistent with the haste with which roger must inevitably have constructed his first fortification, if we suppose, as is probable, that he received the first grant of his northern lands on william's return in from his third visit to the north, when he made that remarkable march through lancashire to chester which is described by ordericus. it seems more likely that even if the outer wall or shell were the work of roger, he had only wooden buildings inside its circuit. dugdale attributes the building of the keep to the second robert de lacy, between and , and it is probable that this date is correct.[ ] the bailey of clitheroe lay considerably below the keep, and is now overbuilt with a modern house, offices, and garden. it covers one acre. a roman road up the valley of the ribble passes near the foot of the rock.[ ] as the very name of clitheroe is not mentioned in domesday book, it clearly was not an important centre in saxon times. the value of blackburn hundred, in which clitheroe is situated, had fallen between the confessor's time and the time when roger received it. it is quite possible that he never lived at clitheroe, as he sub-infeoffed the manor and hundred of blackburn to roger de busli and albert greslet before .[ ] colchester, essex.--the remarkable keep of this castle has been the subject of antiquarian legend for many centuries, and mr clark has the merit of having proved its early norman origin, by its plan and architecture. a charter of henry i. is preserved in the cartulary of st john's abbey at colchester, which grants to eudes the dapifer "the city of colchester, and the tower and the castle, and all the fortifications of the castle, just as my father had them and my brother and myself."[ ] this proves that the keep and castle were in existence in the conqueror's time; the norman character of the architecture proves that the keep was not in existence earlier. we see, then, that the reason there is no motte at colchester is that there was a stone keep built when first the castle was founded. as far as we are aware, colchester, the tower of london, and the recently discovered keep of pevensey are the only certain instances of stone keeps of the th century in england. that one of the most important of the conqueror's castles, second only to the tower of london, and actually exceeding it in the area it covers, should be found in colchester, is not surprising, because the eastern counties at the time of the conquest were not only the wealthiest part of the kingdom (as domesday book clearly shows[ ]), but they also needed special protection from the attacks of scandinavian enemies. mr round has conjectured that the castle was built at the time of the invasion of st cnut, between and .[ ] the castle is built of roman stones used over again, with rows of tiles introduced between the courses with much decorative effect.[ ] the original doorway was on the first floor, as in most norman keeps; but at some after time, probably in the reign of henry i.,[ ] the present doorway was inserted; and most likely the handsome stairway which now leads up from this basement entrance was added, as it shows clear marks of insertion. henry ii. was working on the walls of the castle in , and it may be strongly suspected that the repairs in ashlar, and the casing of the buttresses with ashlar, were his work.[ ] one item in the accounts of henry ii. is £ "for making the bailey round the castle."[ ] there were two baileys to the castle of colchester--the inner one, which scarcely covered acres, and the outer one, which contained about . the inner bailey was enclosed at first with an earthwork and stockade, the earthwork being thrown up over the remains of some roman walls, whose line it does not follow. afterwards a stone wall was built on the earthwork, the foundations of which can still be traced in the west rampart.[ ] the outer bailey, which lay to the north, extended on two sides to the roman walls of the town; on the west side it had a rampart and stockade. if the £ spent by henry ii. represents the cost of a stone wall round the inner bailey, then the _palicium_ blown down by the wind in must have been the wooden stockade on the west side of the outer bailey.[ ] the question is difficult to decide, but at any rate the entry proves that as late as henry iii.'s reign, some part of the outer defences of colchester castle was still of timber. the position of colchester castle is exceptional in one respect, that the castle is almost in the middle of the town. but this very unusual position is explained by mr round's statement that the land forming the castle baileys, as well as that afterwards given to the grey friars on the east, was crown demesne before the conquest, and consequently had been cultivated land, so that we do not hear of any houses in colchester being destroyed for the site of the castle.[ ] but by keeping this land as the inalienable appendage of the royal castle william secured that communication between the castle and the outside country which was so essential to the invaders. the value of the city of colchester had risen enormously at the date of the survey.[ ] corfe, dorset (fig. ).--mr eyton has shown that for the _castellum warham_ of domesday book we ought to read _corfe_, because the castle was built in the manor of kingston, four miles from wareham.[ ] and this is made clear by the _testa de nevill_, which says that the church of gillingham was given to the nunnery of shaftesbury in exchange for the land on which the castle of corfe is placed.[ ] because king edward the martyr was murdered at corfe, at some place where his stepmother elfrida was residing, it has been inferred that there was a saxon castle at corfe; and because there is a building with some herring-bone work among the present ruins, it has been assumed that this building is the remains of that castle or palace. but the _anglo-saxon chronicle_, the only contemporary authority for the event, says nothing of any castle at corfe, but simply tells us that edward was slain at corfe geat, a name which evidently alludes to a gap or passage through the chalk hills, such as there is at corfe.[ ] nor is there any mention of corfe as a fortress in anglo-saxon times; it is not named in the _burghal hidage_, and we do not hear of any sieges of it by the danes. nor is it likely that the saxons would have had a fortress at corfe, when they had a fortified town so near as wareham.[ ] kingston, the manor in which corfe is situated, was not an important place, as it had no dependent soke. the language of domesday absolutely upsets the idea of any saxon castle or palace at corfe, as it tells us that william obtained the land for his castle from the nuns of shaftesbury, and we may be quite sure they had no castle there.[ ] corfe castle stands on a natural hill, which has been so scarped artificially that the highest part now forms a large motte. three wards exist--the eastern or motte ward, the western, and the southern. the two former probably formed the original castle. on the motte (which possibly is not artificial, but formed by scarping) stands the lofty keep, of splendid workmanship, probably of the time of henry i. in the ward pertaining to it are buildings of the time of john and henry iii.[ ] the western ward has towers of the th century, but it also contains the interesting remains of an early norman building, probably a hall or chapel, built largely of herring-bone work; this is the building which has been so positively asserted to be a saxon palace. but herring-bone masonry, which used to be thought an infallible sign of saxon work, is now found to be more often norman.[ ] the building is certainly an ancient one, and may possibly have been contemporary with the first norman castle; its details are unmistakably norman. but very likely it was the only norman masonry of the th century at corfe castle.[ ] it is clear that the stone wall which at present surrounds the western bailey did not exist when the hall (or chapel) was built, as it blocks up its southern windows. probably there was a palisade at first on the edge of the scarp. palisades still formed part of the defences of the castle in the time of henry iii., when _l._ was paid "for making two good walls in place of the palisades at corfe between the old bailey of the said castle and the middle bailey towards the west, and between the keep of the said castle and the outer bailey towards the south."[ ] this shows that the present wing-walls down from the motte were previously represented by stockades. the ditch between the keep and the southern bailey has been attributed to king john, on the strength of an entry in the _close rolls_ which orders fifteen miners and stone-masons to work on the banks of the ditch in .[ ] but we may be quite certain that this ditch below the motte belonged to the original plan of the castle; john's work would be either to line it with masonry, or to enlarge it. it is not without significance for the early history of the castle that durandus the _carpenter_ held the manor of mouldham near corfe, by the service of finding a carpenter to work at the keep whenever required.[ ] the area of corfe castle, if we include the large southern bailey, is - / acres; without it, - / acres. this bailey was certainly in existence in the reign of henry iii. (as the extract from the _close rolls_ proves) before the towers of superb masonry were added to it by edward i. the value of kingston manor had considerably increased at the date of the survey. after the count of mortain forfeited his lands (in ), the castle of corfe was kept in the hands of the crown, and this increases the probability that the keep was built by henry i. about yards s.w. of corfe castle is an earthwork which might be called a "ring and bailey." instead of the usual motte there is a circular enclosure, defended by a bank and ditch of about the same height as those of its bailey, but having in addition an interior platform or berm. this work is probably the remains of a camp thrown up by stephen during his unsuccessful siege of corfe castle in . [illustration: fig. . dover. (from a plan in the british museum, .)] dover, kent (fig. ).--the norman historian, william of poitiers, tells us that the castrum of dover was built by harold at his own expense.[ ] this comes from the celebrated story of the oath of harold to william, a story of which mr freeman says that there is no portion of our history more entangled in the mazes of contradictory and often impossible statements.[ ] but let us assume the statement about the _castrum_ to be true; the question then to be answered is this: of what nature was that castrum? we never are told by english chroniclers that harold built any castles, though we do hear of his fortifying towns. the present writer would answer this question, tentatively indeed, and under correction, by the theory that the castrum constructed or repaired by harold was the present outer rampart of dover castle, which encloses an area of about acres, and may have enclosed more, if it was formerly complete on the side towards the sea.[ ] the evidence in support of this theory is as follows:-- . there certainly was a _burh_ on the top of the cliff at dover in saxon times, as the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ tells us that in eustace of boulogne, after coming to dover, and slaying householders there, went _up to the burh_, and slew people both within and without, but was repulsed by the burh-men.[ ] there was then a burh, and valiant burh-men on the cliff at dover in edward the confessor's reign. but the whole analogy of the word burh makes it certain that by the time of edward it meant a fortified town.[ ] . that the burh at dover was of the nature of a town, with houses in it, is confirmed by the poem of guy of amiens, who says that when king william entered the _castrum_, he ordered the english to evacuate their houses.[ ] william of poitiers also states that there was an innumerable multitude of people in the castle,[ ] though he may refer to a multitude gathered there for safety. . though the whole of the outer enceinte is generally credited to hubert de burgh in henry iii.'s reign, the truth probably is that he built the first stone walls and towers on the outer rampart; but the existence of this earthen rampart shows that there was a wooden wall upon it previously. it is not improbable that it was for the repair of this wooden wall that so much timber was sent to dover in the reigns of richard i. and john.[ ] dering, who was lieutenant of the castle in , records the tradition that the tower in the outer enceinte, called canons' gate, dates from saxon times (of course this could only be true of a wooden predecessor of the stone tower), and that godwin's tower, on the east side of the outer vallum, existed as a postern before the conquest.[ ] nearly all the towers on this wall were supported by certain manors held on the tenure of castle-guard, and eight of them still retain the names of eight knights to whom william is said to have given lands on this tenure. mr round has shown that the _warda constabularii_ of dover castle can be traced back to the conquest, and that it is a mere legend that it was given as a fief to a fienes. he remarks that the nine wards of the castle named in the red book of the exchequer are all reproduced in the names still attached to the towers. "this coincidence of testimony leads us to believe that the names must have been attached at a very early period; and looking at the history of the families named, it cannot have been later than that of henry ii."[ ] may it not have been even earlier? eight of these names are attached to towers on the outer circuit,[ ] and five of them are found as landholders in kent in domesday book. . william of poitiers further tells us that when the duke had taken the castle, he remained there eight days, _to add the fortifications which were wanting_.[ ] what was wanting to a norman eye in anglo-saxon fortifications, as far as we know them, was a citadel; and without laying too much stress on the chronicler's eight days, we may assume that the short time spent by william at dover was just enough for the construction of a motte and bailey, inside the _castrum_ of harold, but crowned by wooden buildings only. taking these things together, we venture to assume that the inner court in which the keep of dover stands, represents an original motte, or at any rate an original citadel, added to the castle by william i. whether what now remains of this motte is in part artificial, we do not pretend to say; it may be that it was formed simply by digging a deep ditch round the highest knoll of ground within the ancient ramparts.[ ] anyhow, it is still in effect a motte, and a large one, containing not only the magnificent keep, but a small ward as well. that this keep was the work of henry ii. there can be no manner of doubt; the _pipe rolls_ show that he spent more than £ on the _turris_ or keep of dover castle between the years and , and benedict of peterborough mentions the building of the keep at this date.[ ] the curtain around the motte may also be reckoned to be his work originally, as the _cingulum_ is spoken of along with the _turris_ in the accounts. modern alterations have left little of norman character in this curtain which shows at a glance, and the gateways (one of which remains) belong to a later period. attached to this keep ward is another ward, whose rampart is generally attributed to saxon times. we are not in a position positively to deny that the saxons had an inner earthwork on the highest part of the ground within their _burh_. but considering that small citadels are unusual in saxon earthworks: considering also that this bailey is attached to the motte in the usual manner of a norman bailey, and that its size corresponds to the usual size of an original norman bailey in an important place, it does not seem unreasonable to suppose that this was the original bailey attached to the conqueror's motte. its shape is singular, part of it being nearly square, while at the s.e. corner a large oval loop is thrown out, so as to enclose the roman pharos and the saxon church. the outline of the bailey certainly suggests that it was built after the pharos and the church, and was built with reference primarily to the keep or motte ward. the nature of the ground, and the necessity of enclosing the church and the roman tower within the immediate bailey of the castle, which would otherwise have been commanded by them, were the other factors which decided the unusual shape of the bailey. on this earthwork the foundations of a rubble wall were formerly to be traced,[ ] probably built by henry ii., as considerable sums for "the wall of the castle" are mentioned in his accounts.[ ] whether there are still any remains of this curtain we are unable to say, but so many of the features of the middle ward have been swept away by modern alterations, and the difficulty of examining what remains, owing to military restrictions, is so great, that little can be said about it, and we find that most authorities observe a judicious silence on the subject. but as the carriage of stone is expressly mentioned in henry ii.'s accounts, we may with great probability assign to him the transformation of the original wooden castle of william into a castle of stone; while the transformation of the anglo-saxon borough into a stone enceinte was the work of henry iii.'s reign. we think the evidence suggests that this _burh_ or outer rampart was in existence when the conqueror came to dover, crowned in all probability with a stockade and towers of wood. it may possibly have been a british or even a roman earthwork originally (though its outline does not suggest roman work); or it may have been built by harold as a city of refuge for the inhabitants of the port.[ ] the saxon church which it encloses, and which has long been attributed to the earliest days of saxon christianity, is now pronounced by the best authorities to be comparatively late in the style.[ ] the size of the inner castle of dover appears to be about acres, reckoning the keep ward at , and the bailey at about . the value of the town of dover had trebled at the time of the survey, in spite of the burning of the town at william's first advent.[ ] [illustration: fig. . dudley, staffs. dunster, somerset.] dudley, staffordshire (fig. ).--william fitz ansculf held dudley at the time of the survey, "and there is his castle."[ ] mr clark appears to accept the dubious tradition of a saxon dodda, who first built this castle in the th century, since he speaks of dudley as "a great english residence."[ ] this tradition, however, is not supported by domesday book, which shows dudley to have been only a small and unimportant manor before the conquest. the strong position of the hill was no doubt the reason why the norman placed his castle there. there is no norman masonry in the present ruins. the earliest work is that of the keep on the motte, a rectangular tower with round corner turrets, attributed by mr w. st john hope to about . the first castle was demolished by henry ii. in ,[ ] and an attempt to restore it in was stringently countermanded.[ ] the case of dudley is one of those which proves that henry ii. destroyed some lawful castles in as well as the unlawful ones. in a license to restore it was granted to roger de somery, in consideration of his devotion to the king's cause in the barons' war.[ ] the whole area of the castle, including the motte, but not including the works at the base of the hill on which it stands, is - / acres. the bailey is an irregular oval, following the hill top. dudley is an instance in which the value of the manor has gone down instead of up since the erection of the castle; this may perhaps be laid to the account of the devastation caused through the staffordshire insurrection of . dunster, somerset (fig. ).--called torre in domesday book. "there william de moion has his castle."[ ] the motte here appears to be a natural rock or _tor_, whose summit has been levelled and its sides scarped by art. about feet below the top is a (roughly) half-moon bailey, itself a shelf on the side of the hill; there is another and much smaller shelf at the opposite end.[ ] some foundations found in the s.w. corner of the upper ward appear to indicate a former stone keep.[ ] dunster was only a small manor of half a hide before the conquest, but afterwards its value tripled. there was a borough as well as a castle.[ ] the castle became the _caput baroniæ_ of the de moions, to whom the conqueror gave fifty-six manors in different parts of the county. there is not the slightest reason to suppose that the site was fortified before the conquest. mr clark remarks that "it is remarkable that no mouldings or fragments of norman ornament have been dug up in or about the site, although there is original norman work in the parish church." the simple explanation, probably, is that the first castle of de moion was of wood, although on a site where it would have been possible to build in stone from the first, as it does not appear that any part of the motte is artificial. the area of the bailey is - / acres. the value of dunster had risen at the date of domesday.[ ] [illustration: fig. . durham.] durham (fig. ).--the castle here was first built by the conqueror, on his return from his expedition against scotland in .[ ] it was intended as a strong residence for the bishop, through whom william hoped to govern this turbulent part of the country. he placed it on the neck of the lofty peninsula on which the cathedral stands. the motte of the conqueror still remains, and so does the chapel[ ] which he built in the bailey; probably the present court of the castle, though crowded now with buildings, represents the outline of the original bailey.[ ] the present shell keep on the motte was built by bishop hatfield in edward iii.'s reign,[ ] but has been extensively modernised. there can be little doubt that up to there were only wooden buildings on the motte, as the writer was informed by canon greenwell that no remains of older stone-work than the th century had been found there. it is so seldom that we get any contemporary description of a castle of this kind, that it seems worth while to translate the bombastic verse in which laurence, prior of durham, described that of durham in stephen's reign:[ ] "not far hence [from the north road into the city] a tumulus of rising earth explains the flatness of the excavated summit, explains the narrow field on the flattened vertex, which the apex of the castle occupies with very pleasing art. on this open space the castle is seated like a queen; from its threatening height, it holds all that it sees as its own. from its gate, the stubborn wall rises with the rising mound,[ ] and rising still further, makes towards the comfort (amæna) of the keep. but the keep, compacted together, rises again into thin air, strong within and without, well fitted for its work, for within the ground rises higher by three cubits than without--ground made sound by solid earth. above this, a stalwart house[ ] springs yet higher than the [shell] keep, glittering with splendid beauty in every part; _four posts are plain, on which it rests, one post at each strong corner_.[ ] each face is girded by a beautiful gallery, which is fixed into the warlike wall.[ ] a bridge, rising from the chapel [in the bailey] gives a ready ascent to the ramparts, easy to climb; starting from them, a broad way makes the round of the top of the wall, and this is the usual way to the top of the citadel.... the bridge is divided into easy steps, no headlong drop, but an easy slope from the top to the bottom. near the [head of the] bridge, a wall descends from the citadel, turning its face westward towards the river.[ ] from the river's lofty bank it turns away in a broad curve to meet the field [_i.e._, palace green]. it is no bare plot empty of buildings that this high wall surrounds with its sweep, but one containing goodly habitations.[ ] there you will find two vast palaces built with porches, the skill of whose builders the building well reveals. there, too, the chapel stands out beautifully raised on six pillars, not over vast, but fair enough to view. here chambers are joined to chambers, house to house, each suited to the purpose that it serves.... there is a building in the middle of the castle which has a deep well of abundant water.... the frowning gate faces the rainy south, a gate that is strong, high-reaching, easily held by the hand of a weakling or a woman. the bridge is let down for egress,[ ] and thus the way goes across the broad moat. it goes to the plain which is protected on all sides by a wall, where the youth often held their joyous games. thus the castellan, and the castle artfully placed on the high ridge, defend the northern side of the cathedral. and from this castle a strong wall goes down southwards, continued to the end of the church."[ ] the original bailey of this castle covers acre. ely, cambridgeshire (fig. ).--this castle was built by william i. in , when he was repressing the last struggle of the english under the heroic hereward. the monks of ely felt it a sore grievance that he placed the castle within their own bounds.[ ] both this castle and the one built by william at aldreth, to defend the passage into the isle of ely, had a continuous existence, as they were both refortified by nigel, bishop of ely in stephen's reign, and ely castle was besieged and taken by stephen.[ ] the earthworks of this castle still exist, to the south of the minster. there is a fine motte with an oval bailey, of which the banks and ditches are traceable in parts. the area of the bailey is - / acres. of aldreth or aldrey there appear to be no remains. the value of the manor of ely was £ in the confessor's reign; it fell to £ after the devastations of the conquest, but had risen again to £ at the time of the survey.[ ] [illustration: fig. . ely, cambs. ewias harold, hereford. eye, suffolk.] ewias, herefordshire (fig. ).--the brief notice of this castle in domesday book throws some light on the general theory of castle-building in england.[ ] william fitzosbern, as the king's vicegerent, rebuilt this march castle, and committed it to the keeping of another norman noble, and the king confirmed the arrangement. but in theory the castle would always be the king's. this is the only case in the survey where we hear of a castle being _rebuilt_ by the normans. we naturally look to one of king edward's norman favourites as the first founder, for they alone are said by history to have built castles on the welsh marches before the conquest. dr round conjectures that ewias was the "pentecost's castle" spoken of in the (peterborough) _anglo-saxon chronicle_ in .[ ] no masonry is now to be seen on the motte at ewias, but mr clark states that the outline of a circular or polygonal shell keep is shown by a trench out of which the foundations have been removed. the bailey is roughly of half-moon shape and the mound oval. the whole area of the castle, including the motte and banks, is - / acres. exeter.--this castle is not mentioned in domesday book, but ordericus tells us that william _chose_ a site for the castle within the walls, and left baldwin de molis, son of count gilbert, and other distinguished knights, to finish the work, and remain as a garrison.[ ] in spite of this clear indication that the castle was a new thing, it has been obstinately held that it only occupied the site of some former castle, roman or saxon.[ ] exeter, of course, was a roman castrum, and its walls had been restored by athelstan. in this case william placed his castle inside instead of outside the city walls, because, owing to the natural situation of exeter, he found in the north-west corner a site which commanded the whole city. although domesday book is silent about the castle, it tells us that forty-eight houses in exeter had been destroyed since william came to england,[ ] and freeman remarks that "we may assume that these houses were destroyed to make room for the castle, though it is not expressly said that they were."[ ] exeter castle stands on a natural knoll, occupying the north-west corner of the city, which has been converted into a sort of square motte by digging a great ditch round the two sides of its base towards the town.[ ] that this ditch is no pre-roman work is shown by the fact that it stops short at the roman wall, and begins again on the outside of it, where, however, the greater part has been levelled to form the promenade of the _northernhay_ or north rampart of the city. on top of this hill, banks feet high were thrown up, which still remain, and give to the courtyard which they enclose the appearance of a pit.[ ] on top of these banks there are now stone walls; but these were certainly no part of the work of baldwin de molis, who must have placed a wooden stockade on the banks which he constructed. one piece of stonework he probably did set up, the gatehouse, which by its triangle-headed windows and its long-and-short work is almost certainly of the th century. it has frequently been called saxon, but more careful critics now regard it as "work that must have been done, if not by norman hands, at norman bidding and on norman design."[ ] it was no uncommon thing at this early period to have gatehouses of stone to walls of earth and wood. of these gatehouses exeter is the most perfect and the most clearly stamped with antiquity. one thing we look for in vain at exeter, and that is a citadel. there is no keep, and there is no record that there ever was one, though a chapel, hall, and other houses are mentioned in ancient accounts. mr clark says that probably the normans regarded the whole court as a shell keep. it certainly was, in effect, a motte; but it was altogether exceptional among norman castles of importance if it had no bailey. and in fact a bailey is mentioned in the _pipe roll_ of richard i., where there is an entry for the cost of making a gaol in the bailey of the castle.[ ] now norden, who published a plan of exeter in , says that the prison which formerly existed at the bottom of castle lane (on the south or city front of the present castle) was "built upon castle grounde," and he states that the buildings and gardens which have been made on this ground are intrusions on the king's rights.[ ] the remarkably full account of the siege of exeter in the _gesta stephani_ speaks of an outer _promurale_ which was taken by stephen, as well as the inner bridge leading from the town to the castle, before the attack on the castle itself. unfortunately the word _promurale_ has the same uncertainty about it that attaches to so many mediæval terms, and the description given of it would apply either to the banks of a bailey, or to the _heriçon_ on the counterscarp of the ditch of the motte. we must, therefore, leave it to the reader's judgment whether the evidence given above is sufficient to establish the former existence of a bailey at exeter, and to place exeter among the castles of the motte-and-bailey type. the description of the castle given by the writer of the gesta has many points of interest.[ ] he describes the castle as standing on a very high mound (_editissimo aggere_) hedged in by an insurmountable wall, which was defended by "cæsarian" towers built with the very hardest mortar. this must refer to roman towers which may have existed on the roman part of the wall. whether there was a stone wall on the other two sides, facing the city, may be doubted, as the expenditure entered to henry ii. in the _pipe rolls_ suggests that he was the first to put stone walls on the banks, and the two ancient towers which still exist appear to be of his time.[ ] the chronicler goes on to say that after stephen had taken the _promurale_ and broken down the bridge, there were several days and nights of fighting before he could win the castle, which was eventually forced to surrender by the drying-up of the wells. the mining operations which he describes were no doubt undertaken with the view of shaking down the roman wall at the angle where it joins the artificial bank of baldwin de molis. possibly the chamber in the rock with the mysterious passages leading from it, which is still to be seen in the garden of miss owthwaite, at the point where the ditch ends, is the work of stephen's miners.[ ] the description of his soldiers scrambling up the _agger_ on their hands and knees (_quadrupede incessu_) will be well understood by those who have seen the castle bank as it still rises from that ditch. the present ward of exeter castle, which is rudely square in plan, covers an area of acres, which is as large as the whole area of many of the smaller norman castles. the castle was allowed to fall into decay as early as ,[ ] and since then it has been devastated by the building of a sessions house and a gaol. no plan has been preserved of the former buildings in this court, though the site of the chapel is known. there is no statement in domesday book as to the value of exeter. eye, suffolk (fig. ).--this castle was built by william malet, one of the companions of the conqueror, who is described as having been half norman and half english.[ ] eye, as its name implies, seems to have been an island in a marsh in norman times, and therefore a naturally defensible situation. the references in the _pipe rolls_ to the _palicium_ and the _bretasches_ of eye castle show that the outer defences of the castle at any rate were of wood in the days of henry ii.[ ] that there were works in masonry at some subsequent period is shown by a solitary vestige of a wing wall of flints which runs up the motte. a modern tower now occupies the summit. the bailey of the castle, the outline of which can still be traced, though the area is covered with buildings and gardens, was oval in shape, and covered acres. the value of the manor of eye had gone up since the conquest from £ to £ . this must have been due to the castle and to the market which robert malet or his son william established close to the castle; for the stock on the manor and the number of ploughs had actually decreased.[ ] a proof that there is no deliberate register of castles in domesday book is furnished by the very careful inventory of the manor of eye, where there is no mention of a castle, though it is noticed that there are now a park and a market; and it is only in the account of the lands of the bishop of thetford, in mentioning the injury which william malet's market at eye had done to the bishop's market at hoxne, that the castle of eye is named. gloucester.--"there were sixteen houses where the castle sits, but now they are gone, and fourteen have been destroyed in the _burgus_ of the city," says domesday book.[ ] gloucester was undoubtedly a roman _chester_, and roman pavements have been found there.[ ] the description in the survey would lead us to think that the castle was outside the ancient walls,[ ] though speed's map places it on the line of the wall of his time, which may have been a mediæval extension. the castle of gloucester is now entirely destroyed, but there is sufficient evidence to show that it was of the usual norman type. there was a motte, which was standing in , and which was then called the barbican hill;[ ] it appears to have been utilised as part of the works of the barbican. this motte must originally have supported a wooden keep, and henry i. must have been the builder of the stone keep which leland saw "in the middle of the area;"[ ] for in henry gave lands to gloucester abbey "in exchange for the site where now the keep of gloucester stands."[ ] the bailey had previously been enlarged by william rufus.[ ] possibly the _framea turris_ or framework tower spoken of in henry ii.'s reign may refer to the wooden keep which had been left standing on the motte.[ ] the walls of gloucester castle were frequently repaired by henry ii.,[ ] but the word _murus_ by no means implies always a stone wall, and it is certain that the castle was at that time surrounded by a wooden stockade, as a writ of a much later period ( ) says that the stockade which is around our castle of gloucester has been blown down and broken by the wind, and must be repaired.[ ] wooden bretasches on the walls are spoken of in the _pipe rolls_ of , and even as late as .[ ] the value of the city of gloucester had apparently risen at the time of the survey, though the entry being largely in kind, t. r. e., it is not easy to calculate. [illustration: fig. . hastings, sussex. huntingdon.] hastings, sussex (fig. ).--in this case we have positive contemporary evidence that the earthen mound of the castle was thrown up by the normans at the time of the conquest, for there is a picture in the bayeux tapestry which shows them doing it. a number of men with spades are at work raising a circular mound, on the top of which, with the usual all-inclusiveness of mediæval picturing, a stockade is already erected. a man with a pick seems to be working at the ditch. the inscription attached is: "he commands that a castle be dug at hestengaceastra."[ ] there is no need to comment on the significance of this drawing and its inscription for the history of early norman castles; what is extraordinary is that it should have been entirely overlooked for so long. in no case is our information more complete than about hastings. not only does domesday book mention the _castellaria_ of hastings,[ ] but the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ also tells us that william built a castle there, while the chronicle of battle abbey makes the evidence complete by telling us that "having taken possession of a suitable site, he built a _wooden castle_ there."[ ] this of course means the stockade on top of the motte, with the wooden tower or towers which would certainly be added to it. wace states that this wooden castle was brought over in pieces in the ships of the count of eu.[ ] the masonry now existing at the castle is probably none of it older than the reign of henry ii. at the earliest, and most of it is certainly much later.[ ] the _pipe rolls_ show that henry ii. spent £ on the castle of hastings between the years and , and it is indicated that some of this money was for stone, and some was for a keep (_turrim_).[ ] there is no tower large enough for a keep at hastings now, nor have any stone foundations been found on the motte, and mr harold sands, who has paid particular attention to this castle, concludes that henry ii.'s keep has been carried away by the sea, which has probably torn away at least acres from the area of the castle.[ ] the beautiful fragment of the chapel of st mary is probably of henry ii.'s reign; the walls and towers on the east side of the castle appear to be of the th century. the ditch does not run round the motte, but is cut through the peninsular rock on which the castle stands, the motte and its ward being thus isolated. the form of this bailey is now triangular, but it may have been square originally. beyond the ditch is another bailey, defended by earthen banks and by a second ditch cut through the peninsula.[ ] no exact estimate can be given of the original area of the castle, as so much of the cliff has been carried away by the sea. hastings itself had been a fortified town before the norman conquest, and is one of those mentioned in the _burghal hidage_. the name hæstingaceaster, given to it in the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ ( ), is a proof that the saxons used the name _chester_ for constructions of their own, as no roman remains have been found at hastings. but the norman castle is outside the town, on a cliff which overlooks it. as in the case of the other ports of sussex, the castle was committed to an important noble, in this case the count of eu. the manor of bexley, in which hastings castle stood, had been laid waste at the conquest; at the date of the survey it was again rising in value, though it had not reached the figure of king edward's days.[ ] hereford.--there can be little doubt that the castle of hereford was built by the norman ralph, earl of hereford, edward the confessor's nephew, about the year .[ ] it was burnt by the welsh in , after which harold fortified the town with a dyke and ditch; but as mr freeman remarks, it is not said that he restored the castle.[ ] the motte of earl ralph is now completely levelled, but it is mentioned several times in documents of the th century,[ ] and is described in a survey of , from which it appears that it had a stone keep tower, as well as a stone breastwork enclosing a small ward.[ ] it stood outside the n.w. corner of the bailey, surrounded by its own ditch; the site is still called castle hill. if the castle was not restored before the norman conquest it was certainly restored afterwards, as in we find the "men of the castle" fighting with edric child and the welsh. the castle appears to have had stone walls by the time of henry ii., as the mention of a kiln for their repair proves.[ ] but these walls had wooden towers.[ ] the timber ordered in "ad hordiandum castellum nostrum de hereford"[ ] refers to the wooden _alures_ or machicolations which were placed on the tops of walls for the purpose of defending the bases. though hereford was a private castle in the confessor's reign, it was claimed for the crown by archbishop hubert, the justiciary, in , and continued to be a royal castle throughout the th century.[ ] the bailey of hereford castle still exists, with its fine banks; it is kite-shaped and encloses - / acres. the castle stood within the city walls, in the south-east angle. the value of hereford appears to have greatly increased at the date of the survey.[ ] huntingdon (fig. ).--"there were twenty houses on the site of the castle, which are now gone."[ ] ordericus tells us that the castle of huntingdon was built by william on his return from his second visit to york in .[ ] huntingdon had been a walled town in anglo-saxon times, and was very likely first fortified by the danes, but was repaired by edward the elder. as in the case of so many other towns, the houses outside the walls had to pay geld along with those of the city, and it was some of the former which were displaced by the new norman castle. huntingdon was part of the patrimony of earl waltheof, and came to the norman, simon de senlis, through his marriage with waltheof's daughter and heiress. the line of senlis ended in another heiress, who married david, afterwards the famous king of scotland; david thus became earl of huntingdon. in the insurrection of the younger henry in , william the lion, grandson of david, took sides with the young king, and consequently his castle was besieged and taken by the forces of henry ii.,[ ] and the king ordered it to be destroyed. the _pipe rolls_ show that this order was carried out, as they contain a bill for "hooks for pulling down the stockade of huntingdon castle," and "for the work of the new castle at huntingdon, and for hiring carpenters, and crooks, and axes."[ ] we learn from these entries that the original castle of the conquest had just been replaced by a new one, very likely a new fortification of the old mounds by william, in anticipation of the insurrection. we also learn that the new castle was a wooden one; for a castle which has to be pulled down by carpenters with hooks and axes is certainly not of stone. it does not appear that the castle was ever restored, though "the chapel of the castle" is spoken of as late as the reign of henry iii.[ ] the motte of huntingdon still exists, and has not the slightest sign of masonry. the bailey is roughly square, with the usual rounded corners; the motte was inside this enclosure, but had its own ditch. the whole area was - / acres, but another bailey was subsequently added. the value of huntingdon appears to have been stationary at the time of the survey, the loss of the twenty houses causing a diminution of revenue which must have been made up from the new feudal dues of the castle. launceston, or dunheved,[ ] cornwall (fig. ).--there, says domesday book, is the castle of the earl of mortain.[ ] in another place it tells us that the earl gave two manors to the bishop of exeter "for the exchange of the castle of cornwall," another name for dunheved castle. we have already had occasion to note that the "exchange of the castle," in domesday language, is an abbreviation for the exchange of the site of the castle. the fact that the land was obtained from the church is a proof that the castle was new, for it was not the custom of saxon prelates thus to fortify themselves. the motte of launceston is a knoll of natural rock, which has been scarped and heightened by art. this motte now carries a circular keep, which cannot be earlier than the th century.[ ] there is no early norman work whatever about the masonry of the castle, and the remarkably elaborate fortifications on the motte belong to a much later period.[ ] the motte rises in one corner of a roughly rectangular bailey, which covers acres. it stands outside the town walls, which still exist, and join those of the castle, as at totnes. launceston was only a small manor of ten ploughs in the time of the confessor. in spite of the building of the castle, the value of the manor had greatly gone down in william's time.[ ] the ten ploughs had been reduced to five. [illustration: fig. . launceston, cornwall. lewes, sussex.] lewes, sussex (fig. ).--the castle of lewes is not mentioned in its proper place in sussex by domesday book, and this is another proof that the survey contains no inventory of castles; for that the castle was existing at that date is rendered certain by the numerous allusions in the norfolk portion to "the exchange of the castle of lewes."[ ] it is clear that at some period, possibly during the revolt of robert curthose in , william i. gave large estates in norfolk to his trusty servant, william de warenne, in exchange for the important castle of lewes, which he may have preferred to keep in his own hands at that critical period. this bargain cannot have held long, at least as regards the castle, which continued to belong to the warenne family for many generations. we cannot even guess now how the matter was settled, but the lands in norfolk certainly remained in the hands of the warennes. lewes is one of the very few castles in england which have two mottes.[ ] they were placed at each end of an oval bailey, each surrounded by its own ditch, and each projecting about three-fourths beyond the line of the bailey. on the northern motte only the foundations of a wall round the top remain; on the other, part of the wall which enclosed a small ward, and two mural towers. these towers have signs of the early perpendicular period, and are very likely of the reign of edward iii., when the castle passed into the hands of the fitz alans. the bailey, which enclosed an area of about acres, is now covered with houses and gardens, but parts of the curtain wall on the s.e. and e. stand on banks, bearing witness to the original wooden fortifications. the great interest of this bailey is its ancient norman gateway. the entrance was regarded by mediæval architects as the weakest part of the fortress, and we frequently find that it was the first part to receive stone defences.[ ] it is not surprising that at such an important place as lewes, which was then a port leading to normandy, and at the castle of so powerful a noble, we should find an early case of stone architecture supplementing the wooden defences. but the two artificial mottes have no masonry that can be called early norman. lewes is one of the boroughs mentioned in the _burghal hidage_, and was a _burgus_ at the time of the survey.[ ] the value of the town had increased by £ , s. from what it had been in king edward's time. [illustration: fig. . lincoln.] lincoln (fig. ).--domesday book tells us that houses were destroyed to furnish the site of the castle.[ ] the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ says that william built a castle here on his return from his first visit to york in , and ordericus makes the same statement.[ ] lincoln, like exeter, was a roman _castrum_, and the norman castle in both cases was placed in one corner of the castrum; but the old roman wall of lincoln, which stands on the natural ground, was not considered to be a sufficient defence on the two exterior sides, probably on account of its ruinous condition. it was therefore buried in a very high and steep bank, which was carried all round the new castle.[ ] this circumstance seems to point to the haste with which the castle was built, lincoln being then for the first time subdued. the fact that it was inside the probably closely packed roman walls explains why so many houses were destroyed for the castle.[ ] lincoln, like lewes, has two mottes: both are of about the same height, but the one in the middle of the southern line of defence is the larger and more important; it was originally surrounded with its own ditch. it is now crowned with a polygonal shell wall, which may have been built by the mother of ralph gernon, earl of chester, in the reign of henry i.[ ] the tower on the other motte, at the south-east corner, has been largely rebuilt in the th century and added to in modern times, but its lower storey still retains work of norman character. there is good reason to suppose that this bailey was first walled with stone in richard i.'s reign, as there is an entry in the _pipe rolls_ of - "for the cost of fortifying the bailey, £ , s. d."[ ] the present wall contains a good deal of herring-bone work, and this circumstance led mr clark, who was looking for something which he _could_ put down to william i.'s time, to believe that the walls were of that date. but the herring-bone work is all in patches, as though for repairs, and herring-bone work was used for repairs at all epochs of mediæval building. the two gateways (that is the norman portions of them) are probably of about the same date as the castle wall. the whole area is - / acres. the total revenue which the city of lincoln paid to the king and the earl had gone up from _l._ t. r. e. to _l._ t. r. w. for the sake of those who imagine that saxon halls had anything to do with mottes, it is worth noting that the hall which was the residence of the chief landholder in lincoln before the conquest was still in existence after the building of the castle, but evidently had no connection with it.[ ] [illustration: fig. . monmouth. montacute, somerset. morpeth, northumberland.] monmouth (fig. ).--domesday book says that the king has four ploughs in demesne in the castle of monmouth.[ ] dr round regards this as one of the cases where _castellum_ is to be interpreted as a town and not as a castle. however this may be, the existence of a norman castle at monmouth is rendered certain by a passage in the _book of llandaff_, in which it is said that this castle was built by william fitzosbern, and a short history of it is given, which brings it up to the days of william fitz baderun.[ ] speed speaks of this castle as "standing mounted round in compasse, and within her walls another mount, whereon a towre of great height and strength is built."[ ] this sounds like the description of a motte and bailey; but the motte cannot be traced now. it is possible that it may have been swept away to build the present barracks; the whole castle is now on a flat-topped hill. the area is - / acres.[ ] the value of the manor before the conquest is not given. montacute, somerset (fig. ).--this is another instance of a site for a castle obtained by exchange from the church. count robert of mortain gave the manor of candel to the priory of athelney in exchange for the manor of bishopstowe, "and there is his castle, which is called montagud."[ ] the english name for the village at the foot of the hill was ludgarsburh, which does not point to any fortification on the hill itself, the spot where the wonder-working crucifix of waltham was found in saxon times. robert of mortain's son william gave the castle of montacute, with its chapel, orchard, and other appurtenances, to a priory of cluniac monks which he founded close to it. the gift may have had something compulsory in it, for william of mortain was banished by henry i. in as a partisan of robert curthose. thus, as leland says, "the notable castle partly fell to ruin, and partly was taken down to make the priory, so that many years since no building of it remained; only a chapel was set upon the very top of the dungeon, and that yet standeth there."[ ] there is still a high oval motte, having a ditch between its base and the bailey; the latter is semilunar in shape. the hill has been much terraced on the eastern side, but this may have been the work of the monks, for purposes of cultivation.[ ] there is no masonry except a quite modern tower. according to mr clark, the motte is of natural rock. the french name of the castle was of course imported from normandy, and we generally find that an english castle with a norman-french name of this kind has a motte.[ ] bishopstowe, in which the castle was placed, was not a large manor in saxon times. its value t. r. e. is not given in the survey, but we are told that it is worth _l._ to the earl, and _l._ _s._ to the knights who hold under him. morpeth, northumberland (fig. ).--there is only one mention known to us of morpeth castle in the th century, and that is in the poem of geoffrey gaimar.[ ] he says that william rufus, when marching to bamborough, to repress the rebellion of mowbray, earl of northumberland, "took the strong castle of morpeth, which was seated on a little mount," and belonged to william de morlei. thus there can be no doubt that the ha' hill, about yards to the n. of the present castle, was the motte of the first castle of morpeth, though the remains of the motte, which are mentioned by hodgson, have been destroyed.[ ] a natural ridge has been used to form a castle by cutting off its higher end to form a motte, and making a court on the lower part of the ridge. the great steepness of the slopes rendered ordinary ditches unnecessary, nor are there any traces now of banks or foundations. in the court some norman capitals and carved stones were found in . this early castle was admirably placed for commanding the river and the bridge.[ ] the present castle of morpeth was built in - .[ ] newcastle, northumberland.--the first castle here was built by robert, son of william i., on his return from his expedition to scotland in .[ ] it was of the usual motte-and-bailey kind, the motte standing in a small bailey which was rectilinear and roughly oblong.[ ] this motte was in existence when brand wrote his _history of newcastle_, but was removed in . the castle was placed outside the roman station at monkchester, and commanded a roman bridge over the tyne, "and to the north-east overlooked a ravine that under the name of the side formed for centuries a main artery of communication between england and scotland."[ ] henry ii., when he built the fine keep of this castle, did not place it on the motte, but in the outer and larger ward, which was roughly triangular. the outer curtain appears to have stood on the banks of the former earthen castle, as the parliamentary survey of speaks of the castle as "bounded with strong works of stone and mud."[ ] the area of the whole castle was acres and rood. [illustration: fig. . norham. nottingham.] norham, northumberland (fig. ).--the first castle here was built by ranulf flambard, bishop of durham, in the reign of william rufus. it was built to defend northumberland against the incursions of the scots, and we are expressly told that no castle had existed there previously.[ ] this first castle, which we may certainly assume to have been of earth and wood, was destroyed by the scots in , and there does not seem to have been any stone castle until the time of bishop puiset or pudsey, who built the present keep by command of king henry ii.[ ] mr clark tried hard to find some work of flambard's in this tower, but found it difficult, and was driven back on the rather lame assumption that "the lapse of forty [really fifty at least] years had not materially changed the style of architecture then in use."[ ] in fact, the norman parts of this keep show no work so early as the th century, but are advanced in style, for not only was the basement vaulted, but the first floor also. the simple explanation is that flambard threw up the large square motte on which the keep now stands, and provided it with the usual wooden defences. it also had a strong tower, but almost certainly a wooden one; hence it was easily destroyed by the scots when once taken.[ ] the motte was probably lowered to some extent when the stone keep was built. it stands on a high bank overlooking the tweed, and is separated from its bailey by a deep ditch. the bailey may be described as a segment of a circle; its area is about acres. norwich (fig. ).--we find from domesday book that no less than houses were destroyed for the site of this castle, a certain proof that the castle was new.[ ] it is highly probable that it was outside the primitive defences of the town, at any rate in part. norwich was built, partly on a peninsula formed by a double bend of the river wensum, partly in a district lying south-west of this peninsula, and defended by a ridge of rising ground running in a north-easterly direction. the castle was placed on the edge of this ridge, and all the oldest part of the town, including the most ancient churches, lies to the east of it.[ ] in the conjectural map of norwich in , given in woodward's _history of norwich castle_,[ ] the street called burg street divides the old burg on the east from the new burg on the west; this street runs along a ridge which traverses the neck of the peninsula from south-west to north-east, and on the northern end of this ridge the castle stands.[ ] there can be little doubt that this street marks the line of the _burh_ or enclosing bank by which the primitive town of norwich was defended.[ ] a clear proof of this lies in the fact that the castle of norwich was anciently not in the jurisdiction of the city, but in that of the county; the citizens had no authority over the houses lying beyond the castle ditches until it was expressly granted to them by edward iii.[ ] the mediæval walls of norwich, vastly extending the borders of the city, were not built till henry iii.'s reign.[ ] [illustration: fig. . norwich. (from harrod's "gleanings among the castles and convents of norfolk," p. .)] the motte of norwich castle, according to recent investigations, is entirely artificial;[ ] it was originally square, and had "a prodigious large and deep ditch around it."[ ] the fancy of the antiquary wilkins that the motte was the centre of two concentric outworks[ ] was completely disproved by mr harrod, who showed that the original castle was a motte with one of the ordinary half-moon baileys attached. another ward, called the castle meadow, was probably added at a later date. the magnificent keep which now stands on the motte is undoubtedly a work of the th century.[ ] the castle which emma, wife of earl ralf guader, defended against the conqueror after the celebrated bride-ale of norwich was almost certainly a wooden structure. as late as the year the bailey was still defended by a wooden stockade and wooden bretasches;[ ] and even in the stockade had not been replaced by a stone wall.[ ] norwich was a royal castle, and consequently always in the hands of the sheriff; it was never the property of the bigods.[ ] as the fable that extensive lands belonging to the monastery of ely were held on the tenure of castle guard at norwich _before the conquest_ is repeated by all the local historians,[ ] it is worth while to note that the charters of henry i. setting the convent free from this service, make no allusion to any such ancient date for it,[ ] and that the tenure of castle guard is completely unknown to the anglo-saxon laws. the area of the inner bailey is - / acres, and that of the outer, - / acres. the value of norwich had greatly risen since the conquest.[ ] nottingham (fig. ).--this important castle is not mentioned in domesday book, but the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ says that william i. built the castle at nottingham in , on his way to repress the first insurrection in yorkshire. ordericus, repeating this statement, adds that he committed it to the keeping of william peverel.[ ] the castle was placed on a lofty headland at some distance from the danish borough, and between the two arose the norman borough which is mentioned in domesday book as the _novus burgus_. the two upper wards of the present castle probably represent william's plan. the upper ward forms a natural motte of rock, as it is feet higher than the bailey attached to it, and has been separated from it by a ditch cut across the rocky headland, which can still be traced below the modern house which now stands on the motte. such a site was not only treated as a motte, but was actually called by that name, as we read of the _mota_ of nottingham castle in the _pipe rolls_ of both john's and richard i.'s reigns. mr clark published a bird's-eye view of nottingham castle in his _mediæval military architecture_, about which he only stated that it was taken from the _illustrated london news_. it does not agree with the plan made by simpson in ,[ ] and is therefore not quite trustworthy; the position of the keep, for example, is quite different. the keep, which hutchison in his memoirs speaks of as "the strong tower called the old tower on the top of the rock," seems clearly norman, from the buttresses. it was placed (according to simpson's plan), on the north side of the small ward which formed the top of the motte, and was enclosed in a yet older shell wall which has now disappeared. the height of this motte is indicated in the bird's-eye view by the ascending wall which leads up it from the bailey. it had its own ditch, as appears by several mentions in the accounts of "the drawbridge of the keep," and "the bridge leading up to the dongeon."[ ] it is highly probable that this keep was built by king john, as in a _mise roll_ of there is a payment entered "towards making the tower which the king commanded to be built on the motte of nottingham."[ ] but the first masonry in the castle was probably the work of henry ii., who spent £ , s. d. on the castle and houses, the gaol, the king's chamber, the hall, and in raising the walls and enclosing the bailey.[ ] the castle has been so devastated by the th century spoiler, that the work of henry and john has been almost entirely swept away, but the one round tower which still remains as part of the defences of the inner bailey, looks as though it might be of the time of henry ii. this bailey is semicircular; the whole original castle covers only - / acres. a very much larger bailey was added afterwards, probably in john's reign.[ ] probably this later bailey was at first enclosed with a bank and stockade, and this stockade may be the palitium of which there are notices in the records of henry iii. and edward i.[ ] the main gateway of this bailey, which still remains, is probably of edward i. or edward ii.'s reign.[ ] the castle of nottingham was the most important one in the midlands, and william of newburgh speaks of it as "so well defended by nature and art that it appears impregnable."[ ] the value of the town had risen from £ to £ at the time of the survey.[ ] [illustration: fig. . okehampton, devon. penwortham, lancs. pevensey, sussex.] okehampton, devon (fig. ).--baldwin de molis, sheriff of devon, held the manor of okehampton at the time of the survey, and had a castle there.[ ] on a hill in the valley of the okement river stand the remains of a castle of the motte-and-bailey pattern. on the motte, which is high and steep, are the ruins of a keep of late character, probably of the th century.[ ] the oval bailey covers / an acre, and the whole castle is surrounded with a very deep ditch (filled up now on the east side) which is in part a natural ravine. the usual ditch between the motte and the bailey is absent here. this castle appears to have continued always in private hands, and therefore there is little to be learned about it from the public records. the value of okehampton manor had increased since the conquest from £ to £ . as there is no _burgus_ mentioned t. r. e., but four _burgenses_ and a market t. r. w., baldwin the sheriff must have built a borough as well as a castle. otherwise it was a small manor of thirty ploughs. oswestry, shropshire.--mr eyton's identification of the domesday castle of louvre, in the manor of meresberie, shropshire, with oswestry, seems to be decisive.[ ] the name is simply l'oeuvre, the work, a name very frequently given to castles in the early norman period. domesday book says that rainald de bailleul built a castle at this place.[ ] he had married the widow of warin, sheriff of shropshire, who died in . the castle afterwards passed into the hands of the fitz alans, great lords-marcher on the welsh border. as the welsh annals give the credit of building the castle to madoc ap meredith, into whose hands it fell during the reign of stephen, it is not impossible that some of the masonry still existing on the motte, which consists of large cobbles bedded in very thick mortar, may be his work, and probably the first stonework in the castle. a sketch made in the th century, however, which is the only drawing preserved of the castle, seems to show architecture of the perpendicular period.[ ] but probably the keep alone was of masonry in the th century, as in , when the castle was in royal custody, the repair of the stockade is referred to in the _pipe rolls_.[ ] no plan has been preserved of oswestry castle, so that it is impossible to recover the shape or area of the bailey, which is now built over. the manor of meresberie had been unoccupied (wasta) in the days of king edward, but it yielded s. at the date of the survey. eyton gives reasons for thinking that the town of oswestry was founded by the normans. [illustration: fig. . oxford. (from "oxonia illustrata," david loggan, .)] oxford (fig. ).--this castle was built in by robert d'oilgi (or d'oilly), a norman who received large estates in oxfordshire.[ ] oxford was a burgus in saxon times, and is one of those mentioned in the _burghal hidage_. domesday tells us that the king has twenty mural mansions there, which had belonged to algar, earl of mercia, and that they were called mural mansions because their owners had to repair the city wall at the king's behest, a regulation probably as old as the days of alfred. the norman castle was placed outside the town walls, but near the river, from which its trenches were fed.[ ] it was without doubt a motte-and-bailey castle; the motte still remains, and the accompanying bird's-eye view by david loggan, , shows that the later stone walls of the bailey stood on the earthen banks of d'oilly's castle. the site is now occupied by a gaol. on the line of the walls rises the ancient tower of st george's church, which so much resembles an early norman keep that we might think it was intended for one, if the osney chronicler had not expressly told us that the church was founded two years after the castle.[ ] it is evident that the design was to make the church tower work as a mural tower, a combination of piety and worldly wisdom quite in accord with what the chronicler tells us of the character of roger d'oilly. henry ii. spent some £ on this castle between the years and , the houses in the keep, and the well being specially mentioned. we may presume that he built with stone the decagonal [shell?] keep on the motte, whose foundations were discovered at the end of the th century.[ ] there is still in the heart of the motte a well in a very remarkable well chamber, the masonry of which may be of his time. the area of the bailey appears to have been acres. the value of the city of oxford had trebled at the time of the domesday survey.[ ] in the treaty between stephen and henry in the whole castle of oxford is spoken of as the "mota" of oxford.[ ] peak castle, derbyshire.--the survey simply calls this castle the castle of william peverel, but tells us that two saxons had formerly held the _land_.[ ] there is no motte here, but the strong position, defended on two sides by frightful precipices, rendered very little fortification necessary. it is possible that the wall on the n. and w. sides of the area may be, in part at least, the work of william peverel; the w. wall contains a great deal of herring-bone work, and the tower at the n.w. angle does not flank at all, while the other one in the n. wall only projects a few feet; the poor remains of the gatehouse also appear to be norman. it would probably be easier to build a wall than to raise an earthbank in this stony country; nevertheless, behind the modern wall which runs up from the gatehouse to the keep, something like an earthbank may be observed on the edge of the precipice, which ought to be examined before any conclusions are determined as to the first fortifications of this castle. the keep, which is of different stone to the other towers and the walls, stands on the highest ground in the area, apparently on the natural rock, which crops up in the basement. it is undoubtedly the work of henry ii., as the accounts for it remain in the _pipe rolls_, and the slight indications of style which it displays, such as the nook-shafts at the angles, correspond to the transition norman period.[ ] the shape of the bailey is a quadrant; its area scarcely exceeds acre. the value of the manor had risen since the conquest, and william peverel had doubled the number of ploughs in the demesne. the castle only remained in the hands of the peverels for two generations, and was then forfeited to the crown. the manor was only a small one; and the site of the castle was probably chosen for its natural advantages and for the facility of hunting in the peak forest. penwortham, lancashire (fig. ).--"king edward held peneverdant. there are two carucates of land there, and they used to pay ten pence. now there is a castle there, and there are two ploughs in the demesne, and six burghers, and three radmen, and eight villeins, and four cowherds. amongst them all they have four ploughs. there is half a fishery there. there is wood and hawk's eyries, as in king edward's time. it is worth £ ."[ ] the very great rise in value in this manor shows that some great change had taken place since the norman conquest. this change was the building of a castle. the _modo_ of domesday always expresses a contrast with king edward's time, and clearly tells us here that penwortham castle was new.[ ] it lay in the extensive lands between the ribble and the mersey, which were part of the conqueror's enfeoffment of roger the poitevin, third son of earl roger de montgomeri.[ ] since penwortham is mentioned as demesne, and no under-tenant is spoken of, we may perhaps assume that this castle, which was the head of a barony, was built by roger himself. he did not hold it long, as he forfeited all his estates in . at a later period, though we have not been able to trace when, the manor of penwortham passed into the hands of the monks of evesham, to whom the church had already been granted, at the end of the conqueror's reign.[ ] probably it is because the castle thus passed into the hands of the church that it never developed into a stone castle, like clitheroe. the seat of the barony was transferred elsewhere, and probably the timbers of the castle were used in the monastic buildings of penwortham priory. the excavations which were made here in proved conclusively that there were no stone foundations on the castle hill at penwortham.[ ] these excavations revealed the singular fact that the norman had thrown up his motte on the site of a british or romano-british hut, without even being aware of it, since the ruins of the hut were buried feet deep and covered by a grass-grown surface, on which the norman had laid a rude pavement of boulders before piling his motte.[ ] among the objects found in the excavations was a norman prick spur, a conclusive proof of the norman origin of the motte.[ ] no remains appear to have been found of the norman wooden keep; but this would be accounted for by the theory suggested above. penwortham is a double motte, the artificial hill rising on the back of a natural hill, which has been isolated from its continuing ridge by an artificial ditch cut through it. the double hill rises out of a bailey court which is rudely square, but whose shape is determined by the ground, which forms a headland running out into the ribble. the whole area cannot certainly be ascertained. there was a ferry at this point in norman times.[ ] the castle defends the mouth of the ribble and overlooks the town of preston. penwortham was certainly not the _caput_ of a large soke in saxon times, as it was only a berewick of blackburn, in which hundred it lay. it was the norman who first made it the seat of a barony. peterborough.--the chronicler, hugh candidus, tells us that abbot thorold, the norman abbot whom william i. appointed to the ancient minster of peterborough, built a castle close to the church, "which in these days is called mount torold."[ ] this mount is still existing, but it has lost its ancient name, and is now called tout hill. it stands in the deanery garden, and has probably been largely ransacked for garden soil, as it has a decayed and shapeless look. still, it is a venerable relic of norman aggression, well authenticated. pevensey, sussex (fig. ).--the roman castrum of pevensey (still so striking in its remains) was an inhabited town at the date of the norman conquest, and was an important port.[ ] after taking possession of the castrum, william i. drew a strong bank across its eastern end, and placed a castle in the area thus isolated. this first castle was probably entirely of wood, as there was a wooden _palicium_ on the bank as late as the reign of henry ii.[ ] but if a wooden keep was built at first, it was very soon superseded by one of stone.[ ] the remains of this keep have recently been excavated by mr harold sands and mr montgomerie, and show it to have been a most remarkable building[ ] (see chapter xii., p. )--in all probability one of the few th century keeps in england. we may perhaps attribute this distinction to the fact that no less a man than the conqueror's half-brother, the count of mortain, was made the guardian of this important port. pevensey is mentioned as a port in the _close rolls_ of henry iii.'s reign, and was one of the important waterways to the continent.[ ] as has been already noted, the establishment of the castle was followed by the usual rise in the value of the _burgus_.[ ] the area of the castle covers acre. pontefract, yorkshire (fig. ).--this castle is not spoken of in domesday by its french name, but there can be no doubt that it is "the castle of ilbert" which is twice mentioned and several times alluded to in the _clamores_, or disputed claims, which are enrolled at the end of the list of lands in yorkshire belonging to the tenants-in-chief.[ ] the existence of ilbert's castle at pontefract in the th century is made certain by a charter (only an early copy of which is now extant) in the archives of the duchy of lancaster, in which william rufus at his accession regrants to ilbert de lacy "the custom of the castelry of his castle, as he had it in the conqueror's days and in those of the bishop of bayeux."[ ] as mr holmes remarks, this carries us back to four years before the compilation of domesday book, since odo, bishop of bayeux, whom william had left as regent during his absence in normandy, was arrested and imprisoned in .[ ] pontefract is called kirkby in some of the earlier charters, and this was evidently the english (or rather the danish) name of the place. it lay within the manor of tateshall, which is supposed to be the same as tanshelf, a name still preserved in the neighbourhood of, but not exactly at, pontefract.[ ] tanshelf claims to be the taddenescylf mentioned in the _anglo-saxon chronicle_, where king edgar received the submission of the yorkshire danes in . there is no proof that the hill at kirkby was fortified before the conquest. it was a steep headland rising out of the plain of the aire, and needing only to be scarped by art and to have a ditch cut across its neck to be almost impregnable. it lay scarcely a mile east of the roman road from doncaster to castleford and the north. [illustration: fig. . pontefract, yorks. preston capes, northants. quatford, salop.] it is no part of our task to trace the fortunes of this famous castle, which was considered in the middle ages to be the key of yorkshire.[ ] in spite of the labels affixed to the walls we venture to assert with confidence that none of the masonry now visible belongs to the days of ilbert. the structural history of the castle was probably this: ilbert de lacy, one of the greatest of the norman tenants-in-chief in yorkshire,[ ] built in this naturally defensive situation a castle of earth and wood, like other norman castles. whether he found the place already defended by earthen banks we do not attempt to decide, but analogy makes it fairly certain that the motte was his work, and was crowned by a wooden tower. this motte, which was at least partially scarped out of the soft sandstone rock, is now disguised by the remarkable keep which has been built up around it, consisting at present of two enormous round towers and the ruins of a third. as a fourth side is vacant, it may reasonably be conjectured that there was a fourth roundel.[ ] if the plan was a quatrefoil it resembled that of the keep of york, which is now ascertained to belong to the reign of henry iii.; and the very little detail that is left supports the view that pontefract keep was copied from the royal experiment at york, though it differed from it in that it actually revetted the motte itself. there is no ditch now round the motte, but we venture to think that its inner ditch is indicated by the position of the postern in piper's tower, which seems to mark its outlet. it appears to have been partly filled up during the great siege of pontefract in .[ ] the platform which is attached to the motte on the side facing the bailey is probably an addition of the same date, intended for artillery; its retaining wall shows signs of hasty construction. a well chamber and a passage leading both to it and to a postern opening towards the outer ditch appear to have been made in the rocky base of the motte in the th century. the area of the inner and probably original bailey of this castle, including the motte, is - / acres. the main guard, and another bailey covering the approach on the s. side, were probably later additions, bringing up the castle area to acres. the shape of the first bailey is an irregular oval, determined by the hill on which it stands. the value of the manor of tateshall had fallen at the time of the survey from £ to £ , an unusual circumstance in the case of a manor which had become the seat of an important castle; but the number of ploughs had decreased by half, and we may infer that tateshall had not recovered from the great devastation of yorkshire in .[ ] preston capes, northants (fig. ).--that a castle of the th century stood here is only proved by a casual mention in the _historia fundationis_ of the cluniac priory of daventry, which tells us that this priory was first founded by hugh de leycestre, seneschal of matilda de senlis, close to his own castle of preston capes, about . want of water and the proximity of the castle proving inconvenient, the priory was removed to daventry.[ ] the work lies about miles from the watling street. the castle stands on a spur of high land projecting northwards towards a feeder of the river nesse, about miles w. of the watling street. the works consist of a motte, having a flat top to feet in diameter, and remains of a slight breastwork. this motte is placed on the edge of the plateau, and the ground falls steeply round its northern half. about feet down this slope, a ditch with an outer bank has been dug, embracing half the mound. lower down, near the foot of the slope, is another and longer ditch and rampart. it is probable that the bailey occupied the flatter ground s.e. of the motte, but the site is occupied by a farm, and no traces are visible.[ ] the value of the manor of preston capes had risen from s. to s. at the time of the survey. it was held by nigel of the count of mellent.[ ] quatford, shropshire (fig. ).--there can hardly be any doubt that the _nova domus_ at quatford mentioned in the survey was the new castle built by roger de montgomeri, earl of shrewsbury. we have already suggested that the _burgus_ which also existed there may have been his work, and not that of the danes.[ ] the manor belonged to the church before the conquest.[ ] the oval motte, which still remains, is described as placed on a bold rocky promontory jutting into the severn; it is not quite feet high, and about feet by in diameter on top, and has a small bean-shaped bailey of acre. it is near the church, which has norman remains.[ ] robert belesme, son of earl roger, removed the castle to bridgenorth, and so the quatford castle is heard of no more.[ ] the manor of quatford was paying nothing at the date of the survey. rayleigh, essex (fig. ).--"in this manor sweyn has made his castle."[ ] sweyn was the son of robert fitz-wymarc, a half english, half norman favourite of edward the confessor. robert was sheriff of essex under edward and william, and sweyn appears to have succeeded his father in this office.[ ] sweyn built his castle on land which had not belonged to his father, so rayleigh cannot be the "robert's castle" of the _anglo-saxon chronicle_, to which some of the norman adventurers fled on the triumph of earl godwin.[ ] there is a fine motte at rayleigh, and a semicircular bailey attached; the ditch round the whole is still well marked. there is not a vestige of masonry on the surface, but some excavations made in revealed stone foundations. the inner bailey covers / of an acre. the value of the manor had risen since the conquest, but it was only a small one, with no villages in its soke. richard's castle, herefordshire (fig. ).--there can be little doubt that this is the castle referred to in domesday book under the name of avreton, as it is not far from overton, on the northern border of hereford.[ ] richard's castle is almost certainly the castle of richard, son of scrob, one of the normans to whom edward the confessor had granted large estates, and who probably fortified himself on this site. at the time of the survey richard was dead, and the castle was held by his son osbern, and it is noted that he pays s., but the castle is worth s. to him. its value was the same as in king edward's time, a fact worth noting, as it coincides with the assumption that this was a pre-conquest castle. there is a high and steep motte at richard's castle, and a small half-moon shaped bailey.[ ] there are remains of a stone wing wall running down the motte, and on the top there is a straight piece of masonry which must be part of a tower keep. the area of the inner bailey is / of an acre. avreton was not the centre of a soke, but appears to have lain in the manor of ludeford. [illustration: fig. . rayleigh, essex. richard's castle, hereford.] richmond, yorks (fig. ).--as in the case of pontefract, this other great yorkshire castle is not mentioned by name in domesday book, nor is there any allusion to it except a casual mention in the _recapitulation_ that earl alan has manors in his castelry, and that besides the castelry he has manors.[ ] the castle must have been built at the date of the survey, which was completed only a year before william i.'s death; for during william's lifetime earl alan, the first holder of the fief, gave _the chapel in the castle of richmond_ to the abbey of st mary at york, which he had founded.[ ] the name, of course, is french, and it seems impossible now to discover what english manor-name it has displaced.[ ] it is certainly a case in which the norman castle was not placed in the seat of the former saxon proprietor, but in the site which seemed most defensible to the norman lord. the lands of earl alan in the wapentake of gilling had belonged to the saxon earl edwin, and thus cannot have fallen to alan's share before edwin's death in . the _genealogia_ published by dodsworth (from an ms. compiled in the reign of edward iii.), says that earl alan first built richmond castle near his chief manor of gilling, to defend his people against the attacks of the disinherited english and danes.[ ] the passage has been enlarged by camden, who says that alan "thought himself not safe enough in gilling"; and this has been interpreted to mean that alan originally built his castle at gilling, and afterwards removed it to richmond; but the original words have no such meaning.[ ] richmond castle differs from most of the castles mentioned in domesday in that it has no motte. the ground plan indeed was very like that of a motte-and-bailey castle, in that old maps show a small roundish enclosure at the apex of the large triangular bailey.[ ] but a recent examination of the keep by messrs hope and brakespear has confirmed the theory first enunciated by mr loftus brock,[ ] that the keep is built over the original gateway of the castle, and that the lower stage of its front wall is the ancient wall of the castle. the small ward indicated in the old maps is therefore most likely a barbican, of later date than the th century keep, which is probably rightly attributed by the _genealogia_ cited above to earl conan, who reigned from - .[ ] some entries in the _pipe rolls_ make it almost certain that it was finished by henry ii., who kept the castle in his own hands for some time after the death of conan.[ ] there are some indications at richmond that the first castle was of stone and not of earth and wood. the walls do not stand on earthen banks; the norman curtain can still be traced on two sides of the castle, and on the west side it seems of early construction, containing a great deal of herringbone work, and might possibly be the work of earl alan. [illustration: fig. . richmond, yorks. rochester, kent.] the whole area of the castle is - / acres, including the annexe known as the cockpit. this was certainly enclosed during the norman period, as it has a norman gateway in its wall. as we do not know the name of the site of richmond before the conquest, and as the name of richmond is not mentioned in domesday book, we cannot tell whether the value of the manor had risen or fallen. but no part of yorkshire was more flourishing at the time of the survey than this wapentake of gilling, which belonged to earl alan; in no district, except in the immediate neighbourhood of york, are there so many places where the value has risen. yet the greater part of it was let out to under-tenants. rochester, kent (fig. ).--under the heading of aylsford, kent, the survey tells us that "the bishop of rochester holds as much of this land as is worth s. d. _in exchange for the land in which the castle sits_."[ ] rochester was a roman _castrum_, and portions of its roman wall have recently been found.[ ] the fact that various old charters speak of the _castellum_ of rochester has led some authorities to believe that there was a castle there in saxon times, but the context of these charters shows plainly that the words _castellum roffense_ were equivalent to _castrum roffense_ or _hrofesceastre_.[ ] otherwise there is not a particle of evidence for the existence of a castle at rochester in pre-norman times, and the passage in domesday quoted above shows that william's castle was a new erection, built on land obtained by exchange from the church. outside the line of the roman wall, to the south of the city, and west of the south gate, there is a district called boley or bullie hill, which at one time was included in the fortifications of the present castle. it is a continuation of the ridge on which that castle stands, and has been separated from it by a ditch. this ditch once entirely surrounded it, and though it was partly filled up in the th century its line can still be traced. the area enclosed by this ditch was about acres; the form appears to have been oblong. in the grounds of satis house, one of the villas which have been built on this site, there still remains a conical artificial mound, much reduced in size, as it has been converted into a pleasure-ground with winding walks, but the retaining walls of these walks are composed of old materials; and towards the riverside there are still vestiges of an ancient wall.[ ] we venture to think that this boley hill and its motte formed the original site of the (probably) wooden castle of william the conqueror. its nature, position, and size correspond to what we have already observed as characteristic of the first castles of the conquest. it stands on land which originally belonged to the church of st andrew, as domesday book tells us william's castle did.[ ] the very name may be interpreted in favour of this theory.[ ] and that there was no roman or saxon fortification on the spot is proved by excavations, which have shown that both a roman and a saxon cemetery occupied portions of the area.[ ] it is well known that between the years and the celebrated architect, gundulf, bishop of rochester, built a new _stone_ castle for william rufus, "in the best part of the city of rochester."[ ] this castle, of course, was on the same site as the present one, though the splendid keep was not built till the next reign.[ ] but if what we have maintained above be correct the castle of gundulf was built on a different site from that of the castle of william. nor are we without evidence in support of this. what remains of the original norman wall of gundulf's castle (and enough remains to show that the circuit was complete in norman times) does not stand on earthen banks; and this, though not a proof, is a strong suggestion that there was no earthen bank belonging to some previous castle when gundulf began his building.[ ] but further, mr livett has shown in his paper on _mediæval rochester_[ ] that in order to form a level plateau for the court of the castle the ground had to be artificially made up on the north and east sides, and in these places the wall rests on a foundation of gravel, which has been forcibly rammed to make it solid, and which goes through the artificial soil to the natural chalk below. now what can this rammed gravel mean but an expedient to avoid the danger of building in stone on freshly heaped soil? had the artificial platform been in existence ever since the conquest, it would have been solid enough to build upon without this expense. it is therefore at least probable that bishop gundulf's castle was built on an entirely new site. it seems also to be clear that the boley hill was included as an outwork in bishop gundulf's plan, for the castle ditch is cut through the roman wall near the south gate of the city.[ ] mr livett remarks that king john appears to have used the hill as a point of vantage when he attacked the city in , and he thinks this was probably the reason why henry iii.'s engineers enclosed it with a stone wall when they restored the walls of the city.[ ] henry iii.'s wall has been traced all round the city, and at the second south gate it turns at right angles, or nearly so, so as to enclose boley hill.[ ] it is probable, as mr livett suggests, that the drawbridge and _bretasche_, or wooden tower, ordered in for the southern side of rochester castle,[ ] were intended to connect the boley hill court with the main castle. in the owner of the castle (which had then fallen into private hands) conveyed to one philip brooke, "that part of the castle ditch and ground, as it then lay unenclosed, on bully hill, being the whole breadth of the hill and ditch without the walls of the castle, extending from thence to the river medway."[ ] the general opinion about the boley hill is that it is a danish earthwork, thrown up by the danes when they besieged the city in . but if our contention in chapter iv. is just, the danish fortifications were not mottes, nor anything like them; and (as has already been pointed out) the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ indicates the nature of the fortress in this case by its expression, "they made a work around themselves";[ ] that is, it was a circumvallation. moreover, at rochester the danes would have had to pass under the bridge (which is known to have existed both in roman and saxon times) in order to get to the boley hill; and even if their ships were small enough to do this they would hardly have been so foolish as to leave a bridge in their possible line of retreat. it is therefore far more likely that their fastness was somewhere to the north or east of the city.[ ] it is a noteworthy fact that up till very recently the boley hill had a special jurisdiction of its own, under an officer called the baron of the bully, appointed by the recorder of the city. this appears to date from a charter of edward iv. in , which confirms the former liberties of the citizens of rochester, and ordains that they should keep two courts' leet and a court of pie-powder annually on the bullie hill. the anonymous historian of rochester remarks that it was thought that the baron represented the first officer under the governor of the castle before the court leet was instituted, to whose care the security of the bullie hill was entrusted.[ ] this is probably much nearer the truth than the theory which would assign such thoroughly feudal courts as those of court leet and pie-powder to an imaginary community of danes residing on the boley hill. when we compare the case of the boley hill with the somewhat similar cases of chester and norwich castles we shall see that what took place in edward iv.'s reign was probably this: the separate jurisdiction which had once belonged to an abandoned castle site was transferred to the citizens of rochester, but with the usual conservatism of mediæval legislation, it was not absorbed in the jurisdiction of the city. the value of rochester at the time of the survey had risen from _s._ to _l._[ ] the increase of trade, arising from the security of traffic which was provided by william's castles on this important route, no doubt accounts in great measure for this remarkable rise in value. rockingham, northants (fig. ).--here, also, the castle was clearly new in william's reign, as the manor was uninhabited (_wasta_) until a castle was built there by his orders, in consequence of which the manor produced a small revenue at the time of the survey.[ ] the motte, now in great part destroyed, was a large one, being about feet in diameter at the top; attached to it is a bailey of irregular but rectilateral shape (determined by the ground) covering about acres. there is another large bailey to the s. covering acres, formed by cutting a ditch across the spur of the hill on which the castle stands, which is probably later. the first castle would undoubtedly be of wood, and it is probable that king john was the builder of the "exceeding fair and strong" keep which stood on the motte in leland's time,[ ] as there is an entry in the _pipe roll_ of the thirteenth year of his reign for _l._ _s._ _d._ for the work of the new tower.[ ] this keep, if mr clark is correct, was polygonal, with a timber stockade surrounding it. rockingham was only a small manor of one hide in saxon times, though its saxon owner had sac and soke. it stands in a forest district, not near any of the great ancient lines of road, and was probably built for a hunting seat. the value of the manor had risen at the time of the survey.[ ] during the civil war, the motte of rockingham was fortified in an elaborate manner by the parliamentarians, part of the defences being two wooden stockades:[ ] an interesting instance of the use both of mottes and of wooden fortifications in comparatively modern warfare. only the north and west sides of this mount now remain. [illustration: fig. . rockingham, northants.] old sarum, wilts (fig. ).--sir richard colt hoare printed in his _ancient wiltshire_ a document purporting to be an order from alfred, "king of the english," to leofric, "earl of wiltunshire," to maintain the castle of sarum, and add another ditch to it.[ ] the phraseology of the document suggests some doubts of its genuineness, and though there would be nothing improbable in the theory that alfred reared the outer bank of the fortress, recent excavations have shown that the place was occupied by the romans, and therefore make it certain that its origin was very much earlier than alfred's time. moreover, the convergence of several roman roads at this spot suggests the probability of a roman station,[ ] while the form of the enclosure renders an earlier origin likely. domesday book does not speak of salisbury as a _burgus_, and when the _burgus_ of old sarum is mentioned in later documents it appears to refer to a district lying at the foot of the castle hill, and formerly enclosed with a wall.[ ] nor is it one of the boroughs of the _burghal hidage_. but that sarum was an important place in saxon times is clear from the fact that there was a mint there; and there is evidence of the existence of at least four saxon churches, as well as a hospital for lepers.[ ] for more exact knowledge as to the history of this ancient fortress we must wait till the excavations now going on are finished, but in the meanwhile it seems probable that the theory adopted by general pitt-rivers is correct. he regarded old sarum as a british earthwork, with an inner castle and outer barbicans added by the normans. after building this castle in the midst of it the normans appear to have considered the outer and larger fortification too valuable to be given up to the public, but retained it under the government of the castellan, and treated it as part of the castle. there is no mention of the castle of salisbury in domesday book, but the bishop is named as the owner of the manor.[ ] the episcopal see of sherborne was transferred to sarum in by bishop hermann, in accordance with the policy adopted by william i. that episcopal sees should be removed from villages to towns:[ ] a measure which in itself is a testimony to the importance of salisbury at that time. the first mention of the castle is in the charter of bishop osmund, .[ ] the bishop was allowed to lay the foundations of his new cathedral within the ancient fortress. as might be expected, friction soon arose between the castellans and the ecclesiastics; the castellans claimed the custody of the gates, and sometimes barred the canons, whose houses seem to have been outside the fortress, from access to the church. these quarrels were ended eventually by the removal of the cathedral to the new town of salisbury at the foot of the hill. [illustration: fig. . old sarum, wilts.] the position of the motte of old sarum is exceptional, as it stands in the centre of the outer fortress. this must be owing to the position of the ancient vallum, encircling the summit of one of those round, gradually sloping hills so common in the chalk ranges, which made it necessary to place the motte in the centre, because it was the highest part of the ground. the present excavations have shown that it is in part artificial. but though the citadel was thus exceptionally placed, the principle that communication with the outside must be maintained was carried out; the motte had its own bailey, reaching to the outer vallum. the remains of three cross banks still exist, two of which must have enclosed the _magnum ballium_ which is spoken of in the _pipe rolls_ of henry ii. probably this bailey occupied the south-eastern third of the circle, which included the main gateway and the road to the citadel. in the ditch on the north side of this enclosure, an arched passage, apparently of norman construction, was found in ; it was doubtless a postern or sallyport.[ ] the main entrance is defended by a separate mount with its own ditch, which is conjectured to be of later date than the vallum itself. the area of the top of the motte is about - / acres, a larger size than usual, but not larger than that of several other important castles.[ ] in leland's time there was "much notable ruinous building" still remaining of this fortress, and the excavations have already revealed the lower portions of some splendid walls and gateways, and the basement of a late norman keep which presents some unusual features.[ ] the earthworks, however, bear witness to a former wooden stockade both to the citadel and the outer enclosure. the top of the motte is still surrounded by high earthen banks. as that great building bishop, roger of salisbury ( - ), is said to have environed the castle with a new wall,[ ] it would seem likely that he was the first to transform the castle from wood to stone. but in henry ii.'s reign, we find an entry in the _pipe rolls_ for materials for enclosing the great bailey. an order for the destruction of the castle had been issued by stephen,[ ] but it is doubtful whether it was carried out. the sums spent by henry ii. on the castle do not amount to more than £ , s. d., but the work recently excavated which appears to be of his date is very extensive indeed. the mention of a small wooden tower in richard i.'s reign shows that some parts of the defences were still of wood at that date.[ ] timber and rods for _hoarding_ the castle, that is, for the wooden machicolations placed at the tops of towers and walls, were ordered at the end of john's reign.[ ] it is not known when the castle was abandoned, but the list of castellans ceases in the reign of henry vi., when it was granted to the stourton family.[ ] though the earls of salisbury were generally the custodians of sarum castle, except in the time of bishop roger, it was always considered a royal castle, while the manor belonged to the bishop.[ ] it is remarked in the _hundred rolls_ of henry iii., that no one holds fiefs for ward in this castle, and that nothing belonged to the castle outside the gate.[ ] the value of the manor of salisbury appears to have risen very greatly since the conquest.[ ] shrewsbury (fig. ).--the passage in domesday book relating to this town has been called by mr round one of the most important in the survey, and it is of special importance for our present purpose. "the english burghers of shrewsbury say that it is very grievous to them that they have to pay all the geld which they paid in king edward's time, although the castle of the earl occupies [the site of] houses, and another are uninhabited."[ ] it is incomprehensible how in the face of such a clear statement as this, that the new castle occupied the site of fifty-one houses, anyone should be found gravely to maintain that the motte at shrewsbury was an english work; for if the motte stood there before, what was the clearance of houses made for? the only answer could be to enlarge the bailey. but this is exactly what the norman would not wish to do; he would want only a small area for the small force at his disposal for defence. shrewsbury was certainly a borough (that is, a fortified town) in anglo-saxon times; probably it was one of the towns fortified by ethelfleda, though it is not mentioned by name in the list of those towns furnished by the _anglo-saxon chronicle_.[ ] its ancient walls were certainly only of earth and wood, for a writ of says that the old stockade and the old bretasche of the old ditch of the town of shrewsbury are to be granted to the burghers for strengthening the new ditch.[ ] the castle of shrewsbury was built on the neck of the peninsula on which the town stands, and on the line of the town walls. the oval motte, which still remains, stands, as usual, on the line of the castle banks, and slopes steeply down to the severn on one side. its nearness to the river made it liable to damage by floods. thus we find henry ii. spending _l._ on the repair of the motte,[ ] and in edward i.'s reign the abbot's mill is accused of having caused damage to the extent of marks to the motte. but the men of the hundred exonerate the mill, and from another passage the blame appears to lie on the fall of a great wooden tower.[ ] this can hardly have been other than the wooden keep on the motte, and thus we learn the interesting fact that as late as edward i.'s reign the castle of shrewsbury had only a wooden keep. the present tower on the motte is the work of telford. [illustration: fig. . shrewsbury. skipsea, yorks.] the bailey of shrewsbury castle is roughly semilunar and covers nearly an acre. the walls stand on banks, which shows that the first wall was of timber. the norman entrance arch seems to render it probable that it was in henry ii.'s reign that stone walls were first substituted for a wooden stockade, and the _pipe rolls_ contain several entries of sums spent by henry on this castle.[ ] but the first mention of stone in connection with the castle is in the reign of henry iii.[ ] in the reign of edward i., a _jarola_ or wooden wall, which had been raised above the outer ditch in the time of the barons' war, was replaced by a stone wall.[ ] this perhaps refers to the second bailey, now destroyed, which lay to the south of the castle. in the time of charles i. the castle still had a wooden palisade on the counterscarp of the ditch.[ ] the two large drum towers on the walls, and the building between them, now converted into a modern house, belong to a much later period than the walls. the area of the present castle, including the motte, is / of an acre. the value of the town of shrewsbury had risen since the conquest. skipsea, yorks (fig. ).--there is no mention of this castle in domesday book, but the chronicle of meaux abbey tells us that it was built by drogo de bevrère in the reign of william i.[ ] this chronicle is not indeed contemporary, but its most recent editor regards it as based on some much earlier document. it was the key of the great manor of holderness, which the conqueror had given to drogo, but which drogo forfeited by murdering his wife, probably on this very site. the situation of skipsea is remarkable, but the original plan of kenilworth castle presented a close parallel to it. the motte, which is feet high, and / of an acre in space on top, is separated from the bailey by a level space, which was formerly the mere of skipsea, mentioned in documents of the th century, which reckon the take of eels in this mere as a source of revenue.[ ] the motte thus formed an island in the mere, but as an additional defence--perhaps when the mere began to get shallow--it was surrounded by a bank and ditch of its own. no masonry is to be seen on the motte now, except a portion of a wing wall going down it. it is connected with its bailey on the other side of the mere by a causeway which still exists. this bailey is of very unusual size, covering - / acres; its banks still retain the name of the baile welts, and one of the entrances is called the baile gate. skipsea brough, which no doubt represents the former _burgus_ of skipsea, is outside this enclosure, and has no defences of its own remaining. a mandate of henry iii. in , ordered the complete destruction of this castle,[ ] and it was no doubt after this that the earls of albemarle, who had succeeded to drogo's estates, removed their _caput baroniæ_ to burstwick.[ ] the value of the manor of cleeton, in which skipsea lies, had fallen at domesday.[ ] stafford (fig. ).--the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ says that ethelfleda of mercia built the _burh_ of stafford; and consequently we find that both in king edward and king william's time stafford was a burgus, or fortified town. florence of worcester, who is considered to have used a superior copy of the _chronicle_ as the foundation of his work, says that ethelfleda built an _arx_ on the north bank of the sowe in . _arx_, in our earlier chronicles, is often only a bombastic expression for a walled town, as, for example, when ethelwerd says that ethelfleda's body was buried in st peter's porch in the _arx_ of gloucester.[ ] but the statement led many later writers, such as camden, to imagine that ethelfleda built a _tower_ in the town of stafford; and these imaginings have created such a tangled skein of mistake that we must bespeak our readers' patience while we attempt to unravel it. domesday book only mentions stafford castle under the manor of chebsey, a possession of henry de ferrers. its words are: "to this manor _belonged_ the land of stafford, in which the king commanded a castle to be built, which is now destroyed."[ ] ordericus also says that the king placed a castle at stafford, on his return from his third visit to the north, in .[ ] now the language of domesday appears to us to say very plainly that in the manorial rearrangement which followed the conquest some land was taken out of the manor of chebsey, which lies immediately to the south of the borough of stafford, to furnish a site for a royal castle.[ ] it is exactly in this position that we now find a large oblong motte, similar to the other mottes of the conquest, and having the usual bailey attached to it. it lies about a mile and a half south-west of the town, near the main road leading into shropshire. the position was an important one, as the castles of staffordshire formed a second line of defence against the north welsh, as well as a check to the great palatinate earls of shropshire.[ ] the motte itself stood on high ground, commanding a view of twenty or thirty miles round, and both tutbury and caus castles could be seen from it. between it and the town lies a stretch of flat ground which has evidently been a swamp formerly, and which explains the distance of the castle from the town; while the fact that it lies to the _south_ of the sowe shows that it has no connection with ethelfleda's work. there is no dispute that this motte was the site of the later baronial castle of stafford, the castle besieged and taken in the civil war; the point we have to prove is that it was also the castle of domesday book.[ ] [illustration: fig. . stafford. stanton holgate, salop. tamworth, staffs. tickhill, yorks.] if the first castle of stafford was of earth and wood, like most of william's castles, there would be nothing wonderful in its having many destructions and many resurrections. this castle was clearly a royal castle, from the language of domesday book. as a royal castle it would be committed to the custody of the sheriff, who appears to have been robert de stafford,[ ] ancestor of the later barons of stafford, and brother of ralph de todeni, one of the great nobles of the conquest. ralph joined the party of robert curthose against henry i. in , and it is conjectured that his brother robert was involved in the same rebellion, for in that year we find the castle held for the king by william pantolf, a trusty companion of the conqueror.[ ] it is very unlikely that this second castle of stafford was on a different site from the one which had been destroyed; and an ingenious conjecture of mr mazzinghi's helps us to identify it with the castle on the motte. in that castle, when it again emerges into light in the reign of henry ii., we find a chapel dedicated to st nicholas, which robert de stafford gives to the abbey of stone, and the king confirms the gift.[ ] the worship of st nicholas came greatly into fashion after the translation of his remains from asia minor to bari, in italy, in . william pantolf visited the shrine at bari, got possession of some of the relics of st nicholas, and with great reverence deposited them in his own church of noron, in normandy.[ ] it is therefore extremely probable that pantolf founded the chapel of st nicholas in stafford castle during the time that the castle was in his custody.[ ] but about the situation of the chapel of st nicholas there is no doubt, as its history is traceable down to the th century. it stood in the bailey of the castle outside the town. this castle was therefore certainly identical with that of henry ii., and most probably with that of henry i. and william i. so far, as we have seen, stafford castle was a royal castle. it is true that in the reign of henry ii.'s predecessor, stephen, we find the castle again in the hands of a robert de stafford, who speaks of it as "castellum meum."[ ] apparently the troubles of stephen's reign afforded an opportunity to the family of the first norman sheriff to get the castle again into their hands. but under the stronger rule of henry ii. the crown recovered its rights, and the gift of the chapel in the castle evidently could not be made without the consent of the king. the gaol which henry ii. caused to be made in stafford was doubtless in this castle.[ ] john repaired the castle,[ ] and ordered _bretasches_, or wooden towers, to be made in the forest of arundel, and sent to stafford:[ ] a statement which gives us an insight into the nature of the castle in john's reign. but it was the tendency of sheriffdoms to become hereditary, as dr stubbs has pointed out,[ ] and this seems to have been the case at stafford. in the reign of edward i. a local jury decided that nicholas, baron of stafford, held the castle of stafford from the king _in capite_, by the service of three and a half knights' fees;[ ] and in , ralph, baron of stafford, obtained a license from edward iii. "to fortify and crenellate his _manses_ of stafford and madlee with a wall of stone and lime, and to make castles thereof."[ ] the indenture made with the mason a year previously is still extant, and states that the castle is to be built upon the _moële_ in the manor, whereby the motte is evidently meant.[ ] besides, the deed is dated "at the chastel of stafford," showing that the new castle of stone and lime was on the site of an already existing castle. we might spin out further evidence of the identity of the site of william's castle with that of the present one, from the name of the manor of castel, which grew up around it, displacing the equally suggestive name of montville, which we find in domesday book.[ ] against the existence of another castle in the town we have the absence of any such castle in william smith's plan of ; the silence of speed and leland, who only mention the present castle;[ ] and the statement of plot, who wrote about the end of the th century, that "he could not hear any footsteps remaining" of a castle in stafford.[ ] we may therefore safely conclude that it was only due to the fancy of some elizabethan antiquary that in an old map of that time a spot to the south-west of the town is marked with the inscription, "the old castle, built by edward the elder, and in memorie fortified with reel walls."[ ] the value of stafford town had risen at the time of the survey, as the king had _l._ for his share, which would make the whole revenue to king and earl _l._ _s._, as against _l._ before the conquest. the property of the canons of stafford had risen from £ to £ .[ ] the area of the bailey is - / acres. stamford, lincoln and northants.--this was one of the boroughs fortified by edward the elder, and consequently we find it a royal _burgus_ at the time of the survey. but edward's borough, the _chronicle_ tells us, was on the south side of the welland; the northern borough, on the other side, may have been the work of the danes, as stamford was one of the towns of the danish confederacy of the five boroughs. the norman castle and its motte are on the north side, and five _mansiones_ were destroyed for the site.[ ] there is at present no appearance of masonry on the motte, which is partly cut away, and what remains of the castle wall is of the th century. it is therefore probable that the _turris_, or keep, which surrendered to henry ii. in , was of wood.[ ] henry gave the castle to richard humet, constable of normandy, in .[ ] it was a very exceptional thing that henry should thus alienate a royal castle, and special circumstances must have moved him to this act. the castle was destroyed in richard iii.'s time, and the materials given to the convent of the carmelite friars. it appears to have been within the town walls, with a bailey stretching down to the river; this bailey is quadrangular. an inquisition of states that "the site of the castle contains acres."[ ] stamford had risen enormously in value since the conquest. "in king edward's time it paid _l._; now, it pays for _feorm_ _l._, and for the whole of the king's dues it now pays _l._"[ ] stanton, stanton long, in shropshire (fig. ).--at the time of the survey, the norman helgot was lord of corve dale, and had his castle at stanton.[ ] the castle was afterwards known as helgot's castle, corrupted into castle holdgate. the site has been much altered by the building of a farmhouse in the bailey, but the motte still exists, high and steep, with a ditch round about half its circumference; there are some traces of masonry on the top. one side of the bailey ditch is still visible, and a mural tower of edwardian style has been incorporated with the farmhouse. the exact area cannot now be calculated, but it can hardly have exceeded - / acres. the manor of stanton was an agglomeration of four small manors which had been held by different proprietors in saxon times, so it was not the centre of a soke. the value of the manor had risen. tamworth, stafford (fig. ).--although tamworth castle is not mentioned in domesday book, it must have been in existence in the th century, as a charter of the empress matilda mentions that robert le despenser, brother of urso d'abetot, had formerly held this castle;[ ] now urso d'abetot was a contemporary of the conqueror, and so must his brother have been. tamworth castle stands on a motte feet high, and feet in diameter across the top, according to mr clark. it is an interesting instance of what is commonly called a shell keep, with a stone tower; one of the instances which suggest that the shell did not belong to a different type of castle to the tower, but was simply a ward wall, which probably at first enclosed a wooden tower. the tower and wall (or chemise) are probably late norman, but the remarkable wing wall (there is only one, instead of the usual two) which runs down the motte is entirely of herring-bone work, and _may_ be as old as henry i.'s time.[ ] a bailey court, which cannot have been large, lay between the motte and the river tame, but its outline cannot now be determined, owing to the encroachments of buildings. tamworth is about a mile from the great roman road known as watling street. we have already referred to the fortification of the _burh_ here by ethelfleda;[ ] probably she only restored walls or banks which had existed before round this ancient capital of mercia. the value of the manor of tamworth is not given in domesday book. tickhill, yorks (fig. ).--the name tickhill does not occur in domesday, but it is covered by that of dadesley, the manor in which this castle was built: a name which appears to have gone out of use when the _hill_ was thrown up. there can be no doubt that it was the castle of roger de busli, one of the most richly endowed of william's tenants-in-chief, as it is mentioned as such by ordericus.[ ] he calls it the castle of blythe, a name which it probably received because blythe was the most important place near, and dadesley was so insignificant. florence of worcester, when describing the same events, calls the castle tykehill. the remains furnish an excellent specimen of the earthworks of this class. the motte is feet high, and its area on top about feet in diameter; about a third of it is natural, the rest artificial. only a slight trace remains of the ditch separating it from the oval bailey, which covers acres. the foundations of a decagonal tower, built in the reign of henry ii., are still to be seen on the top.[ ] the bailey retains its banks on the scarp, surmounted now by a stone curtain, which, along with the older part of the gatehouse, is possibly of the time of henry i.[ ] the outer ditch is about feet broad, and is still full of water in parts. on the counterscarp a portion of the bank remains. this bank carried a wooden palisade when the castle was besieged by cromwell.[ ] the site is not naturally defensible; it is about three and a half miles from the northern roman road. the value of the manor of dadesley had risen at the time of the survey.[ ] the stone buildings which once stood in the bailey have been transformed into a modern house. tonbridge, kent (fig. ).--this notable castle, the first english seat of the powerful family who afterwards took their name from clare in suffolk, is first mentioned in , when it was stormed by william rufus and his english subjects, who had adopted his cause against the supporters of his brother robert.[ ] the castle was one of great importance at several crises in english history; but it began as a wooden keep on a motte, and the stone shell which now crowns this motte cannot be earlier than the th century, and judging by its buttresses, is much later. the castle stands outside the town of tonbridge, separated from it by moats which were fed from the river. the smaller bailey of - / acres, probably the original one, is square, with rounded corners. the palatial gatehouse, of the th or th century, is a marked feature of this castle. there appears to have been only one wing wall down the motte to the bailey, but a second one was not needed, owing to the position of the motte with regard to the river. the value of the manor of hadlow, in which tonbridge lay, was stationary at domesday.[ ] it belonged to the see of canterbury, and was held by richard de bienfaite, ancestor of the house of clare, as a tenant of the see. [illustration: fig. . tonbridge, kent. totnes, devon.] totnes, devonshire (fig. ).--the castle of totnes belonged to judhael, one of king william's men, who has been already mentioned under barnstaple. this castle is not noticed in domesday book, but its existence in the th century is made certain by a charter of judhael's giving land _below his castle_ to the benedictine priory which he had founded at totnes: a charter certainly of the conqueror's reign, as it contains a prayer for the health of king william.[ ] the site was an important one; totnes had been one of the boroughs of the _burghal hidage_; it was at the head of a navigable river, and was the point where the ancient roman (?) road from devonshire to bath and the north began its course.[ ] the motte of the castle is very high and precipitous, and has a shell on top, which is perfect up to the battlements, and appears to be rather late norman. this keep is entered in a very unusual way, by a flight of steps leading up from the bailey, deeply sunk in the upper part into the face of the motte, so as to form a highly defensible passage. two wing walls run down to the walls of the bailey. there is at present no ditch between the motte and the bailey. the whole area of the work is / acre. it stands in a very defensible situation on a spur of hill overlooking the town, and lies just outside the ancient walls. the value of the town of totnes had risen at domesday.[ ] the tower of london.--here, as at colchester, there is no motte, because the original design was that there should be a stone keep. ordericus tells us that after the submission of london to william the conqueror he stayed for a few days in barking while certain fortifications in the city were being finished, to curb the excitability of the huge and fierce population.[ ] what these fortifications were we shall never know, but we may imagine they were earthworks of the usual norman kind.[ ] certainly the great keep familiarly known as the white tower was not built in a few days; it does not appear to have been even begun till some eleven years later, when gundulf, a monk celebrated for his architectural skill, was appointed to the see of rochester. gundulf was the architect of the tower,[ ] and it must therefore have been built during his episcopate, which lasted from - .[ ] in we read that "many shires which owe works to london were greatly oppressed in making the wall (weall) round the tower."[ ] this does not necessarily mean a stone wall, but probably it does, as gundulf's tower can hardly have been without a bank and palisade to its bailey. as the tower in its general plan represents the type of keep which was the model for all succeeding stone keeps up to the end of the th century, it seems appropriate here to give some description of its main features. its resemblance to the keep of colchester, which also was a work of william i.'s reign, is very striking.[ ] colchester is the larger of the two, but the tower exceeds in size all other english keeps, measuring × feet at its base.[ ] as it has been altered or added to in every century, its details are peculiarly difficult to trace, especially as the ordinary visitor is not allowed to make a thorough examination.[ ] thus much, however, is certain: neither of the two present entrances on the ground floor is original; the first entrance was on the first floor, some feet above the ground, at the s.w. angle of the south side, and has been transformed into a window. there was no entrance to the basement, but it was only reached by the grand staircase, which is enclosed in a round turret at the n.e. angle. there were two other stairs at the n.w. and s.w. angles, but these only began on the first floor. the basement is divided by a cross wall, which is carried up to the third storey. there are at present three storeys above the basement. the basement, which is now vaulted in brick, was not originally vaulted at all, except the south-eastern chamber, under the crypt of the chapel. the first floor, like the basement, is divided into three rooms, as, in addition to the usual cross wall, the tower has a branch cross wall to its eastern section, which is carried up to the top. this floor was formerly only lit by loopholes; clark states that there were two fireplaces in the east wall, but there is some doubt about this. the s.e. room contained the crypt of the chapel, which was vaulted. it is commonly supposed that the rooms on the first floor were occupied by the guards of the keep. in the account which we have quoted from lambert of ardres, the first floor is said to be the lord's habitation, and the upper storey that of the guards; so that there seems to have been no invariable rule.[ ] no special room was allotted to the kitchen, as in time of peace at any rate, the lord of the castle and all his retainers took their meals in a great hall in the bailey of the castle.[ ] the ceilings of the two larger rooms of this floor are now supported by posts, an arrangement which is probably modern, as the present posts certainly are.[ ] the second floor contains the chapel, which in many keeps is merely an oratory, but is here of unusual size. its eastern end is carried out in a round apse, a feature which is also found at colchester, but is not usual in norman keeps.[ ] it is a singularly fine specimen of an early norman chapel. this floor probably contained the royal apartments; it was lighted by windows, not loops. both the eastern and western rooms had fireplaces; the eastern room goes by the name of the banqueting chamber. the third storey is on a level with the triforium of the chapel.[ ] this triforium is continued all round the keep as a mural passage, and it has windows only slightly smaller than those of the floor below. these mural galleries are found in most important keeps. as their windows were of larger size than the loops which lit the lower floors, it is possible that they may have been used for defence, either for throwing down missiles or for shooting with bows and arrows. but no near aim could be taken without a downward splay to the window, and the bows of the th and th centuries were incapable of a long aim. a plausible theory is that they were intended for the march of sentinels.[ ] the masonry of the tower is of kentish rag, with ashlar quoins. in mediæval times it had a forebuilding, with a round stair turret, which is shown in some old views; but it may reasonably be doubted whether this was an original feature. as regards the ground plan of the castle as a whole, it is now concentric, but was not so originally. the tower was certainly placed in the s.e. angle of the roman walls of london, and very near the east wall, portions of which have been discovered.[ ] the conversion of the castle into one of the concentric type was the work of later centuries, and the history of its development has still to be traced.[ ] trematon, cornwall (fig. ).--"the count [of mortain] has a castle there and a market, rendering shillings."[ ] two cornish castles are mentioned in domesday, and both of them are only on the borders of that wild keltic country; but while launceston is inland, trematon guards an inlet on the south coast. the position of this castle is extremely strong by nature, at the end of a high headland; on the extreme point of this promontory the motte is placed. it carries a well-preserved shell wall, which may be of norman date, from the plain round arch of the entrance.[ ] it has been separated by a ditch from the bailey, but the steepness of the hill rendered it unnecessary to carry this ditch all round. the bailey, acre in extent, in which a modern house is situated, still has an entrance gate of the th century, and part of a mediæval wall. a second bailey, now a rose-garden, has been added at a later period. in spite of the establishment of a castle and a market the value of the manor of trematon had gone down at the time of the survey, which may be accounted for by the fact that there were only ten ploughs where there ought to have been twenty-four. it was only a small manor, and no burgus is mentioned. [illustration: fig. . trematon, cornwall. tutbury, staffs.] tutbury, staffordshire (fig. ).--in the magnificent earthworks of this castle, and the strength of its site, we probably see a testimony to the ability of hugh d'avranches; for we learn from ordericus that in william i. gave to henry de ferrers the castle of tutbury, which had belonged to hugh d'avranches,[ ] to whom the king then gave the more dangerous but more honourable post of the earldom of chester. domesday book simply states that henry de ferrers has the castle of tutbury, and that there are forty-two men living by their merchandise alone in the borough round the castle.[ ] at tutbury the keep was placed on an artificial motte, which itself stood on a hill of natural rock, defended on the n.w. side by precipices. there is no trace of any ditch between the motte and bailey. at present there is only the ruin of a comparatively modern tower on the motte, but shaw states that there was formerly a stone keep.[ ] a description of elizabeth's reign says, "the castle is situated upon a round hill, and is circumvironed with a strong wall of astilar [ashlar] stone.... the king's lodging therein is fair and strong, bounded and knit to the wall. and a fair stage hall of timber, of a great length. four chambers of timber, and other houses well upholden, within the walls of the castle."[ ] the king's lodging will no doubt be the closed gatehouse; the custom of erecting gatehouse palaces arose as early as the th century. this account shows how many of the castle buildings were still of timber in elizabeth's reign. the bailey is quadrant-shaped, and has the motte at its apex. its area is - / acres. its most remarkable feature is that it still retains its ancient banks on the east side and part of the south, and the more recent curtain is carried on top of them. this curtain is of the same masonry as the three remaining towers, which are of excellent perpendicular work, and are generally attributed to john of gaunt, who held this castle after his marriage with blanche of lancaster. the first castle was undoubtedly of wood; it was pulled down by order of henry i. in ,[ ] nor does there seem to have been any resurrection till the time of earl thomas of lancaster at the earliest. though tutbury was the centre of the honour of ferrers, it does not seem to have been even a manor in saxon times. the borough was probably the creation of the castellan, who also founded the priory.[ ] there is no statement in the survey from which we can learn the value t. r. e., but t. r. w. it was _l._ _s._ tynemouth, northumberland.--besieged and taken by william rufus in .[ ] there is no motte there, and probably never was one, as the situation is defended by precipitous cliffs on all sides but one, where a deep ditch has been cut across the neck of the headland. [illustration: fig. . wallingford, berks.] wallingford, berkshire (fig. ).--there is good reason to suppose that in the _vallum_ of the town of wallingford we have an interesting relic of saxon times. wallingford is one of the boroughs enumerated in the _burghal hidage_; it was undoubtedly a fortified town at the time of the conquest,[ ] and is called a _burgus_ in domesday book; but there appears to be no evidence to connect it with roman times except the discovery of a number of roman coins in the town and its neighbourhood. no roman buildings or pavements have ever been found.[ ] the saxon borough was built on the model of a roman _chester_: a square with rounded corners. the rampart of wallingford, which still exists in great part, is entirely of earth, and must have been crowned with a wooden wall, such as was still existing at portsmouth in leland's time.[ ] the accounts of wallingford in the great survey are very full and important. "king edward had eight virgates in the borough of wallingford, and in these there were haughs paying _l._ of rent. eight have been destroyed for the castle."[ ] this norman castle was placed in the n.e. corner of the borough. at present its precincts cover acres,[ ] but this includes garden grounds, and no doubt represents later enclosures. no ancient plan of the castle has been preserved, but from leland's description there appear to have been three wards in his time, each defended by banks and ditches. the inner ward, which was doubtless the original one, is rudely oblong in shape; it covers - / acres. leland says, "all the goodly buildings, with the towers and dungeon, be within the third dyke." the motte, which still exists, was on the south-eastern edge of this ward; that is, it was so placed as to overlook both the borough and the ford over the thames.[ ] it was ditched around, and is said to have had a stone keep on the top; but no foundations were found when it was recently excavated. it was found to rest on a foundation of solid masonry several feet thick, sloping upwards towards the outside, so that it must have stood in a kind of stone saucer.[ ] the masonry which remains in the other parts of the castle is evidently none of it of the early norman period, unless we accept a fragment of wall which contains courses of tiles. numerous buildings were added in henry iii.'s reign; the walls and battlements were repaired, and the _hurdicium_, which had been blown down by a high wind, was renewed.[ ] but the motte and the high banks show clearly that the first norman castle was of wood. the value of the royal borough of wallingford had considerably risen since the conquest.[ ] warwick (fig. ).--here again we have a castle built on land which the conqueror obtained from a saxon convent, a positive proof that there was no castle there previously. only a small number of houses was destroyed for the castle,[ ] and this points to the probability, which is supported by some other evidence, that the castle was built outside the town. warwick, of course, was one of the boroughs fortified by ethelfleda, and it was doubtless erected to protect the roman road from bath to lincoln, the foss way, against the danes. domesday book, after mentioning that the king's barons have houses in the borough, and the abbot of coventry , goes on to say that these houses belong to the lands which the barons hold outside the city, and are rated there.[ ] this is one of the passages from which professor maitland has concluded that the boroughs planted by ethelfleda and her brother were organised on a system of military defence, whereby the magnates in the country were bound to keep houses in the towns.[ ] ordericus, after the well-known passage in which he states that the lack of castles in england was one great cause of its easy conquest by the normans, says: "the king _therefore_ founded a castle at warwick, and gave it in custody to henry, son of roger de beaumont."[ ] putting these various facts together, we may fairly assert that the motte which still forms part of the castle of warwick was the work of the conqueror, and not, as mr freeman believed, "a monument of the wisdom and energy of the mighty daughter of alfred,"[ ] whose energy was very much better employed in the protection of her people. dugdale, who also put the motte down to ethelfleda, was only copying rous, a very imaginative writer of the th century. the motte of warwick is mentioned several times in the _pipe rolls_ of henry ii.; it then carried wooden structures on its top.[ ] in leland's time there were still standing on this motte the ruins of a keep, which he calls by its norman name of the dungeon. a fragment of a polygonal shell wall still remains.[ ] but there is not a scrap of masonry of norman date about the castle. the motte, and the earthen bank which still runs along one side of the court, show that the first castle was a wooden one. the bailey is oblong in shape, the motte being outside it; its area is about - / acres. the value of warwick had doubled since the conquest. [illustration: fig. . warwick. wigmore, hereford.] wigmore, herefordshire (fig. ).--we have already referred to the absurdity of identifying this place with the _wigingamere_ of the _anglo-saxon chronicle_.[ ] we have the strongest indication that the norman castle at wigmore was a new erection, since domesday book tells us that william fitzosbern built it on waste land called mereston.[ ] this express statement disposes of the fable in the _fundationis historia_ of wigmore priory, that the castle of wigmore had belonged to edric the wild, and was rebuilt by ralph mortimer.[ ] wigmore had only been a small manor of two taxable hides in saxon times. whereas it had then been unproductive, at the date of the survey there were two ploughs in the demesne, and the borough attached to the castle yielded _l._ here we have another instance of the planting of a borough close to a castle, and of the revenue which was thus obtained. there is a very large and high motte at wigmore castle, of oval shape, on a headland which has been cut off by a deep ditch. the earthen banks of its first fortification still remain, enclosing a small ward, but on top of them is a wall in masonry, and the ruins of a polygonal keep;[ ] also the remains of two mural towers. half-way down the end of the headland, below the motte, is a small square court, which _may_ have been the original bailey; below it, again, is a larger half-moon bailey furnished with walls and towers. but the whole area covered is only acre. the masonry is none of it earlier than the decorated period, except one tower in the bailey wall which may be late norman. [illustration: fig. . winchester. (from a plan by w. godson, .)] winchester, hants.--we include winchester among the castles mentioned or alluded to in domesday book, because we think it can be proved that the _domus regis_ mentioned under alton and clere is the castle built by william outside the west gate of the city, where the present county hall is now almost the only remaining relic of any castle at all.[ ] under the head of "aulton" we are told that the abbot of hyde had unjustly gotten the manor in exchange for the king's house, because by the testimony of the jurors it was already the king's house.[ ] that _excambio domus regis_ should read _excambio terræ domus regis_ is clear from the corresponding entry under clere, where the words are _pro excambio terræ in qua domus regis est in civitate_.[ ] the matter is put beyond a doubt by the confirmatory charter of henry i. to hyde abbey, where the king states that his father gave aulton and clere to hyde abbey _in exchange for the land on which he built his hall in the city of winchester_.[ ] where, then, was this hall, which was clearly new, since fresh land was obtained for it, and which must not therefore be sought on the site of the palace of the saxon kings? the _liber winton_, a roll of henry i.'s time, says that twelve burgesses' houses had been destroyed and the land was now occupied by the king's house.[ ] another passage says that a whole street _outside the west gate_ was destroyed when the king made his ditch.[ ] these passages justify the conclusion of mr smirke that the king's house at winchester was neither more nor less than the castle which existed until the th century outside the west gate.[ ] probably the reason why it is spoken of so frequently in the earliest documents as the king's house or hall, instead of the castle, is that in this important city, the ancient capital of wessex, where the king "wore his crown" once a year, william built, besides the usual wooden keep on the motte, a stone hall in the bailey, of size and dignity corresponding to the new royalty.[ ] in fact, the hall so magnificently transformed by henry iii., and known to be the old hall of the castle, can be seen on careful examination to have still its original norman walls and other traces of early norman work.[ ] the palace of the saxon kings stood, where we might expect to find the palace of native princes, in the middle of the city; according to milner it was on the site of the present square.[ ] william may have repaired this palace, but that he constructed two royal houses, a palace and a castle, is highly improbable. the castle became the residence of the norman kings, and the saxon palace appears to have been neglected.[ ] we see with what caution the conqueror placed his castle at the royal city of wessex without the walls. milner tells us that there was no access to it from the city without passing through the west gate.[ ] the motte of the castle appears to have been standing in his time, as he speaks of "the artificial mount on which the keep stands."[ ] it is frequently mentioned in mediæval documents as the _beumont_ or _beau mont_. it was surrounded by its own ditch.[ ] the bailey, if speed's map is correct, was triangular in shape. with its ditches and banks the castle covered acres, according to the commissioners who reported on it in elizabeth's reign; but the inner area cannot have been more than - / acres. we may infer from the sums spent on this castle by henry ii., that he was the first to give it walls and towers of stone; the _pipe rolls_ show entries to the amount of _l._ during the course of his reign; the work of the walls is frequently specified, and stone is mentioned. domesday book does not inform us whether the value of winchester had risen or fallen since the conquest. [illustration: fig. . windsor castle (from ashmole's "order of the garter.")] windsor (fig. ).--here we have another of the interesting cases in which the geld due from the tenant of a manor is lessened on account of a castle having occupied a portion of the land.[ ] the survey tells us that the castle of windsor sits in half a hide belonging to the manor of clewer, which had become william's property as part of the spoils of harold. it was _now_ held of the king by a norman tenant-in-chief, but whereas it was formerly rated as five hides it was now (that is, probably, since the castle was built) rated as four and a half hides. of course we are not to suppose that the castle occupied the whole half hide, which might be some acres; but it extinguished the liability of that portion. at windsor, however, we have no occasion to press this argument as a proof that the castle was new, since it is well established that the palace of the saxon kings was at least miles from the present castle and town, in the village long known as old windsor, which fell into decay as the town of windsor sprang up under the norman castle.[ ] the manor of windsor was given by edward the confessor to the convent of westminster, but recovered by the conqueror.[ ] but as the survey shows us, he did not build his castle in the manor of windsor, but in that of clewer. he built it for a hunting-seat,[ ] and it may have been for the purpose of recovering forest rights that he resumed possession of old windsor; but he placed his castle in the situation which he thought best for defence. for even a hunting-seat in norman times was virtually a castle, as many other instances show. it is needless to state that there is no masonry at windsor of the time of the conqueror, or even of the time of his son henry i., in spite of the statement of stowe that henry "new builded the castle of windsor." this statement may perhaps be founded on a passage in the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ which says that henry held his court for the first time in the new windsor in . perhaps the _chronicle_ here refers to the _borough_ of new windsor, as an entry in the _pipe roll_ of henry i. seems to show that he was the first to enclose the _burgus_ of windsor.[ ] for it is probable that the first stone castle at windsor was built by henry ii., who spent £ on it in the course of his reign. one of his first acts after his accession was an exchange of land at windsor, which seems to have been for the purpose of a vineyard, and was possibly the origin of the second bailey.[ ] at present the position of the motte is central to the rest of the castle, but this is so unusual that it suggests the idea that the upper ward is the oldest, and that the motte stood on its outer edge. henry ii. surrounded the castle with a wall, at a cost of about _l._[ ] the other entries in the _pipe rolls_ probably refer to the first stone shell on the motte, and there is little doubt that the present round tower, though its height has been raised in modern times, and its masonry re-dressed and re-pointed so as to destroy all appearance of antiquity, is in the main of henry ii.'s building. the frequent payments for stone show the nature of henry's work. although so much masonry was put up in henry ii.'s reign, the greater part of what is now visible is not older than the time of henry iii. the lower bailey seems to have been enlarged in his reign, as the castle ditch was extended towards the town, and compensation given for houses taken down.[ ] the upper (probably the original) ward is rectangular in shape, and with the motte and its ditches covers about - / acres.[ ] the state apartments, a chapel, and the hall of st george, are in the upper ward, showing that this was the site of the original hall and chapel of the castle. the charter of agreement between stephen and henry in speaks of the _motte_ of windsor as equivalent to the castle.[ ] repairs of the motte are mentioned in the _pipe rolls_ of henry ii.[ ] the value of the manor of clewer had fallen since the conquest; that of windsor, which was worth _l._ t. r. e., but after the conquest fell to _l._, was again worth _l._ at the date of the survey.[ ] wisbeach, cambridgeshire.--william i. built a castle here in , after suppressing the revolt of hereward, in order to hold in check the cambridgeshire fen country.[ ] there is an early mention of it in the register of thorney abbey. this castle, after being several times rebuilt, is now completely destroyed, and "several rows of elegant houses built on the site." nevertheless, there still remain distinct traces of the motte-and-bailey pattern in the gardens which now occupy the site of the original castle of king william; the present crescent probably follows the line of the ditch. the meagre indications preserved in casual accounts confirm this. there was an inner castle of about acres, just the area of the present garden enclosure, and an outer court, probably an addition, of some acres.[ ] both areas were moated. weston, a prisoner who was confined in the keep of this castle in the th century, has left an account of his captivity, in which he casually mentions that the keep or dungeon stood upon a high terrace, from which he could overlook the outer bailey, and was surrounded by a moat filled with water.[ ] the castle is not mentioned in domesday, but as might be expected in a district which had been so ravaged by war, the value of the manor had fallen. worcester.--this borough, as we have seen, was fortified by ethelfleda and her husband ethelred in the th century. that the fortifications thus erected were those of a city and not of a castle is shown with sufficient clearness by the remarkable charter of this remarkable pair, in which they declare that they have built the _burh_ at worcester to shelter all the people, and the churches, and the bishop.[ ] the castle is first mentioned in the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ in , and it is to be noted that it is styled the king's castle. urse d'abitot, the norman sheriff of worcester, has the credit of having built the first castle, and malmesbury relates that he seized part of the monks' cemetery for the bailey.[ ] the monks, however, held on to their right, and in the first year of henry iii. the bailey was restored to them by the guardians of the young king, the motte being reserved for the king's use.[ ] the first wooden castle was burnt in .[ ] the tower or keep which succeeded it, and which was repaired by henry ii.,[ ] may have been either of stone or wood; but in the order of john, that the gateway of the castle, which is of wood, is to be made of stone, we get a hint of the gradual transformation of the castle from a wooden to a stone fortress.[ ] worcester castle was outside the town, from speed's map, and was near the severn. the area now called college green was no doubt the outer ward of the castle, which was restored to the convent by henry iii. the tower called edgar's tower was built by the monks as the gatehouse to their newly conceded close.[ ] from the map given by green, this outer bailey appears to have been roughly square; but there was also a small oblong inner ward, retained by the king, where the gaol was afterwards built. the area of the castle is said to have been between and acres.[ ] the motte, which is mentioned several times in mediæval documents,[ ] was completely levelled in ; it was then found out that it had been thrown up over some previous buildings, which were believed to be roman, though this seems doubtful.[ ] the value of worcester had risen since the conquest.[ ] york (fig. ).--william the conqueror built two castles at york, and the mottes of both these castles remain, one underneath clifford's tower, the keep of york castle, the other, on the south side of the ouse, still bearing the name of the baile hill, or the old baile.[ ] the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ implies, though it does not directly state, that both these castles were built in , on the occasion of william's first visit to york. the more detailed narrative of ordericus shows that one was built in , and the other at the beginning of , on william's second visit.[ ] both were destroyed in september , when the english and danes captured york, and both were rebuilt before christmas of the same year, when william held his triumphant christmas feast at york. this speedy erection, destruction, and re-erection is enough to prove that the castles of william in york were, like most other norman castles, hills of earth with buildings and stockades of wood, especially as we find these hills of earth still remaining on the known sites of the castles. and we may be quite sure that the norman masonry, which mr freeman pictures as so eagerly destroyed by the english, never existed.[ ] but the obstinate tendency of the human mind to make things out older than they are has led to these earthen hills being assigned to britons, romans, saxons, danes, anybody rather than normans. a single passage of william of malmesbury, in which he refers to the _castrum_ which the danes had built at york in the reign of athelstan, is the sole vestige of basis for the theory that the motte of clifford's tower is of danish origin.[ ] the other theories have absolutely no foundation but conjecture. if malmesbury was quoting from some older source which is now lost, it is extremely probable that the word _castrum_ which he copied, did not mean a castle in our sense of the word at all, but was a translation of the word _burh_, which almost certainly referred to a vallum or wall constructed round the danish suburb outside the walls of york. such a suburb there was, for there in stood the danish church of st olave, in which earl siward was buried, and the suburb was long known as the earlsburgh or earl's burh, probably because it contained the residence of the danish earls of northumbria.[ ] this suburb was not anywhere near clifford's tower, but in quite a different part of the city. to prove that both the mottes were on entirely new sites, we have the assurance of domesday book that out of the seven _shires_ or wards into which the city was divided, one was laid waste for the castles; so that there was clearly a great destruction of houses to make room for the new castles.[ ] [illustration: fig. . york castle and baile hill. (from a plan by p. chassereau, .)] what has been assumed above receives striking confirmation from excavations made recently ( ) in the motte of clifford's tower. at the depth of feet were found remains of a wooden structure, surmounted by a quantity of charred wood.[ ] now the accounts of the destruction of the castles in do not tell us that they were burned, but thrown down and broken to pieces.[ ] but the keep which was restored by william, and on the repair of which henry ii. spent _l._ in ,[ ] was burnt down in the frightful massacre of the jews at york castle in .[ ] the excavations disclosed the interesting fact that this castle stood on a lower motte than the present one, and that when the burnt keep was replaced by a new one the motte was raised to its present height, "an outer crust of firmer and more clayey material being made round the older summit, and a lighter material placed inside this crater to bring it up to the necessary level." this restoration must have taken place in the third year of richard i., when _l._ was spent "on the work of the castle."[ ] this small sum shows that the new keep also was of wood; and remains of timber work were in fact found on the top of the motte during the excavations, though unfortunately they were not sufficiently followed up to determine whether they belonged to a wooden tower or to a platform intended to consolidate the motte.[ ] it is extremely likely that this third keep was blown down by the high wind of , when s. was paid "for collecting the timber of york castle blown down by the wind."[ ] in its place arose the present keep, one of the most remarkable achievements of the reign of henry iii.[ ] the old ground-plan of the square norman keep was now abandoned, and replaced by a quatrefoil. the work occupied thirteen years, from the th to the rd henry iii., and the total sum expended was _l._ _s._ _d._, equal to about , _l._ of our money. this remarkable fact has slumbered in the unpublished _pipe rolls_ for years, never having been unearthed by any of the numerous historians of york. the keep was probably the first work in stone at york castle, and for a long time it was probably the only defensive masonry. the banks certainly had only a wooden stockade in the early part of henry iii.'s reign, as timber from the forest of galtres was ordered for the repair of breaches in the _palicium_ in .[ ] as late as edward ii.'s reign there was a _pelum_, or stockade, round the keep, on top of a _murus_, which was undoubtedly an earthen bank.[ ] at present the keep occupies the whole top of the motte except a small _chemin de ronde_, but the fact so frequently alluded to in the writs, that a stockade ran round the keep, proves that a small courtyard existed there formerly, as was usually the case with important keeps. another writ of edward ii.'s reign shows that the motte was liable to injury from the floods of the river fosse,[ ] and probably its size has thus been reduced. the present bailey of york castle does not follow the lines of the original one, but is an enlargement made in . a plan made in , and reproduced here, shows that the motte was surrounded by its own ditch, which is now filled up, and that the bailey, around which a branch of the fosse was carried, was of the very common bean-shaped form; it was about acres in extent. the motte and bailey were both considerably outside what is believed to have been the anglo-saxon rampart of york,[ ] but the motte was so placed as to overlook the city. the value of the city of york, in spite of the sieges and sacks which it had undergone, and in spite of there being houses "so empty that they pay nothing at all," had risen at the date of the survey from _l_. in king edward's time to _l._ in king william's.[ ] this extraordinary rise in value can only be attributed to increased trade and increased exactions, the former being promoted by the greater security given to the roads by the castles, the latter due to the tolls on the high-roads and waterways, which belonged to the king, and the various "customs" belonging to the castles, which, though new, were henceforth equally part of his rights. the baile hill, york (fig. ).--there can be no doubt whatever that this still existing motte was the site of one of william's castles at york, and it is even probable that it was the older of the two, as mr cooper conjectures from its position on the south side of the river.[ ] the castle bore the name of the old baile at least as early as the th century, perhaps even in the th.[ ] in a dispute arose between the citizens of york and archbishop william de melton as to which of them ought to repair the wall around the old baile. the mayor alleged that the district was under the express jurisdiction of the archbishop, exempt from that of the city; the archbishop pleaded that it stood within the ditches of the city.[ ] the meaning of this dispute can only be understood in the light of facts which have recently been unearthed by the industry and observation of mr t. p. cooper, of york.[ ] the old baile, like so many of william's castles, originally stood outside the ramparts of the city. the original roman walls of york (it is believed) enclosed only a small space on the eastern shore of the ouse, and before the norman conquest the city had far outgrown these bounds, and therefore had been enlarged in anglo-saxon times. it appears that the micklegate suburb was then for the first time enclosed with a wall, and as this district is spoken of in domesday book as "the shire of the archbishop," it was evidently under his jurisdiction. at a later period this wall was buried in an earthen bank, which probably carried a palisade on top, until the palisade was replaced by stone walls in the reign of henry iii.[ ] the evidence of the actual remains renders it more than probable that this rampart turned towards the river at a point feet short of its present angle, so that the old baile, when first built, was quite outside the city walls.[ ] this is exactly how we should expect to find a castle of william the norman's in relation to one of the most turbulent cities of the realm; and, as we have seen, the other castle at york was similarly placed. by the time of archbishop melton the south-western suburb was already enclosed in the new stone walls built in the th century, and these walls had been carried along the west and south banks of the old baile, so as to enclose that castle within the city. this was the archbishop's pretext for trying to lay upon the citizens the duty of maintaining the old baile. but probably on account of his ancient authority in this part of the city, the cause went against him; though he stipulated that whatever he did in the way of fortification was of his own option, and was not to be accounted a precedent. a contemporary chronicler says that he enclosed the old baile first with stout planks feet long, afterwards with a stone wall:[ ] an interesting proof that wooden fortifications were still used in the reign of edward iii. though the base court of the old baile is now built over, its area and ditches were visible in leland's time,[ ] and can still be guessed at by the indications mr cooper has noted. the area of the bailey must have been nearly acres, and its shape nearly square. this measurement includes the motte, which was placed in the south-west corner on the line of the banks; it thus overlooked the river as well as the city.[ ] chapter viii motte-castles in north wales motte-castles are as common in wales as they are in england, and in certain districts much more common. it is now our task to show how they got there. they were certainly not built (in the first instance at any rate) by the native inhabitants, for they do not correspond to what we know to have been the state of society in wales during the anglo-saxon period.[ ] the welsh were then in the tribal condition, a condition, as we have shown, inconsistent with the existence of the private castle. the residence of the king or chieftain, as we know from the welsh laws, was a great hall, such as seems to have been the type of chieftains' residence among all the northern nations at that time. "it was adapted for the joint occupation of a number of tribesmen living together."[ ] pennant describes the residence of ednowen, a welsh chieftain of the th century, as follows: "the remains are about yards square; the entrance about feet wide, with a large upright stone on each side for a doorcase; the walls were formed of large stones uncemented by any mortar; in short the structure shows the very low state of welsh architecture at this time; it may be paralleled only by the artless fabric of a cattle-house."[ ] this certainly is a hall and not a castle. the so-called dimetian code indeed tells us that the king is to have a man and a horse from every hamlet, with hatchets for constructing his castles (gestyll) at the king's cost; but the venedotian code, which is the older ms., says that these hatchet-men are to form encampments (uuesten); that is, they are to cut down trees and form either stockades on banks or rude _zerebas_ for the protection of the host.[ ] it is clearly laid down in the codes what buildings the king's villeins are to erect for him at his residences: a hall, buttery, kitchen, dormitory, stable, dog-house, and little house.[ ] in none of these lists is anything mentioned which has the smallest resemblance to a castle, not even a tower. we can imagine that these buildings were enclosed in an earthwork or stockade, but it is not mentioned.[ ] wales was never one state, except for very short periods. normally it was divided into three states, gwynedd or north wales, powys or mid-wales, and deheubarth, all almost incessantly at war with each other.[ ] other subdivisions asserted themselves as opportunity offered, so that the above rough division into provinces must not be regarded as always accurate. a wales thus divided, and perpetually rent by internal conflicts, invited the aggression of the saxons, and it is probable that the complete subjugation of britain would have been accomplished by the descendants of alfred, if it had not been for the danish invasions. the position of the welsh kings after the time of athelstan seems to have been that of tributaries, who threw off their allegiance whenever it was possible to do so. but still the anglo-saxon frontier continued to advance. professor lloyd has shown, from a careful examination of domesday book, that even before the norman conquest the english held the greater part of what is now flintshire and east denbighshire, and were advancing into the vale of montgomery and the radnor district.[ ] the victories of griffith ap llywelyn, an able prince who succeeded in bringing all wales under his sway, devastated these english colonies; but his defeat by earl harold in restored the english ascendancy over these regions. the unimpeachable evidence of domesday book shows that a considerable district in north wales and a portion of radnor were held respectively by earl edwin and earl harold before the norman conquest. moreover, the fact mentioned by the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ in , that harold was building a hunting-seat for king edward at portskewet, _after he had subdued it_, suggests that the land between wye and usk, which domesday book reckons under gloucestershire, was a conquest of harold's.[ ] the norman conqueror was not the man to slacken his hold on any territory which had been won by the saxons. but there is no succinct history of his conquests in wales; we have to make it out, in most cases, from notices that are scarcely more than allusive, and from the surer, though scanty, ground of documents. it is noteworthy that the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ is so hostile to the norman kings that it discounts their successes in wales. thus we have only the briefest notice of william i.'s invasion of south wales, which was very probably the beginning of the conquest of that region; and several expeditions of william ii. are spoken of as entirely futile, though as we are told that the existing castles were still held by the normans, or new ones were built, it is clear that this summing-up is not strictly correct.[ ] our welsh authorities, the _annales cambriæ_ and the _brut y tywysogion_,[ ] seem to give a fairly candid account of the period, although the dates in the _brut_ are for the most part wrong (sometimes by three years), and they hardly ever give us a view of the situation as a whole. they tell us when the welsh rushed down and burnt the castles built by the normans in the conquered districts, but do not always tell when the normans recovered and rebuilt them. fortunately we are not called upon here to trace the history of the cruel and barbarous warfare between normans and welsh. no one can turn that bloodstained page without wishing that the final conquest had come two hundred years earlier, to put an end to the tragedy of suffering which must have been so largely the portion of the dwellers in wales and the marches after the coming of the normans.[ ] our business with both welsh and normans is purely archæological. we hold no brief for the normans, nor does it matter to us whether they kept their hold on wales or were driven out by the welsh; our concern is with facts, and the solid facts with which we have to deal are the castles whose remains still exist in wales, and whose significance we have to interpret. "wales was under his sway, and he built castles therein," says the _anglo-saxon chronicle_, in summing up the reign of the conqueror; a passage which is scarcely consistent with its previous almost complete silence about events in wales. there can be little doubt that william aimed at a complete conquest of wales, and that the policy he adopted was the creation of great earldoms along the welsh border, endowed with special privileges, one of which was the right of conquering whatever they could from the welsh.[ ] to these earldoms he appointed some of his strongest men, men little troubled by scruples of justice or mercy, but capable leaders in war or diplomacy. it was an essential part of the plan that every conquest should be secured by the building of castles, just as had been done in england. and we have now to trace very briefly the outline of norman conquest in wales by the castles which they have left behind them. we shall confine ourselves to those castles which are mentioned in the _brut y tywysogion_, the _pipe rolls_, or other trustworthy documents between and , the end of king john's reign. of many of these castles only the earthworks remain; of many others the original plan, exactly similar to that of the early castles of normandy and france, is still to be traced, though masked by the masonry of a later age. grose remarked but could not explain the fact that we continually read of the castles of the marches being burnt and utterly destroyed, and a few months later we find them again standing and in working order. this can only, but easily, be explained when we understand that they were wooden castles built on mottes, quickly restored after a complete destruction of the wooden buildings. north wales appears to have been the earliest conquest of the normans, though not the most lasting. north wales comprised the welsh kingdoms of gwynedd and powys. gwynedd covered the present shires of anglesea, carnarvon, and merioneth, and the mountainous districts round snowdon.[ ] powys stretched from the estuary of the dee to the upper course of the wye, and roughly included flint, denbigh, montgomery, and radnor shires. hugh of avranches, earl of chester, was the great instrument of norman conquest in gwynedd, and in the northern part of powys, which lay so near his own dominions. he was evidently a man in whose ability william had great confidence, as he removed him from tutbury to the more difficult and dangerous position of chester, and gave his earldom palatine privileges; all the land in cheshire was held under the earl, and he was a sort of little king in his county. hugh appears to have at once commenced the conquest of north wales. as professor lloyd remarks, domesday book shows us deganwy as the most advanced norman post on the north welsh coast, while on the bristol channel they had got no further than caerleon.[ ] in advancing to the valley of the clwyd and building a castle at rhuddlan, the normans were only securing the district which had already been conquered by harold in , when he burnt the hall of king griffith at rhuddlan. nearly the whole of flintshire (its manors are enumerated by domesday book under cheshire) was held by earl hugh in , so that he commanded the entire road from chester to rhuddlan. his powerful vassal, robert of rhuddlan, who became the terror of north wales, besides the lands which he held of earl hugh, held also directly of the king rhos and rhufeniog, districts which roughly correspond to the modern shire of denbigh, and "nort wales" which professor lloyd takes to mean the remainder of the principality of gwynedd, from which the rightful ruler, griffith ap cynan, had been driven as an exile to ireland. it does not appear that there was any fortification at rhuddlan[ ] before the "castle newly erected" by earl hugh and his vassal robert. they shared between them the castle and the _new borough_ which was built near it.[ ] one word about this new borough, which will apply to the other boroughs planted by norman castles. there were no towns in wales of any importance before the norman conquest, and this civilising institution of the borough is the one great set-off to the cruelty and unrighteousness of the conquest. mills, markets, and trade arose where castles were seated, and civilisation followed in their train. the castle of hugh and robert was not the magnificent building which still stands at rhuddlan, for that is entirely the work of edward i., and there is documentary evidence that edward made a purchase of new land for the site of his castle.[ ] more probably robert and hugh had a wooden castle on the now reduced motte which may be seen to the south of edward's castle. in gough's time this motte was still "surrounded with a very deep ditch, including the abbey." nothing can be seen of this ditch now, except on the south side of the motte, where a deep ravine runs up from the river. as from gough's description the hillock (called tut hill)[ ] was within the precincts of the priory of black friars, founded in the th century, it is extremely probable that edward gave the site of the old castle to the dominicans when he built his new one.[ ] another of the castles of robert of rhuddlan was deganwy, or gannoc, which defended the mouth of the conway.[ ] here it is said that there was an ancient seat of the kings of gwynedd.[ ] the two conical hills which rise here offer an excellent site for fortification, one of them being large enough on top for a considerable camp. the norman conqueror treated them as two mottes, and connected them by walls so as to form a bailey below them. the stone fortifications are probably the remains of the castle built by the earl of chester in .[ ] this castle was naturally a sorely contested point, and often passed from hand to hand; but it was in english possession in the reign of henry iii. it was abandoned when edward i. built his great castle at conway. with its usual indifference, the survey mentions no castle in flintshire, but we may be sure that the castle of mold, or montalto (fig. ), was one of the earliest by which the norman acquisitions in that region were defended,[ ] though it is not mentioned in authentic history until . the tradition that it was built by robert de monte alto, one of the barons of the earl of chester, is no doubt correct, though the assumption of welsh legend-makers that the _gwydd grug_, or great tumulus, from which this castle derives its welsh name, existed before the castle, may be dismissed as baseless. the motte of robert de monte alto still exists, and is uncommonly high and perfect; it has two baileys, separated by great ditches, and appears to have had a shell on top. [d. h. m.] the castle was regarded as specially strong, and its reduction by owen gwynedd in was one of the sweetest triumphs that the welsh ever won.[ ] [illustration: fig. .--motte-castles of north wales. mold. welshpool. wrexham. mathraval.] it is clear from the _life of griffith ap cynan_[ ] that the earl of chester had conquered and incastellated gwynedd before the accession of william rufus. this valuable document unfortunately gives no dates, but it mentions in particular the castle at aberlleinog,[ ] one at carnarvon, one at bangor, and one in merioneth. the motte at aberlleinog, near beaumaris, still exists, and the half-moon bailey is traceable, but the curious little round towers and revetting wall in masonry on the motte were probably built to carry guns at the time of the civil war, when this castle was besieged by the royalists. at carnarvon the magnificent castle of edward i. has displaced all former erections, yet some evidence for a motte-and-bailey plan may be found in the fact that the northern portion of the castle has evidently been once separated by a ditch from the southern, and is also much higher.[ ] on the hills above bangor, pennant thought he had discovered the remains of earl hugh's castle, but having carefully examined these walls, we are convinced that they never formed part of a castle at all, as they are much too thin; nor are there any vestiges of earthworks.[ ] we are disposed to think that instead of at bangor, the castle of earl hugh was at aber, often spoken of as abermenai in the _chronicles_, and evidently the most important port on the straits. at aber there still remains a motte which must have belonged to an important castle, as it was afterwards one of the seats of llywelyn ap jorwerth, prince of gwynedd. the castle in merioneth cannot be certainly identified. in one of the invasions of william rufus, which both the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ and the _brut_ describe as so unsuccessful, we hear that he encamped at mur castell, a place undoubtedly the same as what is now called tomen-y-mur, a motte standing just inside a roman camp, on the roman road leading from shropshire into merioneth and carnarvon. this motte is surrounded by a ditch; there are traces of the usual earthen rampart round the top, now mutilated by landslips.[ ] we may, with great probability, assume that this motte was thrown up by william rufus, and that the roman camp served as a bailey for his invading host. whether it was garrisoned for the normans we cannot say, but it evidently formed an important post on a route often followed by their invading armies, as henry i. is said to have encamped there twice.[ ] it is one of the few mottes which stand in a wild and mountainous situation, and its purpose no doubt was purely military.[ ] * * * * * the earls of chester did not retain the sovereignty of gwynedd; on the death of rufus, griffith ap cynan returned, and obtained possession of anglesea. he was favourably received at the court of henry i., and gradually recovered possession of the whole of gwynedd. in henry had to undertake a great expedition against him to enforce the payment of tribute;[ ] from which, and from the peaceful manner in which griffith seems to have acquired his principality, we may infer that this tribute was the bargain of his possession. it very likely suited henry's policy better to have a tributary welsh prince than a too powerful earl of chester. the reigns of the three first norman kings were the time in which norman supremacy in wales made its greatest advances. with the accession of stephen and the civil war which followed it came the great opportunity for the welsh of throwing off the norman yoke. powys appears to have been the only province which remained faithful to the english allegiance, under madoc ap meredith.[ ] the history of norman conquest in powys is more confused than that of gwynedd, but domesday shows us that rainald, the sheriff of shropshire, a vassal of earl roger of shrewsbury, was seated at edeyrnion and cynlle, two districts along the upper valley of the dee.[ ] robert of rhuddlan held part of his grant of "nort wales," namely the hundred of arwystli, in the very centre of wales, under earl roger. professor lloyd remarks, "earl roger claimed the same authority over powys as earl hugh over gwynedd, and the theory that the princes of this region were subject to the lords of salop survived the fall of the house of montgomery."[ ] we have already spoken of earl roger de montgomeri and his brood of able and unscrupulous sons.[ ] the palatine earldom of shrewsbury lay along the eastern border of central powys, and must soon have proved a menace to that welsh kingdom. domesday book shows us that earl roger had already planted his castle of montgomery well within the welsh border at that date. but the ambition of earl roger and his sons stretched beyond their immediate borders. it is probable that they used the upper severn valley, which they fortified by the castle of montgomery, and possibly by the castle of welshpool, as their road into ceredigion, for we find earl roger named by the _brut_ as the builder of the castle of cilgerran,[ ] and some say of cardigan also. possibly he was helping his son arnolf in the conquest of pembroke. in we find his successor, earl hugh, allied with the earl of chester in the invasion of anglesea. montgomery.--this castle is named from the ancestral seat of its founder.[ ] the motte-and-bailey plan is still very apparent in the ruins, though the motte is represented by a precipitous rock, only a few feet higher than the baileys attached, and separated from them by a ditch cut through the headland. the masonry, the chief part of which is the shell wall and towers on this isolated rock, is none of it older than the reign of henry iii., when large sums were spent on this castle, and it is spoken of in a writ as "the new castle of montgomery."[ ] yet even then the whole of the defences were not remade in stone, as bretasches of timber are ordered in a _mandamus_ of .[ ] the four wards are all roughly rectilateral. the castle was never recovered permanently by the welsh, and after the forfeiture of robert belesme, the third earl of shrewsbury, in , the crown kept this important border fortress in its own hands throughout the middle ages. although montgomery castle is the only one mentioned in that region at the same date, there must have been many others, for in henry iii. ordered all who had mottes in the valley of montgomery to fortify them with good bretasches without delay;[ ] and the remains of these mottes are still numerous in the valley. it is quite possible that the mottes at moat lane and llandinam were thrown up to defend the road into arwystli; but this is conjecture.[ ] welshpool, _alias_ pol or pool (fig. ), is also called the castle of trallung.--in powell's _history of wales_ (p. ) it is stated that cadwgan ap bleddyn, when henry i. took cardigan from him, retired to powys, and began to build a castle here. powell's statements, however, have no authority when unconfirmed, and we are unable to find any confirmation of this statement in the more trustworthy version of the _brut_. and as the house of montgomeri was firmly established in the valley of montgomery as early as , it seems more probable that the two motte-and-bailey castles at welshpool, lower down the severn valley, are relics of the early progress of that family, especially as one of these castles is only about a mile east of offa's dyke, the ancient border. this latter motte is partly cut into by the railway, and diminished in size, but the bailey is nearly perfect. the other one is in the park of powys castle, and is an admirable specimen of its class. the breastwork round the top of the motte remains. [h. w.] it seems probable that this was the precursor of powys castle, and was abandoned at an early period, as the newer castle was known by the name of castell coch, or the red castle, as early as .[ ] leland states that there were formerly two castles of two different lords marchers at welshpool;[ ] possibly this throws some light on the existence of these two motte-castles. * * * * * when henry ii. came to the throne in , one of the many questions which he had to settle was the welsh question. his first expedition against north wales was in . here he was one day placed in grave difficulties, and fortune was only restored by his personal courage. but in spite of this we learn even from the welsh chronicler that he continued his advance to rhuddlan, and that the object of the expedition, which was the restoration of cadwalader, one of the sons of griffith ap cynan, to his lands, was accomplished. the english chronicler roger of wendover says that henry recovered all the fortresses which had been taken from his predecessors, and rebuilt basingwerk castle; and when he had reduced the welsh to submission, returned in triumph to england. the undoubted facts of the _pipe rolls_ show us that in the year henry had in his hands the castles of overton, hodesley, wrexham, dernio, ruthin, and rhuddlan, castles which would give him command of the whole of flintshire and of east denbigh and the valley of the clwyd. similarly, after the expedition of , sometimes stated to have been only disastrous, we find him in possession of the castles of rhuddlan, basingwerk, prestatyn, mold, overton, and chirk;[ ] so that after the battle of crogen, or chirk, he actually held the battlefield. we are thus introduced to an entirely new group of castles, rhuddlan being the only one which we have heard of before. but it is highly probable that most of these castles were originally raised by the earls of chester or shrewsbury, and were in henry's hands by escheat. *basingwerk.--the _werk_ referred to in this name has probably nothing to do with the castle, but refers to wat's dyke, which reaches the dee at this point. the abbey at this place was founded by an earl of chester,[ ] which makes it probable that the castle also was originally his work, especially as wendover says that henry _rebuilt_ it. there is no trace of a castle near the abbey,[ ] but less than a mile off, near holywell church, there is a headland called bryn y castell, with a small mound at the farther end, which has far more claim to be the site of basingwerk castle, especially as it is mentioned in john's reign (when it was retaken from the welsh) as the castle of haliwell.[ ] overton, in east denbigh, on the middle course of the dee. in custody of roger de powys for the king in - . as leland speaks of the ditches and hill of the castle, it was probably a motte-castle of the usual type. "one parte of the ditches and hille of the castel yet remaynith; the residew is in the botom of dee."[ ] it is probably all there now, as not a vestige can be traced. [b. t. s.] dernio, or dernant.--there can be no question that dernio is edeyrnion, the valley stretching from bala lake to corwen. domesday book tells us that rainald the sheriff, a "man" of earl roger of shrewsbury, held two "fines" in wales, chenlei and dernio, that is, cynllaith and edeyrnion.[ ] towards the end of the th century there must have been a norman castle at rug in edeyrnion, as it was to this place that the earls of chester and shrewsbury enticed griffith ap cynan, the rightful ruler of gwynedd; they then sent him prisoner to chester for twelve years.[ ] very likely the castle of dernio, which henry ii. was putting into a state of defence in ,[ ] was at rug, - / miles from corwen, where there is still a motte in some private grounds, and there was formerly a bailey also.[ ] the place was the seat of an important family in later times. at any rate, the castle was in edeyrnion, and shows that henry was holding the northern part of merionethshire. hodesley; undoubtedly "the rofts" near gresford, a motte with remains of a bailey, on a headland above the river alyn. it is in the former lordship of hoseley.[ ] wrexham, the wristlesham of the _pipe rolls_ (fig. ).--henry was paying for the custody of this castle and that of hoseley in and . both castles are in the district of bromfield, which was one of the early acquisitions of the earls of chester. mr palmer remarks that this district was probably ceded to the princes of powys, in return for the help which they often rendered to the english king against other welsh princes, as it is found as part of powys at a later period.[ ] there are no remains of any castle at wrexham itself, but about a mile off, in erddig park, there is a motte and bailey of considerable size (though the motte is reduced) showing that a castle of some importance once stood there. there were formerly some remains of masonry.[ ] wat's dyke has been utilised to form one side of the bailey. it is probable that the importance of the two bromfield castles, wrexham and hoseley, was lost when the princes of powys built their castle on dinas bran. *ruthin.--this important castle, defending the upper valley of the clwyd, was probably in existence long before henry ii. repaired it in , and may perhaps be attributed to earl hugh of chester. the plan shows distinctly that it was once a motte and bailey, though the castle is now transformed into a modern house.[ ] chirk, or crogen, in the valley of the ceiriog.--henry was paying for the custody of this castle in , and was provisioning it in .[ ] king john paid for the erection of a bretasche there, possibly after some destruction by the welsh.[ ] probably the first castle of chirk did not stand in the commanding situation now occupied by the castle of edward i.'s reign, but is represented by a small motte in a garden near the ceiriog stream, and close to the church. an anglo-norman poem of the th century attributes the first building of this castle to william peverel, lord of whittington and ellesmere, and says he placed it "on the water of ceiriog."[ ] no doubt it defended the passage of the stream, and an important road into shropshire. prestatyn.--this castle defended the coast road from chester to rhuddlan. henry ii. granted it to robert banaster for his services in .[ ] it was destroyed by owen gwynedd in , and does not appear to have been rebuilt. a low motte with a half-moon bailey, and a larger square enclosure, still remain. [b. t. s.] * * * * * mr davis has remarked that john was more successful in extending his authority over the british isles than in anything else.[ ] in he led an expedition into the heart of wales, and reduced his son-in-law llywelyn ap jorwerth to complete submission. as usual, the expedition was marked by the building or repair of castles. the earl of chester restored deganwy, which shows that the english frontier was again advanced to the conway; he also repaired the castle of holywell, which the _pipe roll_ shows to have been recovered from the welsh about this time.[ ] these _rolls_ also show that in - john was paying for works at the castles of carreghova, ruthin, and chirk, as well as at the following castles, which have not been mentioned before. mathraval, madrael in the _pipe rolls_ (fig. ), near meifod in montgomeryshire, defending the valley of the vyrnwy.--here was the chief royal residence of powys;[ ] but the castle was built in john's reign by roger de vipont. it occupied - / acres, and the motte is in one corner of the area, which is square,[ ] and surrounded only by banks; though ruined foundations are found in parts of the castle. john himself burned the castle in , when the welsh were besieging it,[ ] but the _pipe roll_ ( - ) shows that he afterwards repaired it. [d. h. m.] egloe, or eulo, called by leland castle yollo.--on the chester and holywell road, about miles from holywell. the mention in the _pipe roll_ of pikes and ammunition provided for this castle in - is the first ancient allusion to it with which we are acquainted. it is a motte-and-bailey castle, with additions in masonry which are probably of the reign of henry iii. the keep is of the "thimble" plan, a rare instance.[ ] [b. t. s.] *yale.--the _brut_ tells us that in (read ) owen gwynedd built a castle in yale. powell identified this with tomen y rhodwydd, a motte and bailey on the road between llangollen and ruthin. yale, however, is the name of a district, and there can be little doubt that the castle of yale was the motte and bailey at llanarmon, which for a long period was the _caput_ of yale.[ ] yale undoubtedly belonged to the normans when domesday book was compiled,[ ] and it is therefore not unlikely that these earthworks were first thrown up by the earl of chester. the castle was burnt by jorwerth goch in , but restored by john in . one of the expenses entered for that year is "for iron mallets for breaking the rocks in the ditch of the castle of yale."[ ] this ditch cut in the rock still remains, as well as some foundations on the motte,[ ] which is known as tomen y vardra, or the mount of the demesne.[ ] * * * * * how long the two last-mentioned groups of castles continued in anglo-norman hands we do not attempt to say. north wales, as is well known, reaped a harvest of new power and prosperity through the civil war of the end of john's reign, and the ability of llywelyn ap jorwerth. our task ends with the reign of john. we have only to remark that until the _pipe rolls_ of henry iii.'s reign have been carefully searched, it is impossible to say with certainty what castles of north wales, or if any, were still held by the english king. chapter ix motte-castles in south wales it is not possible to fix certain dates for all the norman conquests of the several provinces of south wales. these conquests proceeded from various points, under different leaders. we might have expected that the earliest advances would have been on the herefordshire border, the earldom of hereford having been given by william i. to william fitzosbern, one of his most trusted and energetic servants. ordericus tells us that fitzosbern and walter de lacy first invaded the district of brecknock, and defeated three kings of the welsh.[ ] this looks as though the conquest of brecknock was then begun. but it was not completed till the reign of rufus; in bernard of neufmarché defeated and slew rhys ap tudor, king of south wales, in a battle which the welsh chronicler speaks of as the fall of the kingdom of the britons.[ ] william fitzosbern died in , and he had scarcely time to accomplish more than the building of the border castles of wigmore, clifford, ewias, and monmouth, and the incastellation of gwent, that is the country between the wye and the usk, which had already been conquered by harold. it seems probable that pembrokeshire was one of the earliest norman conquests in south wales, as in and the _brut_ tells of two expeditions of "the french" into dyfed, a region which included not only what we now call pembrokeshire, but also strath towy, which comprised an extensive district on both sides of the valley of the towy.[ ] the _annales cambriæ_ name hugh de montgomeri, earl roger's eldest son, in connection with the second of these expeditions, seven years before the expedition of king william into wales in .[ ] the house of montgomeri certainly took the most conspicuous part in the conquest of dyfed and cardigan, which was completed, according to the _brut_, in .[ ] arnulf of montgomeri, fifth son of earl roger, was the leader of this conquest. but his father must at the same time have been operating in cardigan, as the building of the castle of cilgerran, which is on the very borders of pembroke and cardigan, is attributed to him. how far earl roger made himself master of ceredigion it is impossible to say. later writers say that he built the castle of cardigan, but we have not been able to find any early authority for this statement, which in itself is not improbable. powell's _history_ makes him do homage to william rufus for the lordship of cardigan, but here again the authority is doubtful.[ ] the fact that a castle in or near aberystwyth was not built until may indicate that the conquest of northern cardigan was not completed till it became the portion of the de clares. this took place in , when henry i. deposed cadwgan, a welsh prince whom he had made lord of cardigan, and gave the lordship to gilbert de clare, who immediately proceeded to build the above-mentioned castle, and to restore earl roger's castle at cilgerran (dingeraint).[ ] from this time the castle and district of cardigan continued to be an appanage of the house of clare (of course with frequent interruptions from welsh invasions), and of the family of william marshall, to whom the clare lands came by marriage. the authority of these earls was suspended during the reign of henry ii., when he made rhys ap griffith, who had possessed himself of ceredigion by conquest, justiciar of south wales, but in the reigns of john and henry iii., the _close rolls_ show that cardigan castle and county were generally in the hands of the marshalls. the conquest of pembrokeshire must have been closely followed by that of what is now carmarthenshire, which was then reckoned as part of dyfed.[ ] we first hear of the castle of rhyd y gors in ,[ ] but it evidently existed earlier. this castle we believe to have been the important castle of carmarthen (see _post_). it was founded by william, son of baldwin, sheriff of devon, and cousin of the gilbert de clare who at a later period was made lord of cardigan by henry i. we thus see at what an early date this important family made its appearance in welsh history. the conquest of brecknock (brecheiniog) we have already briefly referred to. it must have begun as early as , for in that year bernard de neufmarché gave to st peter's abbey at gloucester the church and manor of glasbury. the inheritance of bernard passed by marriage to the de braoses, and from them to the mortimers. it is convenient to mention in this connection the norman conquest of radnor, of which the de braoses and mortimers were the heroes. a charter of philip de braose, not later than , is dated at "raddenoam."[ ] even during the anarchy of stephen's reign, the mortimers were able to maintain their hold on this district, for the _brut_ relates that in , hugh, son of ralph mortimer, conquered malienydd and elvael the second time.[ ] these two districts properly belong to powys, though geographically in south wales. we leave to the last the conquest of glamorgan, which may possibly have been one of the earliest, but whose date is still a matter of dispute, owing to the legendary nature of the aberpergwm version of the _brut_, the only one which even alludes to this conquest. we have, however, an initial date given us in the year , when the _brut y tywysogion_ tell us of the building of cardiff castle.[ ] the conquest of "morgannwg," that is the country between the usk and the neath, was the most permanent of any of those accomplished by the normans in wales, but its details are the most obscure of any. the earlier version of the _brut_ takes no notice of the conquest of glamorgan; the later version which goes by the name of the _gwentian chronicle_[ ] tells us that the norman robert fitz hamon, being called in to the help of one welsh prince against another, conquered glamorgan for himself, and divided it amongst his followers, who built castles in all parts of the country. the date given is . it seems to be agreed by historians that while the facts of robert fitz hamon's existence and of his conquest of glamorgan are certain, the details and the list of followers given in this chronicle are quite untrustworthy.[ ] the district called gower did not then form part of glamorgan, as it does now, though it is still ecclesiastically separate. if we are to believe the aberpergwm _brut_, it must have been conquered in , when william de londres, one of the "knights" of robert fitz hamon, built a strong castle in cydweli (kidwelly).[ ] we will now briefly notice such of the castles of these various districts as are mentioned in the sources to which we have already referred in our last chapter, taking them in the order of the modern counties in which they are found. castles of pembrokeshire. pembroke.--giraldus says that arnulf de montgomeri first built this castle of sods and wattles, a scanty and slender construction, in the reign of henry i.[ ] this date, however, must certainly be wrong, for the castle sustained a siege from the welsh in , and in arnulf gave the chapel of st nicholas in his castle of pembroke to the abbey of st martin at sées.[ ] there is no motte at pembroke castle; the magnificent keep (clearly of the th century or later) stands in a small ward at the edge of a cliff,[ ] separated by a former ditch from the immense encircling bailey whose walls and towers are clearly of edwardian date. the words of giraldus "a castle of wattles and turf" might lead us to think that the first castle was a motte of the usual type, but the use which he makes of the same expression in his work on ireland leads one to think that he means a less defensible fort, a mere bank and fence.[ ] there is some reason, moreover, to doubt whether the present castle of pembroke stands on the same site as arnulf's, as after the banishment of the latter, gerald, the royal seneschal of pembroke "built the castle anew in the place called little cengarth."[ ] but however this may be, the castle of pembroke was certainly strong enough in to resist a great insurrection of the welsh, when all the castles of south-west wales were destroyed, except pembroke and rhyd y gors. and it continued to be one of the chief strongholds of english power in south wales until edward i. completed the conquest of the country. its splendid situation on a high cliff at the mouth of an excellent harbour, to which supplies could be brought by sea, was one of the secrets of its strength. a passage cut in the rock led from the castle to a cave below opening on to the water. *newport, or trefdaeth, was the head of the barony of keymes, an independent lordship founded at the time of the first norman advance, by martin of tours.[ ] there is no mention of it before . the present ruined castle of newport is not earlier than the th century, but about - / miles higher up the river, at llanhyfer, is a fine motte and bailey, which probably mark the site of the first castle of martin of tours.[ ] wiston, _alias_ gwys or wiz.--first mentioned in , when it was taken by the welsh.[ ] at a later period we find it one of the castles of the earl of pembroke. there is a motte still remaining, with a shell wall on top, feet thick, having a plain round arched entrance. this masonry is probably the work of william marshall, earl of pembroke, as he restored the castle in after it had been razed to the ground by llywelyn ap jorwerth.[ ] the bailey is large and bean-shaped. lawhaden, or llanyhadein, or lauwadein.--first mention in .[ ] it afterwards became a palace of the bishops of st david's. there is no motte, though the circular outline of the platform on which the fine ruins of the castle stand, very much suggests a lowered motte. haverfordwest.--first mentioned in the _pipe roll_ of - , when it was in the custody of the earl of pembroke. although this castle is now a gaol, and the whole site masked with gaol buildings, the motte can still be seen distinctly from one side, though the keep which stands upon it is blocked by buildings. the ditch which went round the motte can also be traced. [h. w.] narberth.--this castle is first mentioned in , when it was burnt by the welsh. said to have been the castle of stephen perrot.[ ] the present ruins are entirely of the th century, and there is no motte; but lewis states that the first castle was in another site, between the present town and templeton; about which we have no information. tenby.--first mention in . an important coast station. the small and curious round keep is placed on the highest point of a small island; it is a miniature copy of the keep of pembroke, and was probably built by one of the earls marshall, not earlier than the th century. there is no motte, nor was one needed in such a situation. castles of cardigan. cardigan castle, or aberteifi, has been so much transformed by the incorporation of the keep into a modern house that nothing decisive can be said about its original plan, but there is nothing to foreclose the idea of a previous motte, and speed's plan of seems to show that the keep and the small ward attached to it were on a higher elevation than the bailey. that the first castle was a wooden one is rendered almost certain by the fact that rhys ap griffith, after having demolished the previous castle, rebuilt it _with stone and mortar_, in the reign of henry ii.[ ] the welsh chronicler speaks of this castle as the key of all wales, an exaggeration certainly, but it was undoubtedly the most important stronghold of south ceredigion. [h. w.] cilgerran, or dingeraint (fig. ).--this castle was certainly built by earl roger;[ ] a castle of great importance, in a magnificent situation. like nearly all the castles in our welsh list, it was repeatedly taken by the welsh and retaken from them. the present masonry is of the th century, but the original motte-and-bailey plan is quite discernible. [h. w.] it was a connecting link between the castles of pembrokeshire and those of cardigan, and stands near a road leading directly from tenby and narberth to cardigan. aberystwyth, also lampadarn vaur, also aberrheiddiol.[ ] in henry i. deposed cadwgan, a welsh prince who had purchased from the king the government of cardigan, and gave that country to gilbert, son of richard, earl of clare, who took possession, and built a castle "opposite to llanbadarn, near the mouth of the river ystwyth."[ ] this was undoubtedly the precursor of the modern castle of aberystwyth, but it is doubtful whether it was on the same site; the present ruins are not opposite llanbadarn. the castle was as important for the defence of n. cardigan as cardigan castle for the south. it was taken at least seven times by the welsh, and burnt at least five times. the present ruins are not earlier than the time of edward i., and there is no motte or keep. [h. w.] *blaenporth, or castell gwythan (fig. ).--also built by gilbert de clare, and evidently placed to defend the main road from cardigan to aberystwyth. the motte and bailey are still remarkably perfect, as shown by the -inch ordnance map. ystrad peithyll.--another of gilbert de clare's castles, as it was inhabited by his steward. it was burnt by the welsh in ,[ ] and is never mentioned again, but its motte and ditch still survive, with some signs of a bailey, close to the little stream of the peithyll, near aberystwyth. [h. w.] chastell gwalter, or llanfihangel, in pengwern (fig. ).--castle of walter de bec, probably one of the barons of gilbert de clare. first mentioned in , when it was burned by the welsh.[ ] there is a small but well-made motte and part of an adjoining bailey standing in a most commanding position on a high plateau. the ditch of the motte is excavated in the rock. [d. h. m.] [illustration: fig. .--motte-castles of south wales. cilgerran. blaenporth. chastell gwalter.] *dinerth.--also burnt in ; restored by roger, earl of clare, in , after which it underwent many vicissitudes.[ ] probably originally a castle of the clares. "in the grounds of mynachty, in the parish of llanbadarn tref eglwys, is a small hill called hero castell, probably the site of the keep of dinerth castle."[ ] the o.m. shows a small motte and bailey placed between two streams. *caerwedros, or castell llwyndafydd, also burned by the welsh in ,[ ] after which it is not mentioned again. "a very large moated tumulus, with foundations of walls on the top."[ ] probably a clare castle. *humphrey's castle, now castle howel, from one of its welsh conquerors. the original name shows that it was built by a norman, and it was restored by roger, earl of clare, in .[ ] a moated tumulus near the river clettwr marks the site of humphrey's castle.[ ] ystrad meurug, or meyric, at the head of the valley of the teifi, and commanding the pass leading over into radnorshire.--built by gilbert de clare when he reconquered cardigan, and one of his most important castles.[ ] its importance is shown by the fact that it had a small stone keep, the date of which cannot now be determined, as only the foundations remain, buried under sods. there is no motte, and the bailey can only be guessed at by a portion of the ditch which still remains on the n. side, and by two platforms which appear to be artificially levelled. the castle is about three miles from the sarn helen or roman road through cardigan. *pont y stuffan, or stephen's bridge, near lampeter.--burnt by the welsh in , and not again mentioned.[ ] in the outskirts of the town of lampeter is--or was--a lofty moated tumulus (not shown on o.m.), and traces of a quadrangular court.[ ] as it is also called castell ystuffan, it was probably built by stephen, the norman constable of cardigan. there appears to be another castle mound at lampeter itself, near the church. lampeter was an important post on the roman road up the valley of the teifi. *nant yr arian.--this castle is only mentioned once, in the partition of cardigan and pembroke which took place in , during the most disastrous part of john's reign.[ ] there are two "castellau" marked at nant yr arian in the n. of cardiganshire in the o.m.; neither of them look like mottes. this castle, as well as that of ystrad peithyll, seems to have been placed to defend the road from aberystwyth to llanidloes, which would be the chief highway between shropshire and ceredigion. castles of carmarthenshire. rhyd y gors, or rhyd cors.--we have no hesitation in adopting the opinion of the late mr floyd, that this is another name for the castle of carmarthen.[ ] as it and pembroke were the only castles which held out during the great welsh revolt of ,[ ] it is evident that they were the two strongest and best defended places, therefore the most important. carmarthen also was a roman city, and its walls were still standing in giraldus' time;[ ] it was therefore the place where one would expect to find a norman castle. now carmarthen, along with cardiff and pembroke, continued up till the final conquest of all wales to be the most important seat of english power in south wales. moreover, rhyd y gors was a royal castle; we are expressly told that it was built by william fitz baldwin, by the command of the king of england.[ ] carmarthen also was a royal castle, and the only one in south wales at that date which belonged directly to the king. it was temporarily abandoned after william fitz baldwin's death in , and afterwards henry i. gave it into the custody of a welshman, who also had charge of strath towy; a passage which proves that rhyd y gors was in that district. it was restored by richard fitz baldwin in ,[ ] and is mentioned for the last time in . after that the castle of carmarthen, which has not been mentioned before, begins to appear, and its importance is clear from the continual references to it. placed as it is on a navigable river, at the entrance of the narrower part of the vale of towy, and on the roman road from brecon to st david's, its natural position must have marked it as a fit site for a royal castle. the castle is now converted into a gaol, and disfigured in the usual way; yet the ancient motte of william fitz baldwin still remains, partly inside and partly outside the walls. it is crowned with a stone revetment which colonel morgan believes to have been erected at the time of the civil war, to form a platform for guns.[ ] the bailey is rectangular and covers about acres. the motte is placed at one corner of it, on the line of the walls. on the outside it is now built over with poor cottages; but the site of the ditch can still be traced. *llandovery, or llanymdyfri, or the castle of cantrebohhan.--it is referred to in the _pipe rolls_ of - by the latter name, which is only a norman way of spelling cantref bychan, the little cantref or hundred, of which this castle was the head.[ ] it was then in royal custody, and henry ii. spent nearly £ on its works. but it had originally belonged to richard fitz pons, one of the barons of bernard de neufmarché, and the fact that he held the key of this cantref goes to prove that it was from brecknock that the normans advanced into northern carmarthenshire. the castle is first mentioned in the _brut_ in , when griffith ap rhys burnt the bailey, but could not take the keep on the motte.[ ] it does not appear to have been long in english hands after , but its alternations were many. the -inch o.m. shows an oval motte, carrying some fragments of masonry, to which is attached a roughly quadrangular bailey. this was one of the many castles by which the normans held strath towy. llanstephan.[ ]--this castle stands in a splendid situation at the mouth of the towy, and was doubtless built to secure a maritime base for carmarthen. the motte is of unusual size, semicircular in shape, one side being on the edge of the cliff; it measures feet by in the centre of the arc.[ ] such a size allowed all the important parts of the castle to be built on the motte; but there was a rectangular bailey attached, which is only imperfectly shown on the o.m.; the scarp is in reality well marked on all sides, and the ditch separating it from the motte is a very deep one. [h. w.] the towers that now crown the motte are not earlier than the year , when the castle was destroyed by llywelyn.[ ] dinevor, or dinweiler.--most welsh writers associate dinevor with the ancient residence of the kings of south wales, but there appears to be some doubt about this, as the place is not mentioned before the th century.[ ] anyhow the castle was certainly the work of earl gilbert, as the _brut_ itself tells us so.[ ] in it was taken by rhys ap griffith, the able prince who attempted the consolidation of south wales, and who was made justiciar of that province by henry ii. it continued in welsh hands, sometimes hostile, sometimes allied, till it was finally taken by the english in . the existing ruins are entirely of the th century, but the plan certainly suggests a previous motte and bailey, the motte having probably been lowered to form the present smaller ward, whose walls and towers appear to be of edward i.'s reign. the small bailey attached to this ward is separated from it by a ditch cut through the headland on which the castle stands. kidwelly (cydweli).--this castle, though in carmarthen, was not founded by the conquerors from brecknock, but by normans from glamorgan or gower. kidwelly was first built by william de londres, in .[ ] the present castle shows no trace of this early origin, but is a fine specimen of the keepless pattern introduced into england in the th century.[ ] there is no motte. laugharne, or talycharne.--also called abercorran, being at the point where the little river corran flows into the estuary of the taff. in this castle belonged to a norman named robert courtmain.[ ] the ancient features of the plan have been obliterated by transformation first into an edwardian castle, then into a modern house. there is of course no motte. [h. w.] *ystrad cyngen.--this must, we think, be the same as st clears, which stands in the cynen valley, near its junction with the taff. welsh writers identify st clears with the castle of mabudrud, the name of the _commot_ in which it stands. first mentioned in .[ ] there is no notice of its origin, but the fact that a cluniac priory existed in the village, which was a cell of st martin des champs at paris, points to a norman founder, and renders an th century date probable. it was a motte-and-bailey castle, of which the earthworks remain.[ ] *newcastle emlyn.--this castle does not appear to have received the name of "the new castle of emlyn" till after edward i.'s conquest.[ ] the new castle, which is quite edwardian, was probably built on a different site to the old, as "on the other side of the bridge is a considerable mount, of a military character, which must have commanded the river. it may have been the original strong post occupied by the normans."[ ] in the th century _pipe rolls_ compensation is paid to william fitzgerald for many years "as long as rhys ap griffith holds the castle of emlyn," which points to gerald, the seneschal of pembroke, or his family, as its founders. it is on the very border of carmarthenshire and cardiganshire, defending the main road from carmarthen to cardigan. llanegwad.--this castle is only once mentioned, in the _brut_, under the year , when it was taken by the welsh. a small motte, called locally pen y knap, with an earthen breastwork round the top, is still standing about a mile from the church of llanegwad, and is all that is left of this castle. the position commands a fine view over the towy valley, and it is noteworthy that it stands very near the supposed roman road from brecon to carmarthen. [h. w.] *llangadog.--this castle also does not appear till ; it was razed or burnt at least thrice in five years.[ ] a mound of earth on the banks of the sawddwy river, near where the roman road from brecon is supposed to have reached the towy valley, is all that remains of it.[ ] lewis says that it stands in a large oval entrenchment, and that the motte is of natural rock, scarped conically, and deeply moated. castles in brecknockshire. brecon, or aberhonddu, the seat of bernard de neufmarché himself.--a charter of bernard's mentions the castle.[ ] it seems to have been a particularly strong place, as we do not hear of its having been burnt more than once. the newer castle of brecon is evidently of the time of edward i., but across the road the old motte of bernard is still standing, and carries the ruins of a shell wall, with a gatehouse tower.[ ] a portion of the bank and ditch of the bailey remains; the whole is now in a private garden. the situation is a strong one, between the usk and the honddu. brecon of course was a burgus, and part of the bank which fortified it remains. [illustration: fig. .--motte-castles of south wales. builth. gemaron. payn's castle.] builth, on the upper wye, _alias_ buallt (fig. ).--a remarkably fine motte and bailey, presenting some peculiarities of plan. it is not mentioned till ,[ ] but it has been conjectured with great probability that it was one of the castles built by bernard de neufmarché when he conquered brecknock.[ ] it was refortified by john mortimer in ,[ ] probably in stone, as in the account of its destruction by llywelyn in it is said that "not one stone was left on another."[ ] nevertheless when edward i. rebuilt it the towers on the outer wall appear to have been of wood.[ ] mr clark states that there are traces of masonry foundations and small portions of a wing wall. the bailey of this castle consists of a rather narrow platform, divided into two unequal portions by a cross ditch which connects the ditch of the motte with that of the bailey. the ditch round the motte is of unusual breadth, being feet broad in the widest part. the whole work is encircled by an outer ditch of varying breadth, being feet wide on the weakest side of the work, and by a counterscarp bank which appears to be still perfect. the entrance is defended by four small mounds which probably cover the remains of towers.[ ] the area of the two baileys together is only acre. [d. h. m.] *hay, or tregelli.--the earliest mention of this castle is in a charter of henry i.[ ] the present castle of hay is of late date, but leland tells us that "not far from the paroche chirch is a great round hille of yerth cast up by men's hondes."[ ] it is shown on the -inch o.m., and so is the line of the borough walls. *talgarth.--mentioned in a charter of roger, earl of hereford, not later than .[ ] a th-century tower on a small motte is still standing, and can be seen from the railway between brecon and hereford. castles of radnorshire. *radnor, or maes hyvaidd.--though this castle is not mentioned in the _brut_ till , when it was burnt by rhys ap griffith, it must have been built by the normans at a very early period. the english had penetrated into the radnor district even before the norman conquest,[ ] and the normans were not slow to follow them. a charter of philip de braose is granted at "raddenoam" not later than .[ ] there are mottes both at old and new radnor, towns three miles distant from each other, so that it is impossible to say which was the maes hyvaidd of the _brut_. both may have been originally de braose castles, but new radnor evidently became the more important place, and has massive remains in masonry. the town was a _burgus_. *gemaron, or cwm aron (fig. ).--near llandewi-ystrad-denny. the _brut_ mentions its repair by hugh mortimer in .[ ] the -inch o.m. shows a square central bailey of acre, containing some remains of masonry, lying between an oblong motte in the s. and an outer enclosure on the n., the whole being further defended by a high counterscarp bank on the w. it commands a ford over the river aran. there is no village attached to it. *maud's castle, otherwise colwyn or clun.[ ]--a ditched motte with square bailey on the left bank of the river edwy, near the village of forest colwyn. the statement that this castle was _repaired_ in shows that it must have been older than the time of maude de braose, from whom it is generally supposed to have taken its name. it was rebuilt by henry iii. in .[ ] *payn's castle, otherwise "the castle of elvael."--first mentioned in , when it was taken by rhys ap griffith. this is also a motte-castle (and an exceptionally fine one), placed on a road leading from kington in hereford to builth. rebuilt _in stone_ by henry iii. in .[ ] (fig. .) *knighton, in welsh trefclawdd.--first mentioned in the _pipe roll_ of . the motte still remains, near the church. there is another motte just outside the village, called bryn y castell. it may be a siege castle. *norton.--first mentioned in the _pipe roll_ of . a motte remains close to the church, and two sides of a bailey which ran down to the norton brook. *bleddfa, the bledewach of the _pipe roll_ of - , when £ was given to hugh de saye _ad firmandum castellum_, an expression which may mean either building or repairing. an oval motte, and traces of a bailey, are marked in the -inch o.m. tynboeth, _alias_ dyneneboth, tinbech,[ ] and llananno.--first mentioned in _pipe roll_ of - . there is a fine large motte in a commanding situation, and a crescent-shaped bailey, now marked only by a scarp. there are some remains of masonry, and the castle was evidently an important one. it is first mentioned in the _pipe roll_ of , and it occurs in lists of the mortimer castles in the th century.[ ] it is not far from two fords of the river ithon. [h. w.] these four castles are not mentioned in the _brut y tywysogion_, though the _annales cambriæ_ mentions the capture of bleddfa, knighton, and norton by the welsh in . they all command important roads. knighton and norton were boroughs. [illustration: fig. .--motte-castles of south wales. cardiff. loughor.] castles of glamorganshire. _cardiff_ (fig. ).--the first castle of cardiff was certainly a wooden one; its lofty mound still remains. it is placed inside a roman station, and the south and west walls of the castle bailey rest on roman foundations, "but do not entirely coincide with those foundations."[ ] the roman fort was probably ruinous when robert fitz hamon placed his first castle there, as on the n. and e. sides the bailey is defended by an earthbank, in which the remains of a roman wall have been found buried. the area of the roman castrum was about - / acres, and evidently the normans found this too large, as they divided it by a cross wall, which reduces the inner fort to about acres. the motte has its own ditch. the position of cardiff was a very important base, not only as a port near bristol, but as a point on the probably roman road which connected gloucester with carmarthen and beyond.[ ] the lands of robert fitz hamon, in the next generation, passed into the hands of robert, the great earl of gloucester, henry i.'s illegitimate son. he was a great castle-builder, and it is probable that the first masonry of cardiff castle was his work.[ ] newcastle bridgend.--this castle and the three which follow are all situated on or near the "roman" road from cardiff to st david's, of which we have already spoken. there were two castles at bridgend, the old castle and the new castle, from which the town takes its name. the site of the former is now too much cut up for any definite conclusions about it; the site of the latter has been converted into market gardens, but a motte is still standing in one corner with the ruins of a tower upon it. [h. w.] this castle is not noticed either by the _brut_ or the aberpergwm version; the earliest mention known to us is in the _pipe roll_ of , at a time when the castles of the earl of gloucester were in royal custody, and this appears to have been one of them. kenfig.--this castle is close to the "roman" road. the aberpergwm _brut_ says that it was one of the castles of robert fitz hamon, and states that in it was rebuilt "stronger than ever before, for castles prior to that were built of wood." this is a good specimen of the mixture of truth and error to be found in this th century ms. there is little doubt that all the first castles of the normans in wales were built of wood; but it is extremely unlikely that any wooden keep was replaced by a stone one as early as . the town and castle of kenfig are now almost entirely buried in sand-drifts, but the top of the motte, with some fragments of masonry upon it, is still visible. [h. w.][ ] the note in the _pipe rolls_ of the repair of the _palicium_ of this castle shows that the bailey wall at any rate was still of wood in . even as late as the keep was only defended by a ditch and hedge; yet it withstood an assault from llywelyn ap jorwerth.[ ] the bailey is said to contain acres, a most unusual size. kenfig was a borough in norman times, and it is possible that this large bailey was the original borough, afterwards enlarged in mediæval times. there is evidence that there were burgage tenements within the bailey.[ ] aberavon.--the aberpergwm ms. says that fitz hamon gave aberavon to the son of the welsh traitor who had called him into glamorgan. at a later period, however, we find it in norman hands. the site of the castle has been entirely cleared away, but it had a motte, which is still remembered by the older inhabitants. [h. w.][ ] it is not mentioned in the _brut_ before , when it was attacked and burnt by rhys ap griffith. *neath.--the site of the first castle of neath was given by richard de granville, its owner, to the abbey of neath, which he had founded.[ ] about the year , according to the aberpergwm _brut_, richard returned from the holy land, bringing with him a syrian architect, well skilled in the building of monasteries, churches, and castles, and by him we may presume, a new castle was built on the other side of the river, though the present castle on that site is clearly of much later date. the monks of course destroyed all vestiges of the first (probably wooden) castle. *remmi, or remni.--of this castle there is only one solitary mention, in the _pipe roll_ of . the name seems to indicate the river rhymney, which is the boundary between glamorgan and monmouth. we are unable to find any castle site so near the rhymney as ruperra, where clark mentions a fine motte.[ ] but we do not venture on this identification without further information.[ ] castles of gower. *swansea, or abertawy.--this was the castle of henry beaumont, the conqueror of gower. the present castle is comparatively modern. it is inside the town; but there used to be a moated mound outside the town, which was only removed in . it seems probable to us that this was the original castle of beaumont.[ ] that this first castle had a motte is suggested by the narrative in the _brut_ which tells how griffith ap rhys burnt the outworks in , but was unable to get at the tower.[ ] *loughor, or aberllychor (fig. ).--also built by henry beaumont. the mound of the castle still remains, with a small square keep on top. there was formerly a shell wall also. the place of a bailey was supplied by a terrace feet wide.[ ] the four castles last mentioned are all at the mouths of rivers, as well as on an ancient (if not roman) coast road. *llandeilo talybont, or castell hu.--only mentioned once in the _brut_, under , as the castle of hugh de miles. a moated mound with a square bailey and no masonry still remains.[ ] it commands the river loughor, which is still navigable up to that point at high tides.[ ] on the opposite side of the river is another motte and bailey, called ystum enlle. possibly there was a ford or ferry at this point, which these castles were placed to defend.[ ] oystermouth, a corruption of ystum llwynarth.--first mentioned in the older _brut_ in , when it was burnt by rhys grug. the later version says it was built by beaumont in . the castle stands on a natural height, fortified artificially by a motte, which is of great size. there is a small bailey below to the n.e., and a curious small oval embankment thrown out in the rear of the castle towards the n.w. the architecture of this magnificent castle is all of the edwardian style, and as the castle was burnt down by rhys ap meredith in , it is probable that only wooden structures stood on this site until after that date. the castle is in a fine situation overlooking the bay of swansea. [h. w.] * * * * * we have now completed our list of the norman castles built in wales which are known to history. it must not be supposed, however, that we imagine this to be a complete list of all the norman castles which were ever erected in wales. the fact that several in our catalogue are only once mentioned in the records makes it probable that there were many others which have never been mentioned at all. in this way we may account for the many mottes which remain in wales about which history is entirely silent. as there was scarcely a corner in wales into which the normans did not penetrate at some time or other, it is not surprising if we find them in districts which are generally reckoned to be entirely welsh. but there is another way of accounting for them; some of them may have been built by the welsh themselves, in imitation of the normans. as the feudal system and feudal ideas penetrated more and more into wales, and the welsh princes themselves became feudal homagers of the kings of england, it was natural that the feudal castle should also become a welsh institution, especially as it was soon found to be a great addition to the chieftain's personal strength. the following castles are stated in the _brut_ to have been built by the welsh.[ ] . *cymmer, in merioneth.--built by uchtred ap edwin, whose name, as we have already remarked, suggests an english descent. near cymmer abbey the motte or _tomen_ remains. *cynfael, in merioneth, near towyn.--built by cadwalader, son of griffith ap cynan, on whose behalf henry ii. undertook his first expedition into wales, and who was at that time a protégé of the anglo-normans. clark gives a plan of this motte-castle in _arch. camb._, th ser., vi., . . *yale, in denbigh = llanarmon.--said to have been built by owen gwynedd, but here, as we have said, an earlier norman foundation seems probable (see p. ). . llanrhystyd, in cardigan.--also built by cadwalader, who was then establishing himself in cardigan. probably the motte and bailey called penrhos, or castell rhos, to the east of llanrhystyd village. [h. w.] . aberdovey.--built by rhys ap griffith to defend cardigan against owen, prince of gwynedd. it must therefore have been on the cardigan shore of the dovey, and not at the present town of aberdovey, which is on the merioneth shore. and in fact, on the cardigan shore of the estuary, about two miles west of glandovey castle, there is a tumulus called domenlas (the green tump), which was very likely the site of this castle of rhys.[ ] . caereinion.--built by madoc of powys, who was then a homager of henry ii. remains of a motte near the church; the churchyard itself appears to be the former bailey. about a mile off is a british camp called pen y voel, which _may_ have been the seat of the son of cunedda, who is said to have settled here. [h. w.] *walwern, or tafolwern, near llanbrynmair, in montgomery, may have been a welsh castle. it is first mentioned in , when howel ap jeuav took it from owen gwynedd, who may have been its builder. the motte is marked in the o.m. on a narrow peninsula at the junction of two streams. . *abereinon, in cardigan.--built by rhys ap griffith, henry ii.'s justiciar of south wales. "a circular moated tumulus, now called cil y craig."[ ] (it is marked on the -inch o.m.) . *rhaidr gwy.--also built by rhys ap griffith, no doubt as a menace to powys, as this castle was afterwards sorely contested. it is a motte-and-bailey castle, the motte being known as tower mount.[ ] * * * * * all these castles are of the motte-and-bailey type, and prove the adoption by the welsh of norman customs.[ ] it will be noticed that in the first instances they were built by men who were specially under norman influences. but probably the fashion was soon more widely followed, although these are the only recorded cases. the contribution made by the castles of wales to the general theory of the origin of mottes in these islands is very important. leaving out the seven castles attributed to the welsh, we find that out of seventy-one castles built by the normans, fifty-three, or very nearly three-fourths, still have mottes; while in the remaining eighteen, either the sites have been so altered as to destroy the original plan, or there is a probability that a motte has formerly existed. chapter x motte-castles in scotland the scottish historians of the th century have amply recognised the anglo-norman occupation of scotland, which took place in the th and th centuries, ever since its extent and importance were demonstrated by chalmers in his _caledonia_. occupation is not too strong a word to use, although it was an occupation about which history is strangely silent, and which seems to have provoked little resistance except in the keltic parts of the country. but it meant the transformation of scotland from a tribal keltic kingdom into an organised feudal state, and in the accomplishment of this transformation the greater part of the best lands in scotland passed into the hands of english refugees or norman and flemish adventurers. the movement began in the days of malcolm canmore, when his english queen, the sainted margaret, undoubtedly favoured the reception of english refugees of noble birth, some of whom were her own relations.[ ] very soon, the english refugees were followed by norman refugees, who had either fallen under the displeasure of the king of england, like the montgomeries, or were the cadets of some norman family, wishful to carve out fresh fortunes for themselves, like the fitz alans, the ancestors of the stuarts. the immigration continued during the reign of the sons of margaret, but seems to have reached its culminating point under david i. ( - ). david, as burton remarks, had lived for sixteen years as an affluent anglo-norman noble, before his accession to the scottish crown, being earl of huntingdon in right of his wife, the daughter of simon de senlis, and granddaughter, through her mother, of earl waltheof. david's tastes and sympathies were norman, but it was not taste alone which impelled him to build up in scotland a monarchy of the anglo-norman feudal type. he had a distinct policy to accomplish; he wished to do for scotland what edward i. sought to do for the whole island, to unite its various nationalities under one government, and he saw that men of the anglo-norman type would be the best instruments of this policy.[ ] it mattered little to him from what nation he chose his followers, if they were men who accepted his ideas. norman, english, flemish, or norse adventurers were all received at his court, and endowed with lands in scotland, if they were men suitable for working the system which he knew to be the only one available for the accomplishment of his policy. and that system was the feudal system. he saw that feudalism meant a higher state of civilisation than the tribalism of keltic scotland, and that only by the complete organisation of feudalism could he carry out the unification of scotland, and the subjugation of the wild keltic tribes of the north and west.[ ] the policy was successful, though it was not completely carried out until alexander iii. purchased the kingdom of the isles from the king of norway in . the sons of david, malcolm iv., and william the lion were strong men who doughtily continued the subjugation of the keltic parts of scotland, and distributed the lands of the conquered among their norman or normanised followers. the struggle was a severe one; again and again did the north rebel against the yoke of the house of malcolm. in moray the keltic inhabitants were actually driven out by malcolm iv., and the country colonised by normans or flemings.[ ] the same malcolm led no less than three expeditions against galloway, where in spite of extensive norse settlements on the coast, the mass of the inhabitants appear to have been keltic.[ ] we know very little about the details of this remarkable revolution, because scotland had no voice in the th century, none of her chroniclers being earlier than the end of the th century. as regards the subject which concerns this book, the building of castles, there are only one or two passages which lift the veil. a contemporary english chronicler, ailred of rievaulx, in his panegyric of david i., says that david decorated scotland with castles and cities.[ ] in like manner benedict of peterborough tells us that when william the lion was captured by henry ii.'s forces in , the men of galloway took the opportunity to destroy all the castles which the king had built in their country, expelling his seneschals and guards, and killing all the english and french whom they could catch.[ ] fordun casually mentions the building of two castles in ross by william the lion; and once he gives us an anecdote which is a chance revelation of what must have been going on everywhere. a certain english knight, robert, son of godwin, whose norman name shows that he was one of the normanised english, tarried with the king's leave on an estate which king edgar had given him in lothian, _and while he was seeking to build a castle there_, he was attacked by the men of bishop ranulf of durham, who objected to a castle being built so near the english frontier.[ ] but even if historians had been entirely silent about the building of castles in scotland, we should have been certain that it must have happened, as an inevitable part of the norman settlement. robertson remarks that the scots in the time of david i. were still a pastoral and in some respects a migratory people, their magnates not residing like great feudal nobles in their own castles, but moving about from place to place, and quartering themselves upon the dependent population. there is in fact no reason for supposing that the keltic chiefs of scotland built castles, any more than those of wales or ireland.[ ] but the feudal system must very soon have covered scotland with castles. the absence of any stone castles of norman type has puzzled scottish historians, whose ideas of castles were associated with buildings in stone.[ ] in dr christison published his valuable researches into the _early fortifications of scotland_, in which for the first time an estimate was attempted of the distribution of scottish _motes_,[ ] and their norman origin almost, if not quite, suspected. his book was quickly followed by mr george neilson's noteworthy paper on the "motes in norman scotland,"[ ] in which he showed that the wooden castle is the key which unlocks the historians' puzzle, and that the motes of scotland are nothing but the evidence of the norman feudal settlement. two important points urged in mr neilson's paper are the feudal and legal connection of these motes. he has given a list of mottes which are known to have been the site of the "chief messuages" of baronies in the th and th centuries, and has collected the names of a great number which were seats of justice, or places where "saisine" of a barony was taken, not because they were moot-hills, but because the administration of justice remained fixed in the ancient site of the baron's castle. "the doctrine of the chief messuage, which became of large importance in peerage law, made it at times of moment to have on distinct record the nomination of what the chief messuage was, often for the imperative function of taking _sasine_. in many instances the _caput baroniæ_, or the court or place for the ceremonial entry to possession, is the 'moit,' the 'mothill,' the 'auld castell,' the 'auld wark,' the 'castellsteid,' the 'auld castellsteid,' the 'courthill,' or in latin _mons placiti_, _mons viridis_, or _mons castri_."[ ] in certain places where two mottes are to be found, he was able to prove that two baronies had once had their seats. another point which mr neilson worked out is the relation of bordlands to mottes. bordland or borland, though an english word, is not pre-conquest; it refers to "that species of demesne which the lord reserves for the supply of his own table." it is constantly found in the near proximity of mottes.[ ] the following is a list of thirty-eight anglo-norman or normanised adventurers settled in scotland, on whose lands mottes are to be found. the list must be regarded as a tentative one, for had all the names given by chalmers been included, it would have been more than doubled. but the difficulties of obtaining topographical information were so great that it has been judged expedient to give only the names of those families who are known to have held lands, and in most cases to have had their principal residences, in places where mottes are or formerly were existing.[ ] anstruther.--william de candela obtained the lands of anstruther, in fife, from david i. his descendants took the surname of anstruther. the "mothlaw" of anstruther is mentioned in .[ ] "at the w. end of the town there is a large mound, called the chester hill, in the middle of which is a fine well." (n. s. a., .) the well is an absolute proof that this was the site of a castle. avenel.--walter de avenel held abercorn castle and estate, in linlithgow, in the middle of the th century. the castle stood on a green mound (n. s. a.) which is clearly marked in the o.m. balliol.--the de bailleul family had their seat at barnard castle, in durham, after the conquest. they obtained lands in galloway from david i., and had strongholds at buittle, and kenmure, in kirkcudbright. at buittle the site of the castle exists, a roughly triangular bailey with a motte at one corner;[ ] and at kenmure the o.m. clearly shows a motte, as does the picture in grose's _antiquities of scotland_. the terraces probably date from the time when the modern house on top was built. barclay.--the de berkeleys sprang from the de berkeleys of england, and settled in scotland in the th century. walter de berkeley was chamberlain of scotland in ; william the lion gave him the manor of inverkeilor, in forfarshire; there he built a castle, on lunan bay. "an artificial mound on the west side of the bay, called the corbie's knowe, bears evident marks of having been a castle long previous to the erection of redcastle." (n. s. a.) the family also had lands in what is now aberdeenshire, and at towie, in the parish of auchterless, they had a castle. "close to the church of auchterless there is a small artificial eminence of an oval shape, surrounded by a ditch, which is now in many places filled up. it still retains the name of the moat head, and was formerly the seat of the baronial court." (n. s. a.; n.; c.) bruce.--the de brus held lands in north yorkshire at the time of the domesday survey. david i. gave them the barony of annan, in dumfriesshire. the original charter of this grant still exists in the british museum, witnessed by a galaxy of norman names.[ ] their chief castles were at annan and lochmaben. at annan, near the site of a later castle, there is still a motte about feet high, with a vast ditch and some traces of a bailey (n.), called the moat (n. s. a.). the "terras de moit et bailyis, intra le northgate," are mentioned in . south of the town of lochmaben, on the n.w. side of the loch, is a fine motte called castle hill, with some remains of masonry, which is still pointed out as the original castle of the bruces.[ ] (g.) the fine motte and bailey at moffat must also have been one of their castles, as moffat was one of their demesne lands. (fig. .) cathcart.--name territorial. rainald de cathcart witnesses a charter (in the paisley register) in . near the old castle of cathcart, lanark, is "an eminence called court knowe." (n. s. a.) as mr neilson has shown, these court knowes and court hills are generally disused mottes. the name rainald is clearly norman. cheyne.--this family is first known in , but had then been long settled in scotland, and were hereditary sheriffs of banffshire. chalmers only mentions their manor of inverugie, in aberdeenshire. behind the ruins of inverugie castle rises a round flat-topped hill, which was the castle hill or mote hill of former days. (n. s. a.) colville.--appears in scotland in the reign of malcolm iv., holding the manors of heton and oxnam, in roxburgh. about / mile from oxnam (which was a barony) is a moated mound called galla knowe. (o.m., c., and n.) hailes identified the castle in teviotdale, captured and burnt by balliol in , with that of oxnam.[ ] le mote de oxnam is mentioned in (n.). [illustration: fig. .--scottish motte-castles. annan. moffat. duffus. liddesdale.] cumyn, or comyn.--the first of this family came to scotland as the chancellor of david i.[ ] first seated at linton roderick, in roxburghshire, where there is a rising ground, surrounded formerly by a foss, the site of the original castle; (g.) a description which seems to suggest a motte. william the lion gave the cumyns kirkintilloch in dumbarton, and we afterwards find them at dalswinton in dumfriesshire, and troqueer in kirkcudbright. at kirkintilloch the o.m. shows a square mount concentrically placed in a square enceinte. the enclosure was apparently one of the forts on the wall of agricola, but the writer on kirkintilloch in the n. s. a. suspected that it had been transformed into a castle by the cumyns. at dalswinton the o.m. shows a motte, and calls it the "site of cumyn's castle." at troqueer, "directly opposite the spot on the other side the river where cumyn's castle formerly stood is a mote of circular form and considerable height." (n. s. a.) the cumyn who held kirkintilloch in , was made earl of buchan, and held the vast district of badenoch, or the great valley of the spey. the n. s. a. gives many descriptions of remains in this region which are suggestive of motte-castles; we can only name the most striking: ruthven, "a castle reared by the comyns on a green conical mound on the s. bank of the spey, thought to be partly artificial," now occupied by ruined barracks; dunmullie, in the parish of duthill, where "there can be traced vestiges of a motte surrounded by a ditch, on which, according to tradition, stood the castle of the early lords"; crimond, where cumyn had a castle, and where there is a small round hill called castle hill; and ellon, where the earl of buchan had his head court, on a small hill which has now disappeared, but which was anciently known as the moot-hill of ellon. saisin of the earldom was given on this hill in . (n. s. a.) cunningham.--warnebald, who came from the north of england, was a follower of the norman, hugh de morville, who gave him the lands of cunningham, in ayrshire, from which the family name was taken. in the parish of kilmaurs, which is in the district of cunningham, there is a "mote," which may have been the castle of warnebald; at any rate the original manor place of cunningham was in this parish. it is of course possible that this motte may have been originally a de morville castle. douglas.--name territorial; progenitor was a fleming, who received lands on the douglas water, in lanark, in the middle of the th century. in the park of douglas, to the east of the modern castle, is a mound called boncastle, but we are unable to state certainly that it is a motte. lag castle, in the parish of dunscore, "has a moat or court hill a little to the east." (n. s. a.: shown in grose's picture.) it must have been originally douglas land, as in it was held by an armour-bearer of douglas. durand.--clearly a norman name, corrupted into durham. the family were seated at kirkpatrick durham in the th century. there is or was a motte at kirkpatrick.[ ] durward.--this family was descended from alan de lundin, who was dur-ward or door-keeper to the king about . they possessed a wide domain in aberdeenshire, and had a castle at lumphanan, where edward i. stayed in . there is a round motte in the peel bog at lumphanan, surrounded by a moat, which was fed by a sluice from the neighbouring burn. there were ruins in masonry on the top some hundred years ago. the writer of the n. s. a. account of this place, with remarkable shrewdness, conjectures that a wooden castle on this mound was the ancient residence of the durwards, superseded in the th century by a building of stone, and that it has nothing to do with macbeth, whose burial-place is said to be a cairn in the neighbourhood.[ ] fitz alan.--this is the well-known ancestor of the house of stuart, walter, a cadet of a great norman family in shropshire, who is said to have obtained lands in scotland in malcolm canmore's time. renfrew was one of his seats, and inverwick, in haddington, another. renfrew castle is entirely destroyed, but the description of the site, on a small hill, ditched round, called castle hill, strongly suggests a motte. the keep of inverwick stands on a natural motte of rock.[ ] dunoon was one of their castles, near to which "stood the tom-a-mhoid, or hill of the court of justice" (g.), possibly an ancient motte.[ ] dunoon castle, however, itself stands on a motte, partly artificial and partly carved out of a headland. (n.) fleming.--there were many flemings among the followers of david i., and eventually the name stuck to their descendants as a surname. baldwin the fleming obtained lands at biggar, in lanarkshire. there is a motte at the west end of the town of biggar, feet high. biggar was the head of a barony. (n. s. a. and n.) colban the fleming settled at colbantown, now covington, lanarkshire, where there is a motte (n.). robert the fleming has left a well-preserved oblong motte at roberton, in lanark, which was a barony, and where the _moit_ was spoken of in . (n.) graham.--came from england under david i., and received lands in lothian. a graham was lord of tarbolton, in ayrshire, in , so it is possible that the motte at that place, on which stood formerly the chief messuage of the barony of tarbolton, was one of their castles (n. s. a.), but it may have been older. hamilton.--it is not certain that the hamiltons came to scotland before . king robert i. gave them the barony of cadzow, lanark, which had originally been a royal seat. in hamilton park there is a mote hill, which was the site of the chief messuage of this barony (n.). it was formerly surrounded by the town of hamilton. (n. s. a.) it is of course possible that this motte may be much older than the hamiltons, as the site of an originally royal castle. hay.--first appears in the th century, as butler to malcolm iv. the family first settled in lothian, where they had lands at lochorworth. the borthwick family, who got this estate by marriage, obtained a license from james i. about to build a castle "on the mote of locherwart," and to this castle they gave their own name. (n. s. a.) no doubt it was the original motte of the hays. king william gave the hays the manor of errol, in perthshire, which was made into a barony. here is or was the mote of errol, "a round artificial mound about feet high, and feet in diameter at the top; the platform at the top surrounded with a low turf wall, and the whole enclosed with a turf wall at the base, in the form of an equilateral triangle." (n. s. a.; evidently a triangular bailey.) it is called the law knoll, and is spoken of as a _fortalicium_ in . (n.) lennox.--the earls of lennox are descended from arkel, an englishman, who received from malcolm canmore lands in dumbartonshire. at catter, near the earl's castle, is a large artificial mound.[ ] lockhart.--stevenston, in ayrshire, takes its name from stephen loccard, and symington, in lanark, from his son (?), simon loccard. at stevenson there was formerly a castle, and there still ( ) is a castle hill. stevenston was given by richard morville to stephen loccard about . (n. s. a.) at symington there was formerly a round mound, called law hill, at the foot of the village, but it has been levelled. (n. s. a.) logan.--a robert logan witnesses a charter of william the lion, and appears later as dominus robertus de logan. the name robert shows his norman origin. at drumore, near logan (parish of kirkmaiden, wigton), there was a castle, and there is still a court hill or mote.[ ] another mote, at myroch, in the same parish, is mentioned by mr neilson as the site of the chief messuage of the barony of logan. lovel.--settled at hawick, roxburghshire. the mote of hawick, from the picture in scott's _border antiquities_, seems to be a particularly fine one. hawick was a barony, and le moit is mentioned in . (n.) lyle, or lisle.--the castle of this norman family was at duchal, renfrewshire. the plan is clearly that of a motte and bailey, but the motte is of natural rock.[ ] male, now melville.--settled in haddingtonshire under david i., and called their seat melville. melville castle is modern. they afterwards obtained by marriage lands on the bervie river, in the mearns. dr christison's map shows a motte near the mouth of the bervie. maxwell.--maccus, son of unwin[ ] (evidently of scandinavian origin), received lands on the tweed from david i., and called his seat maccusville, corrupted into maxwell. there is a motte at maxwell, near kelso. (n.) maxton, in roxburghshire, takes its name from him, and there is a motte called ringley hall, on the tweed, in this parish. (c. and n. s. a.) montalt, or mowat.--robert de montalto (mold, in flintshire) witnesses a charter of david i. the family settled in cromarty. le mote at cromarty is mentioned in . (n.) montgomery.--this family is undoubtedly descended from some one of the sons of the great earl roger of shrewsbury, settled in scotland after the ruin of his family in england. robert de montgomerie received the manor of eaglesham, renfrew, from fitz alan, the high steward of scotland. the principal messuage of this manor was at polnoon, / mile s.e. of eaglesham. here sir john montgomerie built the castle of polnoon about . (n. s. a.) the o.m. seems to show that the ruins of this castle stand on a motte, probably the original castle of montgomerie. morville.--hugh de morville was a northamptonshire baron, the life-long friend of david i.[ ] he founded one of the most powerful families in the south of scotland, though after three generations their lands passed to heiresses, and their chief seat is not even known by name. but mr neilson states that darnhall, in peebles, was the head of their "black barony," and that there is a motte there. as hugh de morville gave the church of borgue to dryburgh abbey about , it is probable that the motte at boreland of borgue was one of his castles. the barony of beith, in ayr, given by richard de morville to the abbey of kilwinning, has also a motte, which may be reckoned to be the site of a de morville castle. largs, in ayr, belonged to the de morvilles, and has a castle hill near the village, which appears to be a motte. (g.) mowbray.--this well-known norman family also sent a branch to scotland. amongst other places, about which we have no details, they held eckford, in roxburghshire. in this parish, near the ancient mansion, is an artificial mount called haughhead kipp. (n. s. a.) this seems a possible motte, but its features are not described. murray.--freskin the fleming came to scotland under david i., and received from that king lands in moray. he built himself a castle at duffus, in elgin, which is on the motte-and-bailey plan.[ ] the stone keep now on the motte appears to be of the th century. freskin's posterity took the name of de moravia, or moray. (fig. .) oliphant, or olifard.--cambuslang, in lanark, belonged to walter olifard, justiciary of lothian in the time of alexander ii. about a mile e. of the church is a circular mound feet high. it was here that the oliphants' castle of drumsagard formerly stood. (n. s. a.) drumsagard was a barony. (n.) de quincy.--obtained from william the lion the manors of travernant, in east lothian, and leuchars, in fife. near the village of leuchars is a motte with some slight remains of a stone keep, a deep well in the centre, and an entrenched bailey, known as the site of the castle of leuchars.[ ] ross.--godfrey de ros, a vassal of richard de morville, held of him the lands of stewarton, in ayr. the _caput_ of the lordship was castletown, where le mote is spoken of in (n. and c.). the de ros were also the first lords of the barony of sanquhar. a little lower down the river nith than the later castle of sanquhar is a mote called ryehill, and a place anciently manorial. (n.) somerville.--william de somerville was a norman to whom david i. gave the manor of carnwath, in lanarkshire. there is a very perfect entrenched motte at carnwath (n. s. a. and o.m.), and le moit de carnwath is mentioned in . (n.) de soulis.--followed david i. from northamptonshire into scotland, and received liddesdale, in roxburghshire, from him. the motte and bailey of his original castle still remain, very near the more celebrated but much later hermitage castle.[ ] (fig. .) valoignes.--philip de valoignes and his son william were each successively chamberlains of scotland.[ ] one of their estates was easter kilbride, in lanarkshire, where they had a castle. in this parish is an artificial mount of earth, with an oval area on top, about / mile from the present house of torrance. (n. s. a.) vaux, or de vallibus.--settled in scotland under william the lion. held the manors of dirleton and golyn, in east lothian. dirleton has been transformed into an edwardian castle, but from the pictures it appears to stand on a natural motte of rock. but about miles from dirleton the o.m. shows a large motte called castle hill, which may possibly be the original castle of the de vaux. wallace, or wallensis.--richard walensis was the first of this family, and acquired lands in ayrshire in david i.'s time. he named his seat riccardton, after himself, and the remains of his motte are still there, a small oval motte called castle hill, on which the church of riccarton now stands, but which is recognised as having been a "mote hill." (g.) to this list must be added a number of royal castles known to have been built in the th century, which, as they were built on mottes, must in the first instance have been wooden castles. banff.--it seems clear that banff castle had a motte, because the doggerel rhymes of arthur johnstone in say: a place was near which was a field until our ancestors did raise it to a hill; a stately castle also on it stood. the _gazetteer_ says: "the citadel occupied a mount, originally at the end though now near the middle of the town." the site is still called castle hill. (n. s. a.) crail, fife.--the o.m. does not show a motte here. the n. s. a. says "there was a royal residence here, upon an eminence overlooking the harbour." that this "eminence" was a motte seems clear from the _register of the great seal_, quoted by mr neilson, which speaks of "le moitt olim castrum" in . cupar.--there seem to be two mottes here, both raised on a natural "esker"; the one formerly called the castle hill is now called the school hill, the school having been built upon it. the other and higher hill is called the moot hill, and is said to be the place where the earls of fife used to dispense justice. (n. s. a.) mr neilson states that both are mentioned in the _registrum_. dumfries.--here there were two mottes, one being now the site of a church, the other, called castle dykes, a short distance s. of the town, on the opposite side of the river. both no doubt were royal castles, and mr neilson has suggested that as an _old castlestead_ is spoken of in a charter of william the lion, it implies that a new castle had recently been built, possibly after the great destruction of the royal castles in galloway in .[ ] the castle dykes appears to be the later castle, as it is spoken of in the th century. (n.) dunskeath, cromarty.--built by william the lion in . the castle is built on a small _moat_ overhanging the sea. (g.) elgin.--built by william the lion on a small green hill called lady hill, with conical and precipitous sides. (n. s. a. and g.) forfar.--"the castle stood on a round hill to the n. of the town, and must have been surrounded by water." (n. s. a.) it was destroyed in . it is called gallow hill in the o.m., and is now occupied by gasworks. forres.--the plan in chalmers' _caledonia_ clearly shows a motte, to which the town appears to have formed a bailey. inverness.--built by david i. when he annexed moray. the site is now occupied by a gaol, but the o.m. shows it to have been a motte, which is clearly depicted in old engravings. innermessan.--as the lands here appear to have been royal property as late as the time of david ii., the large round motte here may have been an early royal castle, a conjecture which finds some confirmation in the name "boreland of kingston," which pont places in the same parish. (n. s. a.) jedburgh.--probably built by david i. the site, which is still called castle hill, has been levelled and completely obliterated by the building of a gaol. yet an old plan of the town in , in the possession of the late mr laidlaw of jedburgh, shows the outline of the castle to have been exactly that of a motte and bailey, though, as no hachures are given, it is not absolutely convincing. kincleven, perth.--the o.m. shows no earthworks connected with the present castle, but on the opposite side of the river it places a motte called castle hill, which may very likely be the site of the original castle. kirkcudbright.--dr christison marks a motte here, to the w. of the town. the place is called castle dykes. mr coles says it has an oblong central mound and a much larger entrenched area.[ ] lanark.--ascribed traditionally to david i. "on a small artificially shaped hill between the town and the river, at the foot of the street called castle gate, and still bearing the name of castle hill, there stood in former times beyond all doubt a royal castle." (n. s. a.) mr neilson says, "it certainly bears out its reputation as an artificial mound." rosemarkie, cromarty.--was made a royal burgh by alexander ii., so the castle must have been originally royal. "immediately above the town is a mound of nearly circular form, and level on the top, which seems to be artificial, and has always been called the court hill." (n. s. a.) even if we had no other evidence that motte-castles were of norman construction, this list would be very significant. but taken in connection with the evidence for the norman origin of the english, welsh, and irish mottes, it supplies ample proof that in scotland, as elsewhere, the norman and feudal settlement had its material guarantees in the castles which were planted all over the land, and that these castles were the simple structures of earth and wood, whose earthen remains have been the cause of so much mystification. chapter xi motte-castles in ireland in the year , when the first norman invaders landed in ireland, the private castle had been in existence in england for more than a hundred years, and had it been suited to the social organisation of the irish people, there had been plenty of time for its introduction into ireland. nor are we in a position to deny that some chieftain with a leaning towards foreign fashions _may_ have built for himself a castle in the anglo-norman style; all we can say is that there is not the slightest evidence of such a thing.[ ] we have two contemporary accounts of the norman settlement in ireland, the one given by giraldus in his _expugnatio hibernica_, and the anglo-norman poem, edited by mr goddard h. orpen, under the title of the "song of dermot and the earl."[ ] now giraldus expressly tells us that the irish did not use castles, but preferred to take refuge in their forests and bogs.[ ] the statement is a remarkable one, since ireland abounds with defensive works of a very ancient character; are we to suppose that these were only used in the prehistoric period? but if castles of the norman kind had been in general use in ireland in the th century, we should certainly hear of their having been a serious hindrance to the invaders. the history of the invasion, however, completely confirms the statement of giraldus; we never once hear of the irish defending themselves in a castle. when they do stand a siege, it is in a walled town, and a town which has been walled, not by themselves, but by the danes, to whom giraldus expressly attributes these walls. moreover, the repeated insistence of giraldus on the necessity of systematic incastellation of the whole country[ ] is proof enough that no such incastellation existed. it is true that in some of the earliest irish literature we hear of the _dun_, _lis_, or _rath_ (the words are interchangeable), which encircled the chieftain's house. many descriptions of royal abodes in irish poems are evidently purely fanciful, but underneath the poetical adornments we can discern the features of the great wooden hall which appears to have been the residence of the tribal chieftain, whether keltic, norse, or saxon, throughout the whole north of europe in early times.[ ] the thousands of earthen rings, generally called _raths_, which are still scattered over ireland, are believed to be the enclosures of these kings' or chieftains' homesteads. were they intended for serious military defence? we are not in a position to answer this question categorically, but the plans of a number of them which we have examined do not suggest anything but a very slight fortification, sufficient to keep off wolves. at all events we never hear of these raths or duns standing a siege; the conquering raider comes, sees, and burns.[ ] we are therefore justified in concluding that they did not at all correspond to what we mean by a private castle. and most certainly the motte-castle, with its very small citadel, and its limited accommodation for the flocks and herds of a tribe, was utterly unsuited to the requirements of the tribal system. a good deal of light is thrown on the way in which irish chieftains regarded private castles at the time of the invasion by the well-known story of one who refused a castle offered him by the invaders, saying that he preferred a castle of bones to a castle of stones. whether legendary or not, it represents the natural feeling of a man who had been accustomed to sleep trustfully in the midst of men of his own blood, tied to him by the bonds of the clan. the clan system in ireland undoubtedly led to great misery through the absence of a central authority to check the raids of one clan upon another; but though we occasionally hear of a chieftain being murdered "by his own," we have no reason to think that clan loyalty was not sufficient, as a rule, for the internal safety of the community. so that a popular chieftain might well refuse a fortification which had every mark of a hateful and suspicious invader.[ ] unfortunately there is--or has been until quite recently--a strong prejudice in the minds of irish antiquaries that works of the motte-and-bailey kind belong to the prehistoric age of ireland. irish scholars indeed admit that the word _mota_ is not found in any irish ms. which dates from before the norman invasion of ireland.[ ] we must therefore bear in mind that when they tell us that such and such an ancient book mentions the "mote" at naas or elsewhere, what they mean is that it mentions a _dun_, or _rath_, or _longport_, which they imagine to be the same as a motte. but this is begging the whole question. there is not the slightest proof that any of these words meant a motte. _dun_ is often taken to mean a hill (perhaps from its resemblance to anglo-saxon _dun_), but keltic scholars are now agreed that it is cognate with the german _zaun_ and anglo-saxon _tun_, meaning a fenced enclosure.[ ] it may be applied to a fort on a hill, but it may equally well be applied to a fort on the flat. _rath_ is translated _fossa_ in the _book of armagh_; jocelin of furness equates it with _murus_.[ ] the rath of armagh was evidently a very large enclosure in , containing several streets, houses, and churches, so it was certainly not a motte.[ ] it is of course not impossible that the normans may sometimes have occupied an ancient fortified site, but we may be sure from the considerations already urged that the fortifications which they erected were of a wholly different character to the previous ones, even if they utilised a portion for their bailey. it is of course difficult to decide in some cases (both in ireland and elsewhere) whether a mound which stands alone without a bailey is a sepulchral tumulus or a motte. there are some mottes in england and scotland which have no baileys attached to them, and do not appear ever to have had any. in ireland, the country of magnificent sepulchral tumuli, it is not wonderful that the barrow and the motte have become confused in popular language. it would appear, too, that there exist in ireland several instances of artificial tumuli which were used for the inauguration of irish chieftains, and these have occasionally been mistaken for mottes.[ ] as mr orpen has shown, there are generally indications in the unsuitability of the sites, in the absence of real fortification, or in the presence of sepulchral signs, to show that these tumuli did not belong to the motte class. magh adair, for example, which has been adduced as a motte outside the norman boundary, is shown by mr orpen to be of quite a different character. at many sites in ireland where the normans are known to have built castles at an early period of the invasion there are no mottes to be seen now. it is probable that where the norman conquerors had both money and time at their disposal they built stone keeps from the first, and that the motte-castles, with their wooden towers or _bretasches_, were built in the times of stress, or were the residences of the less wealthy under-tenants. but we know from documents that even in john's reign the important royal castle of roscrea was built with a motte and bretasche,[ ] which proves that this type of castle was still so much esteemed that we may feel reasonably certain that when giraldus speaks of "slender defences of turf and stakes" he does not mean motte-castles, but mere embankments and palisades.[ ] but there is another reason for the absence of mottes from some of the early norman castle sites. those who have examined the castles of wales know that it is rare to find a motte in a castle which has undergone the complete metamorphoses of the edwardian[ ] period. these new castles had no keeps, and necessitated an entire change of plan, which led either to the destruction of the motte or the building of an entirely new castle on a different site. the removal of a motte is only a question of spade labour, and many sites in england can be pointed out where mottes are known to have existed formerly, but where now not a vestige is left.[ ] there are many other cases where the edwardian castle shows not a trace of any former earthworks, but where a motte and bailey a little distance off probably represents the original wooden castle.[ ] the passion for identifying existing earthworks with sites mentioned in ancient irish history or legend has been a most serious hindrance to the progress of real archæological knowledge in ireland. it is not until one begins to look into this matter that one finds out what giddy guesswork most of these identifications of irish place-names really are. o'donovan was undoubtedly a great irish scholar, and his editions of the _book of rights_ and the _annals of the four masters_ are of the highest importance. the topographical notes to these works are generally accepted as final. but let us see what his method was in this part of his labours. in the _book of rights_, he says very naïvely, about a place called ladhrann or ardladhrann, "i cannot find any place in wexford according with the notices of this place except ardamine, on the sea-coast, where there is a remarkable _moat_."[ ] no modern philologist, we think, would admit that ardamine could be descended from ardladhrann. in the same way o'donovan guessed treada-na-righ, "the triple-fossed fort of the kings," to be the motte of kilfinnane, near kilmallock. but this was a pure guess, as he had previously guessed it to be "one of the forts called dun-g-claire." to the antiquaries of that day one earthwork seemed as good as another, and differences of type were not considered important.[ ] * * * * * the following list of early norman castles in ireland was first published in the _antiquary_ for . it is an attempt to form a complete list from contemporary historians only, that is, from giraldus cambrensis and the "song of dermot," and from the documents published in sweetman's _calendar_, of the norman castles built in ireland, up to the end of john's reign.[ ] since then, the task has been taken up on a far more philosophical plan by mr goddard h. orpen, whose exceptional knowledge of the history of the invasion and the families of the conquerors has enabled him to trace their settlements in ireland as they have never been traced before.[ ] nevertheless, it still seems worth while to republish this list, as though within a limited compass, consistent with the writer's limited knowledge, it furnishes an adequate test of the correctness of the norman theory, on a perfectly sound basis. the list has now the advantage of being corrected from mr orpen's papers, and of being enlarged by identifications which he has been able to make.[ ] *antrim[ ] (_cal._, i., ).--a royal castle in . present castle modern; close to it is a large motte, marked in -inch o.m. aq'i (_cal._, i., ).--unidentified; perhaps an _alias_ for one of the limerick castles, as it was certainly in the county of limerick. ardfinnan, tipperary (_gir._, v., ).--built in , immediately after john's coming to ireland. no motte; castle is late edwardian and partly converted into a modern house; one round tower has ogee windows. [b. t. s.] ardmayle, or armolen, tipperary (_cal._, i., ).--a castle of theobald walter. a motte with half-moon bailey, and earthen wing walls running up its sides, exactly as stone walls do in later norman castles. ruins of a perpendicular mansion close to it, and also a square tower with ogee windows. [b. t. s.] fig. . ardnurcher, or horseleap, king's co. (_song of dermot_ and _cal._, i., ).--a castle of meiler fitz henry's, built in .[ ] an oblong motte with one certain bailey, and perhaps a second. no masonry but the remains of a wall or bridge across the fosse. [b. t. s.] ardree, kildare (_gir._, v., , and _song_).--the castle built by hugh de lacy for thomas the fleming in , was at ardri, on the barrow. there is an artificial mound at ardree, turned into a graveyard, and near it a levelled platform above the river, on which stands ardree house.[ ] on the west bank of the barrow, opposite ardree, is a low circular motte with ditch and bank, but no bailey. a piece of norman pottery with green glaze was found by mr stallybrass, one foot below the surface in the counterscarp bank. mr orpen thinks this motte may have been the castle of robert de bigarz, also mentioned by giraldus as near ardree, on the opposite side of the barrow. askeaton, or hinneskesti, limerick.--built in , probably by hamo de valoignes.[ ] an excellent instance of a motte-and-bailey castle, where the motte is of natural rock. the splendid keep and hall are of the th century, but there are two older towers, which might date from . this natural motte has been identified with the ancient irish fort of gephthine (askeaton = eas gephthine), mentioned in the _book of rights_. but this work does not mention any _fort_ at gephthine, only the place, in a list which is clearly one of lands (perhaps mensal lands), not of forts, as it contains many names of plains, and of tribes, as well as the three isles of arran.[ ] *askelon, or escluen (_cal._, i., ).--castle _restored to_ richard de burgh in ; the site is placed by mr orpen at carrigogunell, which is in the parish of kilkeedy, limerick.[ ] carrigogunell has the ruins of a castle on a natural motte of rock. *athlone, roscommon (_cal._, i., ).--built in by the justiciar, john de gray. the keep is placed on a lofty motte, which has been revetted with masonry. turlough o'connor built a _caislen_ at athlone in , but it was not even on the site of the norman castle, for which john obtained land from the church, as already stated. baginbun (_gir._, i., ; _song_, ).--mr orpen has proved that this was the spot where raymond le gros landed and entrenched himself for four months.[ ] it is a headland on the sea-coast, and headland castles seldom have mottes, as they were not needed on a promontory washed on three sides by the sea. moreover, baginbun was of the nature of a temporary fort rather than a residential castle, and it is to be noted that giraldus calls it "a poor sort of a castle of stakes and sods." still, the small inner area, ditched off with a double ditch, and the large area, also ditched, roughly correspond to the motte-and-bailey plan. [b. t. s.] balimore eustace, kildare (_cal._, i., ).--a castle of the archbishop of dublin. a motte, with a remarkable platform attached to one side (_cf._ wigmore castle). no bailey now; no stone castle. [b. t. s.] caherconlish (karkinlis, kakaulis, _cal._, i., ).--castle of theobald fitz walter. there is nothing left above ground but a chimney of late date. a few yards from it is a hillock, which has very much the appearance of a mutilated motte. [e. s. a.] mr orpen, however, thinks that theobald's castle may have been at knockatancashlane, "the hill of the old castle," a townland a little to the north of caherconlish.[ ] carbury, kildare.--the _song_ says meiler fitz henry first got carbury, so the castle was probably his. it is a motte with two baileys, one of imperfect outline, the other a curious little half-circle. a th-century castle is built against the side of the motte. [b. t. s.] carlingford, louth (_cal._, i., ).--apparently a royal castle (_cal._, i., ), first mentioned in . it stands on a rock, which might possibly have been a former motte. there certainly has been a former castle, for the present ruin is edwardian in plan and in every detail. [e. s. a.] carrick, wexford (_gir._, v., ).--this again seems to be one of the temporary forts built by the first invaders (in this case fitz stephen), in a strong natural situation, and giraldus applies to it the same contemptuous language as to baginbun. there is no motte, but an oval area of yards by is ditched and banked; a modern imitation of a round tower stands within the enclosure. [b. t. s.] carrickfergus, antrim (_cal._, i., ).--this was probably one of the castles built by john de courcy, the conqueror of ulster. the gatehouse and mural towers are late, but the keep may well be of de courcy's time, and furnishes an excellent instance of a castle on the keep-and-bailey plan, built by the normans in stone from the beginning. [e. s. a.] castletown delvin, westmeath (_gir._, v., ).--castle of gilbert de nungent. a motte, with a garden at base, which may have been the bailey; near it the stone castle, a keep with round towers at the angles, probably not as early as john's reign. [b. t. s.] clonard, meath (_gir._, v., ).--built by hugh de lacy about . a motte, with broad ditch and curious little oblong bailey; no remains in masonry. [b. t. s.] clonmacnoise, king's co. (_cal._, i., ).--first contemporary mention ; the _annals of loch cè_ say it was built in "by the foreigners." a royal castle. a large motte with bailey attached; the wing walls of the bailey run up the motte. the importance of the castle is shown by the fact that a stone keep was added not very long after it was built. [b. t. s.] *collacht (_gir._, v., ).--castle of john of hereford. collacht appears to be a scribal error for tullaght, now tullow, carlow.[ ] the site of the castle is marked on the -inch o.m.; it has been visited by mr g. h. orpen, who found very clear indications of a motte and bailey. (see appendix l.) crometh (_cal._, i., ).--castle of maurice fitzgerald. supposed to be croom, limerick, though the identification is by no means certain.[ ] there are the ruins of an edwardian castle at croom; no motte. [e. s. a.] downpatrick, down (_gir._, v., ).--the traveller approaching downpatrick sees a number of small hills which no doubt have once been islands rising out of the swamps of the quoyle. on one of these hills stands the town and its cathedral; on another, to the east, but separated from the town by a very steep descent and a brook, stands a motte and bailey of the usual norman type. it occupies the whole summit of the small hill, so that the banks of the bailey are at a great height above the outer ditch, which is carried round the base of the hill (compare skipsea). the motte, which is not a very large one, has had an earthen breastwork round the top, now much broken away. its ditch falls into the ditch of the bailey, but at a higher level. the bailey is semilunar, extending round about three-quarters of the circumference of the motte. there is not the slightest sign of masonry. as the size of this work has been greatly exaggerated, it is as well to say that when measured on the -inch o.m. with a planimeter, its area proves to be . acres; the area of the motte and its ditch . , leaving acres for the bailey. [e. s. a.] fig. . this thoroughly norman-french castle, which was formerly called a danish fort, has lately been baptised as rathceltchair, and supposed to be the work of a mythical hero of the st century a.d. mr orpen, however, has disposed of this fancy by showing that the name rathceltchair belonged in pre-norman times to the enclosure of the ancient church and monastery which stood on the _other_ hill.[ ] we may therefore unhesitatingly ascribe this motte-castle to john de courcy, who first put up a slender fortification within the town walls to defend himself against temporary attack,[ ] but afterwards built a regular castle, for which this island offered a most favourable site.[ ] a stone castle was built inside the town at a later period; it is now entirely destroyed. drogheda, louth (_cal._, i., ).--first mention , but mr orpen thinks it probable that it was one of the castles built by hugh de lacy, who died in . a high motte, with a round and a square bailey, just outside the town walls;[ ] called the mill mount in the time of cromwell, who occupied it; he mentions that it had a good ditch, strongly palisadoed.[ ] no stone castle, though much of the bailey wall remains; a late martello tower on top of motte. [b. t. s.] fig. . [illustration: fig. .--irish motte-castles. ardmayle. downpatrick. drogheda. castlenock.] duleek, meath (the castrum duvelescense of _giraldus_, v., ).--probably first built by hugh de lacy; restored by raymond le gros in . the motte is destroyed, but an old weaver living in the village in says that it existed in the time of his father, who used to roll stones down it in his youth. it was in the angle between two streams, and there is still a slight trace of it. no stone castle. [b. t. s.] dunamase, queen's co. (dumath, _cal._, i., ).--first mentioned in as a castle of william marshall's, which makes it not unlikely that it was originally built by strongbow. the plan of this castle is the motte-and-bailey plan, but the place of the motte is taken by a natural rock, isolated by a ditch. there are three baileys, descending the hill. the stone keep on the summit is of the th or th century. [b. t. s.] dungarvan, waterford (_cal._, i., ).--granted to thomas fitz antony in . to the west of the town is a motte called gallowshill; it has no bailey, but some trace of a circumvallation. the castle east of the river is not earlier than the th or th century. [b. t. s.] *durrow, king's co. (_gir._, v., ).--a castle of hugh de lacy's; he was murdered while he was building it, because he had chosen the enclosure of the church for his bailey.[ ] a plan in _journ. r. s. a. i._, xxix., , shows clearly the motte and bailey, though the writer mistakes for separate mounds what are clearly broken portions of the vallum. it is possible that the bailey may have followed the line of the ancient _rath_ of the church, but it would almost certainly be a much stronger affair. *favorie = fore, westmeath.--i owe this identification to mr orpen. as hugh de lacy founded or endowed the monastery at fore,[ ] this was probably one of his castles, but the first mention is in (_cal._, i., ). mr westropp mentions the oval motte of fore with its bailey in his list of "complex motes."[ ] ferns, wexford (_gir._, v., ).--a castle was built by walter the german _near_ ferns. ferns is spoken of as a city in the time of king dermot. there is no motte at ferns; the stone castle has a keep, which is certainly not earlier than the time of henry iii. [b. t. s.] *fotheret onolan, castle of raymond le gros (_gir._, v., ).--mr orpen identifies this with castlemore, near tullow, co. carlow. there is an oval motte, and a rectangular bailey with indications of masonry.[ ] galtrim, meath.--identified by mr orpen with the castle of hugh de hose, or hussey, mentioned in the "song of dermot." destroyed in ; no stone castle. an oval motte; bailey indistinctly traceable. [b. t. s.] geashill, king's co. (_cal._, i., ).--mentioned in as a castle of william, earl marshall. there are remains of a motte, on which stands a th-century keep; but the whole site has been so pulled about in making a modern house, drive, and gardens, that nothing more can be made of the plan. the motte, however, is plain, though mutilated. [e. s. a.] granard, longford (_cal._, i., ).--built by richard tuit in .[ ] a magnificent motte, with a very wide ditch, and a small fan-shaped bailey. foundations of a shell wall round the top of the motte, and of a small round tower in the centre. [b. t. s.] *hincheleder, or inchelefyre (_cal._, i, ).--said by butler (_notices of trim castle_, ) to be inchleffer, meath, a castle of hugh de lacy. no further information. john de clahull's castle.--mr orpen believes this to be killeshin, queen's co., as it corresponds to the description in the _song_, "entre eboy et lethelyn." there is a motte there, and traditions of a town. *karakitel, or carrickittle, limerick (_cal._, i., ).--castle of william de naas in . there was a remarkable natural motte of rock here, with the foundations of a castle upon it, now destroyed.[ ] *killamlun (_cal._, i., ).--identified by mr orpen with killallon, meath, where there is a large motte. there is a stone passage into this motte, but no evidence has been brought forward to prove that it is of the same nature as the prehistoric _souterrains_ so common in ireland.[ ] in england there is a remarkable instance at oxford of a well-chamber built inside a motte. killare, westmeath (_gir._, v., ).--a castle of hugh de lacy, built in ;[ ] burnt in . a good motte, with ditch and well-preserved bank on counterscarp; no bailey. no stone castle. [b. t. s.] kilbixie, westmeath.--identified by mr orpen with kelbery, given to geoffrey de constantin (_song_, ); the castle is mentioned in a charter of walter de lacy, as well as in the _annals of loch cè_, which state that it was built in . a motte, with a broad ditch, and no bailey; but on the w. side the counterscarp bank of the ditch widens out into a sort of narrow half-moon terrace. this peculiarity may be noted in several other irish castles. foundations of an oblong shell on top of motte, and of a small square tower in the centre of this ward. [b. t. s.] *kilfeakle, tipperary (_cal._, i., ).--a castle of william de burgh. built in .[ ] a motte and bailey; trace of a stone wing wall down the motte.[ ] *kilmehal (_cal._, i., ).--mr orpen regards the identification of this castle with kilmallock as extremely doubtful. *kilmore (_cal._, i., ).--restored to walter de lacy in . identified with kilmore, near lough oughter, cavan.[ ] mr westropp mentions the motte at this place, which is outside the anglo-norman area. the castle was wrecked in or , and no more is heard of it. the anglo-norman advance in this direction failed. *kilsantan, londonderry (_cal._, i., ).--built by john de courcy in .[ ] now called kilsandal, or mount sandal, a large motte on the bann, not far from coleraine. the castle of coleraine, inside the town, was built in , apparently of stone,[ ] and probably superseded the castle of kilsandal. kiltinan, tipperary (_cal._, i., ).--castle of philip of worcester in . no motte; a headland castle overhanging a river valley. the castle has not only undergone a late edwardian transformation, but has been cut up to make a modern mansion and farm buildings. no fosses or earthworks remain. [e. s. a.] knock, or castleknock, dublin (_cal._, i., ).--castle of hugh tyrrel. an oval motte, walled round the top, carrying on its edge a smaller motte (with traces of a ditch) on which stand the ruins of an octagonal keep. no other bailey; ditch and bank double for more than half the circumference. [b. t. s.] fig. . *knockgraffan, tipperary (_cal._, i., ).--castle of william de braose in . one of the finest mottes to be seen anywhere. built in , at the same time as the castle of kilfeakle.[ ] the motte is feet high, has a wide ditch and high counterscarp bank, which is also carried round the ditch of the "hatchet-shaped" bailey, in proper norman fashion. "there are indications of a rectangular stone building on the flat summit of the mote, and there are extensive stone foundations in the bailey."[ ] *lagelachon (_cal._, i., ).--probably loughan or castlekieran, in which parish is the great motte of derver.[ ] lea, queen's co. (_cal._, i., ).--castle of william, earl marshall, in . a motte with two baileys; motte entirely occupied, and partly mutilated by a th-century keep, with two large roundels. [b. t. s.] leighlin, carlow.--mr orpen has shown that the fine motte of ballyknockan answers to the description given by giraldus of the site of the castle of lechlin built by hugh de lacy.[ ] there is a trace of a possible bailey. the stone castle called black castle at leighlin bridge is of very late date. those who believe that we have authentic history of ireland in the rd century b.c. will be able to believe with dr joyce that the description of the annalists identifies this motte with the site of the ancient palace of dinn righ, burnt by the chieftain maen at that date! [b. t. s.] lismore, waterford (_gir._, i., ).--about a quarter of a mile from lismore, above a ford of the river, is an excellent specimen of a norman motte and bailey, called the round hill. the name of the prehistoric fort of dunsginne has lately been applied to it, but purely by guesswork.[ ] the _song_ says that henry ii. intended to build a castle at lismore, and that it knows not why he put it off. possibly he may have placed these earthworks here, and never added the wooden castle, or else this is the site of the castle which was built by his son john in . the castle inside the town is certainly later than the time of john, as although much modernised it is clearly edwardian in plan. the norman fragments incorporated in the walls probably belonged to the abbey of st carthagh, on the site of which the town castle is said to have been built. the so-called king john's tower is only a mural tower, not a keep. [b. t. s.] *louth, or luveth (_cal._, i., ).--a royal castle in , but it must have been in existence as early as , when the town and castle of louth were burnt by niall macmahon.[ ] this was probably the "fairy mount" at louth, of which a plan is given in wright's _louthiana_. this plan shows "the old town trench," starting from opposite sides of the motte, so that the castle stood on the line of the town banks. the motte was ditched and banked round, but the plan does not show any bailey or any entrance. *loske (cal., i., ).--mr orpen has pointed out to the writer that this cannot be lusk, which was a castle of the archbishop of dublin, while loske belonged to theobald walter, and is not yet identified. *loxhindy (_cal._, i., ).--mr orpen identifies this name with loughsendy, or ballymore loughsendy, westmeath, where there is a motte.[ ] naas, kildare (_gir._, v., ).--the _dun_ of naas is mentioned in the _book of rights_, p. , and in the _tripartite life of st patrick_. by the _dindsenchas_ it is attributed to the legendary princess tuiltinn in a.d. on this "evidence" the motte at naas has been classed as prehistoric. but as we have seen, a _dun_ does not mean a motte, or even a hill, but an enclosure. naas was part of the share which fell to the famous anglo-norman leader, maurice fitzgerald, and the earthworks are quite of the norman pattern;[ ] a good motte, ditched and banked, with trace of a small bailey attached. the terrace round the flank of the motte may be no older than the modern buildings on the summit.[ ] [b. t. s.] navan, meath.--the _song_ says navan was given to jocelin de nangle, and it is known that the castle of the nangles was at navan. a lofty motte, with a very small semilunar platform below, formed by broadening out a part of the counterscarp bank of the ditch. (compare kilbixie.) [b. t. s.] nobber, meath (_cal._, i., ).--a castle of hugh de lacy. a motte, with traces of a breastwork round the top, and wing banks running down to what remains of the bailey on the s. two curious little terraces on the n. side of the motte. no masonry. [b. t. s.] rath' (_cal._, i., ).--this castle, evidently one of the most important in ulster, but hitherto unidentified, has been shown by mr orpen to be the famous castle of dundrum, down.[ ] this castle is situated on a natural motte of rock, no doubt scarped by art, with a deep ditch cut through the rock, and a bailey attached. the top of the motte contains a small ward fortified in stone, and a round keep. it is very doubtful whether this keep is as old as the time of john de courcy, to whom the castle is popularly attributed; for the round keep without buttresses hardly appears in england before the reign of henry iii. [e. s. a.] rathwire, meath.--rathwire was the portion of robert de lacy (_song_, ), and a castle was built here by hugh de lacy.[ ] there is a motte and bailey, with considerable remains of foundations in the bailey, and one wing bank going up the motte. [b. t. s.] *ratouth, meath, now ratoath (_cal._, i., ).--a castle of hugh de lacy. there is "a conspicuous mount" near the church, about which there is a legend that malachy, first king of all ireland, held a convention of states (lewis). it is marked in the map. *rokerel (_cal._, i., ).--unidentified. roscrea, tipperary (_cal._, i., ).--a motte and bretasche were built here in king john's reign, as is recorded in an inquisition of henry iii. (_cal._, i., ). there is no motte now at roscrea, but an edwardian castle with mural towers and no keep; a th-century gatehouse tower. here we have a proved instance of a motte completely swept away by an edwardian transformation.[ ] [e. s. a.] skreen, meath.--giraldus mentions the castle of adam de futepoi, and as skreen was his barony, his castle must have been at skreen. in the grounds of the modern castellated house at skreen there is a motte, feet high (probably lowered), with a terrace round its flank; some slight traces of a bailey. [b. t. s.] slane, meath.--the _song_ relates the erection of a motte by richard the fleming: "un mot fist cil jeter pur ses enemis grever."[ ] it also tells of its destruction by the irish, but does not give its name, which is supplied by the _annals of ulster_. probably richard the fleming restored his motte after its destruction, for there is still a motte on the hill of slane, with a large annular bailey,[ ] quite large enough for the " foreigners, besides women and children and horses," who were in it when it was taken. the motte has still a slight breastwork round the top. the modern castle of the marquis of conyngham, below, incorporates half a round tower of th-century work, belonging no doubt to the stone castle which succeeded the motte.[ ] [b. t. s.] thurles, tipperary (dorles, _cal._, i., ).--a castle of theobald walter. thurles castle has a late keep with trefoil windows, and according to grose was built by the earl of ormond in . from information on the spot it appears that there used to be a motte in the gardens behind the castle; mentioned also by lewis. [b. t. s.] tibraghny, or tipperaghny, kilkenny (_gir._, i., ; _cal._, i., ).--granted to william de burgh in ; built by john in .[ ] a motte, with ditch and bank, and some trace of a half-moon bailey to the north. about yards away is the stone castle, a late keep with ogee windows. [b. t. s.] timahoe, queen's co. (_gir._, i., ).--built by hugh de lacy for meiler fitz henry. a motte, called the rath of ballynaclogh, half a mile west of the village. the bailey, the banks and ditches of which seem remarkably well preserved, is almost circular, but the motte is placed at its edge, not concentrically. there are wing-banks running up the motte. near it are the ruins of a stone castle built in elizabeth's reign (grose). [b. t. s.] trim, meath.--the _song_ tells of the erection of this castle by hugh de lacy, and how in his absence the _meysun_ (the keep--doubtless wooden) was burnt by the irish, and the _mot_ levelled with the ground. this express evidence that the first castle at trim had a motte is of great value, because there is no motte there now. the castle was restored by raymond le gros,[ ] but so quickly that the present remarkable keep can hardly have been built at that date.[ ] [b. t. s.] *tristerdermot (_gir._, v., ).--castle of walter de riddlesford. tristerdermot is now castledermot; there used to be a _rath_ of some kind here close to the town. but mr orpen inclines to believe that the castle giraldus alludes to was at kilkea, another manor of de riddlesford's, where there is a motte, near the modern castle. "in the early english versions of the _expugnatio_ kilcae is put instead of tristerdermot as the place where walter de riddlesford's castle was built."[ ] *typermesan (_cal._, i., ).--mr orpen writes that this name occurs again in a list of churches in the deanery of fore, which includes all the parish names in the half barony of fore, except oldcastle and killeagh. he suspects that typermesan is now known as oldcastle, "where there is a remarkably well-preserved motte and raised bailey."[ ] waterford (_cal._, i., ).--we are not told whether strongbow built a castle here when he took the town from the ostmen in . the castle is not mentioned till , when it was granted by john to thomas fitz-antony. waterford was a walled town in , and had a tower called reginald's tower, which seems to have been the residence of the two danish chieftains, as they were taken prisoners there. here too, henry ii. imprisoned fitz stephen.[ ] it is possible that this tower, as mr orpen supposes,[ ] may have been considered as the castle of waterford. but the existing "ring tower" on the line of the walls, which is sometimes called reginald's tower, is certainly a round mural tower of the th century; there are others of similar masonry on the walls. [b. t. s.] *wexford (_gir._, v., ).--probably built by maurice prendergast; first mentioned when taken from his sons in . mr orpen writes: "the site of wexford castle is an artificial mound. two of the scarped sides still remain, and the other two are built up above streets. when recently laying some drainpipes, the workmen came upon no rock, but only made earth." wicklow (_gir._, i., ).--existing when henry ii. left ireland in ; he gave it to strongbow. the black castle at wicklow is a headland castle; it preserves the motte-and-bailey plan, though there is no motte, as there is a small triangular inner ward (about thirty paces each side) several feet higher than the outer bailey, from which it is separated by a very deep ditch cut through the rock. [b. t. s.] we have here a list of seventy-two castles mentioned in the contemporary history of the norman invasion. if the list is reduced by omitting aq'i, kilmehal, loske, rokerel, and incheleder, which are not yet identified, and five castles of which the identification may be considered doubtful, caherconlish, croom, clahull's castle, lagelachan, and typermesan, sixty-two castles are left, and out of these sixty-two, fifty-two have or had mottes.[ ] in five cases the place of the motte is taken by a natural rock, helped by art; but as the idea and plan are the same it is legitimately classed as the same type. this list might easily have been enlarged by the addition of many castles mentioned in the various irish annals as having been built by the normans. but this would have involved the identification of a number of difficult names, a labour to which the writer's limited knowledge of irish topography was not equal. the greater number of these sites have now been identified by mr orpen, and to his papers, so frequently cited above, we must refer the reader who wishes to study the fullest form of the argument sketched in these pages. one can easily sympathise with the feelings of those who, having always looked upon these mottes as monuments of ancient ireland, are loath to part with them to the norman robber. many of us have had similar feelings about the mottes of england, some of which we had been taught to regard as the work of that heroic pair, edward the elder and ethelfleda. but these feelings evaporated when we came to realise that it would have been highly unpatriotic in these founders of the british empire to have built little castles for their own personal safety, instead of building cities which were "to shelter all the folk," in the words of ethelfleda's charter to worcester. in like manner, wretched as were the intertribal wars of ireland, it would have been a disgrace to the irish chieftains if they had consulted solely their own defence by building these little strongholds for their personal use. the irish motte-castles furnish us with interesting proof that this type of castle was commonly used, not only as late as the reign of henry ii., but also in the reigns of his sons, richard i. and john;[ ] that is to say, at a time when castle-building in stone was receiving remarkable developments at the hands of richard i. and philip augustus of france. this, however, need not surprise us, since we know that as late as , henry iii. was building a motte and wooden castle in the isle of rhé, at the mouth of the garonne.[ ] but those who imagine that the normans built stone castles everywhere in england, wales, and ireland, will have to reconsider their views. _note._--mr orpen's work on _ireland under the normans_ did not appear until too late for use in this chapter. the reader is referred to it for a more careful tracing of the history and archæology of the norman settlements in ireland. chapter xii stone castles of the norman period it may be a surprise to some of our readers to learn how very few stone castles there are in england which can certainly be ascribed to the first period of the norman conquest, that is to the th century. when we have named the tower of london, colchester, the recently excavated foundations of the remarkable keep at pevensey, and perhaps the ruined keep of bramber, we have completed the list, as far as our present knowledge goes, though possibly future excavations may add a few others.[ ] it is obvious that so small a number of instances furnishes a very slender basis for generalisations as to the characteristics of early norman keeps, if we ask in what respect they differed from those of the th century. but it is the object of this chapter to suggest research, rather than to lay down conclusions. the four early instances mentioned should be compared with the earliest keeps of france, the country where the pattern was developed. this has not yet been done in any serious way, nor does the present writer pretend to the knowledge which would be necessary for such a comparison.[ ] but data exist, which, if they were used in the right way, would greatly add to our knowledge. in the first place, we have a list of the castles built by fulk nerra, count of anjou, at the end of the th and the beginning of the th century, during his life-long struggle with the counts of blois for the possession of touraine. this list may be regarded as authentic, as it is given by his grandson, fulk rechin, in the remarkable historical fragment which he has bequeathed to us.[ ] the list is as follows:--_in touraine_: langeais, chaumont-sur-loire, montrésor, st maure. _in poitou_: mirabeau (n.w. of poitiers), montcontour, faye-la-vineuse, musterolum (montreuil-bonnin), passavent, maulevrier. _in anjou_: baugé, chateau-gontier, durtal. "et multa alia," adds fulk's grandson. nine of these others are mentioned by the chroniclers: montbazon, semblançay, montboyau, st florent-le-vieil, chateaufort near langeais, chérament, montrevault, montfaucon, and mateflon. many of these were undoubtedly wooden castles, with wooden keeps on mottes.[ ] in many other cases the ancient fabric has been replaced by a building of the renaissance period. whether any remains of stone donjons built by fulk nerra exist at any of these places except at langeais, the writer has been unable to find out; probably langeais is the only one; but french archæologists are agreed that the ruined tower which stands on the ridge above the th-century castle of langeais is the work of this count,[ ] a venerable fragment of a th-century keep.[ ] unfortunately only two sides of this tower and the foundations of the other sides remain. the walls are only feet inches thick, contrasting strikingly with the castles of the th and th centuries, where the usual thickness is feet, which is often exceeded. this points to a date before any great improvement had taken place in assaulting-machinery. the masonry is what french architects call _petit appareil_, very small stones, but regularly coursed. there is no herring-bone work. the buttresses, of which there are five on the front, certainly suggest a later date, from the size of the ashlar with which they are faced, and from their considerable projection ( feet on the entrance wall, on the front). there is no sign of a forebuilding. there are only two storeys above the basement. the floors have been supported on ledges, not on vaults. the doorway, a plain round arch, with bar-holes, is on the first floor;[ ] it is now only a few feet above the ground, but probably the basement has been partially filled up with rubbish. the first storey is quite windowless in the walls which remain. there are no fireplaces nor any loopholes in these two fragments. in the second storey there are three rather small windows and one very large one;[ ] they are round arched, have no splay, and their voussoirs are of narrow stones alternated with tiles. in these details they resemble the early romanesque, which in england we call anglo-saxon. the tower of london and colchester keep are some seventy or eighty years later than that of langeais, and if we attempt to compare them, we must bear in mind that langeais was the work of a noble who was always in the throes of an acute struggle with a powerful rival, whereas the tower and colchester castle were built by a king who had reached a position of power and wealth beyond that of any neighbouring sovereign.[ ] langeais is but a small affair compared with these other two keeps. the larger area,[ ] thicker walls, the angle towers with their provision of stairways, the splayed windows [of colchester], the fireplaces, the chapels with round apses, the mural gallery [of the tower] cannot be definitely pronounced to be instances of development unless we have other instances than langeais to compare with them. de caumont mentions chateau du pin (calvados), lithaire (manche), beaugency-sur-loire, nogent-le-rotrou (eure et loire), tour de l'islot (seine et oise), st suzanne (mayenne), and tour de broue (charente inf.), as instances of keeps of the th century.[ ] these should be carefully examined by the student of castle architecture, and de caumont's statements as to their date should be verified. not having had the opportunity of doing this, we will only ask what features the keeps of langeais, london, and colchester have in common, which may serve as marks of an earlier date than the th century.[ ] the square or oblong form and the entrance on the first floor are common to all three, but also to the keeps of the first three-quarters of the th century. the absence of a forebuilding is probably an early sign,[ ] and so is the extensive use of tiles.[ ] the chapel with a round apse which projects externally only occurs in the keeps of london and colchester, and in the ruins of pevensey keep.[ ] the absence of a plinth is believed by enlart to be an early token.[ ] but colchester has a plinth and so has the tower. it is, however, very possible that in both cases the plinth is a later addition; at colchester it is of different stone to the rest of the building, and may belong to the repairs of henry ii., who was working on this castle in ; while the tower has undergone so many alterations in the course of its eight hundred years of existence that it is difficult to say whether the rudimentary plinth which it still possesses is original or not. wide-jointed masonry is generally recognised by architectural students as a mark of the early norman style. even this is a test which may sometimes deceive; certain kinds of ashlar are very liable to weather at the edges, and when the wall has been pointed at a comparatively recent period, a false appearance of wide joints is produced. moreover, there are instances of wide-jointed masonry throughout the th century. the use of rubble instead of ashlar is common at all dates, and depends no doubt on local conditions, the local provision of stone, or the affluence or poverty of the castle-builder. we are probably justified in laying down as a general rule that the dimensions of the ashlar stones increase as the middle ages advance. there is a gradual transition from the _petit appareil_ of fulk nerra's castle to the large blocks of well-set stone which were used in the th century.[ ] but this law is liable to many exceptions, and cannot be relied upon as a test of date unless other signs are present. the tower of london is built of kentish rag; colchester keep of small cement stones (septaria), which whether they are re-used roman stones or not, resemble very much in size the masonry of langeais. it is of course unnecessary to say to anyone who is in the least acquainted with norman architecture that all norman walls of ashlar are of the core-and-facing kind, an internal and an external shell of ashlar, filled up with rubble; a technique which was inherited from roman times in gaul, but which was not followed by the anglo-saxons.[ ] the presence or absence of fireplaces and chimneys is not a test of date. colchester is certainly an early keep,[ ] but it is well provided with fireplaces which appear to be original. these fireplaces have not proper chimneys, but only holes in the wall a little above the fireplace. but this rudimentary form of chimney is found as late as henry ii.'s keep at orford, and there is said to be documentary mention of a proper chimney as early as in the monastery of st gall.[ ] the entire absence of fireplaces is no proof of early date, for in henry ii.'s keep at the peak in derbyshire, the walls of which are almost perfect (except for their ashlar coats) there are no fireplaces at all, nor are there any in the th-century keep of pembroke. it is possible that in these cases a free standing fireplace in the middle of the room, with a chimney carried up to the roof, was used. such a fireplace is described by the poet, chrestien of troyes, but no example is known to exist.[ ] but apart from details, if we look at the general plan of these four early stone castles, we shall see that it is exactly similar. it is the keep-and-bailey plan, the plan which prevailed from the th to the th century, and was not even superseded by the introduction of the keepless castle in the latter century.[ ] the motte-and-bailey type was of course only another version of the keep-and-bailey. in this primitive type of castle the all-important thing was the keep or donjon.[ ] besides the donjon there was little else but a rampart and ditch. "until the middle of the th century, and in the simpler examples of the epochs which followed, the donjon may be said to constitute in itself the whole castle."[ ] piper states that up to the time of the crusades german castles do not seem to have been furnished with mural towers.[ ] köhler, whose work treats of french and english castles as well as german, says that mural towers did not become general till the second half of the th century.[ ] nevertheless, as it is highly probable that the baileys of castles were defended at first with only wooden ramparts on earthen banks, even when the donjon was of stone, it is not unlikely that mural towers of wood may have existed at an earlier period than these writers suppose. it is, however, in favour of the general absence of mural towers that the word _turris_, even in th-century records, invariably means the _keep_, as though no other towers existed.[ ] that the baileys of some of the most important castles in england had only these wooden and earthen defences, even as late as the th century, can be amply proved from the _close rolls_.[ ] colchester castle had only a timber wall on the banks of its bailey as late as , and in this _palicium_ was blown down and an order issued for its reconstruction.[ ] the arrangements in the stone donjons were probably the same as those we have already described when writing of the wooden ones.[ ] the basement was the storehouse for provisions,[ ] the first floor was generally the guardhouse, the second the habitation, of the lord and lady. where there were three or four storeys, the arrangements varied, and the finest rooms are often found on the third floor. an oratory was probably an invariable feature, though it cannot always be detected in ruined keeps. one of mr clark's most pronounced mistakes was his idea that these keeps were merely towers of refuge used only in time of war.[ ] history abounds with evidence that they were the permanent residences of the nobles of the th and th centuries. the cooking, as a rule, was carried on in a separate building, of which there are remains in some places.[ ] occasionally we find a variant of the keep-and-bailey type, which we may call the gatehouse keep. the most remarkable instance of this kind in england is exeter, which appears never to have had any keep but the primitive gatehouse, undoubtedly the work of baldwin de moeles, the first builder of the castle. in normandy, de caumont gives several instances of gatehouse keeps. plessis-grimoult (which has been visited by the writer) has a fragment of a gatehouse tower, but has also a mural tower on the line of the walls; as the castle was ruined and abandoned in , these remains must be of early date.[ ] the gatehouse keep is probably an economical device for combining a citadel with the defence of the weakest part of the castle. we must pass on to the keeps of henry i.[ ] there is only one in england which authentic history gives to his time, that of rochester.[ ] but the chronicler robert de torigny[ ] has fortunately given us a list of the keeps and castles built by henry in normandy, and though many of these are now destroyed, and others in ruins, a certain number are left, which, taken along with rochester, may give us an idea of the type of keep built in henry i.'s time. the keeps attributed by robert to henry i. are arques, gisors, falaise, argentan, exmes, domfront, ambrières, vire, waure, vernon, evreux, alençon, st jean, and coutances. how many of these survive we cannot positively say;[ ] we can only speak of those we have seen (falaise, domfront, and gisors),[ ] and of arques, described by m. deville in his _histoire du chateau d'arques_, by m. viollet le duc in his treatise on donjons,[ ] and by mr g. t. clark.[ ] speaking under correction, as a prolonged study of the keeps in normandy was impossible to the writer, we should say that there is no very striking difference to be observed between the keeps of henry i. and those built by his father. the development of the forebuilding seems to be the most important change, if indeed we are justified in assuming that the th-century keeps never had it; its remains can be seen at arques, falaise,[ ] domfront, and rochester. at arques and falaise the doorway is on the second floor, which is an innovation, a new attempt to solve the difficulty of defending the entrance. the first floor at arques could only be entered by a trap from the second floor; at falaise there is a stone stair from one to the other. rochester is entered from the first floor. the basement storeys of arques, falaise, and domfront are quite unlit; at the tower the basement has had a number of loopholes, and the angular heads of those which remain suggest that they are at least copied from original lights. the main floors in henry i.'s keeps are always of wood, but this was not because vaulting was then unknown, because the crypt, sub-crypt, and chapel of the tower are vaulted, not to speak of many early churches.[ ] the four keeps mentioned have all three storeys, thus not exceeding colchester in height;[ ] the tower has now four storeys, but a good authority has remarked that the fourth storey has not improbably been made by dividing the third. no marked advance is observable in the masonry of these keeps. arques is built of _petit appareil_; falaise of small stones in herring-bone work; domfront of very small stones rudely coursed; rochester of kentish rag mixed with flint rubble. both falaise and domfront have plinths of superior masonry, but there is always the possibility that these plinths are later additions. the voussoirs of the arches at falaise, domfront, and rochester are larger than the rag or tile voussoirs which are used at colchester, the tower, and langeais. at rochester and arques provision is made for carrying the water-supply from the well in the basement to the upper floors, a provision of which there is no trace in the older keeps.[ ] as robert de monte says that henry i. built many castles in england as well as in normandy, we naturally ask what other english keeps besides rochester may be assigned to him. it appears to the writer that corfe and norwich keeps may very likely be his. both were royal castles in his time, and both were originally wooden castles on mottes.[ ] both these castles have forebuildings, and neither of them have floors supported on vaults.[ ] corfe has very superior masonry, of larger stones than those used in the keeps known to be henry i.'s, but wide-jointed. at norwich only a very small piece of the original ashlar is left. corfe is extremely severe in all its details, but quite corresponds to work of henry i.'s reign.[ ] norwich has a great deal of decoration, more advanced in style than that to be seen at falaise, but still consistent with the first half of the th century. neither keep has the least sign of transition norman, such as we seldom fail to find in the keeps of henry ii. moreover, neither of them figure in the _pipe rolls_ of henry ii., except for repairs; and as stephen in his harassed reign can hardly have had any money for building stone keeps, we may with some confidence ascribe these two keeps to henry i. a few words should be given to the castle of gisors, which contains in itself an epitome of castle history. the first castle, built by william rufus in , was undoubtedly a wooden castle on a motte, with a stockaded bailey below it; certain portions of the present bailey walls rest on earthen banks, which probably belonged to the original castle, and show what a much smaller affair it was than the present one. henry i., robert de monte tells us, strengthened this castle with a keep. probably this was the shell wall which now crowns the motte; the smallness of the masonry (stones about inches high, rudely dressed and coursed) and the slight projection of the buttresses ( inches) agree with much of the work of his time. there would be a wooden tower inside.[ ] the chemise or shell wall is pierced by loopholes, a very unusual arrangement; they are round arched, and of very rude voussoirs.[ ] inside this shell there is a decagonal tower, called the tower of thomas à becket, which is almost certainly the work of henry ii.,[ ] as its name would indicate; the chapel of st thomas is close to it. a stair turret of the th century has been added to this keep; its original entrance was, as usual, a door on the first floor, but a basement entrance was built afterwards, probably in the th century. philip augustus, after he had taken this castle from john, added to it one of the round keeps which had then become the fashion, and subsequent enlargements of the bailey converted it into a "concentric" castle, of which the motte now forms the centre. there is one keep which is known to be of the reign of stephen, though not built by him, that of carlisle, built by david, king of scotland, in ,[ ] a time when he thought his hold on the four northern counties of england was secure, little reckoning on the true character of his great-nephew, henry, son of matilda. there is no advance to be seen in this keep on those of henry i., except that the walls are faced with ashlar. the vaulting of the basement is pronounced by mr clark to be very evidently a late insertion.[ ] with the reign of henry ii. a new era opens as regards the documentary history of our ancient castles, because the _pipe rolls_ of that king's reign have most fortunately been preserved.[ ] these contain the sheriff's accounts for money spent on the building or repair of the king's castles, and are simply invaluable for the history of castle architecture. the following is a list of the keeps which the _pipe rolls_ show to have been built or finished by henry ii.:-- scarborough, built between and . tower windsor, " " " . shell wall orford, " " " . tower bridgenorth, " " " . tower newcastle, " " " . tower bowes, " " " . tower richmond, " " " . tower chilham, " " " . tower peak, " " " . tower canterbury, " " " . tower arundel, " " " . shell wall tickhill, " " " . tower the dates given here must be taken as only roughly accurate, as owing to the meagreness of the entries in the _pipe rolls_, it is not always certain whether the expenses were for the great tower or for other buildings. the list by no means includes all the work which henry ii. did on his english castles, for he was a great builder; but a good deal of his work seems to have been the substitution of stone walls with mural towers, for wooden stockades, and our list comprises all the cases in which it is clear that the keep was the work of this king.[ ] we confine our attention to the keeps, because though mural towers of stone began to be added to the walls of baileys during henry ii.'s reign (a detail which must have greatly altered the general appearance of castles), it is certain that the keep was still the most important part, and the residence of the king or noble whenever he visited the castle. seven out of the ten tower keeps are built on precisely the same plan as those of henry i. the chief advance is in the masonry. all the tower keeps of henry ii., except dover, chilham, and canterbury, are or have been cased with good ashlar, of stones somewhat larger in size than those used by henry i. the same may be said of the shell walls (namely, windsor and arundel); it is interesting to note that henry ii. still used this elementary form of citadel, which consisted merely of a wall round the top of a motte, with wooden buildings inside.[ ] in three cases out of the ten tower keeps, newcastle, bowes, and richmond, the basement storey is vaulted, which does not occur in the older keeps.[ ] yet such important castles as scarborough, dover, and canterbury are without this provision against fire. none of these keeps appear to have more than three storeys above the basement.[ ] none of the entrances to the keeps (except tickhill) have any portcullis grooves,[ ] nor any special contrivances for defence, except at canterbury, where the entrance (on the first floor) takes two turns at right angles before reaching the hall to which it leads.[ ] there are nearly always in the keeps of henry ii. some signs of transition norman in the details, such as the nook shafts at the angles of the towers of scarborough and the peak, certain arches at canterbury, the transition capitals used at newcastle, and the filleted string round the outside of bowes. but we have yet to speak of three keeps of henry ii.'s reign which are on a different plan to all the others, and which point to coming changes--chilham, orford, and tickhill.[ ] chilham is an octagonal tower of three storeys, with a square annexe on one side, which appears to be original. orford is polygonal outside, round inside. orford indeed is one of the most extraordinary keeps to be seen anywhere, and we must regard it as an experiment, and an experiment which appears never to have been repeated.[ ] instead of the usual norman buttresses, this polygonal keep has three buttress towers, placed between every four of the outer faces, feet wide, and feet in projection.[ ] tickhill, however, the last keep he built, is decagonal. the object of the polygonal tower was to deflect the missiles thrown from siege engines, and the round tower was evidently considered an improvement on the polygonal for this purpose, as it subsequently supplanted the polygonal type. it is therefore rather remarkable that henry ii. built both these keeps in the second decade of his reign, and afterwards went on building square keeps like his predecessors. we have seen, however, that he built at least one polygonal tower in normandy, that of gisors. we must bear in mind that the norman and angevine frontier was the theatre of the continuous struggle of henry ii. with the french kings, louis vii. and philip augustus, and that it is here that we must expect the greatest developments in military architecture. speaking generally, we may say that just as there was comparatively little change in armour during the th century until the end of henry ii.'s reign, so there was comparatively little change in military architecture during the same period. but great changes took place towards the end of the th century. one of these changes was a great improvement in missile engines; the trébuchet was one of the most important of these. it could throw much heavier stones than the largest catapult, and could take a more accurate aim.[ ] these new engines were useful for defence as well as attack, and this affected the architecture of castles, because flat roofs covered with lead, on which machines could be placed, were now substituted for the former sloping roofs.[ ] there are several payments for lead for roofing castles in the _pipe rolls_ of henry ii., the earliest being in . in the reigns of john and henry iii. the mention of lead for roofing becomes much more frequent.[ ] hitherto, in the defence of keeps, reliance had mainly been placed upon their passive strength, though not so entirely as has been commonly assumed, since it was always the practice to shoot with arrows from the battlements round the roof of the tower. but not only was the fighting strength of the keep increased by the trébuchet, but the introduction of the crossbow gave it a defensive arm of the greatest importance. the crossbow had been known to the romans, and was used in the early part of the th century, but it was forbidden by the second lateran council in as a weapon hateful to god.[ ] this prohibition seems actually to have been effective, as william the breton says expressly that the crossbow was unknown to the french before the wars of richard i. and philip augustus.[ ] richard learned the use of it in the third crusade.[ ] but to use the crossbow in the defence of buildings it was necessary to construct special loopholes for shooting, splayed downwards externally, so that it was possible to aim from them. up till this time the loopholes of castles had been purely for light and not for shooting; anyone may see that it is impossible to take aim through an immensely thick wall unless there is a downward splay to increase the field of vision. william the breton tells us that richard built windows for crossbows to his towers, and this is the first mention we have of them.[ ] from this time defensive loopholes become common in castles, and take various fanciful forms, as well as the commoner ones of the circle, square, or triangle at the base of the loop. the _cross loophole_, which does not appear till the latter quarter of the th century, is explained by viollet le duc as an ingenious way of allowing three or four archers to fire in a volley.[ ] but up to the present time very little study has been given to this subject, and we must be content to leave the question for future observation to settle.[ ] the crossbowmen not only required splayed loopholes, but also niches, large enough to accommodate at least three men, so that a continuous discharge of darts (quarrells) might be kept up. any defensive loop which really means work will have a niche like this behind it. these niches had the defect of seriously weakening the wall. another innovation introduced by richard i. was that of stone machicolations, or _hurdicia_.[ ] whether wooden galleries round the tops of walls, with holes for dropping down stones, boiling-water, or pitch on the heads of the besiegers had not been used from the earliest times, is regarded by köhler as extremely doubtful.[ ] they were certainly used by the romans, and may even be seen clearly figured on the assyrian monuments. in the bayeux tapestry, the picture of bayeux castle shows the stockade on top of the motte crested with something extremely like hurdicia. yet the writer has found no authentic mention of them before the end of the th century.[ ] the stone machicolations built by richard round his keep of chateau gaillard are of an unusual type, which was only rarely imitated.[ ] but from this time wooden hurdicia became universal, to judge from the numerous orders for timber for _hoarding_ castles and town walls in the _close rolls_ of the first half of the th century. towards the middle of the th century stone brackets for the support of wooden hurdicia began to be used; they may still be seen in the great keep of coucy, which was begun in . but machicolations entirely of stone, supported on double or triple rows of brackets, do not become common till the th century.[ ] the greatest architectural change witnessed at the end of the th century was the victory of the round keep over the square. round towers were built by the romans as mural towers, but the universal type of mediæval keep appears to have been the square or oblong, until towards the end of the th century.[ ] the polygonal keep was probably a transitional form; we have seen that henry ii.'s polygonal keep at orford was begun as early as . many experiments seem to have been made at the end of the th century, such as the addition of a stone prow to the weakest side of a keep, to enable it better to resist showers of missiles. richard i.'s keep at chateau gaillard is a round keep with a solid prow of this kind. five-sided keeps are said to be not uncommon on the left bank of the rhine and in nassau; this type was simply the addition of a prow to a square keep. the only english instance known to the writer is that of mitford, northumberland, but this is merely a five-sided keep, the prow is not solid, as at chateau gaillard. the castle of Étampes, whose plan is a quatrefoil, is assigned by french archæologists to this period of experiment.[ ] but the round keep was eventually the type preferred. philip ii. thought it necessary to add a round keep to the castle of gisors, after he had taken it from john, and he adopted the round keep for all his new castles, of which the louvre was one.[ ] along with the round keep, ground entrances became common.[ ] viollet le duc states that when the french soldiers broke into the inner ward at chateau gaillard the defenders had no time to escape into the keep by the narrow stair which led to the first floor, and consequently this proud tower was surrendered without a blow; and that this event so impressed on philip's mind the danger of difficult entrances that he abandoned the old fashion. this may be true, but it is a pure guess of le duc's, as there is nothing whatever to justify it in william the breton's circumstantial narrative. it is, however, certain that philip adopted the ground entrance to all his keeps. in england we find ground entrances to many round keeps of the th century, as at pembroke; but the older fashion was sometimes retained; conisburgh, one of the finest keeps in england, has its entrance on the first floor.[ ] after the introduction of the trébuchet, we might expect that the walls of keeps would be made very much thicker, and such seems to have been the case in france,[ ] but we do not find that it was the rule in england.[ ] the lower storeys were now generally instead of occasionally vaulted. in the course of the th century it became common to vault all the storeys. but in spite of the military advantages of the round keep, in its avoidance of angles favourable to the battering-ram, and its deflection of missiles, the square keep continued to be built in various parts of both france and england till quite late in the middle ages.[ ] on the scottish border, square towers of the ancient type, with quite norman decorations, were built as late as the th century.[ ] the advantage of the square tower was that it was more roomy inside, and was therefore preferred when the tower was intended for habitation. we come now to the greatest of all the changes introduced in the th century: the keepless castle, in which the keep is done away with altogether, and the castle consists of a square or oblong court surrounded by a strong wall with massive towers at the angles, and in large castles, in the curtain also.[ ] usually this inner quadrangle is encircled with an outer quadrangle of walls and towers, so that this type of castle is frequently called the _concentric_. but the castles of the keepless kind are not invariably concentric; those built by edward i. at conway, carnarvon, and flint are not so.[ ] instead of a dark and comfortless keep, the royal or noble owner is provided in this type of castle with a palatial house. in england this house is frequently attached to the gateway, forming what we may call a gatehouse palace; good examples may be seen at beaumaris, harlech, and tonbridge.[ ] the gateway itself is always defended by a pair of massive towers. edward i. is generally credited with the introduction of this type of castle into england, but until the _pipe rolls_ of henry iii.'s reign have been carefully examined, we cannot be certain that it was not introduced earlier. it was certainly known in germany fifty years before edward's accession to the throne, and in france as early as .[ ] it is always supposed that this type of castle was introduced by the crusaders from syria. but when did it make its first appearance in syria? this is a point which, we venture to think, has not been yet sufficiently investigated. we do not believe that it can have existed in syria at the time of the third crusade, otherwise richard i., who is universally acknowledged to have been a first-class military architect, would have brought the idea home with him.[ ] yet his favourite castle of chateau gaillard, built in accordance with the latest military science, is in the main a castle of the keep-and-bailey type, and has even a reminiscence of the motte, in the scarped rock on which the keep and inner ward are placed. the new type of keepless castle never entirely displaced the old keep-and-bailey type. we have already seen that keeps of the old sort continued to be built till the end of the middle ages. hawarden castle has a good example of a th-century round keep; warkworth a most remarkable specimen of the th, the plan being a square tower with polygonal turrets set on each face.[ ] in france and germany also the old type appears to have persisted.[ ] we have already trespassed beyond the limits of our subject; but as we offer this chapter more as a programme of work than as a categorical outline, we trust it may not be without use to the student who may feel disposed to take up this much-neglected subject. a few words must yet be said about the state of the law relating to castles. nothing explicit has come down to us on this subject from the th century in england, but it is clear that the feudal system which william introduced, and which required that all lands should revert to the king on the death of the holder, forbade the building of any castle without the king's license, and, further, allowed only a life tenure in each case. the council of lillebonne in had laid it down in express terms that no one should build a castle in normandy without the permission of the duke;[ ] and william, after his great victory over his revolted barons, had enforced the right of garrisoning their castles. he was not able to do this in england, while he must have desired to check the building of private castles as far as possible. on the other hand, he had to face the dilemma that no norman land-holder would be safe in his usurped estates without the shelter of a castle. in this situation we have the elements of the civil strife which burst forth in stephen's reign, and which was ended by what we may call the anti-castle policy of henry ii.[ ] the rights secured by this able king were often recklessly sold by his successors, but in the reign of henry iii. it was evidently illegal even to fortify an ordinary house with a ditch and stockade without royal permission.[ ] * * * * * feudalism was an inevitable phase in the evolution of the western nations, and it ought neither to be idealised nor execrated. after the break-up of the tribal system the nations of europe sought refuge in the forms of imperialism which were devised by charlemagne, and even the small and distant island of england strove to move in the same direction. but the times were not ripe for centralisation on so great a scale, and when the system of the carlovingian empire gave way under the inrush of northmen and huns, european society would have fallen into ruin had it not been for the institutions of feudalism. these offered, in place of the old blood bond of the tribe, a social compact which, though itself artificial, was so admirably adapted to the general need that it was speedily adopted by all the progressive nations of europe. the great merit of feudalism was that it replaced the collective responsibility of the tribe by the individual responsibility of the man to his lord, and of the lord to his man. in an age when the decay of mutual trust was the worst evil of society it laid stress on individual loyalty, and insisted that personal honour should consist in the fulfilment of obligations. being a system so wholly personal, its usefulness depended largely on the nature of the person in power, and it was therefore liable to great abuses. but it is probable that feudalism worked better on the whole in england than in any other part of western europe. the worst evils of french feudalism never appeared in this country, except during the short and disastrous reign of stephen. the strong kings of the norman and plantagenet houses held in check the turbulence of the barons; and private war was never allowed to become here, as it was on the continent, a standing evil. to follow out this subject would lead us beyond the limits of this book, but it is interesting to remember that not only the picturesque ruins of our castles, but also the neglected green hillocks of which we have treated in this work, while they point to the skilful machinery by which the norman conquest was riveted on the land, bear witness also to something still more important. they tell of a period of discipline and education through which the english people passed, when in spite of much oppression and sometimes even cruelty, seeds of many noble and useful things were sown, from which succeeding generations have garnered the enduring fruit. appendices appendix a primitive folk-moots the popular meetings of the anglo-saxons, those of the hundred and the shire, were held in the open air. since many of those who attended them had to travel far, some sign was necessary to mark out the place of meeting, and some striking feature, such as a hillock, or a particular tree, or an ancient barrow, was chosen. thus we have the shire oak, near leeds, which gives its name to the wapentake of skyrack; and in a charter of edgar we find the _mot-beorh_ mentioned, and translated _congressionis collem_ = the meeting barrow. (_m. a._, ii., .) it does not appear that a hillock was an essential feature of these meeting-places, though this is popularly supposed to be the case, because the "thing-wall" in iceland and the "tynwald" in the isle of man have hillocks from which laws were proclaimed. the thingwall, or field of meeting in iceland had a natural rock just above it, isolated by a stream, and though proclamations were made from this rock, deliberations took place on the level. (gomme's _primitive folk-moots_, .) the tynwald hill, in the isle of man, which is also still used for the proclamation of new laws, was probably an ancient barrow, as there are other barrows in the immediate neighbourhood. (kermode and herdman, _illustrated notes on manx antiquities_, pp. and .) at thingwall, near liverpool, and thingwall in wirral, both probably norse settlements, there is no hillock. in scotland, the use of a former motte as a meeting-place for the baronial court appears to have been much more common than in england. mr george neilson's explanation of this fact is referred to in chapter x., p. . appendix b watling street and the danelagh it has been pointed out by schmid (_gesetze der angelsachsen_, xxxviii.) that the document called _alfred and guthrum's peace_ cannot belong to the year of guthrum's baptism at wedmore; and mr j. r. green (_conquest of england_, p. ) goes further, and doubts whether the boundaries laid down in this deed refer to anything except to the east anglian kingdom of guthrum. but mr green gives no adequate reason for rejecting the generally accepted conclusion that the watling street was the boundary between english and danish mercia, which is borne out by the following facts: ( ) the danish confederacy of the five boroughs, lincoln, stamford, leicester, nottingham, and derby, pretty well covers the part of mercia north of watling street, especially when chester is added, as it sometimes is, to the list; ( ) the division into wapentakes instead of hundreds, now believed to be of danish origin, is found in lincolnshire, notts, derbyshire, rutland, leicestershire, and northamptonshire. staffordshire, it is true, is not divided into wapentakes, but it was apparently won by conquest when ethelfleda fortified the town. chester was occupied by her husband in . watling street furnishes such a well-defined line that it was natural to fix upon it as a frontier. appendix c the military origin of alfred's boroughs keutgen (_untersuchungen über den ursprung der deutschen stadtverfassung_, ) appears to have been the first to notice the military origin of the old saxon boroughs; and professor maitland saw the applicability of the theory to the boroughs of alfred and edward the elder. (_domesday book and beyond._) the _anglo-saxon chronicle_, in , speaks of "the men whose duty it was to defend the towns"; this proves that alfred had made some special arrangement for the defence of the towns; and this arrangement must have been something quite apart from the ordinary service of the _fyrd_ or militia, which was only due for a short time. it must have been something permanent, with an adequate economic basis, such as we have in henry the fowler's plan. appendix d the words "castrum" and "castellum" if we take the chroniclers of the reign of charlemagne and his successors in the th century, we find the word _castrum_ constantly used for places such as avignon, dijon, macon, rheims, chalons, cologne, andernach, bonn, coblenz, etc., all of which are known to have been roman _castra_, when there can be no doubt that the _city_ is meant. take, for instance, the _annales mettenses_ (pertz, i., ), : karl martel hears that the saracens have taken "castrum munitissimum avinionem" (avignon); he marches against them, and "_predictam urbem_ obsidione circumdat." but these cities are not only called _castra_, they are also called _castella_. thus the chronicle ascribed to hincmar calls macon both _castrum_ and _castellum_ in the same breath. (_migne_, , .) the fortifications built by charlemagne against the saxons are called _castra_, _castella_, and _civitates_. (_chron. moissiacense_, pertz, i., . _ann. einhardi_, ibid., , .) the camps of the northmen, which as we have seen, were of great size, are also called not only _castra_, but _civitates_, _castella_, _munitiones_, _oppida_. (_annales fuldenses_, pertz, i., .) the camp built by charles the bald at pistes in is called a _castellum_, though it was evidently an enclosure of great size, as he measured out quarters in it for his nobles, and formed an elaborate scheme for its maintenance. (hincmar, _migne_, , , .) coming to the th century, the following passage from flodoard will show the vagueness of the words in common use for fortifications: "heribertus ansellum bosonis subditum, qui prædictum custodiebat _castrum_ (vitry), cum ipso _castello_ recipit, et codiacum s. remigii _municipium_ illi cum alia terra concedit. nec longum, bosonis fideles _oppidanorum_ proditione victoriacum (vitry) recipiunt, et mosonum fraude pervadunt. at heribertus, a quibusdam mosomensibus evocatus, supervenit insperatus, et entrans _oppidum_, porta latenter a _civibus_ aperta, milites bosonis, qui ad custodiam loci residebant, ibidem omnes capit." (_migne_, , .) here it is clear that _castrum_, _castellum_, _municipium_, and _oppidum_ all mean the same thing, and the one word _civibus_ betrays that it is a _city_ which is meant. undoubtedly the chronicler thinks it elegant to change his words as often as he can. _munitio_ is another word frequently used; in classical latin it means a bulwark, a wall or bank; in the chroniclers of the th century it is used indifferently for a town or castle, though certain passages, such as "subversis multarum munitionibus urbium" (flodoard, i., vi.), show that the right sense is not far from the mind of the writer. the numerous passages in which we are told of monasteries being enclosed with walls and converted into _castella_, show that the _enclosure_ is the chief idea which the chroniclers associate with this word. the citations made above are not exceptional, but typical, and could be paralleled by countless others. since the above was written, i have read keutgen's _untersuchungen über den ursprung der deutschen stadtverfassung_. he remarks that the latin words for a town (in the th and th century writers) are _urbs_, _castellum_, _civitas_, sometimes _arx_; for a village, _villa_, _oppidum_, _vicus_. this absolutely agrees with what i have observed in these writers, except that i have certainly found _oppidum_ used for a town, as in the passage from flodoard cited above. appendix e the burghal hidage the _burghal hidage_ has been printed by birch, _cartularium_, iii., . the manuscript is very corrupt, and several of the places cannot be identified. those which can be identified are: hastings, lewes, burpham (near arundel), chichester, porchester, southampton, winchester, wilton, tisbury, shaftesbury, twineham, wareham, bridport, exeter, halwell, lidford, pilton, barnstaple, watchet, axbridge, lyng (near athelney), langport, bath, malmesbury, cricklade, oxford, wallingford, buckingham, eashing (near guildford), and southwark. the list thus seems to give an outline of alfred's kingdom as it was at his death, or at the beginning of the reign of his son. dr liebermann refers it to the latter date. (_leges anglorum_, .) appendix f thelwall a writer in the _manchester guardian_ a few years ago suggested a new solution of the name thelwall. he believes that the thelwall raised by edward was a boundary wall of timber, stretching from thelwall to runcorn. the mersey, he argues, above thelwall formerly broadened out into a series of swamps which would effectually defend the frontier towards the east. but westward from thelwall there were no such obstacles, and it is assumed that edward made a timber wall from thelwall to ethelfleda's fortress at runcorn. some support to this hypothesis is given in the names of places between thelwall and runcorn: stockton, walton (twice), stockham, walford, wallmore, and wall-hes. further, when the bed of the mersey was delved for the ship canal, discovery was made of "a remarkable series of submerged piles, feet long, arranged in two parallel ranks which were feet apart. the intervals between the piles varied, but seem to have averaged to feet. between the ranks were diagonal rows of upright stakes, each stake about feet long, extending from either rank chevron-wise to the middle and there overlapping, so that the ground-plan of them makes a kind of herring-bone pattern. by this plan, anyone passing through would have to make a zigzag course. in some places sticks and sedges were found interwoven horizontally with the stakes, a condition of things which probably obtained throughout the whole series. the tops of the tallest piles were feet below the present surface of the ground, which fact goes far toward precluding the possibility that this elaborate work may have been a fish-weir. the disposition of the stakes points to a military origin. so arranged, the advantage they offered to defending forces was enormous." i think it worth while to reproduce this account, especially because of the place-names, but those who are learned in the construction of fish-weirs may perhaps think that the description will apply to a work of that kind. appendix g the word "bretasche" this word, which also appears as bretagium, britagium, or bristega, evidently means a tower, as is clear from the following passages: order from king john to erect a _mota et bretagium_ at roscrea, in ireland (sweetman's _calendar_, i., ); order by henry iii. to the dwellers in the valley of montgomery "quod sine dilatione motas suas bonis bretaschiis firmari faciant" (_close rolls_, ii., ); order that the timber and bretasche of nafferton castle be carried to newcastle, and the bretasche to be placed at the gate of the drawbridge _in place of the little tower_ which fell through defect in its foundations (_close rolls_, i., b). the word is also expressly defined by william the breton as a wooden castle: "circuibat castrum ex omni parte, et fabricavit brestachias duplices per septem loca, _castella videlicet lignea_ munitissima." (bouquet, xvii., .) see also wright, "illustrations of domestic architecture," _arch. journ._, i., and . in these papers it is clear that "breteske" means a tower, as there are several pictures of it. at a later period it seems to have been used for a wooden balcony made for the purpose of shooting, in the same sense as the word "hurdicium"; but i have not met with any instance of this before the th century. appendix h the words "hurdicium" and "hordiari" these words refer to the wooden galleries carried round the tops of walls, to enable the defenders to throw down big stones or other missiles on those who were attempting to attack the foot of the walls. "hurdicia quæ muros tutos reddebant." (_philippidos_, vii., ; bouquet, xvii.) the word "alures" is sometimes used in the same sense. see a mandamus of henry iii., cited by turner, _history of domestic architecture_, i., : "to make on the same tower [of london] on the south side, at the top, deep alures of good and strong timber, entirely and well covered with lead, through which people can look even to the foot of the tower, and better defend it, if need may be." the alures of the castle of norwich are spoken of as early as , but this mention, and one of the alures round the castle of winchester in , are the only ones i find in the th century in england. appendix i "hericio, ericio, herito, herisson" this is derived from the french word _hérisson_, a hedgehog, and should mean something bristling, perhaps with thorns or osiers. several passages show that it was a defence on the counterscarp of the ditch, and it may sometimes have been a hedge. cohausen, _befestigungen der vorzeit_, shows that hedges were frequently used in early fortifications (pp. - ). the following passages seem to show clearly that it was on the counterscarp of the ditch: "[montreuil] il a bien clos, esforce e ferme de pel e _hericon_." (wace, .) "reparato exterioris ardensis munitionis valli fossato et amplificato, et sepibus et ericiis consepto et constipato." (lambert of ardres, , _circa_ .) the french poem of jordan fantosme, describing the siege of wark by the scots in , says the scots attacked and carried the _hericon_, and got into the ditch, but they could not take the bayle, _i.e._, they could not get over the palicium. appendix k the castle of yale in the year , the antiquary edward llwyd was sitting on the motte of tomen y rhoddwy engaged in making a very bad plan of the castle [published in _arch. camb._, n.s., ii., ]. his guide told him that he had heard his grandfather say that two earls used to live there. llwyd called the guide an ignorant fellow. modern traditions are generally the work of some antiquary who has succeeded in planting his theories locally; but here we have a tradition of much earlier date than the time when antiquaries began to sow tares, and such traditions have usually a shred of truth in them. is it possible that this castle of tomen y rhoddwy and the neighbouring one of llanarmon were built by the earls of chester and shrewsbury, who certainly went on expeditions together against wales, and appear to have divided their conquests? it is to be noted that the township is called _bodigre yr yarll_, the township of the earls. appendix l the castle of tullow or "collacht," p. this information is kindly supplied by mr goddard h. orpen, who writes to me: "i visited tullow lately, and asked myself where would a norman erect a mote, and i had no difficulty in answering: on the high ground near where the protestant church stands. when i got up there the first thing that i noticed was that the church stood on a platform of earth to feet higher than the road, and that this platform was held in position by a strong retaining wall, well battered towards the bottom on one side. i then found on enquiry that the hill on which it stood and the place to the n.w. of it was called the 'castle hill.' on going round to the n.w. of the church i found a horseshoe-shaped space, scarped all round to a height of to feet, and rising to about feet above the adjoining fields. there is no doubt that this was the site of the castle, and that it was artificially raised. to my mind there was further little doubt that it represented an earlier mote. in a field adjoining on the w. i could detect a platform of about to paces, with traces of a fosse round the three outer sides.... this was certainly the castellum de tulach mentioned in the deeds concerning raymond le gros' grant to the abbey of st thomas.--_dublin reg. st thomas_, pp. , ." appendix m the castle of slane mr westropp says that the "great earthworks and fosses" on the hill of slane are mentioned in the "life of st patrick" (_journ. r. s. a. i._, , p. ). what the _life_ really says is: "they came to ferta fer fiecc," which is translated "the graves of fiacc's men"; and the notes of muirchu maccu-machtheni add, "which, as fables say, were dug by the slaves of feccol ferchertni, one of the nine wizards" (_tripartite life_, p. ). it does not mention any fort, or even a hill, and though ferta fer fiecc is identified with slane, there is nothing to show what part of slane it was. appendix n the word "donjon" professor skeat and _the new english dictionary_ derive this word from the low latin, _dominionem_, acc. of _dominio_, lordship. leland frequently speaks of the keep as the dungeon, which of course is the same word. its modern use for a subterranean prison seems to have arisen when the keeps were abandoned for more spacious and comfortable habitations by the noble owners, and were chiefly used as prisons. the word _dunio_, which, as we have seen, lambert of ardres used for a motte, probably comes from a different root, cognate with the anglo-saxon _dun_, a hill, and used in flanders for the numerous sandhills of that coast. appendix o the arrangements in early keeps we get a glimpse of these in a story given in the "gesta ambasiensium dominorum," d'archery, _spicilegium_, . sulpicius the treasurer of the abbey of st martin at tours, an important personage, built a stone keep at amboise in (_chron. turonense magnum_), in place of the "wooden house" which his brother had held. in the time of fulk rechin ( - ), this keep was in the hands of the adherents of the counts of blois. hugh, son of sulpicius, with two other men, hid themselves by night in the basement, which was used as a storehouse; it must therefore have had an entrance from outside. with the help of ropes, they climbed up a sewer into the bedchamber, which was above the cellar, and evidently had no stair communicating with the cellar. here they found the lady of the house and two maids sleeping, and a watchman who was also asleep. while one of the men held these in terror with a drawn sword, the other two climbed up a ladder and through a trap-door up to the roof of the tower, where they unfurled the banner of hugh. here we see a very simple keep, which has only one storey above the basement; this may have been divided into two or more apartments, but it was thought a fitting residence for a lady of rank. it had no stairs, but all the communications were by trap-doors and ladders. we may be quite sure that the people of rank of the th and th centuries were content with much rougher accommodation than mr clark imagined. even richard i.'s much admired keep of chateau gaillard appears to have had no communication but ladders between the floors. appendix p keeps as residences the description of a keep which we have already given from lambert of ardres (chap. vi.) is sufficient to prove that even wooden keeps in the th century were used as permanent residences, and this is confirmed by many scattered notices in the various chronicles of france and england. it was not till late in the th century that the desire for more comfortable rooms led to the building of chambers in the courtyard. appendix q castles built by henry i. the castles, which according to robert de monte, henry i. built altogether [_ex integro_] were drincourt, chateauneuf-sur-epte, verneuil, nonancourt, bonmoulins, colmemont, pontorson, st denis-en-lyons, and vaudreuil. many of these may have been wooden castles; chateauneuf-sur-epte almost certainly was; it has now a _round_ donjon on a motte. the "tour grise" at verneuil is certainly not the work of henry i., but belongs to the th century. appendix r the so-called shell keep we have three accounts of motte-castles from the th century: that of alexander neckham, in the treatise _de utensilibus_; that of laurence of durham, cited in chapter vii., p. ; and the well-known description of the castle of marchem, also cited in chapter vi., p. . all these three describe the top of the motte as surrounded by a wall (of course of wood), within which is built a wooden tower. the account of marchem says that it was built in the middle of the area. this supports the conjecture in the text. mr h. e. malden has shown (_surrey archæolog. collections_, xvi., ) that the keep of guildford is of later date than the stone wall round the top of the motte. remove this tower, and there would be what is commonly called a shell keep. it would appear, therefore, that it was a common practice to change the bank or stockade round the top of the motte into a stone wall (no doubt as a defence against fire), leaving the keep inside still of wood. four of the pictures from the bayeux tapestry (see frontispiece) all give the idea of a wooden tower inside a stockade on a motte. appendix s professor lloyd's "history of wales" i regret that this valuable work did not appear until too late for me to make use of it in my chapter on welsh castles. it is worth while to note the following points in which professor lloyd's conclusions differ from or confirm those which i have been led to adopt. aberystwyth and aberrheiddiol.--"after the destruction of the last aberystwyth castle of the older situation in , the chief stronghold of the district was moved to the mouth of the rheiddiol, a position which it ever afterwards retained, though people still insisted on calling it aberystwyth" ( ). "the original castle of aberystwyth crowned the slight eminence at the back of the farm of tan y castell, which lies in the ystwyth valley - / miles s. of the town. there is the further evidence of the name, and the earthworks still visible on the summit" ( , _note_). carreghova.--i ought perhaps to have included this castle in my list, though on the actual map its site is within the english border; but as there are absolutely no remains of it [d. h. m.] it does not affect the question i am discussing. cardigan and cilgerran.--"dingeraint cannot be cilgerran, because cilgerran is derived from _cerran_, with the feminine inflection, not from _geraint_; nor is cilgerran 'close to the fall of the teifi into the sea,' as the chronicler says dingeraint was. the castle built by earl roger was probably cardigan" ( ). professor lloyd afterwards identifies cilgerran with the castle of emlyn ( ). this seems to me questionable, as the "new castle of emlyn," first mentioned in edward i.'s reign, presupposes an older castle, and as i have stated, a mound answering to the older castle still exists not far from the stone castle. carmarthen.--professor lloyd thinks this castle stood at the present farm of rhyd y gors, about a mile below the town; but i see no reason to alter the conclusion to which i was led by mr floyd's paper, that the rhyd y gors of the castle was a ford at carmarthen itself. the fact that henry i. founded a cell to battle abbey at carmarthen ( ) seems to me an additional piece of evidence that the castle was there; castle and abbey nearly always went together. dinweiler.--professor lloyd assumes dinweiler to be the same as the castle in mabudryd built by earl gilbert, and to be situated at or near pencader ( ). it should be noted, however, that dinweiler reads dinefor in ms. b. of the _brut_, in . i am in error in supposing st clair to be the castle of mabudryd (following a writer in _archæologia cambrensis_), as st clair is not in that commote. professor lloyd's map of the _cantrefs_ and _commotes_ differs widely from that of previous writers. llangadoc.--"luchewein" should not be identified with this castle; professor lloyd thinks it may refer to a castle at llwch owain, a lake in the parish of llanarthney, where there is an entrenchment known as castell y garreg. maud's castle.--camden identified "matildis castrum" with colewent or colwyn, but professor lloyd is of opinion that "a careful collation of the english and welsh authorities for the events of the years and will make it clear that payne's castle and maud's castle are the same." this of course does not affect what is said about colwyn castle in the text. montgomery.--professor lloyd deems that the emphasis laid (especially in the _charter rolls_, i., ) on the fact that the building of henry iii.'s reign was new montgomery, leaves no doubt that the former town and castle stood elsewhere, probably at hên domen. this, if true, would greatly strengthen my case, as hên domen is an admirable motte and bailey. schedule of english castles known to date from the eleventh century[ ] in towns name of whole area of enceinte no. castle. type.[ ] or bailey. value. . arundel m. and b., o. whole area - / acres risen. . bamborough k. and b. whole area - / acres ... . barnstaple m. and b. bailey - / acres not given t. r. e. . bristol m. and b., o. whole area nearly acres not given t. r. e. . buckingham m. and b. ? risen. . caerleon m. and b., o. bailey - / acres risen. . cambridge m. and b. bailey - / acres not given t. r. w. . canterbury m. and b., o. whole area acres risen. (dungeon hill) . carlisle k. and b., o. whole area acres ... . chester m. and b., o. first ward / acre risen. . colchester k. and b. {inner ward and keep} risen. {about acres } . dover k. and b. {inner castle } risen. {about acres} . durham m. and b., o. bailey acre ... . ely m. and b., o. bailey - / acres fallen, but rising. . exeter b. only now acres ... . gloucester m. and b., o. ? risen. . hastings m. and b., o. ? fallen, but rising. . hereford m. and b. bailey - / acres risen. . huntingdon m. and b., o. inner bailey - / acres stationary. . lewes m. and b. bailey acres risen. . lincoln m. and b. bailey - / acres risen. . monmouth k. and b. bailey - / acres not given t. r. e. . newcastle m. and b., o. whole area acres rood ... . norwich m. and b., o. inner bailey - / acres risen. . nottingham m. and b., o. bailey - / acres risen. . oxford m. and b., o. bailey acres risen. . pevensey k. and b. bailey acre risen. . quatford {m. and b., } {probably o.} bailey acre ... . rochester m. and b., o. whole area about acres risen. (boley hill) . old sarum. m. and b. inner ward - / acres risen. . shrewsbury m. and b., o. bailey / of an acre risen. . stafford m. and b., o. bailey - / acres risen. . stamford m. and b. bailey - / acres risen. . tamworth {m. and b., } bailey acre not given. {probably o.} . totnes m. and b., o. bailey / of an acre risen. . tower of k. and b. originally? not given. london . wallingford m. and b. bailey - / acres risen. . warwick m. and b., o. bailey - / acres risen. . winchester m. and b., o. whole area - / acres not given. . worcester m. and b., o. whole area between and acres risen. . york m. and b., o. whole area formerly about acres risen. . the baile m. and b., o. whole area - / acres ... hill, york in manors head of whole area no. name of district of enceinte castle. type. t. r. e. or bailey. value. . abergavenny m. and b. ? bailey acre. ... . belvoir m. and b.? no ? risen. . berkeley m. and b yes " - / acres risen. or ness . berkhampstead m. and b yes " acres fallen. . bishop's m. and b no " - / acres fallen. stortford . bourn m. and b. yes " acres risen. . bramber m. and b. no " acres risen. . carisbrooke m. and b. no " - / acres risen. . castle acre m. and b. no " acres risen. . chepstow k. and b. no whole area - / acres risen. . clifford m. and b. no bailey - / acres risen. . clitheroe m. and b. no " acre fallen. . corfe m. and b. no " - / acres risen. . dudley m. and b. no " - / acres fallen. . dunster m. and b. no " - / acres risen. . ewias m. and b. ? " - / acres not given t. r. e. . eye m. and b. no " acres risen. . launceston m. and b. no " acres fallen. . montacute m. and b. no ? not given t. r. e. . morpeth m. and b. ? ? ... . norham m. and b. ? bailey acres ... . okehampton m. and b. no " / an acre risen. . oswestry m. and b. no ? risen. . peak castle k. and b. no " acre risen. . penwortham m. and b. no ? risen. . peterborough motte only ? ? ... now . pontefract m. and b. probably " - / acres fallen. . preston capes m. and b. no ... risen. . rayleigh m. and b. yes bailey / acre risen. . richard's m. and b. no " / acre stationary. castle . richmond k. and b. no " - / acres ... . rockingham m. and b. no first bailey acres risen. . skipsea m. and b. no bailey - / acres fallen. . stanton m. and b. no ? risen. holgate . tickhill m. and b. no " acres risen. . tonbridge m. and b. no " - / acres stationary. . trematon m. and b. no " acre fallen. . tutbury m. and b. no " - / acres not given t. r. e. . tynemouth ? ? ? ... . wigmore m. and b. no " acre risen. . windsor m. and b. no upper bailey fallen, - / acres but rising. . wisbeach m. and b. no whole area acres fallen. it has been thought best to tabulate the _chief_ defensible area of each castle. the total area, including ditches and scarps, is liable to great variation owing to the nature of the ground. index aber, aberavon, abercorn, aberdovey, abereinon, abergavenny, aberlleinog, aberystwyth, , aggeres, , aldreth, alfred, king, , , amwell, annan, anstruther family, antrim, appledore, aq'i, aquila, castle of, ardfinnan, ardmayle, ardnurcher, ardree, ardres, , = = area of norman castles, arques, arundel, arx, , ashlar masonry, askeaton, askelon, athelney, athlone, auchterless, avenel family, baginbun, bailey, ballium, , , , bakewell, balimore eustace, balliol family, ballyknockan, ballynaclogh, bamborough, , , , banff, barclay, barnstaple, barnwell, baronies, basements of keeps, , basingwerk, bastille, the, bayeux tapestry, , , bayford court, bedford, beith, belesme, roger, , ; castle, belvoir, benfleet, bensington, berkeley, , berkhampstead, bernard de neufmarché, , bervie river, biggar, bishop's stortford, blaenporth, bleddfa, blois, blythe, boley hill, , , , bordlands, borgue, boroughs, , , boulogne, _n._ bourn, bowes, bramber, braose, de, , , brecknock, , bremesbyrig, bretasche, , bridgenorth, , bristol, , bromborough, bruce family, brut y tywysogion, buckingham, , burghal hidage, , , , = = burgh castle, _n._ . burgus, burh, - , ; clark's theory of, - buttington, cadwalader, cadzow, caen keep, caereinion, caerleon, caerphilly, _n._ caerwedros, caherconlish, cambridge, , , = = camps, of refuge, ; prehistoric, ; of danes, canterbury, carbury, cardiff, cardigan, , ; castle, = = carisbrook, carlingford, carlisle, , = =, carlovingian empire, carmarthen, = =, carnarvon, = =, carnwath, carreghova, , carrick, carrickfergus, carrickittle, carrigogunell, castel, the word, , castellum, castrum, , , , castles, private, ch. v.; product of feudalism, ; in normandy, , ; wooden, ; stone, ch. xii.; sites given to church, _n._ . castle acre, = = castledermot, castle guard, castleknock, castlemore, castle rough, castle rushen, _n._ castletown delvin, cathcart family, catter, ceredigion, , chapels in castles, chartres keep, chastell gwalter, chateaudun keep, chateau gaillard, , , chepstow, chester, , = =, chevron moulding, cheyne family, chilham, chimneys, chinon, chippenham, chirk, christison, dr, , , , cilgerran, = =, citadels, , , clare, house of, , clark, g. t., , , , , clears, st, = =, cledemuthan, clifford, clitheroe, clonard, clonmacnoise, colchester, , = =, , , collacht, colville family, comyn family, concentric castles, cooking in castles, corfe, = =, coucy, , courcy, john de, court hills, , covington, crail, crimond, crogen, battle of, cromarty, crometh, cromwell, , croom, crossbow, the cunningham family, cupar, cymmer, cynewulf, murder of, cynfael, cyricbyrig, dalswinton, dane john, , , danes in ireland, dangio, danish raths, ; camps, ; colonies, , darnhall, david i. of scotland, , , = = deganwy, , dernio, derver, dinan, dinerth, dinevor, = =, dinweiler, dirleton, domfront keep, donjons, , douglas family, dover, = =; church, ; pharos, downpatrick, drogheda, drumore, drumsagard, duchal, dudley, dudo of st quentin, duffus, duleek, dumfries, dun, the word, dunamase, dungarvan, dunio, dunmullie, dunoon, dunskeath, dunster, durand, durham, durward, dyfed, earthworks, committee, eddisbury, edward, - , , , edward the martyr, edwardian castles, , egloe, eulo, elgin, ellon, ely, entrances to keeps, , , errol, escluen, Étampes castle, ethelfleda, , , , , , , , eu, eustace of boulogne, ewias, exeter, ; siege of, eye, falaise, - favorie, ferns, feudalism, , , , ; in normandy, ; in wales, , ; in scotland, fireplaces, fitz alans, , fitzhardinge, robert, fitzosbern, william, , , , , five boroughs, the , flambard, ranulf, fleming family, flint, folk-moots, fore, forebuildings, , forfar, forres, fortifications, anglo-saxon, , ; danish, , ; wooden, fotheret onolan, french earthworks, fulham, fulk nerra, , , gaimar, geoffrey, gallo-roman villas, galtrim, gatehouse keeps, gatehouse palace, geashill, gemaron, gephthine, gilling, , gisors, glamorgan, gloucester, godwin, earl, , , gomme, g. l., gould, i. c, gower, , graham family, granard, greenwell, canon, guildford, guisnes, , gundulf, bishop, , , guy of amiens, gwyddgrug, gwynedd, - hæsten the dane, , hall, the anglo-saxon, , , hallaton castle hill, hamilton family, harold, earl and king, , , hastings, , = = haughead kipp, haverfordwest, hawarden, hawick, hay, hay family, hên domen, henry i., castles of, - , henry ii., castles of, - henry the fowler, hericio, hermitage castle, herring-bone work, , , hincheleder, hithes, hodesley, hoseley, holywell, , hubert de burgh, hugh of avranches, , humphrey's castle, huntingdon, , = = hurdicia, , , = = ida, king, inchelefyre, innermessan, inverness, inverugie, inverwick, irish chiefs, , jedburgh, john, bishop of terouenne, john, king, , , _n._ jomsborg, karakitel, keepless castles, , keep and bailey, keeps, arrangements in, , ; polygonal, ; prows to, ; residences, ; round, , keeps of henry i., , , keeps of henry ii., keeps of william i., , kelts of scotland, kenardington, kenfig, kenmure, kidwelly, kilbixie, kilbride, kilfeakle, kilfinnane, kilkea, killamlun, killare, kilmaurs, kilmehal, kilmore, kilsantan, kiltinan, kincleven, kirkcudbright, kirkintilloch, kirkpatrick durham, kitchens in castles, knighton, knock, knockgraffan, lacy, ilbert de, , ; hugh de, lag castle, lagelachon, lagmen, lambert of ardres, , lanark, langeais keep, , laon, largs, laugharne, launceston, laurence of durham, law about castles, lawhaden, lea castle, lea river, , lead roofs, leighlin, lennox, leuchars, lewes, lincoln, linton roderick, lismore, llanarmon, llandeilo talybont, llandovery, llanegwad, llangadog, , llanrhystyd, llanstephan, lloyd, professor, , lochmaben, lochorworth, lockhart family, logan family, london fortified, loopholes, , , ; cross loopholes, lords-marchers, loske, loughor, louth, louvre, the, lovel family, loxhindy, ludgarsburh, lumphanan, lyle or lisle family, lympne, mabudryd, machicolations, magh adair, maitland, professor, maldon, manchester, manors, saxon, and mottes, mans, le, keep of, masonry, , , mathraval, maud's castle, , maxton, maxwell family, melton, archbishop, melville family, mercenaries, , _n._ merchem castle, mersey island, military service, milton, missile engines, mitford, moffat, mold, monmouth, montacute, montalt, montgomeri, roger de, , , = =, , ; hugh de, ; arnolf, , ; castle, = =, montgomerie family, scotland, moot-hills, , , moray, colonisation of, morpeth, mortain, count of, , , , , mortimers, morville family, mottes, described, , ; the word, _n._ ; distribution, - ; situation, - ; in france, ; in wales, ; in scotland, ; in ireland, ; history, , mowbray, earl robert, mowbray family, müller, dr sophus, mural towers, murray family, naas, nantes castle, nant yr arian, narberth, navan, neath, neckham, "de utensilibus," neilson, mr george, , = = neu leiningen, _n._ newcastle, newcastle bridgend, newcastle emlyn, new grange, newport, nicetus, his castrum, nicholas, st, , nobber, normandy, , , norman favourites, norman walls, normans, norrei castle, northmen, camps of, , norton, norwich, = =, nottingham, , , , = = o'donovan, offa's dyke, okehampton, oldcastle, old sarum, oliphant family, orford, _n._ oswestry, overton (denbigh), ; (hereford), owen gwynedd, , oxford, oxnam, oystermouth, pantolf, william, parliamentary fortifications, payn's castle, = =, peak, pembroke, pentecost's castle, , penwortham, peterborough, pevensey, , pistes, capitulary of, , pitt-rivers, general, plinths, polnoon, pontefract, ; siege of, pont y stuffan, powys, - prestatyn, preston capes, pretorium, prisons in castles, private castles, , pudsey, bishop, quatbridge, quatford, quincy, de, family, radnor, rainald the sheriff, rapes of sussex, rathceltchair, raths in ireland, , rathwire, ratouth, rayleigh, reading, redcastle, lunan bay, reginald's tower, , remni, renfrew, retford, rhaidr gwy, rhé island, motte on, rhuddlan, , rhyd y gors, , rhys ap griffith, , riccarton, richard sans peur, richard i., - richard's castle, richmond, robert curthose, robert de monte, robert, earl of gloucester, , robert fitz hamon, robert of rhuddlan, roberton, rochester, , , rockingham, roger the poitevin, , , rokerel, rollo, roscrea, rosemarkie, ross, rouen, runcorn, ruthin, ruthven, sanquhar, sarn helen, saumur castle, saxon fortifications, chapters ii., iii., saxon royal seats, _n._ , scergeat, sepulchral hillocks, ; in ireland, shaftesbury, shell keep, sheppey isle, shoebury, shrewsbury, siege castles, siegfried the dane, siward, earl, skipsea, skreen, slane, somerville family, somner, antiquary, soulis family, stafford, , = = stamford, , = = stanton, stevenston, stewarton, swansea, symington, table of boroughs, talgarth, tamworth, , = = tarbolton, tateshall, tempsford, tenby, terraces to mottes, thanet, thelwall, , thetford, , thibault-le-tricheur, thingwall, thorne, _n._ thurles, tibraghny, tickhill, tiles, use of, timahoe, tom-a-mhoid, tomen y mur, tomen y rhoddwy, , , tonbridge, toot hill, topcliffe, _n._ torkesey, , totnes, towcester, tower of london, , , towers to castles, towns, fortification of, trade, trébuchet, trematon, tribalism, trim, , tristerdermot, tullow, , tutbury, tynboeth, tynemouth, tynwald hill, typermesan, valoignes family, value of manors and towns, vaulting, , , , vaux family, viking crews, viollet le duc, _n._ vire, keep, voussoirs, wales, chapters viii., ix.; wales and saxons, ; wales and normans, wallace family, wallingford, , = = walwern, wareham, , warenne, wm., , wark, , , _n._ , warkworth, warwick, , = = wasta, waterford, water-supply, - watling street, , , waytemore castle, weardbyrig, welsh halls, welshpool, wessex, wexford, wicklow, wigingamere, wigmore, william i., , william the lion, , willington, winchester, winding walks on mottes, , windsor, ; borough, wisbeach, wiston, witham, wolvesey castle, _n._ wooden fortifications, , , , , , , worcester, , , , = =; charter, wrexham castle, yale castle, , year , york, , = = york, baile hill, ystrad cyngen, ystrad meurig, ystrad peithyll, printed by oliver and boyd, edinburgh footnotes: [ ] mr w. h. st john hope arrived independently at similar conclusions. [ ] in the paper on earthworks in the second volume of the _victoria county history of yorkshire_, this subdivision of the promiscuous class x., is used. [ ] since the above was written, mr hadrian allcroft's work on _earthwork of england_ has furnished an admirable text-book of this subject. [ ] see frontispiece. [ ] see fig. . [ ] for instance, at berkeley, ewias harold, yelden, and tomen y roddwy. [ ] as at rayleigh and downpatrick. [ ] in some of these castles there is no gap in the bailey banks for an entrance. they must have been entered by a movable wooden stair, such as horses can be taught to climb. see the plan of topcliffe castle, yorks (fig. ). [ ] _vor oldtid_, p. . [ ] _entwickelung des kriegswesens_, iii., . [ ] see chapter vii. [ ] _primitive folkmoots._ see appendix a. [ ] _early fortifications in scotland_, p. . he adds an instance showing that moot hill is sometimes a mistake for moot hall. [ ] _scottish review_, vol. xxxii. [ ] some writers give the name of moot-hill to places in yorkshire and elsewhere where the older ordnance maps give moat-hill. _moat_ in this connection is the same as _motte_, the scotch and irish _mote_, i.e., the hillock of a castle, derived from the norman-french word _motte_. as this word is by far the most convenient name to give to these hillocks, being the only specific name which they have ever had, we shall henceforth use it in these pages. we prefer it to _mote_, which is the anglicised form of the word, because of its confusion with _moat_, a ditch. some writers advocate the word _mount_, but this appears to us too vague. as the word _motte_ is french in origin, it appropriately describes a thing which was very un-english when first introduced here. [ ] at york, a prehistoric crouching skeleton was found by messrs benson and platnauer when excavating the castle hill in , feet inches below the level of the ground. the motte at york appears to have been raised after the destruction of the first castle, but whether the first hillock belonged to the ancient burial is not decided by the account, "notes on clifford's tower," by the above authors. _trans. york. philosoph. soc._, . another instance is recorded in the _revue archæologique_, to which we have unfortunately lost the reference. [ ] from the report of a competent witness, mr basil stallybrass. [ ] earle, _two saxon chronicles parallel_, introd., xxiii. [ ] nennius says that ida "_unxit_ (read cinxit) dynguayrdi guerth-berneich"=a strength or fort of bernicia. _mon. hist. brit._, . elsewhere he calls bamborough dinguo aroy. it is quite possible that there might have been a keltic _din_ in a place so well fitted for one as bamborough. [ ] bede, h. e., iii., . [ ] see bede, as above, and symeon, ii., (r.s.). [ ] we infer this from the strong defences of what is now the middle ward. [ ] the fact, however, that the _trinoda necessitas_, the duty of landholders to contribute to the repair of boroughs and bridges, and to serve in the fyrd, is occasionally mentioned in charters earlier than the danish wars, shows that there were town walls to be kept up even at that date. see baldwin brown, _the arts in early england_, i., . [ ] see wright, _history of domestic manners_, p. . [ ] the danish fortress of nottingham is mentioned by the _chronicle_ in , but we are speaking now of purely anglo-saxon fortresses. [ ] asser, ch. , stevenson's edition. [ ] "that same year king alfred repaired london; and all the english submitted to him, except those who were under the bondage of the danish men; and then he committed the city (_burh_) to the keeping of ethelred the ealdorman." _a.-s. c._, . the word used for london is _londonburh_. asser says: "londoniam civitatem honorifice restauravit et habitabilem fecit," p. . [ ] birch's _cartularium_, ii., , . [ ] _anglo-saxon chronicle_, , , . according to henry of huntingdon, the work on the lea was the splitting of that river into two channels; but i am informed that no trace of such a division remains. [ ] _gesta pontificum_, . see appendix c. [ ] birch's _cartularium_, ii., ; kemble's _codex diplomaticus_, v., . [ ] he signs a charter in as "subregulus et patricius merciorum," kemble's _codex diplomaticus_. see freeman, _n. c._, i., ; and plummer, _a.-s. c._, i., . [ ] the dates in this chapter are taken from florence of worcester, who is generally believed to have used a more correct copy of the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ than those which have come down to us. [ ] see appendix b. [ ] _a.-s. c._, , . [ ] _new english dictionary_, borough. [ ] _anglo-saxon chronicle_, . the anglo-saxon chronicle has three words for fortifications, _burh_, _faesten_, and _geweorc_. burh is always used for those of edward and ethelfleda, faesten (fastness) or geweorc (work) for those of the danes. [ ] see the illustrations in wright, _history of domestic manners_. [ ] _bury_ is formed from _byrig_, the dative of _burh_. [ ] professor maitland observed: "to say nothing of hamlets, we have full parishes whose names end in burgh, bury, or borough, and in many cases we see no sign in them of an ancient camp or of an exceptionally dense population." _domesday book and beyond_, . [ ] schmid, _gesetze der angelsachsen_, pp. , , . it is not absolutely certain that the _burh_ in these three cases does not mean a town. [ ] schmid, . professor maitland says: "in athelstan's day it seems to be supposed by the legislator that a _moot_ will usually be held in a _burh_. if a man neglect three summonses to a moot, the oldest men of the _burh_ are to ride to his place and seize his goods." _domesday book and beyond_, . "all my reeves," are mentioned in the preface to _athelstan's laws_, schmid, . [ ] schmid, . "butan porte" is the saxon expression, _port_ being another word for town; see schmid, . [ ] schmid, edgar iii., ; ethelred ii., . [ ] edgar iv., . [ ] the writer was first led to doubt the correctness of the late mr g. t. clark's theory of burhs by examining the a.-s. illustrated mss. in the british museum. on p. of the ms. of _prudentius_ (cleopatra, c. viii.), there is an excellent drawing of a four-sided enclosure, with towers at the angles, and battlemented walls of masonry. the title of the picture is "virtutes urbem ingrediuntur," and _urbem_ is rendered in the a.-s. gloss as _burh_. see fig. . [ ] florence translates _burh_ as _urbs_ nineteen times, as _arx_ four times, as _murum_ once, as _munitio_ once, as _civitas_ once. [ ] published in , but comprising a number of papers read to various archæological societies through many previous years, during which mr clark's reputation as an archæologist appears to have been made. [ ] "eallum thæm folc to gebeorge." birch's _cartularium_, ii., . [ ] professor maitland has claimed that the origin of the boroughs was largely military, the duty of maintaining the walls of the county borough being incumbent on the magnates of the shire. _domesday book and beyond_, . see appendix c. [ ] parker's _domestic architecture in england from richard ii. to henry viii._, part ii., . [ ] _a.-s. c._, . [ ] _william of jumièges_, vii.-xvii. [ ] _a.-s. c._ (peterborough), . [ ] _a.-s. c._, (worcester). this castle is generally supposed to be richard's castle, herefordshire, built by richard scrob; but i see no reason why it should not be hereford, as the norman ralph, king edward's nephew, was earl of hereford. we shall return to these castles later. [ ] mr freeman says: "in the eleventh century, the word _castel_ was introduced into our language to mark something which was evidently quite distinct from the familiar _burh_ of ancient times.... ordericus speaks of the thing and its name as something distinctly french: "munitiones quas galli castella nuncupant." the castles which were now introduced into england seem to have been new inventions in normandy itself. william of jumièges distinctly makes the building of castles to have been one of the main signs and causes of the general disorder of the days of william's minority, and he seems to speak of the practice as something new." _n. c._, ii., . it is surprising that after so clear a statement as this, mr freeman should have fallen under the influence of mr clark's _burh_ theory, and should completely have confused castles and boroughs. [ ] _codex diplomaticus_, i., . [ ] _history of rochester_, , p. . [ ] stevenson's edition of _asser_, . see appendix d. [ ] _asser_, c. xlix. [ ] worcester, chester, tamworth, stafford, warwick, hertford, buckingham, bedford, maldon, huntingdon, colchester, stamford, and nottingham. [ ] _domesday book and beyond_, . [ ] buckingham is the only place which is included in both lists. see appendix e. [ ] _domesday book and beyond_, . see appendix e. southwark, one of the names, which is not called a borough in domesday, retains its name of _the borough_ to the present day. [ ] no roman remains have been found in either place. [ ] _beauties of england and wales_, oxfordshire. [ ] see skeat's _dictionary_, "timber." [ ] excavation has recently shown that many of the great hill-forts were permanently inhabited, and it is now considered improbable that they were originally built as camps of refuge. it seems more likely that this use, of which there are undoubted instances in historic times (see cæsar, _bello gallico_, vi., , and v., ), belonged to a more advanced stage of development, when population had moved down into the lower and cultivatable lands, but still used their old forts in cases of emergency. [ ] _ante_, p. . [ ] haverfield, in v. c. h. worcester, _romano-british worcester_, i. [ ] _early fortifications in scotland_, p. . [ ] gairdner and mullinger, _introduction to the study of english history_, . [ ] the tower called cæsar's tower is really a mural tower of the th century. e. w. cox, "chester castle," in _chester hist. and archæol. soc._, v., . [ ] cox, as above. see also shrubsole, "the age of the city walls of chester," _arch. journ._, xliv., . the present wall, which includes the castle, is an extension probably not earlier than james i.'s reign. [ ] the charter is given in ormerod's _history of cheshire_, ii., . [ ] _journ. of brit. arch. ass._, , p. . [ ] _itin._, ii., . [ ] "arcem quam in occidentali sabrinæ fluminis plaga, in loco qui bricge dicitur lingua saxonica, Ægelfleda merciorum domina quondam construxerat, fratre suo edwardo seniore regnante, comes rodbertus contra regem henricum, muro lato et alto, summoque restaurare coepit." . [ ] a good deal has been made of the name oldbury, as pointing to the _old burh_; but oldbury is the name of the manor, not of the hillock, which bears the singular name of pampudding hill. tradition says that the parliamentary forces used it for their guns in . eyton's _shropshire_, i., . [ ] "bricge cum exercitu pene totius angliæ obsedit, machinas quoque ibi construere et castellum firmare præcepit." _florence_, . [ ] florence in fact says _urbem restauravit_. [ ] d. b., i., . [ ] these buildings formed part of a hunting lodge built in the reign of edward iii., called the chamber in the forest. see ormerod's _cheshire_, ii., . when visiting eddisbury several years ago, the writer noticed several perpendicular buttresses in these ruins. [ ] d. b., i., a, . [ ] "abbas de couentreu habet masuras, et sunt wastæ propter situm castelli.... hae masurae pertinent ad terras quas ipsi barones tenent extra burgum, et ibi appreciatae sunt." d. b., i., . [ ] _domesday book and beyond_, p. . see appendix d. [ ] dugdale's _warwickshire_, st edition, pp. and . the derivation of kirby from cyricbyrig is not according to etymological rules, but there can be no doubt about it as a fact; for in domesday it is stated that _chircheberie_ was held by geoffrey de wirche, and that the monks of st nicholas [at angers] had two carucates in the manor. in the charter in which geoffrey de wirche makes this gift chircheberie is called kirkeberia [_m. a._, vi., ], but in the subsequent charter of roger de mowbray, confirming the gift, it is called kirkeby. [ ] _britannia_, ii., . [ ] _numismatic chronicle_, rd s., xiii., . [ ] fowler's _history of runcorn_ gives a plan of this fort, and there is another in hanshall's _history of cheshire_, p. ( ). a very different one is given in beaumont's _history of halton_. [ ] beaumont's _records of the honour of halton_. in , john hank received the surrender of a house near to the castle in runcorn. [ ] _mediæval military architecture_, ii., . [ ] _essex naturalist_, january . [ ] danbury camp, which has also been surveyed by mr spurrell (_essex naturalist_, ), is precisely similar in plan to witham, but nothing is known of its history. [ ] see _victoria history of bedfordshire_, i., . [ ] morant's _history of essex_, i. three sides of the rampart were visible in his time. [ ] d. b., ii., . [ ] _itin._, i., . [ ] baker's _history of northampton_, ii., . [ ] d. b., i., b. [ ] _a.-s. c._, . "wrohte tha burg æt tofeceastre mid stan wealle." florence says . [ ] baker, _history of northants_, ii., . see also haverfield, _v. c. h._, northants, i., . [ ] atkinson's _cambridge described_, p. . [ ] there is, however, this difficulty, that cambridge was still occupied by a danish force when wigingamere was built. it submitted to edward in . [ ] see mr plummer's discussion of these variations in his edition of the _chronicle_, ii., . [ ] lewis, _topographical dictionary of england_. mr rye remarks:--"the silting up of the harbour has ruined a port which once promised to be of as great importance as norwich." _history of norfolk_, p. . [ ] it is really wonderful that the identification of cledemuthan with the mouth of the cleddy in pembrokeshire could ever have been accepted by any sober historian. that edward, whose whole time was fully occupied with his conquests from the danish settlers, could have suddenly transported his forces into one of the remotest corners of wales, would have been a feat worthy of the coming days of air-ships. william of worcester has preserved a tradition that edward repaired burgh, "quae olim saxonice dicebatur burgh-chester," but he confuses it with norwich. _itinerarium_, . is it possible that we ought to look for cledemuthan at burgh castle, at the mouth of the waveney? it would be quite in accordance with edward's actions elsewhere to restore an old roman _castrum_. [ ] leland says: "there were principall towers or wards in the waulles of staunford, to eche of which were certeyne freeholders in the towne allottid to wache and ward in tyme of neadde." _itinerarium_, vii., . [ ] _a.-s. c._, . [ ] shipman's _old town wall of nottingham_, pp. - . the evidence for a roman origin of the borough is altogether too slight, as, except some doubtful earthenware bottles, no roman remains have been found at nottingham. [ ] _a.-s. c._, . _florence of worcester_, . [ ] i am indebted for much of the information given here to the local antiquarian knowledge of mr harold sands, f.s.a. he states that the old borough was yards from the trent at its nearest point, and that the highest ground on the south side of the trent is marked by the trent bridge cricket ground, the last spot to become flooded. here, therefore, was the probable site of edward's second borough. [ ] see appendix f. [ ] whitaker's _history of manchester_, i., . [ ] _trans. of lanc. and chesh. hist. and ant. soc._, v., . [ ] "castle" in combination with some other word is often given to works of roman or british origin, because its original meaning was a fortified enclosure; but the name castle hill is extremely common for mottes. [ ] we may remark here that it is not surprising that there should be a number of motte castles which are never mentioned in history, especially as it is certain that all the "adulterine" castles, which were raised without royal permission in the rebellions of stephen's and other reigns, were very short-lived. [ ] _mediæval military architecture_, i., . see mr round's remarks on mr clark's vagueness in his "castles of the conquest," _archæologia_, . [ ] the _a.-s. c._ speaks of this danish host as "a great heathen army." . [ ] "worhton other fæsten ymb hie selfe." the same language is frequently used in the continental accounts of the danish fortresses: "munientes se per gyrum avulsæ terræ aggere," _dudo_, (duchesne): "se ex illis (sepibus et parietibus) _circumdando_ munierant." _it._, p. . [ ] the earthworks at bayford court must belong to the mediæval castle which existed there. see _beauties of england and wales, kent_, p. . castle rough is less than an acre in area. [ ] mr harold sands, _some kentish castles_, p. . [ ] see the plan in _victoria history of kent_, paper on earthworks by the late mr i. c. gould. hasted states that there was a small circular mount there as well as an embankment, and that there are other remains in the marsh below, which seem to have been connected with the former by a narrow ridge or causeway, _kent_, iii., . the causeway led to a similar mount in the marsh below, but mr gould inclined to think the mounts and causeway later, and possibly part of a dam for "inning" the marsh. _v. c. h._, p. . [ ] "hæsten's camps at shoebury and benfleet," _essex naturalist_, iv., . [ ] the _chronicle_ says that the ships of hæsten were either broken to pieces, or burnt, or taken to london or rochester. . [ ] _essex naturalist_, as above, p. . these berms certainly suggest roman influence. [ ] _a.-s. c._, . [ ] _montgomery collections_, xxxi., ; dymond, _on the site of buttington_. see also steenstrup, _normannerne_, ii., . [ ] _beauties of england and wales_, vii., . there is nothing left either at great or little amwell now but fragments of what are supposed to be homestead moats. _royal commission on historical monuments_, pp. , , herts. vol. [ ] florence's date. [ ] _victoria history of bedfordshire_, i., , from which this description is taken. [ ] the _chronicle_ speaks of _tempsford_ as a _burh_, so it must have been a large enclosure. [ ] mr clark actually speaks of a subsequent norman castle at tempsford (_m. m. a._, i., ), but we have been unable to find any confirmation of this. faint traces of larger works in the fields below were formerly visible. _v. c. h. bedfordshire_. [ ] stephenson's _asser_, p. . [ ] there are no remains of earthworks in thanet or sheppey, except a place called cheeseman's camp, near minster in thanet, which the late mr gould regarded as of the "homestead-moat type." _v. c. h. kent_, i., . nor are there any earthworks on mersey island mentioned by mr gould in his paper on essex earthworks in the _v. c. h._ [ ] stukeley, who saw this earthwork when it was in a much more perfect state, says that it contained acres. see mr hope's paper in _camb. antiq. soc._, vol. xi. [ ] blomefield's _norfolk_, ii., pp. , , . his description is very confused. [ ] see erlingssen's _ruins of the saga time, viking club_, p. . [ ] richerii, _historiarum libri quatuor_, edition guadet, p. . [ ] "in modo castri, munientes se per girum avulsæ terræ aggere." _dudo_, (edition duchesne). [ ] "the castle end of cambridge was called the borough within the memory of persons now living." atkinson's _cambridge described_ ( ), p. . [ ] steenstrup says that the northmen built themselves shipyards all round europe, especially on the islands where they had their winter settlements. _normannerne_, i., . [ ] a.-s., _hyth_, a shore, a landing-place. [ ] _victoria county history of beds._, i., . [ ] steenstrup's _normannerne_, vol. iv.; _danelag_, p. . [ ] _a.-s. c._, - . [ ] steenstrup, _danelag_, p. . [ ] _ibid._, pp. , . [ ] such quartering must have been confined to the unmarried danes, but there must have been plenty of unmarried men in the piratical host, even at the period when it became customary to bring wives and children with the army. [ ] _normannerne_, i., . [ ] _dudo_, (duchesne). [ ] herr steenstrup shows that so far from the settlement of the danes in normandy being on feudal lines, they only reluctantly accepted the feudal yoke, and not till the next century. _normannerne_, i., , . it is not till the th century that feudal castles become general in normandy. [ ] the danes in normandy soon made rouen a great centre of trade. _normannerne_, i., . [ ] cunningham's _growth of english industry_, i., . [ ] see vinogradoff, _english society in the th century_, pp. , , . [ ] see stubbs, _constitutional history_, i., ; maitland's _domesday book and beyond_, p. ; round's _feudal england_, p. ; vinogradoff's _english society in the th century_, p. . [ ] professor maitland wrote: "the definitely feudal idea that military service is the tenant's return for the gift of land did not exist [before the norman conquest], though a state of things had been evolved which for many practical purposes was indistinguishable from the system of knight's fees." _domesday book and beyond_, p. . dr round holds that "the military service of the anglo-norman tenant-in-chief was in no way derived or developed from that of the anglo-saxons, but was arbitrarily fixed by the king, from whom he received his fief." _feudal england_, p. . similarly, professor vinogradoff states that "the law of military fees is in substance french law brought over to england by the [norman] conquerors." _english society in the th century_, p. . [ ] giesebrecht, _geschichte der kaiserzeit_, i., . the word _burg_, which giesebrecht uses for these strongholds, means a castle in modern german; but its ancient meaning was a town (see hilprecht's _german dictionary_), and it corresponded exactly to the anglo-saxon _burh_. it was used in this sense at least as late as the end of the th century; see, _e.g._, lamprecht's _alexanderlied_, passim. it is clear by the context that giesebrecht employs it in its ancient sense. [ ] _ibid._, . henry's son otto married a daughter of edward the elder. henry received the nickname of townfounder (städtegründer). [ ] "carolus civitates transsequanas ab incolis firmari rogavit, cinomannis scilicet et turonis, ut præsidio contra nortmannos _populis_ esse possent." _annales bertinianorum_, migne, pat., , . [ ] flodoard, _hist. ecc. remensis_, iv., viii. [ ] modern historians generally say that he built the _castle_ of coucy; but from flodoard's account it seems very doubtful whether anything but the town is meant. _annales_, iv., xiii. his words are: "munitionem quoque apud codiciacum tuto loco constituit atque firmavit." _munitio_ properly means a bulwark or wall. [ ] _gesta episcop. cameracensium_, pertz, vii., . [ ] _chron. camarense et atrebatorum_, bouquet, x., . [ ] sismondi, _histoire des français_, ii., . [ ] guizot, _histoire de la civilisation en france_, iii., . [ ] enlart, _manuel d'archæologie française_, ii., . [ ] see dr haverfield's articles in the _victoria county histories_, passim. the late j. h. burton justly wrote: "we have nothing from the romans answering to the feudal stronghold or castle, no vestige of a place where a great man lived apart with his family and his servants, ruling over dependants and fortifying himself against enemies." _history of scotland_, i., . [ ] _annals of fulda_, , pertz, i. [ ] _cap. regum francor._, ii., . [ ] thus de caumont unfortunately spoke of the fortress built by nicetus, bishop of treves, in the th century, as a _château_ (_abécédaire_, ii., ); but venantius fortunatus, in his descriptive poem, tells us that it was a vast enclosure with no less than thirty towers, built by the good pastor for the protection of his flock. it even contained fields and vineyards, and altogether was as different from a private castle as anything can well be. similarly the _castrum_ of merliac, spoken of by enlart (_architecture militaire_, p. ) as a "veritable château," is described as containing cultivated lands and sheets of water! (cited from gregory of tours, _hist. francorum_, liii., .) de caumont himself says: "les grandes exploitations rurales que possédaient les rois de france et les principaux du royaume du v^ième au x^ième siècle ne furent pas des forteresses et ne doivent point être confondues avec les chateaux." _abécédaire_, ii., . [ ] see appendix d. [ ] "volumus et expresse mandamus, ut quicunque istis temporibus castella et firmitates et haias sine nostro verbo fecerint, kalendis augusti omnes tales firmitates disfactas habeant; quia vicini et circummanentes exinde multas depredationes et impedimenta sustinent." _capitularia regum francorum_, boretius, ii., . [ ] these instances are as follows:-- , a certain acfrid shut himself up in a _casa firmissima_ in the _villa_ of bellus pauliacus on the loire, and it was burnt over his head (_annales bertinianorum_, pp. migne, , ); , the sons of goisfrid attack the _castellum_ and lands of the son of odo (_ibid._, p. ); , louis the germanic besieges some men of hugh, son of lothaire, _in quodam castello juxta viridunum_: he takes and destroys the castellum (_annals of fulda_, pertz, i., ); , gerard and matfrid fortify themselves in a certain _castrum_, in a private war (_regino_, pertz, i., ). sismondi states that the great nobles wrested from louis-le-bégue ( - ) the right of building private castles. so far, we have been unable to find any original authority for this statement. [ ] see guizot, _histoire de la civilisation_, iii., . "on voit les _villæ_ s'entourer peu à peu de fossés, de remparts de terre, de quelques apparences de fortifications." [ ] we hear of monasteries being fortified in this way; in charles the bald drew a bank of wood and stone round the monastery of st denis; "castellum in gyro ipsius monasterii ex ligno et lapide conficere coepit." _ann. bertinian_, migne, pp. , . in the bishop of nantes made a _castrum_ of his church by enclosing it with a wall, and this wall appears to have had a tower. _chron. namnetense_, p. , in _lobineau's bretagne_, vol. ii. in archbishop hervey made a _castellum_ of the monastery of st remi by enclosing it with a wall. _flodoard_, p. (migne). but the fortification of monasteries was a very different thing from the fortification of private castles. [ ] in duke conrad, being angry with certain men of lorraine, threw down the _towers_ of some of them; these may have been the keeps of private castles. flodoard, _annales_, p. . [ ] _presidium_ is one of those vague words which chroniclers love to use; it means a defence of any kind, and may be a town, a castle, or a garrison. the town in which this turris stood appears by the context to have been chateau thierry. _cf._ flodoard, _annales_, pp. , with . [ ] "castrum muro factum circa eam [ecclesiam]." _chron. namnetense_, p. . "precepit [alanus] eis terrarium magnum in circuitu ecclesiæ facere, sicut murus prioris castri steterat, quo facto turrem principalem _reficiens_, in ea domum suam constitit." _ibid._ [ ] flodoard, _annales_, pp. and . this tower was heightened by charles, the last of the carlovingians, and furnished with a ditch and bank, in . [ ] it is often supposed that these towers were derived from the _pretoria_, or general's quarters in the roman _castra_. it is far more probable that they were derived from mural towers. the pretorium was not originally fortified, and it was placed in the centre of the roman camp. but one great object of the feudal keep was to have communication with the open country. the keep of laon was certainly on the line of the walls, as bishop ascelin escaped from it down a rope in , and got away on a horse which was waiting for him. palgrave, _england and normandy_, ii., . [ ] the word _motte_ or _mota_ does not occur in any contemporary chronicle, as far as is known to the writer, before the th century; nor is the word _dangio_ to be found in any writer earlier than ordericus. but the _thing_ certainly existed earlier. [ ] [fulk and his son geoffrey] "in occidentali parte montis castellum determinaverunt.... aggerem quoque in prospectu monasterii cum turre lignea erexerunt." _chron. st florentii_, in lobineau's _bretagne_, ii., . some remains of this motte are still visible. de salies, _foulques nerra_, p. . [ ] "elegantissimus in rebus bellicis" is the quaint language of the angevin chronicler, . [ ] see de salies, _histoire de foulques nerra_, which indirectly throws considerable light on the archæological question. [ ] salies, _histoire de foulques nerra_, p. . m. enlart, in his _manuel d'archæologie française_, ii., , has been misled about this castle by the _chronicon andegavense_, which says: "odo.... fulconem expugnare speravit, et totis nisibus adorsus est. annoque presenti ( ) montis budelli castellum, quod circiter annos decem retro abhinc contra civitatem turonicam firmaverat fulco, obsedit, et turrim ligneam miræ altitudinis super domgionem ipsius castri erexit." bouquet, x., . m. enlart takes this to be the first recorded instance of a motte. but the passage is evidently corrupt, as the other accounts of this affair show that count odo's wooden tower was a siege engine, employed to attack fulk's castle, and afterwards burnt by the besieged. see the _gesta ambasiens. dom._, _ibid._, p. , and the _chron. st florentii_. probably we should read _contra_ domgionem instead of _super_. the _chronicon andegavense_ was written in the reign of henry ii. [ ] when fulk invaded bretagne in or about , he collected an army "tam de suis quam conductitiis." _richerius_, edition guadet. the editor remarks that this is perhaps the first example of the use of mercenaries since the time of the romans (ii., ). spannagel, citing peter damian, says that mercenaries were already common at the end of the th century. _zur geschichte des deutschen heerwesens_, pp. , . [ ] this was always the custom in mediæval castles. see cohausen, _befestigungen der vorzeit_, p. . [ ] "qui vivens turres altas construxit et ædes, unam carnotum, sed apud dunense reatum." _chron. st florentii._ [ ] _chron. namnetense_, lobineau, ii., . [ ] _gesta ambasiensium dominorum_, in _spicilegium_, p. . [ ] _guide joanne_, p. . [ ] the furthest point of the headland on which the castle is placed is a small circular court, with a fosse on all sides but the precipices. from personal visitation. [ ] _dunio_ is subsequently explained by lambert as _motte_: "motam altissimam sive dunionem eminentem in munitionis signum firmavit." _lamberti ardensis_, p. . it is the same word as the saxon _dun_, a hill (preserved in our south downs), and has no connection with the irish and gaelic _dun_, which is cognate with the german _zaun_, a hedge, a.-s. _tun_, and means a hedged or fortified place. the form _dange_ appears in northern france, and this seems to be the origin of the word _domgio_ or _dangio_ which we find in the chroniclers, the modern form of which is _donjon_. if we accept this etymology, we must believe that the word _dunio_ or _domgio_ was originally applied to the hill, and not to the tower on the hill, to which it was afterwards transferred. it is against this view that ordericus, writing some fifty years before lambert, uses the form _dangio_ in the sense of a tower. professor skeat and the _new english dictionary_ derive the word _donjon_ or _dungeon_ from low lat. _domnionem_, acc. of _domnio_, thus connecting it with _dominus_, as the seignorial residence. [ ] ducange conjectured that the motte-castle took its origin in flanders, but it was probably the passage cited above from lambert which led him to this conclusion. see art. "mota" in ducange's _glossarium_. [ ] steenstrup, _normannerne_, i., . [ ] _ibid._, i., . [ ] _england and normandy_, ii., . [ ] "muros et propugnacula civitatum refecit et augmentavit." _dudo_, p. (duchesne's edition). [ ] "henricus rex circa turrem rothomagi, _quam ædificavit primus richardus dux normannorum in palatium sibi_, murum altum et latum cum propugnaculis ædificat." _robert of toringy_, r.s., p. . [ ] _ordericus_, ii., , , (edition prévost). [ ] _william of jumièges_, anno . mr freeman remarks that the language of william would lead us to suppose that the practice of castle-building was new. [ ] there are some facts which render it probable that the earliest castles built in normandy were without mottes, and were simple enclosures like those we have described already. thus the castle of the great family of montgomeri is an enclosure of this simple kind. domfront, built by william talvas in duke robert's time, has no motte. on the other hand, ivry, built by the countess albereda in duke richard i.'s days, "on the top of a hill overlooking the town" (william of jumièges), may possibly have been a motte; and there is a motte at norrei, which we have just mentioned as an early norman castle. [ ] _manuel d'archæologie française_, p. . [ ] this want will be supplied, as regards england, by the completion of the _victoria county histories_, and as regards france, by the _societé préhistorique_, which is now undertaking a catalogue of all the earthworks of france. the late m. mortillet, in an article in the _revue mensuelle de l'École d'anthropologie_, viii., , published two lists, one of actual mottes in france, the other of place-names in which the word motte is incorporated. unfortunately the first list is extremely defective, and the second, as it only relates to the name, is not a safe guide to the proportional numbers of the thing. all that the lists prove is that mottes are to be found in all parts of france, and that place-names into which the word _motte_ enters seem to be more abundant in central france than anywhere else. it is possible that a careful examination of local chroniclers may lead to the discovery of some earlier motte-builder than thibault-le-tricheur. we should probably know more about thibault's castles were it not that the pays chartrain, as palgrave says, is almost destitute of chroniclers. [ ] cited at length by de caumont, _bulletin monumental_, ix., . von hochfelden considered that the origin of feudal fortresses in germany hardly goes back to the th century; only great dukes and counts then thought of fortifying their manors; those of the small nobility date at earliest from the end of the th century. [ ] _die befestigungen der vorzeit_, p. . [ ] _entwickelung des kriegswesens_, iii., . [ ] _antiquitates italicæ_, ii., . he says they are many times mentioned both in charters and chronicles in italy. [ ] we hear of robert guiscard building a wooden castle on a hill at rocca di st martino in . amari, _storia dei musulmani di sicilia_, i., . several place-names in italy and sicily are compounded with _motta_, as the motta sant'anastasia in sicily. see amari, _ibid._, p. . [ ] especially montfort and blanchegarde. but there is a wide field for further research both in palestine and sicily. [ ] "bei den sclaven haben die chateaux-à-motte keinen eingang gefunden, weil ihnen das lehnswesen fremd geblieben ist." iii., . [ ] professor montelius informed the writer that they are quite unknown in norway or sweden; and dr christison obtained an assurance to the same effect from herr hildebrand. [ ] "these are small well-defended places, the stronghold of the individual, built for a great man and his followers, and answering to mediæval conditions, to a more or less developed feudal system." _vor oldtid_, p. . [ ] i am informed by a skilled engineer that even in the wet climate of england it would take about ten years for the soil to settle sufficiently to bear a stone building. [ ] köhler says: "by far the greater part of the castles of the teutonic knights in prussia, until the middle of the fourteenth century, were of wood and earth." _die entwickelung des kriegswesen_, iii., . [ ] _cal. of patent rolls_, - , p. . mandate to provost of oléron to let frank de brene have tools to make a new motte in the isle of rhé. later the masters and crews of the king's galleys are ordered to help in building the motte and the wooden castle. p. . [ ] _antiquitates italicæ_, ii., . can grande's motte at padua. anno . "dominus alternerius [podesta of padua] ... cum maxima quantitate peditum et balistariorum civitatis paduæ, iverunt die predicto summo mane per viam pontis corvi versus quamdam motam magnam, quam faciebat facere dominus canis, cum multis fossis et tajatis ad claudendum paduanos, ne exirent per illam partem, et volendo ibidem super illam motam ædificare castrum. tunc prædictus potestas cum aliis nominatis splanare incoeperunt, et difecerunt dictam motam cum tajatis et fossa magna." we may remark here that as early as the th century the learned muratori protested against the equation of _mota_ and _fossatum_, and laughed at spelman for making this translation of _mota_ in his _glossary_. _antiquitates italicæ_, ii., . [ ] cited by westropp, _journal of r.s.a., ireland_, . [ ] vicars' _parliamentary chronicle_, cited by hunter, _south yorks_, ii., . [ ] "camps on the malvern hills," _journ. anthrop. inst._, x., . [ ] m. de salies has traced in detail the connection between fulk nerra's castles and the roman roads of anjou and touraine. [ ] see some excellent remarks on this subject in mr w. st john hope's paper on "english fortresses" in _arch. journ._, lx., - . [ ] only a very small number of mottes have as yet been excavated. wells were found at almondbury, berkeley, berkhampstead, carisbrook, conisborough, kenilworth, northallerton, norwich, pontefract, oxford, tunbridge, worcester, and york. at caus, there is a well in the ditch between the motte and the bailey. frequently there is a second well in the bailey. [ ] the writer at one time thought that the ruins at the east end of the castle of pontefract concealed a second motte, but wishes now to recant this opinion. _eng. hist. review_, xix., . [ ] thus henry i. erected a siege castle to watch bridgenorth (probably pampudding hill), and then went off to besiege another castle. mr orpen kindly informs me that the camp from which philip augustus besieged château gaillard contains a motte. outside pickering, corfe, and exeter there are earthworks which have probably been siege castles. [ ] henry ii. built a castle and very fine borough (burgum pergrande) at beauvoir in maine. _robert of torigny_, r.s., p. . minute regulations concerning the founding of the borough of overton are given in _close rolls_, edward i. ( - ), p. . [ ] see round, _studies in domesday_, pp. , . [ ] neckham, "de utensilibus," in wright's _volume of vocabularies_, pp. , . unfortunately this work of neckham's was not written to explain the construction of motte castles, but to furnish his pupils with the latin names of familiar things; a good deal of it is very obscure now. [ ] see frontispiece. [ ] _acta sanctorum_, th january, bolland, iii., . this biography was written only nine months after bishop john's death, by an intimate friend, john de collemedio. [ ] guisnes is now in picardy, but in the th century it was in flanders, which was a fief of the empire. [ ] this description is from the _historia ardensium_ of walter de clusa, which is interpolated in the work of lambert, bouquet, pp. , . [ ] yet in some of the later keeps, such as conisburgh, where we find only one window to a storey, the room must have been undivided. [ ] see wright, _history of domestic manners_, p. . [ ] according to littré, the original derivation of the word _motte_ is unknown. i have not found any instance of the word _mota_ in chronicles earlier than the th century, but the reason appears to be that _mota_ or motte was a folk's word, and appeared undignified to an ambitious writer. thus the author of the _gesta consulum andegavensium_ says that geoffrey martel, count of anjou, gave to a certain fulcoius the fortified house which is still called by the vulgar mota fulcoii. d'achery, _spicilegium_, p. . [ ] see appendix g. [ ] see appendix h. [ ] _peel, its meaning and derivation_, by george neilson. [ ] see appendix i. cohausen has some useful remarks on the use of hedges in fortification. _befestigungen der vorzeit_, pp. - . a quickset hedge had the advantage of resisting fire. the word _sepes_, which properly means a hedge, is often applied to the palitium. [ ] this list or _catalogue raisonné_ was originally published in the _english historical review_ for (vol. xix.). it is now reproduced with such corrections as were necessary, and with the addition of five more castles, as well as of details about thirty-four castles for which there was not space in the _review_. the welsh castles are omitted from this list, as they will be given in a separate chapter. [ ] the list is brought up to fifty by interpreting the _regis domus_ of winchester to be winchester castle; the reasons for this will be given later. the number would be increased to fifty-two if we counted ferle and bourne in sussex as castles, as mr freeman does in his _norman conquest_, v., . but the language of domesday seems only to mean that the lands of these manors were held of hastings castle by the service of castle-guard. see d. b., i., pp. and . [ ] the total number would be eighty-six if burton and aldreth were included. burton castle is mentioned in domesday, but there is no further trace of its existence. the castle of alrehede or aldreth in the island of ely is stated by the _liber eliensis_ to have been built by the conqueror, but no remains of any kind appear to exist now. both these castles are therefore omitted from the list. [ ] exact numbers cannot be given, because in some cases the bounds of the ancient borough are doubtful, as at quatford. [ ] at winchester and exeter. for winchester, see milner, _history of winchester_, ii., ; for exeter, shorrt's _sylva antiqua iscana_, p. . [ ] colchester is the only exception to this rule, as the castle there is in the middle of the town; but even this is only an apparent exception, as the second bailey extended to the town wall on the north, and had been royal demesne land even before the conquest. see round's _colchester castle_, ch. vii. [ ] these five are berkeley, berkhampstead, bourn, pontefract, rayleigh. [ ] i am indebted for these measurements to mr d. h. montgomerie. [ ] notification in round's _calendar of documents preserved in france_, p. . mr round dates the notification - . [ ] description furnished by mr d. h. montgomerie, f.s.a. [ ] "castrum harundel t. r. e. reddebat de quodam molino solidos, et de conviviis solidos, et de uno pasticio solidos. modo inter burgum et portum aquæ et consuetudinem navium reddit libras, et tamen valet . de his habet s. nicolaus solidos. ibi una piscaria de solidos et unum molinum reddens modia frumenti, et modia grossæ annonæ. insuper modia. hoc appreciatum est libras. robertus filius tetbaldi habet hagas de solidis, et de hominibus extraniis habet suum theloneum." several other _hagæ_ and _burgenses_ are then enumerated. (d. b., i., a, .) [ ] see mr round's remarks on the words in his _geoffrey de mandeville_, appendix o. the above was written before the appearance of mr round's paper on "the castles of the conquest" (_archæologia_, lviii.), in which he rejects the idea that _castrum harundel_ means the castle. [ ] see _ante_, p. . [ ] florence of worcester mentions the castle of arundel as belonging to roger de montgomeri in . [ ] see appendix r. [ ] the expenses entered in the _pipe rolls_ ( - ) are for the works of the castle, the chamber and wall of the castle, the _houses_ of the castle (an expression which generally refers to the keep), and for flooring the tower (turris) and making a garden. _turris_ is the usual word for a keep, and is never applied to a mere mural tower. [ ] this gateway is masked by a work of the th century, which serves as a sort of barbican. [ ] in operibus castelli de arundel _l._ _s._ _d._ et debet _l._ _s._ _d._ _pipe roll_, , henry i., p. . [ ] d. b., i., a, . [ ] _testa de nevill_, i., iii., , cited by c. bates, in a very valuable paper on bamborough castle, in _archæologia Æliana_, vol. xiv., "border holds." mr bates gives other evidence to the same effect. the early existence of the castle is also proved by the fact that gospatric, whom william had made earl of northumberland, after his raid on cumberland in , brought his booty to the _firmissimam munitionem_ of bamborough. symeon of durham, . [ ] _vita s. oswaldi_, ch. xlviii., in rolls edition of symeon. [ ] this was the opinion of the late mr cadwalader bates, who thought that the smallness of the sums entered for bamborough in henry ii.'s reign might be accounted for by the labour and materials having been furnished by the crown tenants. _border strongholds_, p. . [ ] bamborough rock has every appearance of having been once an island. as late as the tide came right up to the rock on the east side; the sea is now separated from the castle by extensive sandhills. [ ] _m. a._, v., . [ ] _domesday_ mentions the destruction of twenty-three houses at barnstaple, which may have been due partly or wholly to the building of the castle. i., . [ ] from a lecture by mr j. r. chanter. [ ] the _fundatio_ of belvoir priory says that robert founded the church of st mary, _juxta castellum suum_, _m. a._, iii., . as robert's coffin was actually found in the priory in , with an inscription calling him robert de todnei _le fundeur_, the statement is probably more trustworthy than documents of this class generally are. [ ] nicholls, _history of leicester_, i., . [ ] d. b., i., b. [ ] "in ness sunt hidæ pertinentes ad berchelai, quas comes willielmus misit extra ad faciendum unum castellulum." d. b., i., a, . [ ] "castella per loca firmari præcepit." _flor. wig._, . see freeman, _n. c._, iv., . domesday tells us that fitzosbern built ness, clifford, chepstow, and wigmore, and rebuilt ewias. [ ] robert fitzhardinge, in his charter to st austin's abbey at bristol, says that king henry [ii.] gave him the manor of berchall, and all bercheleiernesse. _mon. ang._, vi., . [ ] it is not necessary to discuss the authenticity of the story preserved by walter map; it is enough that gytha, the wife of godwin, held in horror the means by which her husband got possession of berkeley nunnery. d. b., i., . [ ] _mediæval military architecture_, i., . [ ] the gift of the manor was made before henry became king, and was confirmed by charter on the death of stephen in . fitzhardinge was an englishman, son of an alderman of bristol, who had greatly helped henry in his wars against stephen. see fosbroke's _history of gloucester_. [ ] he held berkeley under the crown at the time of the survey. d. b., i., a. [ ] from information received from mr duncan montgomerie. [ ] fosbroke's _history of gloucester_ attributes this bailey to maurice, son of robert fitzhardinge. one of the most interesting features in this highly interesting castle is the wooden pentice leading from the main stairway of the keep to the chamber called edward ii.'s. though a late addition, it is a good instance of the way in which masonry was eked out by timber in mediæval times. [ ] clark, _m. m. a._, i., . [ ] d. b., i., . [ ] _victoria county history of herts_, from which the description of these earthworks is entirely taken. [ ] _mon. ang._, vii., . [ ] they were excavated by mr montgomerie in , and no trace of masonry was found. [ ] roger of wendover, . [ ] d. b., i., . [ ] the charter, which is in both anglo-saxon and latin, is given in dugdale's _history of st paul's_, . [ ] see _freeman_, ii., ; and d. b., i., a. [ ] from report by mr d. h. montgomerie. [ ] _waytemore_ has sometimes been identified with the puzzling wiggingamere, but in defiance of phonology. [ ] d. b., i., b. [ ] _m. a._, vi., . [ ] _itin._, i., . [ ] _associated archæological societies_, vi., ix. [ ] report by mr d. h. montgomerie. [ ] ipse willielmus tenet wasingetune. guerd comes tenuit t. r. e. tunc se defendebat pro hidis. modo non dat geldum. in una ex his hidis sedet castellum brembre. d. b., i., a, . [ ] we often find that the architecture of the nearest church throws light on the date of the castle. a norman seldom built or restored his castle without doing something for the church at the same time. [ ] see ordericus, ii., . [ ] the _chronica de fundatoribus of tewkesbury abbey_ seems to be the origin of the tradition that earl robert was the builder of bristol castle. there can be no doubt that his work was in stone, as the same authority states that he gave every tenth stone to the chapel of our lady in st james' priory. _m. a._, ii., . according to leland, the keep was built of caen stone. _itin._, vii., . robert of gloucester calls it the flower of all the towers in england. [ ] we have no historical account of the norman conquest of bristol, and the city is only mentioned in the most cursory manner in d. b. [ ] seyer (_memoirs of bristol_, i.) was convinced that the plan published by barrett, and attributed to the monk rowlie, was a forgery; his own plan, as he candidly admits, was largely drawn from imagination. [ ] castellum plurimo aggere exaltatum. _gesta stephani_, . [ ] seyer, i., , and ii., . [ ] quoted by seyer, ii., , from _prynne's catal._, p. . [ ] calculated from the measurements given by william of worcester. _itin._, p. . william probably alludes to the motte when he speaks of the "mayng round" of the castle. [ ] _benedict of peterborough_, i., . [ ] _hist. of bristol_, i., . [ ] _ibid._, vol. ii. [ ] _de gestis herewardi saxonis_, wright's edition. see freeman, n. c., iv., . [ ] _beauties of england and wales_, buckingham, p. . [ ] camden's _britannia_, i., . [ ] d. b., i., . [ ] "willielmus de scohies tenet carucatas terræ in castellaria de carliun, et turstinus tenet de eo. ibi habet in dominio unam carucam, et tres walenses lege walensi viventes, cum carucis, et bordarios cum dimidio carucæ, et reddunt sextares mellis. ibi servi et una ancilla. hæc terra wasta erat t. r. e., et quando willelmus recepit. modo valet solidos." d. b., i., b, . [ ] the _gwentian chronicle_, cambrian archæological association, a.d. , . it is not absolutely impossible that these passages refer to chester. caerleon appears to have been seized by the welsh very soon after the death of william i. [ ] _itin. camb._, p. . [ ] loftus brock, in _journ. brit. arch. ass._, xlix. j. e. lee, in _arch. camb._, iv., . [ ] d. b., i., b. [ ] [rex] "in reversione sua lincolniæ, huntendonæ et grontebrugæ castra locavit." _ord. vit._, p. . [ ] d. b., i., . [ ] a similar plan was made independently by the late professor babington. some traces of the original earthwork of the city are still to be seen. see mr hope's paper on _the norman origin of cambridge castle_, cambridge antiquarian soc., vol. xi.; and babington's _ancient cambridgeshire_, in the same society's _octavo publications_, no. iii., . [ ] w. h. st john hope, as above, p. . [ ] "archiepiscopus habet ex eis [burgensibus] et abbas s. augustini pro excambio castelli." d. b., i. a, . [ ] "et undecim sunt perditi infra fossatum castelli"; cited by larking, _domesday of kent_, app. xxiv. domesday says, "sunt vastatæ xi. in fossa _civitatis_." there can be no doubt that the chartulary gives the correct account. [ ] the hill is called the dungan, dangon, or dungeon hill in many old local deeds. see "canterbury in olden times,"_arch. journ._, . stukeley and grose both call it the dungeon hill. [ ] see appendix n. [ ] somner's _antiquities of canterbury_, p. . published in . [ ] _antiquities of canterbury_, p. . [ ] mr clark thought there was another motte in the earthworks outside the walls, though he expresses himself doubtfully: "i rather think they [the mounds outside the city ditch] or one of them, looked rather like a moated mound, but i could not feel sure of it." _arch. cantiana_, xv., . gostling (_a walk about canterbury_, ) says there were _two_, which is perhaps explained by a passage in brayley's _kent_ ( ), in which he describes the external fortification as "a lesser mount, now divided into two parts, with a ditch and embankment." p. . stukeley's description (circa ) is as follows: "within the walls is a very high mount, called dungeon hill; a ditch and high bank enclose the area before it; it seems to have been part of the old castle. opposite to it without the walls is a hill, seeming to have been raised by the danes when they besieged the city. the top of the dungeon hill is equal to the top of the castle." _itin. curiosum_, i., . it is of course not impossible that there may have been two mottes to this castle, as at lewes and lincoln, but such instances are rare, and it seems more likely that a portion of the bailey bank which happened to be in better preservation and consequently higher was mistaken for another mount. mr clark committed this very error at tadcaster, and the other writers we have quoted were quite untrained as observers of earthen castles. at any rate there can be no doubt that the dane john is the original chief citadel of this castle, as the statements of somner, stukeley, and we may add, leland, are explicit. the most ancient maps of canterbury, hoefnagel's ( ), smith's (_description of england_, ), and grose's ( ), all show the dungeon hill within the walls, but take no notice of the outwork outside. [ ] _archæologia cantiana_, xxxiii., . [ ] _ibid._, xxi. [ ] _close rolls_, i., b, ii., b, . [ ] now, to the disgrace of the city of canterbury, converted into gasworks. [ ] for instance, at middleham, rochester, rhuddlan, and morpeth. [ ] _beauties of england and wales, kent_, p. . [ ] the passages from the _pipe roll_ bearing on this subject (which have not been noticed by any previous historian of canterbury) are as follows:-- - . in operatione civitatis cantuar. claudendæ £ " ad claudendam civitatem cantuar. - . pro claudenda civitate cantuar. - . in terris datis adelizæ filie simonis solidos de tribus annis pro escambio terræ suæ quæ est in castello de cantuar. - . in operatione turris ejusdem civitatis " in operatione predicte turris " summa denariorum quos vicecomes misit in operatione turris - . in operatione turris et castelli chant. " in operatione turris cantuar. - . et in warnisione ejusdem turris the latter extract, which refers to the provisioning of the keep, seems to show that it was then finished. the sums put down to the castle, amounting to about £ of our money, are not sufficient to defray the cost of so fine a keep. but the entries in the _pipe rolls_ relate only to the sheriff's accounts, and it is probable that the cost of the keep was largely paid out of the revenues of the archbishopric, which henry seized into his own hands during the becket quarrel. [ ] the portion of the wall of canterbury, which rests on an earthen bank, extends from northgate to the castle, and is roughly semicircular in plan. in the middle of it was st george's gate, which was anciently called _newingate_ (gostling, p. ) and may possibly have been henry ii.'s new gate. the part enclosing the dungeon hill is angular, and appeared to mr clark, as well as to somner and hasted, to have been brought out at this angle in order to enclose the hill. [ ] _arch. journ._, . [ ] d. b., i., a, . [ ] "isdem rex tenet alwinestone. donnus tenuit. tunc pro duabus hidis et dimidia. modo pro duabus hidis, quia castellum sedet in una virgata." d. b., i., a, . [ ] see below, under windsor. [ ] "in hac [insula] castellum habebat ornatissimum lapidum ædificio constructum, validissimo munimine firmatum." _gesta stephani_, r. s., p. . [ ] stone's _official guide to the castle of carisbrooke_, p. . [ ] mr w. h. stevenson, in his edition of _asser_, pp. , , shows that the name carisbrooke cannot possibly be derived from wihtgares-burh, as has been sometimes supposed, as the older forms prove it to have come from _brook_, not _burh_. the lines of the present castle banks, if produced, would not correspond with those of the tilt-yard, which is proof that the norman castle was not formed by cutting an older fortification in two. [ ] bower's _scotochronicon_, v., xlii. cited by mr neilson, _notes and queries_, viii., . see also palgrave, _documents and records_, i., . [ ] _cal. of close rolls_, edward ii., iii., . [ ] _mon. ang._, v., . "castelli nostri de acra." [ ] as at burton, mexborough, lilbourne, and castle colwyn. [ ] harrod's _gleanings among the castles and convents of norfolk_. see also _arch. journ._, xlvi., . [ ] d. b., ii., b. [ ] "castellum de estrighoiel fecit willelmus comes, et ejus tempore reddebat solidos, tantum de navibus in silvam euntibus." d. b., i., . tanner has shown that while chepstow was an alien priory of cormeille, in normandy, it is never spoken of by that name in the charters of cormeille, but is always called strigulia. _notitia monastica_, monmouthshire. see also marsh's _annals of chepstow castle_. [ ] i must confess that in spite of very strong opposing opinions, i see no reason why this building should not be classed as a keep. it is of course a gross error to call martin's tower the keep; it is only a mural tower. [ ] d. b., , a. [ ] "cestriæ munitionem condidit." p. (prévost's edition). [ ] _chester historical and archæological society_, v., . [ ] _pipe rolls_, ii., . ranulph, earl of chester, died in , and the castle would then escheat into the king's hands. [ ] this work seems to have been completed in the reign of edward ii., who spent £ on the houses, towers, walls, and gates. _cal. of close rolls_, edward ii., ii., . [ ] _close rolls_, , henry iii., cited by ormerod, _history of cheshire_, i., . [ ] see mr cox's paper, as above, and shrubsole, _chester hist. and arch. soc._, v., , and iii., new series, p. . [ ] _benedict of peterborough_, i., , r. s. [ ] d. b., i., b. [ ] "willelmus comes fecit illud [castellum] in wasta terra quam tenebat bruning t. r. e." d. b., i., a, . [ ] "ancient charters," _pipe roll society_, vol. x., charter xiii., and mr round's note, p. . [ ] it is extraordinary that mr clark, in his description of this castle, does not mention the motte, except by saying that the outer ward is or feet lower than the inner. _m. m. a._, i., . [ ] this passage occurs in a sort of appendix to domesday book, which is said to be in a later hand, of the th century. (skaife, _yorks. arch. journ._, part lv., p. .) it cannot, however, be very late in the th century, as it speaks of roger's holdings in craven in the present tense. [ ] see farrer's _lancashire pipe rolls_, p. . the castle is not actually mentioned, but "le baille" (the bailey) is spoken of. mr farrer also prints an abstract of a charter of henry i. ( ): "per quam concessit eidem roberto [de laci] boelandam [bowland] quam tenuit de rogero comite pictavensi, ut extunc eam de eodem rege teneat." p. . [ ] in an inquisition of henry de laci (+ ) it is said that "castelli mote et fossæ valent nihil." (whitaker's _history of whalley_, p. .) this is probably an instance of the word _motte_ being applied to a natural rock which served that purpose. see another instance under nottingham, _post_, p. . [ ] dugdale's _baronage_, i., p. . dugdale's authority appears to have been the "historia laceiorum," a very untrustworthy document, but which may have preserved a genuine tradition in this instance. the loopholes in the basement of the keep, with the large recesses, appear to have been intended for crossbows, and the crossbow was not reintroduced into england till the reign of richard i. [ ] _victoria history of lancashire_, ii., . [ ] see farrer, _lancashire pipe rolls_, i., . [ ] printed by mr round in _essex arch. society's transactions_, vii., part ii. the charter is dated . [ ] see maitland, _domesday book and beyond_, p. . [ ] _history of colchester castle_, p. . [ ] it has been much debated whether these tiles are roman or norman; the conclusion seems to be that they are mixed. see round's _history of colchester_, p. . [ ] the single _pipe roll_ of henry i. shows that he spent £ , s. on repairs of the castle and borough in . [ ] in operatione unius rogi (a kiln), £ , s. in reparatione muri castelli, £ , s. d. the projection of the buttresses (averaging ft. ins.) is about the same as that found in castles of henry i. or henry ii.'s time. [ ] ad faciendum ballium circa castellum, £ . _pipe rolls_, xix., . this is followed by another entry of £ , s. d. "in operatione castelli," which may refer to the same work. [ ] round's _history of colchester_. [ ] _close rolls_, i., . mandamus to the bishop of london to choose two lawful and discreet men of colchester, "et per visum eorum erigi faceatis palicium castri nostri colecestrie, quod nuper prostratum fuit per tempestatem." [ ] round's _history of colchester_, pp. , . [ ] tota civitas ex omnibus debitis reddebat t. r. e., £ , s. d., in unoquoque anno. modo reddit £ . d. b., ii., . [ ] eyton, _key to domesday_, p. . this passage was kindly pointed out to me by dr round. the castle is not mentioned in domesday under wareham, but under kingston. "de manerio chingestone habet rex unam hidam, in qua fecit castellum warham, et pro ea dedit s. mariæ [of shaftesbury] ecclesiam de gelingeham cum appendiciis suis." d. b., i., b, . [ ] "advocatio ecclesie de gillingeham data fuit abbati [_sic_] de s. edwardo in escambium pro terra ubi castellum de corf positum est." _testa de nevill_, b. [ ] it is by no means certain that corfe was the scene of edward's murder, as we learn from a charter of cnut (_mon. ang._, iii., ) that there was a corfe geat not far from portisham, probably the place now called coryates. [ ] called by asser a _castellum_; but it has already been pointed out that _castellum_ in early writers means a walled town and not a castle. (see p. .) wareham is a town fortified by an earthen vallum and ditch, and is one of the boroughs of the _burghal hidage_. (see ch. ii, p. .) a norman castle was built there after the conquest, and its motte still remains. d. b. says seventy-three houses were utterly destroyed from the time of hugh the sheriff. i., . [ ] edred granted "to the religious woman, elfthryth," supposed to be the abbess of shaftesbury, "pars telluris purbeckinga," which would include corfe. _mon. ang._, ii., . [ ] both these kings spent large sums on corfe castle. see the citations from the _pipe rolls_ in hutchins' _dorset_, vol. i., and in mr bond's _history of corfe castle_. [ ] see professor baldwin brown's paper in the _journal of the institute of british architects_, third series, ii., , and mr micklethwaite's in _arch. journ._, liii., ; also professor baldwin brown's remarks on corfe castle in _the arts in early england_, ii., . [ ] there are other instances in which the chapel is the oldest piece of mason-work about the castle, as, for example, at pontefract. [ ] cited in hutchins' _dorset_, i., , from the _close rolls_. [ ] _close rolls_, i., b. [ ] hutchins' _dorset_, i., . [ ] castrum doveram, studio atque sumptu suo communitum. p. . eadmer makes harold promise to william "castellum dofris cum puteo aquæ ad opus meum te _facturum_." _hist. novorum_, i., d. the castle is not mentioned in domesday book. [ ] _norman conquest_, iii., . [ ] in an earthquake threw down a portion of the cliff on which the castle stands, and part of the walls. statham's _history of dover_, p. . [ ] "wendon him tha up to thære burge-weard, and ofslogen ægther ge withinnan ge withutan, ma thanne manna." another ms. adds "tha burh-menn ofslogen men on othre healfe, and ma gewundode, and eustatius atbærst mid feawum mannum." [ ] see _ante_, pp. - . [ ] his description is worth quoting: est ibi mons altus, strictum mare, litus opacum, hinc hostes citius anglica regna petunt; sed castrum doveræ, pendens a vertice montis, hostes rejiciens, littora tuta facit. clavibus acceptis, rex intrans moenia castri præcepit angligenis evacuare domos; hos introduxit per quos sibi regna subegit, unumquemque suum misit ad hospitium. "carmen de bello hastingensi," in _monumenta britannica_, p. . [ ] william's description is also of great interest: "deinde dux contendit doueram, ubi multus populus congregatus erat, pro inexpugnabile, ut sibi videtur, munitione; quia id castellum situm est in rupe mari contigua, quæ naturaliter acuta undique ad hoc ferramentis elaborate incisa, in speciem muri directissima altitudine, quantum sagittæ jactus permetiri potest, consurgit, quo in latere unda marina alluitur." p. . [ ] the following entries in the _pipe rolls_ refer to this:-- - . three hundred planks of oak for the works of the castle £ - . repair of the wall of the castle - . timber for walling the castles of dover and rochester, also rods and [wooden] hurdles and other needful things - . payment for the carpenters working the timber - . for the carriage of timber and other things - . for the carriage of timber for the castle works - . for timber and brushwood for the works, and for cutting down wood to make hurdles, and sending them sum not given, but £ entered same year for the works of the castle. there is no mention of stone for the castle during these two reigns, but after the death of john we find that works are going on at dover for which kilns are required. (_close rolls_, i., , .) this entry is followed by a very large expenditure on dover castle (amounting to at least £ ), sufficient to cover the cost of a stone wall and towers round the outer circuit. the orders of planks for joists must be for the towers, and the large quantities of lead, for roofing them. the order for timber "ad palum et alia facienda" in _may_ refer to a stockade on the advanced work called the spur, which is said to be hubert's work. (_close rolls_, ii., .) [ ] cited by statham, _history of dover_, pp. , . [ ] _commune of london_, pp. - . [ ] the ninth name, maminot, is attached to three towers on the curtain of the keep ward. [ ] "recepto castro, quæ minus erant per dies octo addidit firmamenta." p. . [ ] lyon says: "the keep [hill] was formed of chalk dug out of the interior hill." cited by statham, p. . [ ] "per præceptum regis facta est apud doveram turris fortissima." ii. , r. s., anno . the _historia fundationis_ of st martin's abbey says that henry ii. built the high tower in the castle, and enclosed the donjon with new walls: "fit le haut tour en le chastel, et enclost le dongon de nouelx murs." _m. a._, iv., . [ ] puckle's _church and fortress of dover castle_, p. . [ ] _pipe rolls_, - . "in operatione muri circa castellum de doura, £ , s. d. the same, £ , s. d." [ ] mr statham thinks the port of dover, though a roman station, was unwalled till the th century, and gives evidence. _history of dover_, p. . [ ] see professor baldwin brown, "statistics of saxon churches" in the _builder_, th october ; and in _the arts in early england_, ii., . [ ] d. b., i., . [ ] "istedem willelmus tenet dudelei, et ibi est castellum ejus. t. r. e. valebat libras, modo libras." d. b., i., . [ ] _m. m. a._, i., . [ ] "circa dies istos castellum de huntinduna, de waletuna, de legecestria, et grobi, de stutesbers [tutbury], de dudeleia, de tresc, et alia plura pariter corruerunt, in ultionem injuriarum quas domini castellorum regi patri frequenter intulerunt." _diceto_, i., , r. s. [ ] _close rolls_, i., . [ ] parker's _history of domestic architecture_, licenses to crenellate, th century, part ii., p. . godwin, "notice of the castle at dudley," _arch. journ._, xv., . [ ] d. b., i., b. [ ] narrow terraces of this kind are found in several mottes, such as mere, in wilts. they are probably natural, and may have been utilised as part of the plan. the more regular terraces winding round the motte are generally found where the motte has become part of a pleasure-ground in later times. [ ] this is the only case in which i have had to trust to mr clark for the description of a castle. _m. m. a._, ii., . [ ] mentioned in _close rolls_, i., a. [ ] d. b., i., b. [ ] symeon of durham, . "eodem tempore, scilicet quo rex reversus de scotia fuerat, in dunelmo castellum _condidit_, ubi se cum suis episcopus tute ab incursantibus habere potuisset." [ ] this chapel is an instance of the honour so frequently done to the chapel, which was in many cases built of stone when the rest of the castle was only of timber, and was always the part most lavishly decorated. [ ] the bailey was twice enlarged by bishops flambard and pudsey. [ ] surtees, durham, iv., . [ ] surtees society, xx., - . [ ] evidently the southern wing wall up the motte; but we need not suppose _murus_ to mean a stone wall. [ ] _domus_, a word always used for a _habitation_ in mediæval documents, and often applied to a tower, which it evidently means here. [ ] this is the only indication which lawrence gives that the keep was of wood. [ ] "cingitur et pulchra paries sibi quilibet ala, omnis et in muro desinit ala fero." the translation is conjectural, but _gallery_ seems to make the best sense, and the allusion probably is to the wooden galleries, or _hourdes_, which defended the walls. [ ] evidently the northern wing wall. [ ] this is the bailey; the two vast palaces must mean the hall and the lodgings of the men-at-arms, who did not share the bishop's dwelling in the keep. these were probably all of wood, as the buildings of durham castle were burnt at the beginning of pudsey's episcopate ( ) and restored by him. surtees society, ix., . [ ] "hujus in egressu pons sternitur." this seems a probable allusion to a drawbridge, but if so, it is an early one. [ ] this describes the addition to the bailey made by flambard. the part of the peninsula to the s. of the church was afterwards walled in by pudsey, and called the south bailey. [ ] _liber eliensis_, ii., (anglia christiana). the part cited was written early in the th century: see preface. [ ] stowe's _annals_, , . [ ] d. b., ii., . [ ] "alured de merleberge tenet castellum de ewias de willelmo rege. ipse rex enim concessit ei terras quas willelmus comes ei dederat, qui hoc castellum refirmaverat, hoc est, carucatas terræ ibidem.... hoc castellum valet _l_." d. b., i., a. as there is no statement of the value in king edward's day, we cannot tell whether it had risen or fallen. [ ] _feudal england_, p. . the present writer was led independently to the same conclusion. pentecost was the nickname of osbern, son of richard scrob, one of edward's norman favourites, to whom he had given estates in herefordshire. osbern fled to scotland in , but he seems to have returned, and was still holding lands in "the castelry of ewias" at the time of the survey, though his nephew alured held the castle. see freeman, _n. c._, ii., , and _florence of worcester_, . [ ] "locum vero intra moenia ad extruendum castellum delegit, ibique baldwinum de molis, filium gisleberti comitis, aliosque milites præcipuos reliquit, qui necessarium opus conficerent, præsidioque manerunt." ordericus, ii., . [ ] exeter is one of the few cities where a tradition has been preserved of the site of the saxon royal residence, which places it in what is now paul street, far away from the present castle. shorrt's _sylva antiqua iscana_, p. . [ ] "in hac civitate vastatæ sunt domi postquam rex venit in angliam." d. b., i., . [ ] _norman conquest_, iv., . [ ] the outer ditch may have been of roman origin, but in that case it must have been carried all round the city, and we are unable to find whether this was the case or not. the banks on the north and east sides must also have been of roman origin, and if we rightly understand the statements of local antiquaries, the roman city wall stood upon them, and has actually been found _in situ_, cased with mediæval rubble. _report of devon association_, . [ ] this resemblance to a pit may be seen in every motte which still retains its ancient earthen breast-work, as at castle levington, burton in lonsdale, and castlehaugh, gisburne. perhaps this is the reason that we so frequently read in the _pipe rolls_ of "the houses _in_ the motte" (domos in mota) instead of _on_ the motte. devizes castle is another and still more striking instance. [ ] professor baldwin brown, _the arts in early england_, ii., . [ ] "in custamento gaiole in ballia castelli, £ , s. d." [ ] cited by dr oliver, "the castle of exeter," in _arch. journ._, vii., . [ ] the whole of this passage is worth quoting: "castellum in ea situm, editissimo aggere sublatum, muro inexpugnabile obseptum, turribus cæsarianis inseissili calce confectis firmatum. agmine peditum instructissime armato exterius promurale, quod ad castellum muniendum aggere cumulatissimo in altum sustollebatur, expulsis constanter hostibus suscepit, pontemque interiorem, quo ad urbem de castello incessus protendebatur, viriliter infregit, lignorumque ingentia artificia, quibus de muro pugnare intentibus resisteretur, mire et artificiose exaltavit. die etiam et noctu graviter et intente obsidionem clausis inferre; nunc cum armatis aggerem incessu quadrupede conscendentibus rixam pugnacem secum committere; nunc cum innumeris fundatoribus, qui e diverso conducti fuerunt, intolerabile eos lapidum grandine infestare; aliquando autem ascitis eis, qui massæ subterranæ cautius norunt venus incidere, ad murum diruendum viscera terræ scutari præcipere: nonnunquam etiam machinas diversi generis, alias in altum sublatis, alias humo tenus depressas, istas ad inspiciendam quidnam rerum in castello gereretur, illas ad murum quassandum vel obruendum aptare." _gesta stephani_, r. s., . [ ] _pipe rolls_, - . [ ] the difficulty about this, however, is that passages branch off from the central cave in every direction. [ ] oliver's _history of exeter_, p. . [ ] [willelmus malet] fecit suum castellum ad eiam. d. b., ii., . for malet, see freeman, _n. c._, , note . [ ] "in operatione castelli de eya et reparatione veterarum bretascharum et novarum bretascharum et fossatorum et pro carriagio et petra et aliis minutis operationibus _l._ _s._ _d._" _pipe rolls_, xix., henry ii. the small quantity of stone referred to here can only be for some auxiliary work. the _bretasches_ in this case will be mural towers of wood. "in emendatione palicii et exclusæ vivarii et domorum castelli _s._" henry ii. [ ] d. b., ii., , . [ ] d. b., i., . "sedecim domus erant ubi sedet castellum, quæ modo desunt, et in burgo civitatis sunt wastatæ domus." [ ] rudge, _history of gloucester_, p. . haverfield, _romanisation of britain_, p. . [ ] it is, however, possible that by the _burgus_ may be meant a later quarter which had been added to the city. [ ] fosbroke's _history of gloucester_, pp. , . stukeley, writing in , says: "there is a large old gatehouse standing, and near it the castle, with a very high artificial mount or keep nigh the river." _itin. cur._, i., . [ ] "of al partes of yt the hy tower _in media area_ is most strongest and auncient." leland, _itin._, iii., . [ ] "in excambium pro placea ubi nunc turris stat gloucestriæ, ubi quondam fuit ortus monachorum." _mon. ang._, i., . the document is not earlier than henry ii.'s reign. [ ] round, _studies in domesday_, p. . [ ] "in operatione frame turris de glouec, _l._" _pipe rolls_, i., . in the single _pipe roll_ of henry i. there is an entry "in operationibus turris de glouec," _l._ _s._ _d._, which _may_ be one of a series of sums spent on the new stone keep. [ ] _pipe rolls_, , , , . [ ] _close rolls_, ii., b. [ ] "in reparatione murorum et bretaschiarum," _l_. _s._ _d._ _pipe rolls_, . [ ] "jussit ut foderetur castellum ad hestengaceastra." [ ] d. b., i., a, . "rex willelmus dedit comiti [of eu] castellariam de hastinges." [ ] "dux ibidem [at pevensey] non diu moratus, haud longe situm, qui hastinges vocatur, cum suis adiit portum, ibique opportunum nactus locum, ligneum agiliter castellum statuens, provide munivit." _chron. monast. de bello_, p. , ed. . there is also the evidence of ordericus, who says that humphrey de tilleul received the custody of hastings castle "from the first day it was built." iv., . [ ] par conseil firent esgarder boen lieu a fort chastel fermer. donc ont des nes mairrien iete, a la terre l'ont traine, que le quens d'ou i out porte trestot percie e tot dole. les cheuilles totes dolees orent en granz bariz portees. ainz que il fust avespre en ont un chastelet ferme; environ firent une fosse, si i ont fait grant fermete.--andresen's edition, p. . [ ] the north curtain is of ruder work than the other masonry. [ ] in attractu petre et calcis ad faciendam turrim de hasting _l._ idem _l._ _s._ vol. xviii., p. . the work must have been extensive, as it is spoken of as "operatio castelli novi hasting." - . though the sum given is not sufficient for a great stone keep, it may have been supplemented from other sources. [ ] see mr sands' paper on hasting's castle, in _trans. of the south-eastern union of scientific societies_, . [ ] this bailey has been supposed to be a british or roman earthwork, but no evidence has been brought forward to prove it, except the fact that discoveries made in one of the banks point to a flint workshop on the site. [ ] totum manerium valebat t. r. e. libras, et postea wastum fuit. modo libras solidos. d. b., i., a, . since the above was written, mr chas. dawson's large and important work on hastings castle has appeared, and to this the reader is referred for many important particulars, especially the passages from the _pipe rolls_, i., , and the repeated destructions by the sea, ii., - . the reproduction of herbert's plan of (ii., ) seems to show more than one bailey outside the inner ward. the evidence for a great outer ditch, enclosing all these works, and supposed to be prehistoric, is given on p. , vol. ii. [ ] see _anglo-saxon chronicle_, (peterborough) and (worcester), and compare with _florence of worcester_. [ ] _n. c._, ii., . [ ] _pipe rolls_, henry ii., p. , and henry ii., p. . stephen granted to miles of gloucester "motam hereford cum toto castello." charter cited by mr round, _geoffrey de mandeville_, appendix o, p. . [ ] cited by grose, _antiquities_, ii., . stukeley saw the motte, and mentions the well in it lined with stone. _itin. curiosum_, i., . see also duncombe's _history of hereford_, i., . [ ] in custamento prosternandi partem muri castri nostri de hereford, et preparatione rogi ad reficiendum predictum murum, s. d. _pipe rolls_, - . [ ] in operatione bretaschiarum in castro de hereford, £ , s. d. _pipe rolls_, - . [ ] _close rolls_, i., a. [ ] hubertus cantuariensis archiepiscopus et totius angliæ summus justiciarius, fuit in gwalia apud hereford, et recepit in manu sua castellum de hereford, et castellum de briges, et castellum de ludelaue, expulsis inde custodibus qui ea diu custodierant, et tradidit ea aliis custodibus, custodienda ad opus regis. _roger of howden_, iv., , r. s. [ ] d. b., i., . [ ] "in loco castri fuerunt mansiones, quæ modo absunt." d. b., i., . [ ] _ordericus_, ii., . [ ] _benedict of peterborough_, i., . the justiciar, richard de lucy, threw up a siege castle against it. [ ] "pro uncis ad prosternandum palicium de hunted, _s._ _d._ in operatione novi castelli de hunted, et pro locandis carpentariis et pro croccis et securibus et aliis minutis rebus, _l._" _pipe rolls_, henry ii., pp. , . it is clear that the _operatio_ was in this case one of pulling down. giraldus (_vita galfredi_, iv., , r. s.) and _diceto_ (i., , r. s.), both say the castle was destroyed. [ ] _mon. ang._, vi., . [ ] leland tells us that launceston was anciently called dunheved. _itin._, vii., . [ ] "ibi est castrum comitis." d. b., i., b. "hæc duo maneria [hawstone et botintone] dedit episcopo comes moriton pro excambio castelli de cornualia." d. b., i., b, . [ ] there are no entries for launceston except repairs in the reigns of henry ii. and his sons. [ ] murray's _guide to cornwall_, p. . [ ] "olim _l._; modo valet _l._" d. b., i., b. [ ] d. b., ii., , , . the first entry relating to this transaction says: "hoc totum est pro escangio de maneriis delaquis." the second says: "pertinent ad castellum delaquis." it is clear that lewes is meant, as one paragraph is headed "de escangio lewes." i have been unable to find any explanation of this exchange in any of the norfolk topographers, or in any of the writers on domesday book. [ ] lincoln is the only other instance known to the writer. deganwy has two natural mottes. it is possible that two mottes indicate a double ownership of a castle, a thing of which there are instances, as at rhuddlan. [ ] exeter and tickhill are instances of early norman gateways, and at ongar and pleshy there are fragments of early gateways, though there are no walls on the banks. we have already seen that arundel had a gateway which cannot be later than henry i.'s time. [ ] d. b., i., a, . [ ] "de predictis wastis mansionibus propter castellum destructi fuerunt ." d. b., i., b, . [ ] "in reversione sua lincoliæ, huntendonæ, et grontebrugæ castra locavit." ordericus, (prévost). [ ] at present the bank is wanting on a portion of the south side, between the two mottes. [ ] mr clark gravely argues that the houses were inside what he believes to have been the saxon castle. there is not a vestige of historical evidence for the existence of any castle in lincoln in the saxon period. [ ] stephen gave ralph the castle and city of lincoln, and gave him leave to fortify one of the towers in lincoln castle, and have command of it until the king should deliver to him the castle of tickhill; then the king was to have the city and castle of lincoln again, excepting the earl's own tower, which his mother had fortified. his mother was lucy, daughter of ivo taillebois; and as the principal tower was known as the luce tower, the masonry may have been her work. in that case the norman work on the smaller motte may be due to ralph gernon, and may possibly be the _nova turris_ which was repaired in john's reign. _pipe roll_, john. stephen's charter is in farrer's _lancashire pipe rolls_. [ ] "in custamento firmandi ballium castelli lincoll." _pipe roll_, richard i. in an excavation made for repairs in modern times it was found that this wall rested on a timber frame-work, a device to avoid settling, the wall being of great height and thickness. wilson, lincoln castle, _proc. arch. inst._, . [ ] d. b., i. b, : "tochi filius outi habuit in civitate mansiones præter suam hallam, et duas ecclesias et dimidiam, et suam hallam habuit quietam ab omni consuetudine.... hanc aulam tenuit goisfredus alselin et suus nepos radulfus. remigius episcopus tenet supradictas mansiones ita quod goisfredus nihil inde habet." [ ] "in castello monemouth habet rex in dominio carucas. willelmus filius baderon custodit eas. quod rex habet in hoc castello valet c solidos." d. b., b. [ ] _liber landavensis_, evans' edition, pp. - . see also round's _calendar of documents preserved in france_, p. . [ ] _theatre of britain_, p. . [ ] speed's map shows the curtain wall surrounding the top of the hill and also a large round tower towards the n.e. part, but not standing on any "other mount." the square keep is not indicated separately. it must be remembered that speed's details are not always accurate or complete. [ ] "ipse comes tenet in dominio bishopstowe, et ibi est castellum ejus quod vocatur montagud. hoc manerium geldabat t. r. e. pro hidas, et erat de abbatia de adelingi, et pro eo dedit comes eidem ecclesiæ manerium quod candel vocatur." d. b., i., a, . [ ] _itin._, ii., . [ ] from a description communicated by mr basil stallybrass. the motte is shown in a drawing in stukeley's _itinerarium curiosum_. the "immense romano-british camp" of which mr clark speaks (_m. m. a._, i., ) is nearly a mile west. [ ] mountjoy, monthalt (mold), beaumont, beaudesert, egremont, are instances in point. [ ] _gaimar_, , wright's edition. gaimar wrote in the first half of the th century; wright states that his work is mainly copied from the _anglo-saxon chronicle_, but its chief value lies in the old historical traditions of the north and east of england which he has preserved. [ ] hodgson's _history of northumberland_, part ii., ii., , . [ ] this account is taken from a description kindly furnished by mr d. h. montgomerie. [ ] bates' _border holds_, p. . [ ] _simeon of durham_, . "castellum novum super flumen tyne condidit." [ ] see the map in an important paper on newcastle by longstaffe, _arch. Æliana_, iv., . [ ] _guide to the castle of newcastle_, published by society of antiquaries of newcastle, . [ ] longstaffe, as above. [ ] "condidit castellum in excelso preruptæ rupis super twedam flumen, ut inde latronum incursus inhiberet, et scottorum irruptiones. ibi enim utpote in confinia regni anglorum et scottorum creber prædantibus ante patebat excursus, _nullo enim quo hujusmodi impetus repelleretur præsidio locato_." _symeon of durham_, r. s., i., . [ ] "castellum di northam, quod munitionibus infirmum reperit, turre validissima forte reddidit." _geoffrey of coldingham_, (surtees society). symeon says it was built "precepto regis." the keep was extensively altered in the decorated period. [ ] _m. m. a._, ii., . [ ] _richard of hexham_, (twysden). [ ] "in illa terra de quâ herold habebat socam sunt burgenses et mansuræ vastæ, quæ sunt in occupatione castelli; et in burgo mansuræ vacuæ in hoc quod erat in soca regis et comitis, et in occupatione castelli." d. b., ii., . this shows that the castle and its ditches occupied ground partly within and partly without the ancient _burh_. [ ] harrod's _gleanings among castles_, p. . [ ] the authorities from which this map is compiled are not given. [ ] the "new borough" at norwich was the quarter inhabited by the normans. d. b., ii., . "franci de norwich: in novo burgo burgenses et anglici." mr hudson says that mancroft leet corresponds to the new burgh added to norwich at the conquest. see his map in _arch. journ._, xlvi. [ ] norwich was not a roman town; see haverfield, _vict. hist. of norfolk_, i., . but the roman road from caistor passed exactly underneath the castle motte. _brit. arch. assoc. journ._, xlvi., rev. h. dukinfield astley. [ ] harrod's _gleanings among castles_, p. . [ ] _mon. ang._, iv., . in henry iii. the monks of norwich priory received "licentiam includendi eandem villam cum fossis," and by doing this they enclosed the lands of other fees. [ ] _arch. journ._, xlvi., . [ ] kirkpatrick's _notes of norwich castle_, written about . he states that the angles of the motte had been spoilt, and much of it fallen away. [ ] _archæologia_, vol. xii. [ ] mr hartshorne thought it was built between and . _arch. journ._, xlvi., . it is certainly not as late as henry ii.'s reign, or the accounts for it would appear in the _pipe rolls_. [ ] _pipe rolls_, henry ii., p. . in reparatione pontis lapidei et palicii et bretascharum in eodem castello, _l._ _s._ _d._ [ ] _close rolls_, ii., . order that the palicium of norwich castle, which has fallen down and is threatened with ruin, be repaired. [ ] kirkpatrick, _notes on norwich castle_. [ ] except kirkpatrick, who shows a judicious scepticism on the subject. _ibid._, p. . [ ] _mon. ang._, i., . [ ] d. b., ii., . [ ] ordericus, ii., . [ ] published in a paper on nottingham castle by mr emanuel green, in _arch. journ._ for december . [ ] see mr green's paper, as above, p. . [ ] "apud rokingham liberavimus philippo marco ad faciendam turrim quam dominus rex precepit fieri in mota de notingham marcas quas burgenses de notingham et willelmus fil. baldwini dederunt domino regi pro benevolencia sua habenda." in cole's _documents illustrative of english history_, . there is some reason to think that john instead of building the cylindrical keeps which were then coming into fashion, reverted to the square form generally followed by his father. [ ] _pipe rolls_, - . the _pipe roll_ of richard i. mentions the making of " posterne in mota," which may be the secret passage in the rock. [ ] this is rendered probable by a writ of henry iii.'s reign, ordering that half a mark is to be paid annually to isolde de gray for the land which she had lost in king john's time "_per incrementum forinseci ballii castri de notinge_." _close rolls_, i., . [ ] _close rolls_, i., b. "videat quid et quantum mæremii opus fuerit ad barbecanas et palitia ipsius castri reparanda" ( ). _close rolls_, i., b. timber ordered for the repair of the bridges, bretasches, and _palicium gardini_ ( ). _cal. of close rolls_, , p. : constable is to have timber to repair the weir of the mill, and the _palings of the court_ of the castle. nottingham was one of eight castles in which john had baths put up. _rot. misæ._, john. [ ] the murage of the town of nottingham was assigned "to the repair of the outer bailey of the castle there" in . _patent rolls_, edward i., i., . [ ] chapter xlii. [ ] d. b., i., . [ ] "ipse baldwinus vicecomes tenet de rege ochementone, et ibi sedet castellum." d. b., i., b, . [ ] the late mr worth thought the lower part of the keep was early norman. he was perhaps misled by the round arched loops in the basement. but round arches are by no means conclusive evidence in themselves of norman date, and the size of these windows, as well as the absence of buttresses, and the presence of pointed arches, are quite incompatible with the early norman period. the whole architecture of the castle agrees with a th century date, to which the chapel undoubtedly belongs. [ ] eyton, _antiquities of shropshire_, vol. vii. [ ] "ibi fecit rainaldus castellum luure." d. b., i., b. rainald was an under-tenant of roger, earl of shrewsbury. [ ] this sketch is reproduced in mr parry-jones' _story of oswestry castle_. leland says, "extat turris in castro nomine madoci." _itin._, v., . [ ] "in operatione palicii de blancmuster _l._ _s._ _d._" xii., . oswestry was known as blancmoustier or album monasterium in norman times. [ ] _abingdon chronicle_ and _osney chronicle_, which, though both of the th century, were no doubt compiled from earlier sources. [ ] _osney chronicle_, . [ ] see ingram's _memorials of oxford_ for an account of the very interesting crypt of this church, p. . the battlement storey of the tower is comparatively late. [ ] mackenzie, _castles of england_, i., . [ ] d. b., p. . [ ] rymer's _foedera_, vol. i. [ ] "terram castelli pechefers tenuerunt gerneburn et hunding." d. b., i., a, . [ ] there are similar nook-shafts to henry ii.'s keep at scarborough, and to castle rising. mr hartshorne (_arch. journ._, v., ) thought that there had been an earlier stone keep at peak castle, because some moulded stones are used in the walls, and because there is some herring-bone work in the basement. but this herring-bone work only occurs in a revetment wall to the rock in the cellar; and the moulded stones may be quite modern insertions for repairs, and may have come from the oratory in the n.e. angle, or from some of the ruined windows and doorways. the sums entered to this castle between the years and are less than half the cost of scarborough keep, and do not appear adequate, though the keep was a small one. but there is some reason to think that the cost of castles was occasionally defrayed in part from sources not entered in the _pipe rolls_. [ ] rex e. tenuit peneverdant. ibi carucatæ terræ et reddebant denarios. modo est ibi castellum.... valent libras. d. b., i., . [ ] we need not resort to any fanciful british origins of the name peneverdant, as it is clearly the effort of a norman scribe to write down the unpronounceable english name penwortham. [ ] see _ante_, under clitheroe. [ ] mr halton's book (_documents relating to the priory of penwortham_) throws no light on this point. [ ] _transactions of the historic society of lancashire and cheshire_, vol. ix., - , paper on "the castle hill of penwortham," by the rev. w. thornber; hardwick's _history of preston_, pp. - . [ ] in a paper published in the _trans. soc. ant. scot_, for , on "anglo-saxon burhs and early norman castles," the present writer was misled into the statement that this hut was the remains of the cellar of the norman _bretasche_. a subsequent study of mr hardwick's more lucid account of the excavations showed that this was an error. there were two pavements of boulders, one on the natural surface of the hill, on which the hut had been built, the other feet above it, and feet below the present surface. the hut appeared to have been circular, with wattled walls and a thatched roof. several objects were found in its remains, and were pronounced to be roman or romano-british. the upper pavement would probably be the flooring of a norman keep. [ ] mr roach smith pronounced this spur to be norman. as its evidence is so important, it is to be regretted that its position was not more accurately observed. it was found in the lowest stratum of the remains, but mr hardwick says: "as it was not observed until thrown to the surface, a possibility remained that it might have fallen from the level of the upper boulder pavement, feet higher." we may regard this possibility as a certainty, if the lower hut was really british. [ ] mr willoughby gardner says the castle commands a ford, to which the ancient sunk road leads. _victoria hist. of lancashire_, vol. ii. [ ] hugh candidus, _coenob. burg. historia_, in sparke's _scriptores_, p. . this passage was kindly pointed out to me by mr round. hugh lived in henry iii.'s reign, but he must have had the more ancient records of the monastery at his disposal. [ ] domesday book mentions that the value of the burgus had greatly risen. it was one of the _burhs_ mentioned in the _burghal hidage_. [ ] _pipe roll_, - . william of jumièges says, "statim firmissimo vallo castrum condidit, probisque militibus commisit." vii., . wace professes to give the account of an eye-witness, who saw the timber for the castle landed from the ships, and the ditch dug. but wace was not a contemporary, and as he has made the mistake of making william land at pevensey instead of hastings, his evidence is questionable. _roman de rou_, p. (andresen's edition). [ ] the ruins of this keep, until , were buried under so large a mound of earth and rubbish that mr g. t. clark mistook it for a motte, and the present writer was equally misled. it ought to be stated, before the date of this keep is finally settled, that the _gesta stephani_ speaks of this castle as "editissimo aggere sublatum." p. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _close rolls_, i., a. [ ] d. b., i., b. [ ] d. b., i., b. [ ] cited in holmes' _history of pontefract_, p. . [ ] another charter, which is a confirmation by the second ilbert de lacy of the ecclesiastical gifts of ilbert i. and robert his son, states that the chapel of st clement in the castle of pontefract was founded by ilbert i. in the reign of william ii. _mon. ang._, v., . [ ] it is not necessary to discuss the meaning of the name pontefract, since for whatever reason it was given, it was clearly bestowed by the norman settlers. [ ] "castrum de pontefracto est quasi clavis in comitatu ebor." letter of ralph neville to henry iii., _foedera_, i., , cited by holmes, _pontefract_, . [ ] the conqueror had given him more than manors in yorkshire. _yorks. arch. journ._, xiv., . [ ] four roundels are shown in the plate given in fox's _history of pontefract_, "from a drawing in the possession of the society of antiquaries." but the drawing is so incorrect in some points that it can hardly be relied upon for others. there were only three roundels in leland's time. [ ] drake's account of the siege says that there was a hollow place between piper's tower and the round tower all the way down to the well; the gentlemen and soldiers all fell to carrying earth and rubbish, and so filled up the place in a little space. quoted in holmes' _manual of pontefract castle_. [ ] in the _english historical review_ for july , where this paper first appeared, the writer spoke of _two_ mottes at pontefract, having been led to this view by the great height of the east end of the bailey, where the ruins of john of gaunt's work are found. this view is now withdrawn, in deference to the conclusions of mr d. h. montgomerie, f.s.a., who has carefully examined the spot. [ ] _mon. ang._, iv., . [ ] from a description by mr d. h. montgomerie. [ ] d. b., i., . [ ] see chapter iv. [ ] domesday book says: "ipse comes (roger) tenet ardinton. sancta milburga tenuit t. r. e. ibi molinum et nova domus et burgus quatford dictus, nil reddentes." i., . [ ] g. t. clark, in _arch. cambrensis_, , p. . [ ] _ord. vit._, iv., . [ ] "in hoc manerio fecit suenus suum castellum." d. b., ii., b. [ ] freeman, _n. c._, ii., , and iv., appendix h. [ ] mr round has suggested that this castle was at canfield in essex, where there is a motte and bailey. [ ] "isdem osbernus habet homines in castello avreton et reddit solidos. valet ei castellum hoc solidos." d. b., i., b. [ ] mr clark's plan is strangely incorrect, as he altogether omits the bailey. compare the plan in mr round's castles of the conquest, _archæologia_, vol. lviii., and mr montgomerie's plan here, fig. . [ ] "comes alanus habet in sua castellata maneria.... præter castellariam habet maneria." d. b., i., a, . [ ] this is stated in a charter of henry ii., which carefully recapitulates the gifts of the different benefactors to st mary's. _mon. ang._, iii., . it is curious that the charter of william ii., the first part of which is an inspeximus of a charter of william i., does not mention this chapel in the castle. [ ] mr skaife, the editor of the _yorkshire domesday_, thinks that it was at hinderlag, but gives no reasons. hinderlag, at the time of the survey, was in the hands of an under-tenant. _yorks. arch. journ._, lii., , . [ ] "hic alanus primo incepit facere castrum et munitionem juxta manerium suum capitale de gilling, pro tuitione suorum contra infestationes anglorum tunc ubique exhæredatorum, similiter et danorum, et nominavit dictum castrum richmond suo ydiomate gallico, quod sonat latine divitem montem, in editiori et fortiori loco sui territorii situatum." _mon. ang._, v., . [ ] there are no remains of fortification at gilling, but about a mile and a half away there used to be an oval earthwork, now levelled, called castle hill, of which a plan is given in m'laughlan's paper, _arch. journ._, vol. vi. it had no motte. mr clark says, "the mound at gilling has not long been levelled." _m. m. a._, i., . it probably never existed except in his imagination. [ ] see clarkson's _history of richmond_. [ ] _journal of brit. arch. ass._, lxiii., . [ ] these are the dates given in morice's _bretagne_. [ ] henry spent _l._ _s._ _d._ in on "operationes domorum et turris," and _l._ _s._ in on "operationes castelli et domorum." [ ] "episcopus de rouecestre, pro excambio terræ in qua castellum sedet, tantum de hac terra tenet quod sol. et den. valet." d. b., i., b. [ ] see mr george payne's paper on _roman rochester_, in _arch. cantiana_, vol. xxi. mr hope tells me that parts of all the four sides are left. [ ] thus egbert of kent, in , gives "terram intra castelli moenia supra-nominati, id est hrofescestri, unum viculum cum duobus jugeribus," _kemble_, i., ; and offa speaks of the "episcopum castelli quod nominatur hrofescester," earle, _land charters_, p. . [ ] see an extremely valuable paper on _mediæval rochester_ by the rev. greville m. livett, _arch. cantiana_, vol. xxi. [ ] see the charter of coenulf, king of mercia, giving to bishop beornmod three ploughlands on the southern shore of the city of rochester, from the highway on the east to the medway on the west. _textus roffensis_, p. . [ ] the name boley may possibly represent the norman-french _beaulieu_, a favourite norman name for a castle or residence. professor hales suggested that boley hill was derived from bailey hill (cited in mr gomme's paper on boley hill, _arch. cantiana_, vol. xvii.). the oldest form of the name is bullie hill, as in edward iv.'s charter, cited below, p. . [ ] roman urns and lachrymatories were found in the boley hill when it was partially levelled in the th century to fill up the castle ditch. _history of rochester_, p. . at the part now called watt's avenue, mr george payne found "the fag-end of an anglo-saxon cemetery." _arch. cantiana_, vol. xxi. [ ] "in pulchriore parte civitatis hrouecestre." _textus roffensis_, p. . mr freeman and others have noticed that the special mention of a _stone_ castle makes it probable that the first castle was of wood. mr round remarks that the building of rochester castle is fixed, by the conjunction of william ii. and lanfranc in its history, to some date between september and march . _geoffrey de mandeville_, p. . probably, therefore, it was this new castle which bishop odo held against rufus in . ordericus says that "cum quingentis militibus intra rofensem urbem se conclusit." p. . [ ] it is now attributed to archbishop william of corbeuil, to whom henry i. gave the custody of the castle in the twenty-seventh year of his reign, with permission to make within it a defence or keep, such as he might please. _continuator of florence_, . gervase of canterbury also says "idem episcopus turrim egregiam ædificavit." both passages are cited by hartshorne, _arch. journ._, xx., . gundulf's castle cost _l._ and can scarcely have been more than an enclosing wall with perhaps one mural tower. see mr round, _geoffrey de mandeville_, , and mr livett's paper, cited above. [ ] two common friends of rufus and gundulf advised the king that in return for the grant of the manor of hedenham and the remission of certain moneys, "episcopus gundulfus, quia in opere cæmentario plurimum sciens et efficax erat, castrum sibi hrofense _lapideum_ de suo construeret." _textus roffensis_, p. . there was therefore an exchange of land in this affair also. [ ] _arch. cantiana_, vol. xxi. [ ] _arch. cantiana_, vol. xxi., p. . [ ] there are several entries in the _close rolls_ relating to this wall of henry iii. in the year . [ ] mr beale poste says that this ancient wall was met with some years since in digging the foundations of the rev. mr conway's house, standing parallel to the present brick walls and about feet within them. "ancient rochester as a roman station," _arch. cantiana_, ii., . the continuator of gervase of canterbury tells us (ii., ) that at the siege of rochester in , simon de montfort captured the outer castle up to the keep (forinsecum castellum usque ad turrim), and mr livett thinks this outer castle must have been the boley hill. [ ] _close rolls_, ii., b. [ ] hasted's _kent_, iv., . [ ] "ymb sætan tha ceastre and worhton other fæsten ymb hie selfe." see _ante_, p. , _note _. [ ] mr hope suggests the east side, as the north was a marsh. [ ] _history of rochester_ (published by fisher, ), p. . [ ] d. b., i., . [ ] "wasta erat quando rex w. iussit ibi castellum fieri. modo valet solidos." d. b., i., . [ ] "i markid that there is stronge tower in the area of the castelle, and from it over the dungeon dike is a drawbridge to the dungeon toure." _itin._, i., . [ ] "in operatione nove turris et nove camere in cast. _l._ _s._ _d._" [ ] d. b., i., . [ ] see the plan reproduced in wise's _rockingham castle and the watsons_, p. . [ ] vol. i., p. : cited by mr irving in his valuable paper on old sarum in _arch. journ._, xv., . sir richard made a vague reference to an ms. in the cottonian and bodleian libraries, for which mr irving says he has searched in vain. [ ] general pitt-rivers in his address to the salisbury meeting of the archæological institute in , says that traces of these roads may still be seen. he adds that old sarum does not resemble the generality of ancient british fortifications, in that the rampart is of the same height all round, instead of being lower where the ground is steeper; this led him to think that the original fortress had been modernised in later times. sir richard colt hoare noticed that the ramparts of sarum were twice as high as those of the fine prehistoric camps with which he was acquainted. _ancient wiltshire_, p. . [ ] benson and hatcher's _old and new sarum_, p. . [ ] _cf._ benson and hatcher, , with _beauties of england and wales_, xv., . [ ] d. b., i., . "idem episcopus tenet sarisberie." part of the land which had been held under the bishop was now held by edward the sheriff, the ancestor of the earls of salisbury. this in itself is a proof that the castle was new. see freeman, _n. c._, iv., . [ ] this policy had been dictated by an oecumenical council. [ ] he gives to the canons of the church two hides in the manor, "et ante portam castelli seriberiensis terram ex utraque parte viæ in ortorum domorumque canonicorum necessitate." _m. a._, vi., . [ ] _gentleman's magazine_, . [ ] the area of the outer camp is - / acres. [ ] it is unlikely that this is the _turris_ mentioned in the solitary _pipe roll_ of henry i. "in unum ostium faciendum ad cellarium turris sarum, s." this entry is of great interest, as entrances from the outside to the basement of keeps were exceptional in the th century; but the basement entrance of colchester keep has every appearance of having been added by henry i. [ ] william of malmesbury, _hist. nov._, ii., . [ ] in ; the writ is given by benson and hatcher, p. . [ ] "in operatione unius bretesche in eodem castro s." _pipe rolls_, - . [ ] "virgam et mairemium ad hordiandum castrum." _close rolls_, i., b ( ). [ ] benson and hatcher, p. . [ ] "dicunt quod castrum cum burgo veteris sarum et dominicus burgus domini regis pertinent ad coronam cum advocatione cujusdam ecclesiæ quæ modo vacat." _hundred rolls_, edward i., cited by benson and hatcher, p. . [ ] cited by benson and hatcher, p. . [ ] d. b., a, . the value t. r. e. is not, however, very distinctly stated. [ ] "dicunt angligenses burgenses de sciropesberie multum grave sibi esse quod ipsi reddunt totum geldum sicut reddebant t. r. e. quamvis castellum comitis occupaverit masuras et aliæ masuræ sunt wastæ." d. b., i., . [ ] some writers, such as mr kerslake and mr c. s. taylor, have supposed sceargate to mean shrewsbury. [ ] mandatum est vicecomiti salopie quod veterem palum et veterem bretaschiam de vetere fossato ville salopie faciat habere probos homines ville salopie ad novum fossatum ejusdem ville, quod fieri fecerant, efforciandum et emendendum. _close rolls_, , p. . the honest men of the city are also to have "palum et closturam" from the king's wood of lichewood "ad hirucones circa villam salopie faciendas ad ipsam villam claudendam." _ibid._ _hirucones_ are the same as _heritones_ or _hericias_, a defence of stakes on the counterscarp of the ditch. [ ] "in op. castelli de salop^be in mota _l._" _pipe rolls_, henry ii., p. . [ ] "dampnum mote castri salopp' ad valenciam marcarum, sed non recolligunt totum evenisse propter molendinum abbatis salopp', quia annis elapsis mota castri fuit fere deteriorata sicut nunc est." _hundred rolls_, ii., . "dicunt quod unus magnus turris ligneus (_sic_) qui ædificatur in castro salopp' corruit in terram tempore domini uriani de s. petro tunc vicecomitis, et meremium ejus turris tempore suo et temporibus aliorum vicecomitum postea ita consumitur et destruitur quod nihil de illo remansit, in magnum damnum domini regis et deteriorationem eiusdem castri." _ibid._, p. . [ ] _pipe rolls_, henry ii., p. ; henry ii., p. ; henry ii., p. ; henry ii., p. ; henry ii., p. . [ ] payment to those who dig stone for the castle of shrewsbury, _close rolls_, i., b. this is in . there is also a payment of _l._ for works at the castle in . _ibid._, b. [ ] _hundred rolls_, ii., . a _jarola_ or garuillum is a stockade; apparently derived from a gallic word for _oak_, and may thus correspond to an oak paling. see ducange. [ ] owen and blakeway's _history of shrewsbury_, i., . [ ] _chronicon de melsa_, r. s. see preface, p. lxxii. [ ] _yorks inquisitions_ (yorks rec. ser.), i., . [ ] _rot. lit. claus._, i., b. [ ] poulson's _history of holderness_, i., . [ ] d. b., i., b. [ ] ethelwerd, anno . [ ] "ipse henricus tenet cebbeseio. ad hoc manerium pertinuit terra de stadford, in qua rex precepit fieri castellum, quod modo est destructum." d. b., i., a. [ ] "apud estafort alteram [munitionem] locavit." _ord. vit._, p. . [ ] it should be said that mr eyton interprets the passage differently, and takes it to mean that the castle was built on land in the borough of stafford belonging to the manor of chebsey. but he himself says that "the site of stafford castle, within the liberties, though not within the borough of stafford, would suggest a royal foundation"; and he believes this castle (the one on the motte) to have been the one garrisoned by henry i. and made a residence by henry ii. _domesday studies_, p. . [ ] _salt. arch. soc. trans._, vol. viii., "the manor of castre or stafford," by mr mazzinghi, a paper abounding in valuable information, to which the present writer is greatly indebted. [ ] in the addenda to mr eyton's _domesday of staffordshire_ (p. ) the learned editor says there are two stafford castles mentioned in domesday, in two different hundreds. we have carefully searched through the whole stafford account, and except at burton and tutbury, there is no other castle mentioned in staffordshire but this one at chebsey. [ ] dugdale conjectures that robert was sheriff of staffordshire. he had large estates round the town of stafford. eyton, _staffordshire_, p. . [ ] mazzinghi, _salt arch. soc. trans._, viii., ; eyton, _domesday studies_, p. . [ ] _monasticon_, vi., : "ecclesiam s. nicholai in castello de stafford." [ ] ordericus, vii., . see also vii., , p. (ed. prévost). [ ] mazzinghi, _salt arch. soc. trans._, viii., . [ ] in a charter to stone abbey, _salt collections_, vol. ii. that the castle he speaks of was the one outside the town is proved by his references to land "extra burgum." [ ] the _pipe roll_ contains several entries relating to this gaol at stafford. it is clear from several of the documents given by mr mazzinghi that the king's gaol of stafford and the king's gaol of the castle of stafford are equivalent expressions. [ ] _pipe rolls_, john. [ ] _close rolls_, i., . [ ] _constitutional history_, i., . [ ] cited in _salt arch. soc. trans._, vi., pt. i., . [ ] _patent rolls_, edward iii., cited by mazzinghi, p. . [ ] _salt arch. soc. trans._, viii., . it was undoubtedly at this time that the oblong stone keep on the motte, which is described in an escheat of henry viii.'s reign, was built. [ ] _salt arch. coll._, viii., . [ ] speed's _theatre of britain_; leland, _itin._, vii., . [ ] the stafford escheat of henry viii.'s reign, which describes the town, also makes no mention of any castle in the town. mazzinghi, p. . [ ] _salt arch. trans._, viii., . the mistake may possibly have arisen from the fact that a fine castellated gateway, shown in w. smith's map (_description of england_), stood on the south-west wall of the town, close to the spot where speed's map marks a castle hill. [ ] there must be some error in the first statement of the stafford revenue in domesday, which says that the king and earl have _l._ between them, as it is contradicted by the later statement. d. b., i., a and b, . [ ] there were _mansiones_, t. r. e., "et modo totidem sunt præter quæ propter operationem castelli sunt wastæ." from a passage in the _domesday of nottingham_ it would seem that a _mansio_ was a group of houses. [ ] _gervase of canterbury_, i., , r. s. [ ] peck's _antiquarian annals of stamford_; he gives the charter, p. . [ ] cited in nevinson's "notes on the history of stamford," _journ. brit. arch. ass._, xxxv. [ ] "t. r. e. dabat stanford _l._; modo dat ad firmam _l._ de omni consuetudine regis modo dat _l._" [ ] "ibi habet helgot castellum, et carucas in dominio, et servos, et villanos, et bordarios, et francigenam cum - / carucis. ibi ecclesia et presbyter. t. r. e. valebat solidos; modo solidos. wastam invenit." d. b., i., b. there are some fragments of norman work in the church, which is chiefly early english, doubtless of the same date as the mural tower of the castle. [ ] stapleton's introduction to _rot. scac. normanniæ_, vol. ii. [ ] it used to be supposed that herring-bone work was a saxon sign, and this furnished an additional claim to the saxon origin of this castle; but it is now known that herring-bone work only occurs in the later saxon work, and is far more common in norman. see _note_, p. . [ ] see _ante_, p. . [ ] ordericus, xi., ch. iii. [ ] there are three entries for the works of the _turris_ at tickhill in the _pipe rolls_ of and , amounting to £ , s. d. [ ] _pipe roll_, henry i., , . expenses for work at the wall of the castle are mentioned. ordericus says that robert belesme fortified the castle of blythe at the time of his rebellion in , but he also says that it had belonged to roger de busli. _hist. ecc._, iv., ; xi., . [ ] vicar's _parliamentary chronicle_, quoted by hunter, _south yorks_, ii., . [ ] d. b., i., a. [ ] _a.-s. c._ in _anno_. [ ] d. b., i., . [ ] _m. a._, iv., . [ ] leland is responsible for this last statement. [ ] d. b., i., b. [ ] "egressus lundoniæ rex _dies aliquot_ in propinquo loco bercingio morabatur, dum firmamenta quædam in urbe contra mobilitatem ingentis et feri populi perficerentur." p. . ordericus is quoting from william of poitiers. there was formerly a roman camp at barking, and the motte which william hastily threw up on its rampart to defend his sojourn still remains. see _victoria history of essex_. [ ] mr harold sands suggests to me that the first fortification may simply have been a bank and palisade across the angle of the roman wall, with perhaps a wooden keep, and that the great fire in london in determined william to build a stone keep. [ ] hearne's _textus roffensis_, . "idem gundulfus, ex precepto regis willielmi magni, præesset operi magnæ turris londoniæ." [ ] the building of stone keeps was generally spread over several years, as we learn from the _pipe rolls_. richard i. built his celebrated keep of chateau gaillard in one year, but he himself regarded this as an architectural feat. "estne bella, filia mea de uno anno," he said in delight. [ ] _a.-s. c._ in _anno_. [ ] round's _history of colchester_, ch. iv. [ ] the keep of norwich castle measures × feet; middleham, × ; dover, × . these are the largest existing keeps in england, next to the tower and colchester. the destroyed keep of duffield measured × feet; that of bristol is believed to have been × . [ ] the reader will find little help for the structural history of the tower in most of the works which call themselves histories of the tower of london. the plan of these works generally is to skim over the structural history as quickly as possible, perhaps with the help of a few passages from clark, and to get on to the history of the prisoners in the tower. for the description in the text, the writer is greatly indebted to mr harold sands, f.s.a., who has made a careful study of the tower, and whose monograph upon it, it is hoped, will shortly appear. [ ] _ante_, p. . [ ] many of the larger keeps contain rooms quite spacious enough to have served as banqueting halls, and it is a point of some difficulty whether they were built to be used as such. but as late as the th century, piers ploughman rebukes the new custom which was growing up of the noble and his family taking their meals in private, and leaving the hall to their retainers. every castle seems to have had a hall in the bailey. [ ] mr sands says the main floors are not of too great a span to carry any ordinary weight. [ ] the keep of pevensey castle, the basement of which has been recently uncovered, has no less than four apsidal projections, one of which rests on the solid base of a roman mural tower. but this keep is quite an exceptional building. see _excavations at pevensey_, second report, by h. sands. [ ] mr sands has conjectured that the third floor may be an addition, and that the second storey was originally open up to the roof and not communicating with the mural passage except by stairs. this was actually the case at bamborough keep, and at newcastle and rochester the mural gallery opens into the upper part of the second storey by inner windows. [ ] until the end of the th century the roofs of keeps were gabled and not flat, but probably there was usually a parapet walk for sentinels or archers. [ ] parts of these walls, running n. and s. have been found very near the e. side of the tower. no trace of the roman wall has been found s. of the tower, but in lower thames street lines have been found which, if produced, would lead straight to the s. wall of the inner bailey. communicated by mr harold sands. [ ] i have to thank mr harold sands for kindly revising this account of the tower. [ ] "ibi habet comes unum castrum et mercatum, reddentes s." d. b., i., . [ ] it must be remembered that round arches, in castle architecture, are by no means a certain sign of date. of course the first castle on this motte must have been of wood. [ ] _ord. vit._, ii., (prévost). [ ] "henricus de ferrers habet castellum de toteberie. in burgo circa castellum sunt homines de mercato suo tantum viventes." d. b., i., b. [ ] shaw's _history of staffordshire_, i., . [ ] quoted in _beauties of england and wales_, staffordshire, p. . [ ] _diceto_, i., . the castle was then besieged on henry's behalf by the vassal prince of south wales, the lord rhys. [ ] the foundation charter is in _mon. ang._, iii., . [ ] _a.-s. c._ [ ] william of poitiers calls it an _oppidum_, p. . [ ] hedges, _history of wallingford_. [ ] "the towne of portsmuth is murid from the est tower a forowgh lenght with a mudde waulle armid with tymbre." _itin._, iii., . [ ] "in burgo de walingeford habuit rex edwardus virgatas terræ; et in his erant hagæ reddentes libras de gablo.... pro castello sunt destructæ." d. b., i., . if we divide these _haughs_ by the acres enclosed by the town rampart, we get an average of about rood perches for each haugh; multiply this by (the number destroyed for the castle) and we get an area of acres, which is about the average area of an early norman castle. [ ] hedges, _history of wallingford_, i., . [ ] camden speaks of the motte as being in the middle of the castle, but this is a mistake. [ ] such is the account in hedges' _history of wallingford_, p. , but it sounds odd. it is to be inferred from the same source that the fragment of a round building which stands on the top of the motte must be modern; it is thick enough to be ancient. [ ] _close rolls_, i., anno . [ ] d. b., i., . [ ] "abbas de couentreu habet masuras, et sunt wastæ propter situm castelli." d. b., i., a. [ ] "hæ masuræ pertinent ad terras quas ipsi barones tenent extra burgum, et ibi appreciatæ sunt." d. b., i., . [ ] maitland, _domesday book and beyond_, p. . [ ] ordericus, p. . "rex _itaque_ castellum apud guarevicum condidit, et henrico rogerii de bello monte filio ad servandum tradidit." mr freeman remarks that no authentic records connect thurkil of warwick with warwick castle. _n. c._, iv., . [ ] _n. c._, iv., . [ ] in operatione unius domus in mota de warwick et unius bretaschie _l._ _s._ _d._ _pipe rolls_, henry ii. as _domus_ is a word very commonly used for a keep, it is probable this expenditure refers to a wooden keep. [ ] from information received from mr harold sands. there appears to be no foundation whatever for the curious ground plan given by parker. [ ] see _ante_, p. . [ ] "willelmus comes fecit illud castellum in wasta terra quæ vocatur mereston." d. b., i., . [ ] _mon. ang._, vi., . [ ] this keep rests on a broad extension of the earthen rampart, similar to what is still to be seen in the mottes of devizes, burton-in-lonsdale, and william hill, middleham. [ ] ordericus says: "intra moenia guentæ, opibus et munimine nobilis urbis et mari contiguæ, validam arcem construxit, ibique willelmum osberni filium in exercitu suo precipuum reliquit." ii., . the _intra moenia_ is not to be taken literally, any more than the _mari contiguæ_. it is strange that mr freeman should have mistaken guenta for norwich, since under ordericus translates the winchester of the a.-s. c. by guenta. [ ] "de isto manerio testatur comitatus quod injuste accepit [abbas] pro excambio domus regis, quia domus erat regis." d. b., i., a, . [ ] _ibid._, i., a, . [ ] "sicut rex willielmus pater meus ei dedit in excambium pro terra illa in qua ædificavit aulam suam in urbe winton." _mon. ang._, ii., . [ ] "pars erat in dominio et pars de dominio abbatis; hoc totum est post occupatum in domo regis." p. . this passage throws light on the fraud of the abbot of hyde, referred to above. [ ] "extra portam de vuest ... ibi juxta fuit quidam vicus; fuit diffactus quando rex fecit facere suum fossatum." p. . [ ] _arch. inst._, winchester volume, p. . [ ] it should also be said that the word _domus_ is frequently used for a keep in chronicles and ancient documents of the th and th centuries. [ ] the line of the more ancient roof gable can be traced in the north wall, and there is a vestige of a norman doorway in the east wall. [ ] _history of winchester_, ii., . [ ] henry of blois, bishop of winchester and brother of king stephen, pulled down the royal palace close to the cathedral, which presumably was the old saxon palace, and used the materials to build wolvesey castle. see malmesbury, "de vitis sex episcoporum," _anglia sacra_, ii., . he could hardly have dared to do this if the palace had still been used by the norman kings. [ ] _history of winchester_, ii., . see fig. . [ ] _ibid._, p. . it is difficult, now that the area has been levelled, to say exactly where this motte stood. woodward says that the keep stood in the n.e. corner; but he probably alludes to a mural tower whose foundations can still be seen, near the county hall. _history of hampshire_, i., - . [ ] turner, _history of domestic architecture_. he cites from the _liberate roll_, henry ii., an order for the repair of the ditch between the great tower and the bailey. [ ] "radulfus filius seifrid tenet de rege clivor. heraldus comes tenuit. tunc se defendebat pro hidis, modo pro - / hidis, et castellum de windesores est in dimidia hida." d. b., i., b. the _abingdon history_ also mentions the foundation of windsor castle and gives some interesting details about castle guard. "tunc walingaforde et oxenforde et wildesore, cæterisque locis, castella pro regno servando compacta. unde huic abbatiæ militum excubias apud ipsum wildesore oppidum habendas regis imperio jussum." ii., , r. s. [ ] _leland_, iv., , . see also tighe's _annals of windsor_, pp. - . until recently there was a farmhouse surrounded by a moat at old windsor, which was _believed_ to mark the site of edward's _regia domus_. [ ] edward's grant of windsor to westminster is in _cod. dip._, iv., . domesday does not mention the rights of the church, but says the manor of windsor was held of the crown t. r. e. and t. r. w. camden gives william's charter of exchange with the convent of westminster. _britannia_, i., . [ ] this is stated in the charter given by camden. [ ] in virgata terræ quam willelmus fil. walteri habet in escambio pro terra sua quæ capta est ad burgum. p. . [ ] the _red book of the exchequer_, which contains an abstract of the missing _pipe roll_ of henry ii., has an entry of _s._ paid to richard de clifwar for the exchange of his land, and regular payments are made later. there was another enlargement of the bailey in henry iii.'s reign, but the second bailey was then existing. see _close rolls_, i., b. [ ] "in operatione muri circa castellum _l._ _s._ _d._ summa denariorum quos idem ricardus [de luci] misit in operatione predicta de ballia _l._ _s._" _pipe roll_, henry ii., p. . [ ] tighe's _annals of windsor_, p. . [ ] there is a singular entry in the _pipe roll_ of richard i., "pro fossato prosternando quod fuit inter motam et domos regis," clearly the ditch between the motte and the bailey. mr hope informs me that this can only refer to the northern part of the ditch, as the eastern portion was only filled up in . mr hope thinks that the castle area has always included the lower bailey. i regret that mr hope's history of windsor castle did not appear in time to be used in this work. [ ] _foedera_, vol. i. [ ] _pipe rolls_, henry ii. [ ] d. b., i., b, ; b, . [ ] roger of wendover, in _anno_. [ ] walter and cradock's _history of wisbeach_, pp. - . [ ] morris' _troubles of our catholic forefathers_, p. . this keep was one built by bishop morton in . [ ] birch's _cartularium_, ii., . [ ] ursus erat vicecomes wigorniæ a rege constitutus, qui in ipsis poene faucis monachorum castellum construxit, adeo ut fossatum coemiterii partem decideret. _gesta pontif._, p. . [ ] "castrum wigorniæ nobis redditum est, tanquam jus noster, usquam motam turris." _annales de wigornia_, r. s., p. . "rex johanni marescallo salutem: mandamus vobis quod sine dilatione faciatis habere venerabili patri nostro domino wigorniensi episcopo ballium castri nostri wigorniæ, quod est jus ecclesiæ suæ; retenta ad opus nostrum mota ejusdem castri." _patent rolls_, henry iii., p. . [ ] _annales de wigornia_, p. . [ ] "in reparatione turris wigorniæ _l._" _red book of exchequer_, ii., . [ ] "precipimus tibi quod per visum liberorum et legalium hominum facias parari portam castri wigorniæ, quæ nunc est lignea, lapideam, et bonam et pulchram." _rot. de liberate_, p. , . [ ] green's _history of worcester_, i., . [ ] allies' _antiquities of worcestershire_, p. . his words strictly apply to "the lofty mound called the keep, with its ditches, etc.," but probably the whole area was not more than acres. [ ] see the documents cited by mr round in his _geoffrey de mandeville_, appendix o, and the _pipe rolls_ of . "in reparatione mote et gaiole de wirecestra, £ , s. d." [ ] _gentleman's magazine_, i., , . see haverfield, "romano-british worcester," _victoria county history of worcestershire_, vol. i. [ ] d. b., i., . [ ] it is needless to remark that _baile_ is the norman word for an enclosure or courtyard; low latin _ballia_; sometimes believed to be derived from _baculus_, a stick. [ ] ordericus, ii., (edition prévost). [ ] _norman conquest_, iv., . mr freeman has worked out the course of events connected with the building and destruction of the castles with his usual lucidity. but he never grasped the real significance of mottes, though he emphatically maintained that the native english did not build castles. [ ] "ethelstanus castrum quod olim dani in eboraco obfirmaverant ad solum diruit, ne esset quo se tutari perfidia posset." _gesta regum_, ii., . [ ] widdrington, _analecta eboracensia_, p. . it was this suburb which alan, earl of richmond gave to the abbey of st mary at york, which he had founded. "ecclesiam sancti olavii in quâ capud abbatiæ in honorem sanctæ mariæ melius constitutum est, et _burgum in quo ecclesia sita est_." _mon. ang._, iii., . for the addition of new boroughs to old ones see _ante_, p. , under norwich. although athelstan destroyed the fortifications of this borough, they were evidently renewed when the danish earls took up their residence there, for when earl alan persuaded the monks from whitby to settle there one inducement which he offered was the fortification of the site, "loci munitionem." _mon. ang._, iii., . [ ] in eboraco civitate t. r. e. præter scyram archiepiscopi fuerunt scyræ; una ex his est wasta in castellis. d. b., i., . [ ] _notes on clifford's tower_, by george benson and h. platnauer, published by the york philosophical society. [ ] "thone castel tobræcon and towurpan." _a.-s. c._ see freeman, _n. c._, iv., . [ ] "in operatione turris de euerwick, _l._ _s._ _d._" _pipe roll_, henry ii., vol. xix., . we assume that william's second keep lasted till henry ii.'s reign. [ ] _benedict of peterborough_, ii., . [ ] "in operatione castri _l._ _s._ _d._" _pipe roll_, richard i. under the year , after relating the tragedy of the jews at york castle, hoveden says: "deinde idem cancellarius [william de longchamp] tradidit osberto de lunchamp, fratri suo, comitatum eboracensem in custodia, et precepit firmari castellum in veteri castellario quod rex willelmus rufus ibi construxerat." iii., , r. s. the expression _vetus castellarium_ would lead us to think of the old baile, which certainly had this name from an early period; and hoveden, being a yorkshireman as well as a very accurate writer, was probably aware of the difference between the two castles. but if he meant the old baile, then both the castles were restored at about the same time. "rufus" must be a slip, unless there was some rebuilding in rufus' reign of which we do not know. [ ] messrs benson and platnauer are of the former opinion. "the existence of a second layer of timber seems to show that the fortification destroyed was rebuilt in wood." _notes on clifford's tower_, p. . [ ] "pro mairemio castri ebor. prostrato per ventum colligendo, _s._" _pipe roll_, henry iii. it is, of course, a conjecture that this accident happened to the keep; but the keep would be the part most exposed to the wind, and the _scattering_ of the timber, so that it had to be collected, is just what would happen if a timber structure were blown off a motte. [ ] as the writer was the first to publish this statement, it will be well to give the evidence on which it rests. the keep of york is clearly early english in style, and of an early phase of the style. it is, however, evident to every one who has carefully compared our dated keeps, that castle architecture always lags behind church architecture in style-development, and must be judged by different standards. we should therefore be prepared to find this and most other keeps to be of later date than their architecture would suggest. moreover, the expenditure entered to york castle in the reigns of henry ii., richard i., and john, is quite insufficient to cover the cost of a stone keep. the _pipe rolls_ of henry iii.'s reign decide the matter, as they show the sums which he expended annually on this castle. it is true they never mention the _turris_, but always the _castrum_; we must also admit that the _turris_ and _castrum_ are often distinguished in the writs, even as late as edward iii.'s reign. (_close rolls_, .) on the other hand extensive acquaintance with the _pipe rolls_ proves that though the mediæval scribe may have an occasional fit of accuracy, he is generally very loose in his use of words, and his distinctions must never be pressed. take, for instance, the case of orford, where the word used in the _pipe rolls_ is always _castellum_, but it certainly refers to the keep, as there are no other buildings at orford. other instances might be given in which the word _castellum_ clearly applies to the keep. it should be mentioned that in john gave an order for stone for the castle (_close rolls_, i., b), but the amounts on the bill for it in the _pipe rolls_ show that it was not used for any extensive building operations. [ ] "mandatum est galterio de cumpton forestario de gauteris quod ad pontem et domos castri eboraci et breccas palicii ejusdem castri reparandos et emendandos vicecomitem eboraci mæremium habere faciat in foresta de gauteris per visum, etc." _close rolls_, ii., b. [ ] order to expend up to marks in repairing the wooden peel about the keep of york castle, which peel is now fallen down. _cal. of close rolls,_ edward ii., . [ ] _cal. of close rolls_, - , . _mota_ is wrongly translated _moat_. [ ] see mr cooper's _york: the story of its walls and castles_. during messrs benson and platnauer's excavations, a prehistoric crouching burial was found in the ground below the motte, feet inches under the present level. this raises the question whether william utilised an existing prehistoric barrow for the nucleus of his motte. [ ] d. b., i., a. [ ] _york: the story of its walls and castles_, by t. p. cooper, p. . [ ] see the passage from hoveden already quoted, _ante_, p. . [ ] drake's _eboracum_, app. xliv. [ ] see mr cooper's _york: the story of its walls and castles_, which contains a mass of new material from documentary sources, and sheds quite unexpected light on the history of the york fortifications. i am indebted to mr cooper's courtesy for some of the extracts cited above relating to york castle. [ ] cooper's _york_, chapters ii. and iv. _l_. was spent by the sheriff in fortifying the walls of york in the sixth year of henry iii. after this there are repeated grants for murage in the same and the following reign. there are some early english buttresses in the walls, but the majority are later. no part of the walls contains norman work. [ ] the details of this evidence, which consist mainly in ( ) a structural difference in the extended rampart; ( ) a subsidence in the ground marking the old line of the city ditch, will be found in mr cooper's work, p. . [ ] "locum in eboraco qui dicitur vetus ballium, primo spissis et longis pedum tabulis, secundo lapideo muro fortiter includebat." t. stubbs, in raine's _historians of the church of york_, ii., , r. s. [ ] "the plotte of this castelle is now caullid the olde baile, and the area and diches of it do manifestley appere." _itin._, i., . [ ] see the plan in mr cooper's _york_, p. . [ ] "in the wales of the laws, the social system is tribal." owen edwards, _wales_, p. . [ ] vinogradoff, _growth of the manor_, pp. - . [ ] pennant's _tour in wales_, rhys' edition, ii., . [ ] _ancient laws and institutes of wales_, pp. , . the ms. of the _leges wallicæ_ is not earlier than the th century. the other editions of the laws are even later. see wade evans, _welsh mediæval law_, for the most recent criticism of the laws of howel dda. [ ] the _leges wallicæ_ say: "villani regis debent facere novem domos ad opus regis; scilicet, aulam, cameram, coquinam, penu (capellam), stabulum, kynorty (stabulum canum), horreum, odyn (siccarium) et latrinam." p. . [ ] the word din or dinas, so often used for a fort in wales, is cognate with the german _zaun_, anglo-saxon _tun_, and means a fenced place. neither it nor the irish form dun have any connection with the anglo-saxon _dun_, a hill. see j. e. lloyd, _welsh place-names_, "y cymmrodor," xi., . [ ] it is doubtful whether deheubarth ever included the small independent states of gwent, brecknock, and glamorgan. [ ] "wales and the coming of the normans," _cymmrodorion trans._, . [ ] there is an earthwork near portskewet, a semicircular cliff camp with three ramparts and two ditches. it is scarcely likely that this can be harold's work, as roman bricks are said to have been found there. willet's _monmouthshire_, p. . athelstan had made the wye the frontier of wales. _malmesbury_, ii., . [ ] see _a.-s. c._, anno , and compare the entry for with the account in the _brut_ for , which shows that the norman castles had been restored, after being for the most part demolished by the welsh. [ ] the _brut y tywysogion_, or _story of the princes_, exists in no ms. older than the th century. it and the _annales cambriæ_ have been disgracefully edited for the _rolls_ series, and the topographical student will find no help from these editions. see mr phillimore's criticism of them, in _y cymmrodor,_ vol. xi. the aberpergwm ms. of the _brut_, known also as the _gwentian chronicle_, has been printed in the _archæologia cambrensis_ for ; it contains a great deal of additional information, but as mr phillimore observes, so much of it is forgery that none of it can be trusted when unsupported. [ ] the barbarity on both sides was frightful, but in the case of the welsh, it was often their own countrymen, and even near relations, who were the victims. and so little patriotism existed then in wales that the normans could always find allies amongst some of the welsh chieftains. patriotism, however, is a virtue of more recent growth than the th century. [ ] there is, however, no contemporary evidence for the existence of the marcher lordships before the end of the th century. see duckett "on the marches of wales," _arch. camb._, . [ ] the districts of cyfeiliog and arwystli, in the centre of wales, were also reckoned in gwynedd. [ ] "wales and the coming of the normans," _cymmrodorion trans._, . [ ] in the descriptions of castles in this chapter, those which have not been specially visited for this work are marked with an asterisk. those which have been visited by others than the writer are marked with initials: d. h. m. being mr d. h. montgomerie, f.s.a.; b. t. s., mr basil t. stallybrass; and h. w., the rev. herbert white, m.a. this plan will be followed in the three succeeding chapters. [ ] "hugo comes tenet de rege roelent (rhuddlan). ibi t. r. e. jacebat englefield, et tota erat wasta. edwinus comes tenebat. quando hugo comes recipit similiter erat wasta. modo habet in dominio medietatem castelli quod roelent vocatur, et caput est hujus terræ.... robertus de roelent tenet de hugone comite medietatem ejusdem castelli et burgi, in quo habet ipse robertus burgenses et medietatem ecclesiæ. ibi est novus burgus et in eo burgenses.... in ipso manerio est factum noviter castellum similiter roeland appellatum." d. b., i., a, . [ ] ayloffe's _rotuli walliæ_, p. . "de providendo indempnitati magistri ricardi bernard, personæ ecclesiæ de rothelan', in recompensionem terræ suæ occupatæ ad placeam castri de rothelan' elargandam." [ ] tut or toot hill means "look-out" hill; the name is not unfrequently given to abandoned mottes. the word is still used locally. _cf._ christison, _early fortifications in scotland_, p. . [ ] such presentations of abandoned castle sites, and of old wooden castles, to the church, were not uncommon. we have seen how the site of montacute castle was given to the cluniac monks (_ante_, p. ). thicket priory, in yorkshire, occupied the site of the castle of wheldrake; and william de albini gave the site and materials of the old castle of buckenham, in norfolk, to the new castle which he founded there. the materials, but not the site, of the wooden castle of montferrand were given in stephen's reign to meaux abbey, and served to build some of the monastic offices. _chron. de melsa_, i., . [ ] "fines suos dilatavit, et in monte dagannoth, qui mari contiguus est, fortissimum castellum condidit." _ordericus_, iii., (edition prévost). the verb _condere_ is never used except for a new foundation. [ ] the _brut_ says that in the year the saxons destroyed the _castle_ of deganwy. this is one of the only two instances in which the word _castell_ is used in this welsh chronicle before the coming of the normans. as the ms. is not earlier than the th century it would be idle to claim this as a proof of the existence of a castle at this period. _castell_, in welsh, is believed to have come straight from the latin, and was applied to any kind of fortress. lloyd, _welsh place-names_, "y cymmrodor," xi., . [ ] the "new castle of aberconwy" mentioned by the _brut_ in , undoubtedly means this new stone castle built by the earl at deganwy, as the castle of conway did not then exist. [ ] see pennant, ii., ; and _arch. camb._, , p. . [ ] _brut of tywysogion_, . [ ] published with a latin translation in _arch. camb._, . "he built castles in various places, after the manner of the french, in order that he might better hold the country." [ ] the _brut_ also mentions the castle of aberlleinog, and says it was built in ; _rebuilt_ would have been more correct, as the "life of griffith ap cynan" shows that it was built by the earl of chester, and burnt by griffith, before the expedition of (really ), when hugh, earl of shrewsbury, met with his death on the shore near this castle, from an arrow shot by king magnus barefoot, who came to the help of the welsh. [ ] mr hartshorne in his paper on carnarvon castle (_arch. journ._, vii.) cites a document stating that a wall perches long had been begun _round the moat_ [possibly _motam_; original not given]. he also cites from the _pipe rolls_ an item for wages to _carriers of earth dug out of the castle_. [ ] this ruined wall runs in a straight line through the wood on the ridge to the east of the town; at one place it turns at right angles; at the back of the golf pavilion is a portion still erect, showing that it was a dry built wall of very ordinary character. [ ] roman masonry has been exposed in the bank of the station. [ ] _life of griffith ap cynan_; brut, . [ ] _arch. camb._, iv., series and . [ ] the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ dates this expedition in , and says that henry caused castles to be built in wales. the _brut_ mentions the large tribute, . [ ] _brut_, . madoc ap meredith, with the assistance of ranulf, earl of chester, prepared to rise against owen gwynedd, son of griffith ap cynan. [ ] d. b., i., a. professor lloyd says, "maelor saesneg, cydewain, ceri, and arwystli came under norman authority, and paid renders of money or kine in token of subjection." "wales and the coming of the normans," _cymmrodor. trans._, . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] see page . [ ] _brut_, under . the castle is called dingeraint by this chronicler. [ ] "ipse comes construxit castrum muntgumeri vocatum." d. b., i., . [ ] _montgomery collections_, x., . [ ] _close rolls_, i., b. [ ] "firmiter precipimus omnibus illis qui motas habent in valle de muntgumeri quod sine dilatione motas suas bonis bretaschiis firmari faciant ad securitatem et defensionem suam et partium illarum." _close rolls_, ii., . [ ] mr davies pryce has suggested that the hen domen, a very perfect motte and bailey within a mile of the present castle of montgomery was the original castle of montgomery, and that the one built by henry iii. was on a new site. this of course is quite possible, but i do not see that there is sufficient evidence for it. see _eng. hist. rev._, xx., . [ ] _brut y tywysogion._ [ ] _itin._, vii., . [ ] _pipe rolls_, - . it should be noted that the _brut_ does not claim the battle of crogen as a welsh victory. [ ] lyttleton's _history of henry ii._ [ ] pennant thought he saw vestiges of a castle "in the foundations of a wall opposite the ruins" [of the abbey]; but his accuracy is not unimpeachable. [ ] _pipe rolls_, - . "for the money expended in rescuing the castles of haliwell and madrael, £ ." [ ] _itin._, p. . toulmin smith's edition of welsh portion. [ ] d. b., i., a. [ ] life of griffith. [ ] _pipe roll_, - . £ , s. d. paid to roger de powys "ad custodiam castelli de dernio"; "in munitione turris de dermant £ , s. d." it cannot be doubted that these two names mean the same place. [ ] _arch. camb._, iv., . [ ] at the time of the survey the manor of gresford (gretford) was divided between hugh, osbern, and rainald. osbern had - / hides and a mill grinding the corn of _his court_ (curiæ suæ). this probably is a reference to this castle. d. b., i., . it was waste t. r. e. but is now worth £ , s. d. [ ] "on the town of holt," by a. n. palmer, _arch. camb._, . [ ] _beauties of england and wales, north wales_, p. . i am glad to find that mr palmer, in the new edition of his _ancient tenures of land in the marches of wales_, confirms the identifications which i have made of these two last castles, pp. , , . [ ] _arch. camb._, th ser., iv., . camden's statement that this castle was founded in edward i.'s reign shows that he was unacquainted with the _pipe rolls_. [ ] _pipe rolls_, - , and - . [ ] _pipe rolls_, - . [ ] "sur l'ewe de keyroc," _history of fulk fitz warine_, edited by t. wright for warton club. [ ] _victoria county history of lancashire_, i., . [ ] _england under the normans and angevins._ [ ] "ad recutienda castella de haliwell et madrael £ ." _pipe rolls_, - . [ ] wade evans, _welsh mediæval law_, vol. xii. [ ] it has in fact every appearance of a roman camp. [ ] _brut_, . [ ] the castle of hawarden, which is only about - / miles from that of euloe, is not mentioned in any records before ; but it is believed to have been a castle of the norman lords of mold. it also is on a motte. [ ] i am indebted for this identification to the kindness of mr a. n. palmer of wrexham. [ ] d. b., i., . the manor is called gal. it had been waste t. r. e., but was now worth s. [ ] _pipe roll_ (unpublished), - . [ ] whereas there is no rock in the ditch of the neighbouring motte of tomen y rhodwydd. pennant (and others following him) most inaccurately describe tomen y rhodwydd as _two_ artificial mounts, whereas there is only one, with the usual embanked court. see appendix k. [ ] "the maer dref [which vardra represents] may be described as the home farm of the chieftain." rhys and brynmor jones, _the welsh people_, p. . [ ] ordericus, ii., , (edition prévost). [ ] _brut y tywysogion_, . [ ] _brut_, . "the french ravage ceredigion (cardigan) and dyfed"; , "the french devastated ceredigion a second time." [ ] _a.-s. c._, . "this year the king led an army into wales, and there he set free many hundred persons"--doubtless, as mr freeman remarks, captives taken previously by the welsh. the _brut_ treats this expedition as merely a pilgrimage to st david's! [ ] "then the french came into dyfed and ceredigion, _which they have still retained_, and fortified the castles, and seized upon all the land of the britons." _brut_, = . [ ] powell's _history of wales_ professes to be founded on that of caradoc, a welsh monk of the th century; but it is impossible to say how much of it is caradoc, and how much powell, or wynne, his augmentor. [ ] _brut_, . [ ] "in the brut, ystrad towy does not only mean the vale of towy, but a very large district, embracing most of carmarthenshire and part of glamorganshire." _welsh historical documents_, by egerton phillimore, in _cymmrodor_, vol. xi. [ ] _brut_, . [ ] lloyd, "wales and the coming of the normans," _cymmrodor. trans._, : refers to marchegay, _chartes du prieurie de monmouth_. [ ] _brut_, . [ ] the date given is , but as the dates in the brut at this period are uniformly two years too early, we alter them accordingly throughout this chapter. [ ] now more often called the aberpergwm brut, from the place where the ms. is preserved. [ ] see freeman, _norman conquest_, v., ; william rufus, ii., ; and prof. tout, in y cymmerodor, ix., . for this reason we do not use the list of castles given in this chronicle, but confine ourselves to those mentioned in the more trustworthy _brut y tywysogion_. [ ] the same ms. says, under the year , "harry beaumont came to gower, against the sons of caradog ap jestin, and won many of their lands, and built the castle of abertawy (swansea) and the castle of aberllychor (loughor), and the castle of llanrhidian (weobley), and the castle of penrhys (penrice), and established himself there, and brought saxons from somerset there, where they obtained lands; and the greatest usurpation of all the frenchmen was his in gower." [ ] "primus hoc castrum arnulphus de mongumeri sub anglorum rege henrico primo ex virgis et cespite, tenue satis et exile construxit." _itin. cambriæ_, r. s., . [ ] quoted from duchesne in _mon. ang._, vol. vi. [ ] see mr cobbe's paper on pembroke castle in _arch. camb._, , where reasons are given for thinking that the present ward was originally, and even up to , the whole castle. [ ] a motte-castle of earth and wood was certainly not regarded as "a weak and slender defence" in the time of giraldus. [ ] _brut y tywysogion_, . [ ] bridgeman's _hist. of south wales_, . [ ] _arch. camb._, rd ser., v., a paper on newport castle, in which the writer says that there are _two_ mottes at llanhyfer, the larger one ditched round. the ordnance map only shows one. [ ] _brut y tywysogion_, . [ ] _patent rolls of henry iii._, ; _foedera_, i., . [ ] _brut y tywysogion_, . [ ] bridgeman says that narberth was given to stephen perrot by arnulf de montgomeri, but gives no authority for this statement. [ ] _brut_, . [ ] _ibid._, . "earl gilbert built a castle at dingeraint, where earl roger had before founded a castle." [ ] the castle of aberrheiddiol is probably the name of the present castle of aberystwyth when it was first built, as lewis morris says that the river rheiddiol formerly entered the sea near that point. quoted by meyrick, _history of cardigan_, p. . [ ] _brut_, . [ ] _brut_, . [ ] _ibid._, . [ ] _ibid._, , , , , . [ ] meyrick's _hist. of cardigan_, p. . dinerth is not the same as llanrhystyd, though lewis (_top. dict. wales_) says it is; the two places have separate mention in _brut_, . mr clark mentions the motte. _m. m. a._, i., . [ ] _brut_, . [ ] meyrick's _hist. of cardigan_, p. . [ ] _brut_, . [ ] _beauties of england and wales_, cardigan, p. . [ ] _brut_, under . [ ] in the _rolls_ edition of the _brut_ this castle is called llanstephan, but the context makes it probable that lampeter is meant; the _annales cambriæ_ say "the castle of stephen." [ ] _beauties of england and wales_, p. . [ ] _brut_, . [ ] _arch. journ._, xxviii., . [ ] _brut_, . [ ] _desc. camb._, i., . [ ] _brut_, . [ ] _ibid._, p. . there is a farmhouse called rhyd y gors about a mile lower down than carmarthen, and on the opposite side are some embankments; but i am assured by mr spurrell of carmarthen that these are only river-embankments. rhyd y gors means the ford of the bog; there is no ford at this spot, but there was one at carmarthen. [ ] see _arch. camb._, , pp. - . [ ] see round's _ancient charters_, p. , _pipe roll_ series, vol. x. [ ] _brut_, . [ ] the first mention of the castle of llanstephan is in the _brut_, , if, as has been assumed above, the mention in refers to stephen's castle at lampeter, as the _annales cambriæ_ say. [ ] the motte of conisburgh in yorkshire is a very similar case known to the writer; it measures × feet. such very large mottes could rarely be artificial, but were formed by entrenching and scarping a natural hill. [ ] _brut_, . see _arch. camb._, , p. , for col. morgan's remarks on this castle. [ ] the name _gueith tineuur_ is found in the _book of llandaff_, p. (life of st dubricius), but it seems doubtful whether this should be taken to prove the existence of some "work" at dinevor in the th century. see wade-evans, _welsh mediæval law_, p. - . [ ] _brut_, . "cadell ap griffith took the castle of dinweiler, which had been erected by earl gilbert." [ ] _gwentian chronicle._ [ ] the statement of donovan (_excursions through south wales_), that the castle stands on an artificial mount is quite incorrect. [ ] the _rolls_ edition of the _brut_ gives the corrupt reading aber cavwy for the castle of "robert the crook-handed," but a variant ms. gives aber korram, and it is clear from the _gwentian chronicle_ and powell (p. ) that abercorran is meant. [ ] _brut_, . [ ] see paper by mr d. c. evans, _arch. camb._, , p. . [ ] the first mention known to the writer is in . [ ] _arch. camb._, rd ser., v., . [ ] _annales cambriæ_, ; _brut_, , . the _annales_ call it the castle of luchewein. [ ] _beauties of england and wales_, "caermarthen," pp. , . [ ] _mon. ang._, iii., . [ ] this motte is mentioned in a charter of roger, earl of hereford, bernard's grandson, in which he confirms to the monks of st john "molendinum meum situm super hodeni sub pede mote castelli." _arch. camb._, , p. . [ ] the dates in the _brut_ are now one year too early. under it says, "gelart seneschal of gloucester fortified (cadarnhaaod) the castle of builth." we can never be certain whether the word which is translated _fortified_, whether from the welsh or from the latin _firmare_, means built originally or rebuilt. [ ] _beauties of england and wales_, "brecknockshire," p. . [ ] _brut_, in _anno_. the mortimers were the heirs of the de braoses and the neufmarchés. [ ] _annales cambriæ_, . this may, however, be merely a figure of speech. [ ] order to cause roger mortimer, so soon as the castle of built shall be closed with a wall, whereby it will be necessary to remove the bretasches, to have the best bretasche of the king's gift. _cal. of close rolls_, ed. i., i., . [ ] see clark, _m. m. a._, i., . [ ] round, _ancient charters_, no. . [ ] _itin._, v., . [ ] _arch. camb._, n. s., v., - . [ ] "wales and the coming of the normans," by professor lloyd, in _cymmrodorion transactions_, . [ ] marchegay, _chartes du prieurie de monmouth_, cited by professor lloyd, as above. [ ] _brut_, . [ ] not to be confounded with the castle of clun in shropshire. [ ] _annales cambriæ_ and _annales de margam._ see plan in _arch. camb._, th ser., vi., . [ ] _annales cambriæ._ [ ] really ty-yn-yr bwlch, the house in the pass. not to be confounded with tenby in pembrokeshire. [ ] _cal. of close rolls_, ed. ii., iii., , . [ ] see "cardiff castle: its roman origin," by john ward, _archæologia_, lvii., . [ ] see "cardiff castle: its roman origin," by john ward, _archæologia_, lvii., . [ ] mr clark thought the shell wall on the motte was norman, and the tower perp. but the wall of the shell has some undoubtedly perp. windows. the _gwentian chronicle_ says that robert of gloucester surrounded the _town_ of cardiff with a wall, anno . [ ] see gray's _buried city of kenfig_, where there are interesting photographs. the remains appear to be those of a shell. [ ] _annales de margam_, . [ ] gray's _buried city of kenfig_, pp. , . [ ] this information is confirmed by mr tennant, town clerk of aberavon. [ ] see francis' _neath and its abbey_, where the charter of de granville is given. it is only preserved in an inspeximus of . [ ] _m. m. a._, i., . [ ] ruperra is not quite one mile from the river rhymney. there is another site which may possibly be that of castle remni: castleton, which is nearly miles from the river, but is on the main road from cardiff to newport. "it was formerly a place of strength and was probably built or occupied by the normans for the purpose of retaining their conquest of wentlwg. the only remains are a barrow in the garden of mr philipps, which is supposed to have been the site of the citadel, and a stone barn, once a chapel." coxe's _monmouthshire_, i., . [ ] it is right to say that colonel morgan in his admirable _survey of east gower_ (a model of what an antiquarian survey ought to be) does not connect this mound with the old castle which is mentioned, as well as the new castle, in cromwell's survey of gower. but even the old castle seems to have been edwardian (see the plan, p. ), so it is quite possible there were three successive castles in swansea. [ ] _brut_, . [ ] morgan's _survey of east gower_, p. . [ ] colonel morgan's _survey of east gower_. [ ] lewis's _topographical dictionary_. [ ] the passage of the river lune in lancashire is similarly defended by the mottes of melling and arkholme. [ ] the dates given are those of the _brut_, and probably two years too early. [ ] meyrick's _history of cardigan_, p. . [ ] meyrick's _history of cardigan_, p. . [ ] lewis's _topographical dictionary_. [ ] we do not include the castles which the welsh _re_built. thus in we are told that rhys built the castle of kidwelly, which he certainly only rebuilt. [ ] malcolm canmore himself had passed nearly fourteen years in england. fordun, iv., . [ ] burton remarks: "to the lowland scot, as well as to the saxon, the norman was what a clever man, highly educated and trained in the great world of politics, is to the same man who has spent his days in a village." _history of scotland_, i., . [ ] dr round has brought to light the significant fact that king david took his chancellor straight from the english chancery, where he had been a clerk. this first chancellor of scotland was the founder of the great comyn family. _the ancestor_, , . [ ] fordun, _annalia_, vol. iv. [ ] it is tempting to connect the extraordinary preponderance of mottes, as shown by dr christison's map, in the shires which made up ancient galloway (wigton, kirkcudbright, and dumfries) with the savage resistance offered by galloway, which may have made it necessary for all the norman under-tenants to fortify themselves, each in his own motte-castle. it is wiser, however, to delay such speculations until we have the more exact information as to the number of mottes in scotland, which it is hoped will be furnished when the royal commission on historical monuments has finished its work. but this work will not be complete unless special attention is paid to the earthworks which now form part of stone castles, and which are too often overlooked, even by antiquaries. the _new statistical account_ certainly raises the suspicion that there are many more mottes north of the forth than are recognised in the map alluded to. in one district we are told that "almost every farm had its _knap_." "forfarshire," p. . [ ] cited by fordun, v., . [ ] benedict of peterborough, i., , r. s. [ ] fordun, v., . bower in one of his interpolations to fordun's annals, tells how a highlander named gillescop burnt certain wooden castles (_quasdam munitiones ligneas_) in moray. skene's fordun, ii., . [ ] that fordun should speak of the _castra_ and _municipia_ of macduff is not surprising, seeing that he wrote in the th century, when a noble without a castle was a thing unthinkable. [ ] burton actually thought that the normans built no castles in scotland in the th century. messrs macgibbon and ross remark that there is not one example of civil or military architecture of the th century, while there are so many fine specimens of ecclesiastical. _castellated architecture of scotland_, i., . it is just to add that when speaking of the castles of william the lion, they say: "it is highly probable that these and other castles of the th century were of the primeval kind, consisting of palisaded earthen mounds and ditches." _ibid._, iii. . [ ] _mote_ is the word used in scotland, as in the north of england, pembrokeshire, and ireland, for the norman _motte_. as the word is still a living word in scotland, its original sense has been partly lost, and it seems to be now applied to some defensive works which are not mottes at all. but the true motes of scotland entirely resemble the mottes of france and england. [ ] _scottish review_, xxxii., . [ ] _scottish review_, xxxii., . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] this list is mainly compiled from chalmers' _caledonia_, vol. i., book iv., ch. i. the letter c. refers to dr christison's _early fortifications in scotland_; n., to mr neilson's paper in the _scottish review_, ; o.m., to the -inch ordnance map; g., to the _gazetteer of scotland_. it is a matter of great regret to the writer that she has been unable to do any personal visitation of the scottish castles, except in the cases of roxburgh and jedburgh. it is therefore impossible to be absolutely certain that all the hillocks mentioned in this list are true mottes, or whether all of them still exist. [ ] _registrum magni sigilli_, quoted by christison, p. . [ ] a plan is given by mr coles in "the motes, forts, and doons of kirkcudbright." soc. _ant. scot._, - . [ ] m'ferlie, _lands and their owners in galloway_, ii., . [ ] this description, taken from the _gazetteer_, seems clear, but mr neilson tells me the site is more probably woody castle, which is styled a manor in the th century. the n. s. a. says: "there is the site of an ancient castle close to the town, on a mound of considerable height, called the castle hill, which is surrounded by a deep moat." "dumfries," p. . [ ] _annals_, ii., , cited in douglas's _history of the border counties_, . [ ] round, in _the ancestor_, , . [ ] dr christison distinctly marks one on his map, but mr coles says there is no trace of one, though the name marl mount is preserved. _soc. ant. scot._, , p. . [ ] see the aberdeen volume, p. . [ ] see grose's picture, which is confirmed by dr ross. [ ] the name tom-a-mhoid is derived by some writers from the gaelic _tom_, a tumulus (welsh tomen) and _moid_, a meeting. is there such a word for a meeting in gaelic? if there is, it must be derived from anglo-saxon _mot_ or _gemot_. but there is no need to go to gaelic for this word, as it is clear from the _registrum magni sigilli_ that _moit_ was a common version of _mote_, and meant a castle hill, the _mota_ or _mons castri_, as it is often called. [ ] chalmers, _caledonia_, iii., . sir archibald lawrie, however, regards it as doubtful whether arkel was the ancestor of the earls of lennox. _early scottish charters_, p. . [ ] m'ferlie, _lands and their owners in galloway_, ii., - . [ ] see plan in macgibbon and ross, _castellated architecture_, iv., . [ ] the name maccus is undoubtedly the same as magnus, a latin adjective much affected as a proper name by the norwegians of the th and th centuries. [ ] lawrie, _early scottish charters_, p. . [ ] macgibbon and ross, i., . [ ] _proceedings of soc. ant. scotland_, xxxi., and n. s. a. [ ] see armstrong's _history of liddesdale_, cited by macgibbon and ross, i., . [ ] round, _the ancestor_, no. , . [ ] _benedict of peterborough_, i., . see mr neilson's papers in the _dumfries standard_, june , . mr neilson remarks: "it may well be that the original castle of dumfries was one of malcolm iv.'s forts, and that the mote of troqueer, at the other side of a ford of the river, was the first little strength of the series by which the norman grip of the province was sought to be maintained." [ ] "mottes, forts, and doons of kirkcudbright," _soc. ant. scot._, xxv., . [ ] the _annals of the four masters_ mention the building of three castles (caisteol) in connaught in , and the _annals of ulster_ say that tirlagh o'connor built a castle (caislen) at athlone in . what the nature of these castles was it is now impossible to say, but there are no mottes at the three places mentioned in connaught (dunlo, galway, and coloony). the _caislen_ at athlone was not recognised by the normans as a castle of their sort, as john built his castle on a new site, on land obtained from the church. _sweetman's cal._, p. . [ ] the meagre entries in the various _irish annals_ may often come from contemporary sources, but as none of their mss. are older than the th century, they do not stand on the same level as the two authorities above mentioned. [ ] "hibernicus enim populus castella non curat; silvis namque pro castris, paludibus utitur pro fossatis." _top. hib._, , r. s., vol. v. in the same passage he speaks of the "fossa infinita, alta nimis, rotunda quoque, et pleraque triplicia; castella etiam murata, et adhuc integra, vacua tarnen et deserta," which he ascribes to the northmen. this passage has been gravely adduced as an argument in favour of the prehistoric existence of mottes! as though a round _ditch_ necessarily implied a round _hill_ within it! giraldus was probably alluding to the round embankments or _raths_, of which such immense numbers are still to be found in ireland. by the "walled castles" he probably meant the stone enclosures or _cashels_ which are also so numerous in ireland. in the time of giraldus the word _castellum_, though it had become the proper word for a private castle, had not quite lost its original sense of a fortified enclosure of any kind, as we know from the phrases "the castle and tower" or "the castle and motte" not infrequent in documents of the th century (see round's _geoffrey de mandeville_, appendix o, p. ). we may add that giraldus' attribution of these prehistoric remains to thorgils, the norwegian, only shows that their origin was unknown in his day. [ ] see _expug. hib._, , , . [ ] i am informed that the "crith gablach," which gives a minute description of one of these halls, is a very late document, and by no means to be trusted. [ ] _vide_ the _irish annals_, passim. [ ] there is another story, preserved in _hanmer's chronicle_, that the irish chief mac mahon levelled two castles given to him by john de courcy, saying he had promised to hold not stones but land. [ ] joyce's _irish names of places_, p. . [ ] see j. e. lloyd, _cymmrodor_, xi., ; skeat's _english dictionary_, "town." in the "dindsenchas of erin," edited by o'beirne crowe, _journ. r. s. a. i._, - , phrases occur, such as "the _dun_ was open," "she went back into the dun," which show clearly that the _dun_ was an enclosure. in several passages _dun_ and _cathair_ are interchanged. [ ] joyce, _irish names of places_, p. . [ ] _annals of the four masters_, . [ ] see orpen, "motes and norman castles in ireland," in _journ. r. s. a. i._, xxxvii., - . [ ] sweetman's _calendar of documents_ relating to ireland, i., . [ ] that a motte-castle of earth and wood seemed to giraldus quite an adequate castle is proved by the fact that numbers of the castles which he mentions have never had any stone defences. it may be a mere coincidence, but it is worth noting, that there are no mottes now at any of the places which giraldus mentions as _exilia municipia_, pembroke, dundunnolf, down city, and carrick. [ ] this word must not be understood to mean that this new type of castle was edward's invention, nor even that he was the first to introduce it into europe from palestine; it was used by the hohenstauffen emperors as early as . see köhler, _entwickelung des kriegswesen_, iii., . [ ] newcastle, worcester, gloucester, and bristol are instances. [ ] rhuddlan is an instance of this. [ ] _book of rights_, p. . [ ] it must be admitted that in the most recent and most learned edition of the _anglo-saxon chronicle_ the topographical identifications are quite on a level with o'donovan's. [ ] the _annals_ have not been used, partly because in their present form they are not contemporary, and partly because the difficulties of identifying many of the castles they mention appeared insuperable. [ ] see especially two papers on "motes and norman castles in ireland," in _english historical review_, vol. xxii., pp. , . mr orpen has further enriched this subject by a number of papers in the _journ. r. s. a. i._, to which reference will be made subsequently. [ ] the only castles still unidentified are aq'i, kilmehal, rokerel, and inchleder. [ ] it should be stated that the great majority of the castles in this list have been visited for the writer by mr basil t. stallybrass, who has a large acquaintance with english earthworks, as well as a competent knowledge of the history of architecture. the rest have been visited by the writer herself, except in a few cases where the information given in lewis's _topographical dictionary_ or other sources was sufficient. the castles personally visited are initialled. [ ] _annals of loch cè_. [ ] orpen, _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., . [ ] orpen, _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., , citing from ms. _annals of innisfallen_. [ ] the poetical list enumerates the places which were "of the right of cashel in its power." the prose version, which may be assumed to be later, is entitled "do phortaibh righ caisil," which o'donovan translates "of the seats of the king of cashel." but can one small king have had sixty-one different abodes? professor bury says "the _book of rights_ still awaits a critical investigation." _life of st patrick_, p. . [ ] _ibid._, p. . see westropp, trans. r. i. a., xxvi. (c), p. . mr orpen informs me that the _black book of limerick_ contains a charter of william de burgo which mentions "ecclesia de escluana alias kilkyde." no. cxxxv. [ ] _journ. r. s. a. i._, , ; and , . [ ] _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., . [ ] butler's _notices of the castle of trim_, p. . [ ] _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., . [ ] _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., . [ ] "exile municipium," _giraldus_, . see _eng. hist. rev._, xx., . [ ] _annals of ulster_, . [ ] see orpen, "motes and castles in county louth," _journ. r. s. a. i._, xxxviii., . the town walls are later than the castle, and were built up to it. [ ] cited by westropp, _journ. r. s. a. i._, , paper on "irish motes and early norman castles." [ ] _annals of ulster_, . [ ] round, _cal. of doc._ preserved in france, i., , . [ ] "on the ancient forts of ireland," _trans. r. i. a._, . [ ] orpen, "the castle of raymond le gros at fodredunolan," _journ. r. s. a. i._, . [ ] _annals of innisfallen._ [ ] orpen, _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., . [ ] "on some caves in the slieve na cailliagh district," by e. c. rotheram, _proc. r. i. a._, rd ser., vol. iii. mr rotheram remarks that the passages in the motte of killallon, and that of moat near oldcastle, seem as if they were not built by the same people as those who constructed the passages at slieve na cailliagh. [ ] _annals of ulster_. [ ] _annals of loch cè_. [ ] orpen, _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., . [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] _annals of ulster_. see orpen, _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., . [ ] _annals of ulster_. [ ] _annals of the four masters_, vol. iii. see orpen, _journ. r. s. a. i._, vol. xxxix., . [ ] orpen, _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., . a place called graffan is mentioned in the _book of rights_, and on the strength of this mere mention it has been argued that the motte is a prehistoric work. _trans. r. i. a._, vol. xxxi., . [ ] mr orpen. [ ] giraldus' words are: "castrum lechliniæ, super nobilem beruæ fluvium, a latere ossiriæ, trans odronam in loco natura munito." v., . see _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., . [ ] see orpen, _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., , and _journ. r. s. a. i._, xxxvii., . [ ] orpen, "motes and norman castles in county louth," _journ. r. s. a. i._, xxxviii., , from which paper the notice above is largely taken. [ ] _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., . [ ] the castle is casually mentioned by giraldus, v., , and the date of its erection is not given. [ ] as far as the writer's experience goes, terraces are only found on mottes which have at some time been incorporated in private gardens or grounds. [ ] _journ. r. s. a. i._, vol. xxxix., . [ ] piers, _collect. de rebus hib._, cited by orpen. [ ] mr orpen says: "the castle was 'constructed anew' in the sixth and seventh years of edward i., when £ was expended." _irish pipe rolls_, edward i., cited in _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., . [ ] line . [ ] the annular bailey, with the motte in the centre, is a most unusual arrangement, and certainly suggests the idea that the motte was placed in an existing irish rath. [ ] see appendix m. [ ] _annals of loch cè_. [ ] _giraldus_, v., . [ ] this keep has a square turret on each of its faces instead of at the angles. a similar plan is found at warkworth, and castle rushen, isle of man. [ ] orpen, _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., . [ ] figured in _the tomb of ollamh fodhla_, by e. a. conwell, . [ ] _gir._, i., , . [ ] _eng. hist. rev._, xxii., . [ ] in five cases the mottes are now destroyed. [ ] the dates of the building of numbers of these castles are given in the _annals of ulster_ and the _annals of loch cè_. [ ] _cal. of pat. rolls_, - . [ ] the tower at malling was supposed to be an early norman keep by mr g. t. clark (_m. m. a._, ii., ), but it has recently been shown that it is purely an ecclesiastical building. [ ] the only stone castles of early date in france which the writer has been able to visit are those of langeais, plessis grimoult, breteuil, and le mans. the two latter are too ruinous to furnish data. [ ] given in d'achery's _spicilegium_, iii., . [ ] this can be positively stated of baugé, montrichard, montboyau, st florent-le-vieil, chateaufort, and chérament. m. de salies thinks the motte of bazonneau, about metres from the ruins of the castle of montbazon, is the original castle of fulk nerra. _histoire de fulk nerra_, . about the other castles the writer has not been able to obtain any information. [ ] see halphen, _comté d'anjou au xiième siècle_, . [ ] the building of langeais was begun in . _chron. st florent_, and _richerius_, . [ ] it somewhat shakes one's confidence in de caumont's accuracy that in the sketch which he gives of this keep (_abécédaire_, ii., ) he altogether omits this doorway. [ ] measurements were impossible without a ladder. [ ] it is well known that william the conqueror left large treasures at his death. [ ] the keep of colchester is immensely larger than any keep in existence. mr round thinks it was probably built to defend the eastern counties against danish invasions. _hist. of colchester castle_, p. . its immense size seems to show that it was intended for a large garrison. [ ] _cours d'antiquités monumentales_, v., , and _abécédaire_, ii., - . de caumont says of the keep of colchester, "il me parait d'une antiquité moins certaine que celui de guildford, et on pourrait le croire du douzième siècle" (p. ), a remark which considerably shakes one's confidence in his architectural judgment. [ ] as only the foundations of pevensey are left, it gives little help in determining the character of early keeps. it had no basement entrance, and the forebuilding is evidently later than the keep. [ ] the tower had once a forebuilding, which is clearly shown in hollar's etching of , and other ancient drawings. mr harold sands, who has made a special study of the tower, believes it to have been a late th-century addition. [ ] tiles are not used in the tower, but some of the older arches of the arcade on the top floor have voussoirs of rag, evidently continuing the tradition of tiles. most of the arches at colchester are headed with tiles. [ ] the room supposed to be the chapel in bamborough keep has a round apse, but with no external projection, being formed in the thickness of the wall. the keep of pevensey has three extraordinary apse-like projections of solid masonry attached to its foundations. see mr harold sands' _report of excavations at pevensey_. [ ] "in the course of the th century, the base of the walls was thickened into a plinth, in order better to resist the battering ram." (_manuel d'archæologie française_, ii., .) the keep of pevensey has a battering plinth which is clearly original, and which throws doubt either on this theory of the plinth, or on the age of the building. [ ] it is well known that blocks of huge size are employed in anglo-saxon architecture, but generally only as quoins or first courses. see baldwin brown, _the arts in early england_, ii., . [ ] baldwin brown, "statistics of saxon churches," _builder_, sept. . [ ] mr round gives ground for thinking that this keep was built between and . _colchester castle_, p. . [ ] piper's _burgenkunde_, p. . [ ] schulz, _das hofische leben zur zeit der minnesinger_, i., . grose writes of bamborough castle: "the only fireplace in it was a grate in the middle of a large room, where some stones in the middle of the floor are burned red." he gives no authority. _antiquities of england and wales_, iv., . [ ] "the type of castle created in the th century persisted till the renascence." enlart, _manuel d'archæologie_, ii., . [ ] see appendix n. [ ] enlart, _manuel d'archæologie_, ii., . "jusqu'au milieu du xii^ième siècle, et dans les exemples les plus simples des époques qui suivent, le donjon est bien près de constituer à lui seul tout le château." [ ] _abriss der burgenkunde_, - . [ ] _entwickelung des kriegswesen_, iii., and . no continental writers are entirely to be trusted about english castles; they generally get their information from clark, and it is generally wrong. [ ] this of course explains why the castle of london is always called _the tower_; it was originally the only tower in the fortress. [ ] the _close rolls_ mention _palicia_ or stockades at the castles of norwich, york, devizes, oxford, sarum, fotheringay, hereford, mountsorel, and dover. [ ] _close rolls_, i., a and . [ ] see chapter vi., p. , and appendix o. [ ] piper states that the evidence of remains proves that the lower storey was a prison. but these remains probably belong to a later date, when the donjon had been abandoned as a residence, and was becoming the _dungeon_ to which prisoners were committed. the top storey of the keep was often used in early times as a prison for important offenders, such as conan of rouen, william, the brother of duke richard ii., and ranulf flambard. [ ] see appendix p. [ ] at conisburgh and orford castles there are ovens on the roofs, showing that the cooking was carried on there; these are keeps of henry ii.'s time. [ ] de caumont says these remains are on a motte, a strange statement, as they are only a foot or two above the surrounding level. [ ] no stone castles in england are known to have been built by william rufus; he built carlisle castle, but probably only in wood. as we have seen, several welsh castles were built in his time, but all in earth and timber. [ ] built by archbishop william of corbeuil. _gervase of canterbury_, r. s., ii., . [ ] robert de torigny, also called robert de monte, was abbot of mont st michael during the lifetime of henry ii., and was a favoured courtier whose means of obtaining information were specially good. french writers are in the habit of discounting his statements, because they do not recognise the almost universal precedence of a wooden castle to the stone building, which when it is recognised, completely alters the perspective of castle dates. see appendix q. [ ] the keep of caen, which was square, was demolished in . de caumont, _cours d'antiquités_, v., . the keep of alençon is also destroyed. there are fragments of castles at argentan, exmes, and st jean-le-thomas. the keep of vernon or vernonnet is embedded in a factory. _guide joanne_, p. . [ ] the writer has also visited vire and le mans, but even if the walls of the keep of vire, of which only two sides remain, were the work of henry i., the details, such as the corbelled lintel, the window benches, and the loop in the basement for a crossbow, point to a later period. at le mans, to the north of the cathedral, is a fragment of an ancient tower, built of the rudest rubble, with small quoins of ashlar; this may be the keep built by william i., which wace says was of stone and lime (p. , andresen's edition). it is difficult to examine, being built up with cottages. domfront, like langeais, is only a fragment, consisting of two walls and some foundations. [ ] _dictionnaire de l'architecture._ [ ] _m. m. a._, i., . [ ] in speaking of falaise, of course we only mean the great square keep, and not the little donjon attached to it at a later period, nor the fine round keep added by talbot in the th century. [ ] small spaces, such as the chapel, passages, and mural chambers, are vaulted in most keeps. [ ] colchester keep has only two storeys now, but mr round argues that it must have had three, as a stairway leads upward from the second floor, in the n.w. tower, and some fragments of window cases remain as evidence. _colchester castle_, p. . [ ] the tower and colchester keep both have wells, which are seldom wanting in any keep. there was no appearance of a well at langeais, but excavation might possibly reveal one. [ ] the first castle at corfe was built by william's half-brother, robert, count of mortain. the keep of corfe is sometimes attributed to him, but when we compare its masonry with that of the early hall or chapel in the middle bailey, we shall see that this date is most unlikely. norwich was always a royal castle. [ ] part of the basement of norwich keep has pillars, from which it has been assumed that it was vaulted; but no trace of vaulting is to be seen. [ ] the only decoration at corfe keep is in the oratory, which being at a vast height in one of the ruined walls is inaccessible to the ordinary visitor. corfe was so much pulled about by sir christopher hatton in elizabeth's reign, and is now so ruinous, that many features are obscure. norwich has suffered greatly from restorations, and from re-casing. [ ] in henry ii. paid "for re-roofing the tower of gisors." _rotuli scacc. normanniæ_, i., . [ ] it should be remembered that rude work is not invariably a sign of age; it may only show haste, or poverty of resources. it should also be mentioned that in the _exchequer rolls of normandy_ there is an entry of £ in for several works at gisors, including "the wall round the motte" (murum circa motam). possibly this may refer to a wall round the foot of the motte, which seems still to exist. the shell wall of gisors should be compared with that of lincoln, which is probably of the first half of the th century. [ ] no decagonal tower of henry i.'s work is known to exist; all his tower keeps are square. [ ] bower, _scotichronicon_, v., . this passage was first pointed out by mr george neilson in _notes and queries_, th ser., viii., . the keep of carlisle has been so much pulled about as to obscure most of its features. the present entrance to the basement is not original. [ ] _m. m. a._, i., . [ ] unfortunately the greater part of these valuable _rolls_ is still unpublished. the pipe roll society is issuing a volume every year, and this year ( ) has reached the th henry ii. [ ] the keeps of richmond and bowes were only finished by henry ii.; richmond was begun by earl conan, who died in , when henry appears to have taken up the work. bowes was another of earl conan's castles. tickhill is now destroyed to the foundations, but it is clear that it was a tower. the writer has examined all the keeps mentioned in this list. it will be noticed that most of the towers took many years to build. [ ] henry built one shell keep of rubble and rag, that of berkeley castle, which is not mentioned in the _pipe rolls_, having been built before his accession. it is noteworthy that he did not build it for himself, but for his ally, robert fitz hardinge. [ ] the basement storey of chester keep (the only part which now remains) is also vaulted, but this can scarcely be henry's work, for though he spent £ on this castle in , it must have been begun by ranulf, earl of chester, in stephen's reign. moreover, it is doubtful whether the vaulting, which is covered by whitewash, is really ancient. [ ] leland says of wark, "the dongeon is made of foure howses hight," but probably he included the basement. [ ] the earliest instance of a portcullis groove with which the writer is acquainted is in the basement entrance of colchester. it is obvious to anyone who carefully examines this entrance and the great stair to the left of it that they are additions of a later time than william's work. the details seem to point to henry i.'s reign. the keep of rochester has also a portcullis groove which seems to be a later addition. [ ] king, paper on canterbury castle in _archæologia_, vi., . we have not observed in any english keeps (except in this single instance) any of the elaborate plans to entrap the enemy which m. viollet le duc describes in his article on donjons. he was an imaginative writer, and many of his statements should not be accepted without reserve. [ ] wark was also an octagonal keep, but there is considerable doubt whether this octagonal building was the work of henry ii., as lord dacre wrote to wolsey in concerning wark that "the dongeon is clerely finished," and mentions that all the storeys but one were vaulted with stone. this makes it almost certain that the castle of wark was entirely rebuilt at this time, after having been demolished by the scots in . it is now an utter ruin, and even the foundations of the keep are buried. [ ] at thorne, near doncaster, where the great earls warenne had a castle, there are the foundations, on a motte, of a keep which seems to resemble that of orford; it ought to be thoroughly excavated. [ ] these measurements are from grose, _antiquities_, v., . [ ] see payne gallwey, _the crossbow_, ; köhler, _kriegswesen_, iii., . the trébuchet is first mentioned at the siege of piacenza in . [ ] as far as we can tell, the tops of keeps having generally been ruined or altered, the common arrangement was either a simple gable, or two gables resting on a cross wall, such as all the larger keeps possessed. [ ] another consequence of the introduction of an engine of longer range was the widening of castle ditches. we frequently find works on ditches mentioned in john's accounts. [ ] payne gallwey, _the crossbow_, p. . we find it used by louis vi. of france, before . suger's _gesta ludovici_, (ed. molinier). ten balistarii are mentioned in domesday book, but they may have been engineers of the great balista, a siege machine. there is no representation of a crossbow in the bayeux tapestry. there are entries in the _pipe rolls_ of , , and henry ii. of payments for arbelast, but these also may refer to the great balista. [ ] _guill. brit. armorici philippides_, bouquet xvii., line . [ ] the bow brought by richard from palestine is believed to have been an improved form of crossbow, made of horn and yew, "light, elastic, and far more powerful than a bow of solid wood." payne gallwey, _the crossbow_. [ ] "fenestris arcubalistaribus," bouquet xvii., . the writer has never found a single defensive loophole in any of the keeps of henry i. or henry ii. köhler remarks that the loopholes up to this period do not seem to be intended for shooting (_entwickelung des kriegswesen_, iii., ), and clark has some similar observations. [ ] _dictionnaire de l'architecture_, art. "meurtrière." [ ] meyrick in his _ancient armour_ quotes a charter of , in which the french king grants a castle to the count de montfort on condition "quod non possumus habere in eodem archeriam nec arbalisteriam," which meyrick audaciously translates "any perpendicular loophole for archers, nor any cruciform loophole for crossbowmen." the quotation is unfortunately given by sir r. payne gallwey without the latin original. it is at any rate probable that the cruciform loophole was for _archers_; it does not appear till the time of the long-bow, which was improved and developed by edward i., who made it the most formidable weapon of english warfare. [ ] see appendix h. [ ] _entwickelung des kriegswesen_, iii., . [ ] in , the duke of burgundy caused the towers and walls of his castle of chatillon to be "hoarded" (hordiari). this duke had been a companion of richard's on the third crusade. william le breton, _philippides_, line . richard's _hurdicia_ at chateau gaillard were two years earlier. [ ] see dieulafoy, _le chateau gaillard et l'architecture militaire au treizième siècle_, p. . [ ] the best french and german authorities are agreed about this. the holes in which the wooden beams supporting the hurdicia were placed may still be seen in many english castles, and so may the remains of the stone brackets. they would be good indications of date, were it not that hurdicia could so easily be added to a much older building. [ ] köhler gives the reign of frederic barbarossa ( - ) as the time of the first appearance of the round keep in germany. [ ] in spite of this, i cannot feel satisfied that the keep of Étampes is of so early a date. the decorative features appear early, but the second and third storeys are both vaulted, which is a late sign. the keep called clifford's tower at york, built by henry iii. to , is on the same plan as Étampes. [ ] this keep has been long destroyed. [ ] ground entrances occur in several much earlier keeps, as at colchester (almost certainly an addition of henry i.'s time), bamborough (probably henry ii.'s reign), and richmond, where earl conan seems to have used a former entrance gateway to make the basement entrance of his keep. see milward, _arch. journ._, vol. v. [ ] built by earl hamelin, half-brother of henry ii., who died in . [ ] viollet le duc, art. "donjon." [ ] the walls of the tower are from to feet thick at the base; those of norwich ; the four walls of dover respectively, , , , and feet; carlisle, feet on two sides. (clark.) william of worcester tells us that bristol keep was feet thick at the base! _itin._, p. . [ ] see enlart, _manuel d'archæologie française_, ii., . [ ] macgibbon and ross, _castellated architecture of scotland_, p. . [ ] this type of castle was probably borrowed from the fortifications of greek cities, which the crusaders had observed in the east. [ ] conway and carnarvon consist of two adjoining courts, without any external enclosure but a moat. flint has a great tower outside the quadrangle, which is sometimes mistakenly called a keep, but its internal arrangements show that it was not so, and it is doubtful whether it was ever roofed over. it was simply a tower to protect the entrance, taking the place of the th-century barbican. [ ] köhler states that the gatehouse palace is peculiar to england: "only at perpignan is there anything like it." _entwickelung des kriegswesen_, iii., . [ ] köhler mentions the castle of neu leiningen as the first example in germany, built in . _kriegswesen_, iii., . frederic ii.'s castles were of this type. the castle of boulogne, finished in , is one of the oldest examples of the keepless type in france. enlart, _archæologie française_, ii., . the bastille of paris was a castle of this kind. according to hartshorne, barnwell castle, in northants, is of the keepless kind, and as the _hundred rolls_ state that it was built in , we seem to have here a positive instance of a keepless castle in henry iii.'s reign. _arch. inst. newcastle_, vol. . and it appears to be certain that gilbert de clare, earl of gloucester, built the keepless castle of caerphilly before edward came to the throne. see little's _mediæval wales_, p. . [ ] french archæologists are enthusiastic over the keep of chateau gaillard, the scientific construction of the towers of the curtain, the avoidance of "dead angles," the continuous flanking, etc. see viollet le duc, art. "chateau," and dieulafoy, _le chateau gaillard_. [ ] this type is extremely rare: trim, in ireland, and castle rushen, in the isle of man, are the only other instances known to the writer. trim is a square tower with square turrets in the middle of each face; castle rushen is on the same plan, but the central part appears to have been an open court. [ ] enlart, _archæologie française_, ii., . [ ] martène's _thesaurus anecdotorum_, iv., . "nulli licuit in normannia fossatum facere in planam terram, nisi tale quod de fundo potuisset terram jactare superius sine scabello. et ibi nulli licuit facere palicium, nisi in una regula; et id sine propugnaculis et alatoriis. et in rupe et in insula nulli licuit facere fortitudinem, et nulli licuit in normannia castellum facere." [ ] the document which calls itself _leges henrici primi_, x., , declares the "castellatio trium scannorum" to be a right of the king. _scannorum_ is clearly _scamnorum_, banks. it is noteworthy that a motte-and-bailey castle is actually a fortification with three banks: one round the top of the motte, one round the edge of the bailey, one on the counterscarp of the ditch. [ ] see the case of benhall, _close rolls_, ii., b ( ). [ ] aldreth and burton are omitted from this list. [ ] m. and b. stand for motte and bailey; k. and b. for keep and bailey; o. for outside the town. transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible. the errata listed at the beginning of the book have been fixed, and some minor corrections of spelling and punctuation have been made. italic text has been marked with _underscores_. bold text has been marked with =equals signs=. letters preceded by a ^caret appeared as superscripts to the end of the word. oe ligatures have been expanded. note from electronic text creator: i have compiled a word list with definitions of most of the scottish words and phrases found in this work at the end of the book. this list does not belong to the original work, but is designed to help with the conversations in broad scots found in this work. a further explanation of this list can be found towards the end of this document, preceding the word list. any notes that i have made in the text (e.g. relating to greek words in the text) have been enclosed in {} brackets. donal grant by george macdonald, ll.d. edition contents i. foot-faring. ii. a spiritual foot-pad. iii. the moor. iv. the town. v. the cobbler. vi. doory. vii. a sunday. viii. the gate. ix. the morven arms. x. the parish clergyman. xi. the earl. xii. the castle. xiii. a sound. xiv. the schoolroom. xv. horse and man. xvi. colloquies. xvii. lady arctura. xviii. a clash. xix. the factor. xx. the old garden. xxi. a first meeting. xxii. a talk about ghosts. xxiii. a tradition of the castle. xxiv. stephen kennedy. xxv. evasion. xxvi. confrontment. xxvii. the soul of the old garden. xxviii. a presence yet not a presence. xxix. eppy again. xxx. lord morven. xxxi. bewilderment. xxxii. the second dinner with the earl. xxxiii. the housekeeper's room. xxxiv. cobbler and castle. xxxv. the earl's bedchamber. xxxvi. a night-watch. xxxvii. lord forgue and lady arctura. xxxviii. arctura and sophia. xxxix. the castle-roof. xl. a religion-lesson. xli. the music-nest. xlii. communism. xliii. eppy and kennedy. xliv. high and low. xlv. a last encounter. xlvi. a horrible story. xlvii. morven house xlviii. paternal revenge. xlix. filial response. l. a south-easterly wind. li. a dream. lii. investigation. liii. mistress brookes upon the earl. liv. lady arctura's room. lv. her bed-chamber. lvi. the lost room. lvii. the housekeeper's room. lviii. a soul diseased. lix. dust to dust. lx. a lesson about death. lxi. the bureau. lxii. the crypt. lxiii. the closet. lxiv. the garland-room. lxv. the wall. lxvi. progress and change. lxvii. the breakfast-room. lxviii. larkie. lxix. the sick-chamber. lxx. a plot. lxxi. glashgar. lxxii. sent, not called. lxxiii. in the night. lxxiv. a moral fungus. lxxv. the porch of hades. lxxvi. the angel of the lord. lxxvii. the angel of the devil. lxxviii. restoration. lxxix. a slow transition. lxxx. away-faring. lxxxi. a will and a wedding. lxxxii. the will. lxxxiii. insight. lxxxiv. morven house. chapter i. foot-faring. it was a lovely morning in the first of summer. donal grant was descending a path on a hillside to the valley below--a sheep-track of which he knew every winding as well as any boy his half-mile to and from school. but he had never before gone down the hill with the feeling that he was not about to go up again. he was on his way to pastures very new, and in the distance only negatively inviting. but his heart was too full to be troubled--nor was his a heart to harbour a care, the next thing to an evil spirit, though not quite so bad; for one care may drive out another, while one devil is sure to bring in another. a great billowy waste of mountains lay beyond him, amongst which played the shadow at their games of hide and seek--graciously merry in the eyes of the happy man, but sadly solemn in the eyes of him in whose heart the dreary thoughts of the past are at a like game. behind donal lay a world of dreams into which he dared not turn and look, yet from which he could scarce avert his eyes. he was nearing the foot of the hill when he stumbled and almost fell, but recovered himself with the agility of a mountaineer, and the unpleasant knowledge that the sole of one of his shoes was all but off. never had he left home for college that his father had not made personal inspection of his shoes to see that they were fit for the journey, but on this departure they had been forgotten. he sat down and took off the failing equipment. it was too far gone to do anything temporary with it; and of discomforts a loose sole to one's shoe in walking is of the worst. the only thing was to take off the other shoe and both stockings and go barefoot. he tied all together with a piece of string, made them fast to his deerskin knapsack, and resumed his walk. the thing did not trouble him much. to have what we want is riches, but to be able to do without is power. to have shoes is a good thing; to be able to walk without them is a better. but it was long since donal had walked barefoot, and he found his feet like his shoe, weaker in the sole than was pleasant. "it's time," he said to himself, when he found he was stepping gingerly, "i ga'e my feet a turn at the auld accomplishment. it's a pity to grow nae so fit for onything suner nor ye need. i wad like to lie doon at last wi' hard soles!" in every stream he came to he bathed his feet, and often on the way rested them, when otherwise able enough to go on. he had no certain goal, though he knew his direction, and was in no haste. he had confidence in god and in his own powers as the gift of god, and knew that wherever he went he needed not be hungry long, even should the little money in his pocket be spent. it is better to trust in work than in money: god never buys anything, and is for ever at work; but if any one trust in work, he has to learn that he must trust in nothing but strength--the self-existent, original strength only; and donal grant had long begun to learn that. the man has begun to be strong who knows that, separated from life essential, he is weakness itself, that, one with his origin, he will be of strength inexhaustible. donal was now descending the heights of youth to walk along the king's highroad of manhood: happy he who, as his sun is going down behind the western, is himself ascending the eastern hill, returning through old age to the second and better childhood which shall not be taken from him! he who turns his back on the setting sun goes to meet the rising sun; he who loses his life shall find it. donal had lost his past--but not so as to be ashamed. there are many ways of losing! his past had but crept, like the dead, back to god who gave it; in better shape it would be his by and by! already he had begun to foreshadow this truth: god would keep it for him. he had set out before the sun was up, for he would not be met by friends or acquaintances. avoiding the well-known farmhouses and occasional village, he took his way up the river, and about noon came to a hamlet where no one knew him--a cluster of straw-roofed cottages, low and white, with two little windows each. he walked straight through it not meaning to stop; but, spying in front of the last cottage a rough stone seat under a low, widespreading elder tree, was tempted to sit down and rest a little. the day was now hot, and the shadow of the tree inviting. he had but seated himself when a woman came to the door of the cottage, looked at him for a moment, and probably thinking him, from his bare feet, poorer than he was, said-- "wad ye like a drink?" "ay, wad i," answered donal, "--a drink o' watter, gien ye please." "what for no milk?" asked the woman. "'cause i'm able to pey for 't," answered donal. "i want nae peyment," she rejoined, perceiving his drift as little as probably my reader. "an' i want nae milk," returned donal. "weel, ye may pey for 't gien ye like," she rejoined. "but i dinna like," replied donal. "weel, ye're a some queer customer!" she remarked. "i thank ye, but i'm nae customer, 'cep' for a drink o' watter," he persisted, looking in her face with a smile; "an' watter has aye been grâtis sin' the days o' adam--'cep' maybe i' toons i' the het pairts o' the warl'." the woman turned into the cottage, and came out again presently with a delft basin, holding about a pint, full of milk, yellow and rich. "there!" she said; "drink an' be thankfu'." "i'll be thankfu' ohn drunken," said donal. "i thank ye wi' a' my heart. but i canna bide to tak for naething what i can pey for, an' i dinna like to lay oot my siller upon a luxury i can weel eneuch du wantin', for i haena muckle. i wadna be shabby nor yet greedy." "drink for the love o' god," said the woman. donal took the bowl from her hand, and drank till all was gone. "wull ye hae a drap mair?" she asked. "na, no a drap," answered donal. "i'll gang i' the stren'th o' that ye hae gi'en me--maybe no jist forty days, gudewife, but mair nor forty minutes, an' that's a gude pairt o' a day. i thank ye hertily. yon was the milk o' human kin'ness, gien ever was ony." as he spoke he rose, and stood up refreshed for his journey. "i hae a sodger laddie awa' i' the het pairts ye spak o'," said the woman: "gien ye hadna ta'en the milk, ye wad hae gi'en me a sair hert." "eh, gudewife, it wad hae gi'en me ane to think i had!" returned donal. "the lord gie ye back yer sodger laddie safe an' soon'! maybe i'll hae to gang efter 'im, sodger mysel'." "na, na, that wadna do. ye're a scholar--that's easy to see, for a' ye're sae plain spoken. it dis a body's hert guid to hear a man 'at un'erstan's things say them plain oot i' the tongue his mither taucht him. sic a ane 'ill gang straucht till's makker, an' fin' a'thing there hame-like. lord, i wuss minnisters wad speyk like ither fowk!" "ye wad sair please my mither sayin' that," remarked donal. "ye maun be jist sic anither as her!" "weel, come in, an' sit ye doon oot o' the sin, an' hae something to ait." "na, i'll tak nae mair frae ye the day, an' i thank ye," replied donal; "i canna weel bide." "what for no?" "it's no sae muckle 'at i'm in a hurry as 'at i maun be duin'." "whaur are ye b'un' for, gien a body may speir?" "i'm gaein' to seek--no my fortin, but my daily breid. gien i spak as a richt man, i wad say i was gaein' to luik for the wark set me. i'm feart to say that straucht oot; i haena won sae far as that yet. i winna du naething though 'at he wadna hae me du. i daur to say that--sae be i un'erstan'. my mither says the day 'ill come whan i'll care for naething but his wull." "yer mither 'ill be janet grant, i'm thinkin'! there canna be twa sic in ae country-side!" "ye're i' the richt," answered donal. "ken ye my mither?" "i hae seen her; an' to see her 's to ken her." "ay, gien wha sees her be sic like 's hersel'." "i canna preten' to that; but she's weel kent throu' a' the country for a god-fearin' wuman.--an' whaur 'll ye be for the noo?" "i'm jist upo' the tramp, luikin' for wark." "an' what may ye be pleast to ca' wark?" "ow, jist the communication o' what i hae the un'erstan'in' o'." "aweel, gien ye'll condescen' to advice frae an auld wife, i'll gie ye a bit wi' ye: tak na ilka lass ye see for a born angel. misdoobt her a wee to begin wi'. hing up yer jeedgment o' her a wee. luik to the moo' an' the e'en o' her." "i thank ye," said donal, with a smile, in which the woman spied the sadness; "i'm no like to need the advice." she looked at him pitifully, and paused. "gien ye come this gait again," she said, "ye'll no gang by my door?" "i wull no," replied donal, and wishing her good-bye with a grateful heart, betook himself to his journey. he had not gone far when he found himself on a wide moor. he sat down on a big stone, and began to turn things over in his mind. this is how his thoughts went: "i can never be the man i was! the thoucht o' my heart 's ta'en frae me! i canna think aboot things as i used. there's naething sae bonny as afore. whan the life slips frae him, hoo can a man gang on livin'! yet i'm no deid--that's what maks the diffeeclety o' the situation! gien i war deid--weel, i kenna what than! i doobt there wad be trible still, though some things micht be lichter. but that's neither here nor there; i maun live; i hae nae ch'ice; i didna mak mysel', an' i'm no gaein' to meddle wi' mysel'! i think mair o' mysel' nor daur that! "but there's ae question i maun sattle afore i gang farther--an' that's this: am i to be less or mair nor i was afore? it's agreed i canna be the same: if i canna be the same, i maun aither be less or greater than i was afore: whilk o' them is't to be? i winna hae that queston to speir mair nor ance! i'll be mair nor i was. to sink to less wad be to lowse grip o' my past as weel's o' my futur! an' hoo wad i ever luik her i' the face gien i grew less because o' her! a chiel' like me lat a bonny lassie think hersel' to blame for what i grew til! an' there's a greater nor the lass to be considert! 'cause he seesna fit to gie me her i wad hae, is he no to hae his wull o' me? it's a gran' thing to ken a lassie like yon, an' a gran'er thing yet to be allooed to lo'e her: to sit down an' greit 'cause i'm no to merry her, wad be most oongratefu'! what for sud i threip 'at i oucht to hae her? what for sudna i be disapp'intit as weel as anither? i hae as guid a richt to ony guid 'at's to come o' that, i fancy! gien it be a man's pairt to cairry a sair hert, it canna be his pairt to sit doon wi' 't upo' the ro'd-side, an' lay't upo' his lap, an' greit ower't, like a bairn wi' a cuttit finger: he maun haud on his ro'd. wha am i to differ frae the lave o' my fowk! i s' be like the lave, an' gien i greit i winna girn. the lord himsel' had to be croont wi' pain. eh, my bonnie doo! but ye lo'e a better man, an' that's a sair comfort! gien it had been itherwise, i div not think i could hae borne the pain at my hert. but as it's guid an' no ill 'at's come to ye, i haena you an' mysel' tu to greit for, an' that's a sair comfort! lord, i'll clim' to thee, an' gaither o' the healin' 'at grows for the nations i' thy gairden. "i see the thing as plain's thing can be: the cure o' a' ill 's jist mair life! that's it! life abune an' ayont the life 'at took the stroke! an' gien throu' this hert-brak i come by mair life, it'll be jist ane o' the throes o' my h'avenly birth--i' the whilk the bairn has as mony o' the pains as the mither: that's maybe a differ 'atween the twa--the earthly an' the h'avenly! "sae noo i hae to begin fresh, an' lat the thing 'at's past an' gane slip efter ither dreams. eh, but it's a bonny dream yet! it lies close 'ahin' me, no to be forgotten, no to be luikit at--like ane o' thae dreams o' watter an' munelicht 'at has nae wark i' them: a body wadna lie a' nicht an' a' day tu in a dream o' the sowl's gloamin'! na, lord; mak o' me a strong man, an' syne gie me as muckle o' the bonny as may please thee. wha am i to lippen til, gien no to thee, my ain father an' mither an' gran'father an' a' body in ane, for thoo giedst me them a'! "noo i'm to begin again--a fresh life frae this minute! i'm to set oot frae this verra p'int, like ane o' the youngest sons i' the fairy tales, to seek my portion, an' see what's comin' to meet me as i gang to meet hit. the warl' afore me's my story-buik. i canna see ower the leaf till i come to the en' o' 't. whan i was a bairn, jist able, wi' sair endeevour, to win at the hert o' print, i never wad luik on afore! the ae time i did it, i thoucht i had dune a shamefu' thing, like luikin' in at a keyhole--as i did jist ance tu, whan i thank god my mither gae me sic a blessed lickin' 'at i kent it maun be something dreidfu' i had dune. sae here's for what's comin'! i ken whaur it maun come frae, an' i s' make it welcome. my mither says the main mischeef i' the warl' is, 'at fowk winna lat the lord hae his ain w'y, an' sae he has jist to tak it, whilk maks it a sair thing for them." therewith he rose to encounter that which was on its way to meet him. he is a fool who stands and lets life move past him like a panorama. he also is a fool who would lay hands on its motion, and change its pictures. he can but distort and injure, if he does not ruin them, and come upon awful shadows behind them. and lo! as he glanced around him, already something of the old mysterious loveliness, now for so long vanished from the face of the visible world, had returned to it--not yet as it was before, but with dawning promise of a new creation, a fresh beauty, in welcoming which he was not turning from the old, but receiving the new that god sent him. he might yet be many a time sad, but to lament would be to act as if he were wronged--would be at best weak and foolish! he would look the new life in the face, and be what it should please god to make him. the scents the wind brought him from field and garden and moor, seemed sweeter than ever wind-borne scents before: they were seeking to comfort him! he sighed--but turned from the sigh to god, and found fresh gladness and welcome. the wind hovered about him as if it would fain have something to do in the matter; the river rippled and shone as if it knew something worth knowing as yet unrevealed. the delight of creation is verily in secrets, but in secrets as truths on the way. all secrets are embryo revelations. on the far horizon heaven and earth met as old friends, who, though never parted, were ever renewing their friendship. the world, like the angels, was rejoicing--if not over a sinner that had repented, yet over a man that had passed from a lower to a higher condition of life--out of its earth into its air: he was going to live above, and look down on the inferior world! ere the shades of evening fell that day around donal grant, he was in the new childhood of a new world. i do not mean such thoughts had never been present to him before; but to think a thing is only to look at it in a glass; to know it as god would have us know it, and as we must know it to live, is to see it as we see love in a friend's eyes--to have it as the love the friend sees in ours. to make things real to us, is the end and the battle-cause of life. we often think we believe what we are only presenting to our imaginations. the least thing can overthrow that kind of faith. the imagination is an endless help towards faith, but it is no more faith than a dream of food will make us strong for the next day's work. to know god as the beginning and end, the root and cause, the giver, the enabler, the love and joy and perfect good, the present one existence in all things and degrees and conditions, is life; and faith, in its simplest, truest, mightiest form is--to do his will. donal was making his way towards the eastern coast, in the certain hope of finding work of one kind or another. he could have been well content to pass his life as a shepherd like his father but for two things: he knew what it would be well for others to know; and he had a hunger after the society of books. a man must be able to do without whatever is denied him, but when his heart is hungry for an honest thing, he may use honest endeavour to obtain it. donal desired to be useful and live for his generation, also to be with books. to be where was a good library would suit him better than buying books, for without a place in which to keep them, they are among the impedimenta of life. and donal knew that in regard to books he was in danger of loving after the fashion of this world: books he had a strong inclination to accumulate and hoard; therefore the use of a library was better than the means of buying them. books as possessions are also of the things that pass and perish--as surely as any other form of earthly having; they are of the playthings god lets men have that they may learn to distinguish between apparent and real possession: if having will not teach them, loss may. but who would have thought, meeting the youth as he walked the road with shoeless feet, that he sought the harbour of a great library in some old house, so as day after day to feast on the thoughts of men who had gone before him! for his was no antiquarian soul; it was a soul hungry after life, not after the mummy cloths enwrapping the dead. chapter ii. a spiritual foot-pad. he was now walking southward, but would soon, when the mountains were well behind him, turn toward the east. he carried a small wallet, filled chiefly with oatcake and hard skim-milk cheese: about two o'clock he sat down on a stone, and proceeded to make a meal. a brook from the hills ran near: for that he had chosen the spot, his fare being dry. he seldom took any other drink than water: he had learned that strong drink at best but discounted to him his own at a high rate. he drew from his pocket a small thick volume he had brought as the companion of his journey, and read as he ate. his seat was on the last slope of a grassy hill, where many huge stones rose out of the grass. a few yards beneath was a country road, and on the other side of the road a small stream, in which the brook that ran swiftly past, almost within reach of his hand, eagerly lost itself. on the further bank of the stream, perfuming the air, grew many bushes of meadow-sweet, or queen-of-the-meadow, as it is called in scotland; and beyond lay a lovely stretch of nearly level pasture. farther eastward all was a plain, full of farms. behind him rose the hill, shutting out his past; before him lay the plain, open to his eyes and feet. god had walled up his past, and was disclosing his future. when he had eaten his dinner, its dryness forgotten in the condiment his book supplied, he rose, and taking his cap from his head, filled it from the stream, and drank heartily; then emptied it, shook the last drops from it, and put it again upon his head. "ho, ho, young man!" cried a voice. donal looked, and saw a man in the garb of a clergyman regarding him from the road, and wiping his face with his sleeve. "you should mind," he continued, "how you scatter your favours." "i beg your pardon, sir," said donal, taking off his cap again; "i hadna a notion there was leevin' cratur near me." "it's a fine day!" said the minister. "it is that, sir!" answered donal. "which way are you going?" asked the minister, adding, as if in apology for his seeming curiosity, "--you're a scholar, i see!"--with a glance towards the book he had left open on his stone. "nae sae muckle as i wad fain be, sir," answered donal--then called to mind a resolve he had made to speak english for the future. "a modest youth, i see!" returned the clergyman; but donal hardly liked the tone in which he said it. "that depends on what you mean by a scholar," he said. "oh!" answered the minister, not thinking much about his reply, but in a bantering humour willing to draw the lad out, "the learned man modestly calls himself a scholar." "then there was no modesty in saying i was not so much of a scholar as i should like to be; every scholar would say the same." "a very good answer!" said the clergyman patronizingly, "you'll be a learned man some day!" and he smiled as he said it. "when would you call a man learned?" asked donal. "that is hard to determine, seeing those that claim to be contradict each other so." "what good then can there be in wanting to be learned?" "you get the mental discipline of study." "it seems to me," said donal, "a pity to get a body's discipline on what may be worthless. it's just as good discipline to my teeth to dine on bread and cheese, as it would be to exercise them on sheep's grass." "i've got hold of a humorist!" said the clergyman to himself. donal picked up his wallet and his book, and came down to the road. then first the clergyman saw that he was barefooted. in his childhood he had himself often gone without shoes and stockings, yet the youth's lack of them prejudiced him against him. "it must be the fellow's own fault!" he said to himself. "he shan't catch me with his chaff!" donal would rather have forded the river, and gone to inquire his way at the nearest farm-house, but he thought it polite to walk a little way with the clergyman. "how far are you going?" asked the minister at length. "as far as i can," replied donal. "where do you mean to pass the night?" "in some barn perhaps, or on some hill-side." "i am sorry to hear you can do no better." "you don't think, sir, what a decent bed costs; and a barn is generally, a hill-side always clean. in fact the hill-side 's the best. many's the time i have slept on one. it's a strange notion some people have, that it's more respectable to sleep under man's roof than god's." "to have no settled abode," said the clergyman, and paused. "like abraham?" suggested donal with a smile. "an abiding city seems hardly necessary to pilgrims and strangers! i fell asleep once on the top of glashgar: when i woke the sun was looking over the edge of the horizon. i rose and gazed about me as if i were but that moment created. if god had called me, i should hardly have been astonished." "or frightened?" asked the minister. "no, sir; why should a man fear the presence of his saviour?" "you said god!" answered the minister. "god is my saviour! into his presence it is my desire to come." "under shelter of the atonement," supplemented the minister. "gien ye mean by that, sir," cried donal, forgetting his english, "onything to come 'atween my god an' me, i'll ha'e nane o' 't. i'll hae naething hide me frae him wha made me! i wadna hide a thoucht frae him. the waur it is, the mair need he see't." "what book is that you are reading?" asked the minister sharply. "it's not your bible, i'll be bound! you never got such notions from it!" he was angry with the presumptuous youth--and no wonder; for the gospel the minister preached was a gospel but to the slavish and unfilial. "it's shelley," answered donal, recovering himself. the minister had never read a word of shelley, but had a very decided opinion of him. he gave a loud rude whistle. "so! that's where you go for your theology! i was puzzled to understand you, but now all is plain! young man, you are on the brink of perdition. that book will poison your very vitals!" "indeed, sir, it will never go deep enough for that! but it came near touching them as i sat eating my bread and cheese." "he's an infidel!" said the minister fiercely. "a kind of one," returned donal, "but not of the worst sort. it's the people who call themselves believers that drive the like of poor shelley to the mouth of the pit." "he hated the truth," said the minister. "he was always seeking after it," said donal, "though to be sure he didn't get to the end of the search. just listen to this, sir, and say whether it be very far from christian." donal opened his little volume, and sought his passage. the minister but for curiosity and the dread of seeming absurd would have stopped his ears and refused to listen. he was a man of not merely dry or stale, but of deadly doctrines. he would have a man love christ for protecting him from god, not for leading him to god in whom alone is bliss, out of whom all is darkness and misery. he had not a glimmer of the truth that eternal life is to know god. he imagined justice and love dwelling in eternal opposition in the bosom of eternal unity. he knew next to nothing about god, and misrepresented him hideously. if god were such as he showed him, it would be the worst possible misfortune to have been created. donal had found the passage. it was in the mask of anarchy. he read the following stanzas:-- let a vast assembly be, and with great solemnity declare with measured words that ye are, as god has made ye, free. be your strong and simple words keen to wound as sharpened swords, and wide as targes let them be, with their shade to cover ye. and if then the tyrants dare, let them ride among you there, slash, and stab, and maim, and hew-- what they like, that let them do. with folded arms and steady eyes, and little fear, and less surprise, look upon them as they slay, till their rage has died away. and that slaughter to the nation shall steam up like inspiration, eloquent, oracular-- a volcano heard afar. ending, the reader turned to the listener. but the listener had understood little of the meaning, and less of the spirit. he hated opposition to the powers on the part of any below himself, yet scorned the idea of submitting to persecution. "what think you of that, sir?" asked donal. "sheer nonsense!" answered the minister. "where would scotland be now but for resistance?" "there's more than one way of resisting, though," returned donal. "enduring evil was the lord's way. i don't know about scotland, but i fancy there would be more christians, and of a better stamp, in the world, if that had been the mode of resistance always adopted by those that called themselves such. anyhow it was his way." "shelley's, you mean!" "i don't mean shelley's, i mean christ's. in spirit shelley was far nearer the truth than those who made him despise the very name of christianity without knowing what it really was. but god will give every man fair play." "young man!" said the minister, with an assumption of great solemnity and no less authority, "i am bound to warn you that you are in a state of rebellion against god, and he will not be mocked. good morning!" donal sat down on the roadside--he would let the minister have a good start of him--took again his shabby little volume, held more talk with the book-embodied spirit of shelley, and saw more and more clearly how he was misled in his every notion of christianity, and how different those who gave him his notions must have been from the evangelists and apostles. he saw in the poet a boyish nature striving after liberty, with scarce a notion of what liberty really was: he knew nothing of the law of liberty--oneness with the will of our existence, which would have us free with its own freedom. when the clergyman was long out of sight he rose and went on, and soon came to a bridge by which he crossed the river. then on he went through the cultivated plain, his spirits never flagging. he was a pilgrim on his way to his divine fate! chapter iii. the moor. the night began to descend and he to be weary, and look about him for a place of repose. but there was a long twilight before him, and it was warm. for some time the road had been ascending, and by and by he found himself on a bare moor, among heather not yet in bloom, and a forest of bracken. here was a great, beautiful chamber for him! and what better bed than god's heather! what better canopy than god's high, star-studded night, with its airy curtains of dusky darkness! was it not in this very chamber that jacob had his vision of the mighty stair leading up to the gate of heaven! was it not under such a roof jesus spent his last nights on the earth! for comfort and protection he sought no human shelter, but went out into his father's house--out under his father's heaven! the small and narrow were not to him the safe, but the wide and open. thick walls cover men from the enemies they fear; the lord sought space. there the angels come and go more freely than where roofs gather distrust. if ever we hear a far-off rumour of angel-visit, it is not from some solitary plain with lonely children? donal walked along the high table-land till he was weary, and rest looked blissful. then he turned aside from the rough track into the heather and bracken. when he came to a little dry hollow, with a yet thicker growth of heather, its tops almost close as those of his bed at his father's cottage, he sought no further. taking his knife, he cut a quantity of heather and ferns, and heaped it on the top of the thickest bush; then creeping in between the cut and the growing, he cleared the former from his face that he might see the worlds over him, and putting his knapsack under his head, fell fast asleep. when he woke not even the shadow of a dream lingered to let him know what he had been dreaming. he woke with such a clear mind, such an immediate uplifting of the soul, that it seemed to him no less than to jacob that he must have slept at the foot of the heavenly stair. the wind came round him like the stuff of thought unshaped, and every breath he drew seemed like god breathing afresh into his nostrils the breath of life. who knows what the thing we call air is? we know about it, but it we do not know. the sun shone as if smiling at the self-importance of the sulky darkness he had driven away, and the world seemed content with a heavenly content. so fresh was donal's sense that he felt as if his sleep within and the wind without had been washing him all the night. so peaceful, so blissful was his heart that it longed to share its bliss; but there was no one within sight, and he set out again on his journey. he had not gone far when he came to a dip in the moorland--a round hollow, with a cottage of turf in the middle of it, from whose chimney came a little smoke: there too the day was begun! he was glad he had not seen it before, for then he might have missed the repose of the open night. at the door stood a little girl in a blue frock. she saw him, and ran in. he went down and drew near to the door. it stood wide open, and he could not help seeing in. a man sat at the table in the middle of the floor, his forehead on his hand. donal did not see his face. he seemed waiting, like his father for the book, while his mother got it from the top of the wall. he stepped over the threshold, and in the simplicity of his heart, said:-- "ye'll be gaein' to hae worship!" "na, na!" returned the man, raising his head, and taking a brief, hard stare at his visitor; "we dinna set up for prayin' fowk i' this hoose. we ley that to them 'at kens what they hae to be thankfu' for." "i made a mistak," said donal. "i thoucht ye micht hae been gaein' to say gude mornin' to yer makker, an' wad hae likit to j'in wi' ye; for i kenna what i haena to be thankfu' for. guid day to ye." "ye can bide an' tak yer parritch gien ye like." "ow, na, i thank ye. ye micht think i cam for the parritch, an' no for the prayers. i like as ill to be coontit a hypocrite as gien i war ane." "ye can bide an' hae worship wi' 's, gien ye tak the buik yersel'." "i canna lead whaur 's nane to follow. na; i'll du better on the muir my lane." but the gudewife was a religions woman after her fashion--who can be after any one else's? she came with a bible in her hand, and silently laid it on the table. donal had never yet prayed aloud except in a murmur by himself on the hill, but, thus invited, could not refuse. he read a psalm of trouble, breaking into hope at the close, then spoke as follows:-- "freens, i'm but yoong, as ye see, an' never afore daured open my moo i' sic fashion, but it comes to me to speyk, an' wi' yer leave speyk i wull. i canna help thinkin' the gudeman 's i' some trible--siclike, maybe, as king dawvid whan he made the psalm i hae been readin' i' yer hearin'. ye observt hoo it began like a stormy mornin', but ye h'ard hoo it changed or a' was dune. the sun comes oot bonny i' the en', an' ye hear the birds beginnin' to sing, tellin' natur' to gie ower her greitin'. an' what brings the guid man til's senses, div ye think? what but jist the thoucht o' him 'at made him, him 'at cares aboot him, him 'at maun come to ill himsel' 'afore he lat onything he made come to ill. sir, lat's gang doon upo' oor knees, an' commit the keepin' o' oor sowls to him as til a faithfu' creator, wha winna miss his pairt 'atween him an' hiz." they went down on their knees, and donal said, "o lord, oor ain father an' saviour, the day ye hae sent 's has arrived bonny an' gran', an' we bless ye for sen'in' 't; but eh, oor father, we need mair the licht that shines i' the darker place. we need the dawn o' a spiritual day inside 's, or the bonny day ootside winna gang for muckle. lord, oor micht, speyk a word o' peacefu' recall to ony dog o' thine 'at may be worryin' at the hert o' ony sheep o' thine 'at's run awa; but dinna ca' him back sae as to lea' the puir sheep 'ahint him; fess back dog an' lamb thegither, o lord. haud 's a' frae ill, an' guide 's a' to guid, an' oor mornin' prayer 's ower. amen." they rose from their knees, and sat silent for a moment. then the guidwife put the pot on the fire with the water for the porridge. but donal rose, and walked out of the cottage, half wondering at himself that he had dared as he had, yet feeling he had done but the most natural thing in the world. "hoo a body 's to win throuw the day wantin' the lord o' the day an' the hoor an' the minute, 's 'ayont me!" he said to himself, and hastened away. ere noon the blue line of the far ocean rose on the horizon. chapter iv. the town. donal was queer, some of my readers will think, and i admit it; for the man who regards the affairs of life from any other point than his own greedy self, must be queer indeed in the eyes of all who are slaves to their imagined necessities and undisputed desires. it was evening when he drew nigh the place whither he had directed his steps--a little country town, not far from a famous seat of learning: there he would make inquiry before going further. the minister of his parish knew the minister of auchars, and had given him a letter of introduction. the country around had not a few dwellings of distinction, and at one or another of these might be children in want of a tutor. the sun was setting over the hills behind him as he entered the little town. at first it looked but a village, for on the outskirts, through which the king's highway led, were chiefly thatched cottages, with here and there a slated house of one story and an attic; but presently began to appear houses of larger size--few of them, however, of more than two stories. most of them looked as if they had a long and not very happy history. all at once he found himself in a street, partly of quaint gables with corbel steps; they called them here corbie-steps, in allusion, perhaps, to the raven sent out by noah, for which lazy bird the children regarded these as places to rest. there were two or three curious gateways in it with some attempt at decoration, and one house with the pepperpot turrets which scotish architecture has borrowed from the french chateau. the heart of the town was a yet narrower, close-built street, with several short closes and wynds opening out of it--all of which had ancient looking houses. there were shops not a few, but their windows were those of dwellings, as the upper parts of their buildings mostly were. in those shops was as good a supply of the necessities of life as in a great town, and cheaper. you could not get a coat so well cut, nor a pair of shoes to fit you so tight without hurting, but you could get first-rate work. the streets were unevenly paved with round, water-worn stones: donal was not sorry that he had not to walk far upon them. the setting sun sent his shadow before him as he entered the place. he kept the middle of the street, looking on this side and that for the hostelry whither he had despatched his chest before leaving home. a gloomy building, apparently uninhabited, drew his attention, and sent a strange thrill through him as his eyes fell upon it. it was of three low stories, the windows defended by iron stanchions, the door studded with great knobs of iron. a little way beyond he caught sight of the sign he was in search of. it swung in front of an old-fashioned, dingy building, with much of the old-world look that pervaded the town. the last red rays of the sun were upon it, lighting up a sorely faded coat of arms. the supporters, two red horses on their hind legs, were all of it he could make out. the crest above suggested a skate, but could hardly have been intended for one. a greedy-eyed man stood in the doorway, his hands in his trouser-pockets. he looked with contemptuous scrutiny at the bare-footed lad approaching him. he had black hair and black eyes; his nose looked as if a heavy finger had settled upon its point, and pressed it downwards: its nostrils swelled wide beyond their base; underneath was a big mouth with a good set of teeth, and a strong upturning chin--an ambitious and greedy face. but ambition is a form of greed. "a fine day, landlord!" said donal. "ay," answered the man, without changing the posture of one taking his ease against his own door-post, or removing his hands from his pockets, but looking donal up and down with conscious superiority, then resting his eyes on the bare feet and upturned trousers. "this'll be the morven arms, i'm thinkin'?" said donal. "it taksna muckle thoucht to think that," returned the inn-keeper, "whan there they hing!" "ay," rejoined donal, glancing up; "there is something there--an' it's airms i doobtna; but it's no a'body has the preevilege o' a knowledge o' heraldry like yersel', lan'lord! i'm b'un' to confess, for what i ken they micht be the airms o' ony ane o' ten score scots faimilies." there was one weapon with which john glumm was assailable, and that was ridicule: with all his self-sufficiency he stood in terror of it--and the more covert the ridicule, so long as he suspected it, the more he resented as well as dreaded it. he stepped into the street, and taking a hand from a pocket, pointed up to the sign. "see til't!" he said. "dinna ye see the twa reid horse?" "ay," answered donal; "i see them weel eneuch, but i'm nane the wiser nor gien they war twa reid whauls.--man," he went on, turning sharp round upon the fellow, "ye're no cawpable o' conceivin' the extent o' my ignorance! it's as rampant as the reid horse upo' your sign! i'll yield to naebody i' the amoont o' things i dinna ken!" the man stared at him for a moment. "i s' warran'," he said, "ye ken mair nor ye care to lat on!" "an' what may that be ower the heid o' them?--a crest, ca' ye 't?" said donal. "it's a base pearl-beset," answered the landlord. he had not a notion of what a base meant, or pearl-beset, yet prided himself on his knowledge of the words. "eh," returned donal, "i took it for a skate!" "a skate!" repeated the landlord with offended sneer, and turned towards the house. "i was thinkin' to put up wi' ye the nicht, gien ye could accommodate me at a rizzonable rate," said donal. "i dinna ken," replied glumm, hesitating, with his back to him, between unwillingness to lose a penny, and resentment at the supposed badinage, which was indeed nothing but humour; "what wad ye ca' rizzonable?" "i wadna grudge a saxpence for my bed; a shillin' i wad," answered donal. "weel, ninepence than--for ye seemna owercome wi' siller." "na," answered donal, "i'm no that. whatever my burden, yon's no hit. the loss o' what i hae wad hardly mak me lichter for my race." "ye're a queer customer!" said the man. "i'm no sae queer but i hae a kist comin' by the carrier," rejoined donal, "direckit to the morven airms. it'll be here in time doobtless." "we'll see whan it comes," remarked the landlord, implying the chest was easier invented than believed in. "the warst o' 't is," continued donal, "i canna weel shaw mysel' wantin' shune. i hae a pair i' my kist, an' anither upo' my back,--but nane for my feet." "there's sutors enew," said the innkeeper. "weel we'll see as we gang. i want a word wi' the minister. wad ye direc' me to the manse?" "he's frae hame. but it's o' sma' consequence; he disna care aboot tramps, honest man! he winna waur muckle upo' the likes o' you." the landlord was recovering himself--therefore his insolence. donal gave a laugh. those who are content with what they are, have the less concern about what they seem. the ambitious like to be taken for more than they are, and may well be annoyed when they are taken for less. "i'm thinkin' ye wadna waur muckle on a tramp aither!" he said. "i wad not," answered glumm. "it's the pairt o' the honest to discoontenance lawlessness." "ye wadna hang the puir craturs, wad ye?" asked donal. "i wad hang a wheen mair o' them." "for no haein' a hoose ower their heads? that's some hard! what gien ye was ae day to be in want o' ane yersel'!" "we'll bide till the day comes.--but what are ye stan'in' there for? are ye comin' in, or are ye no?" "it's a some cauld welcome!" said donal. "i s' jist tak a luik aboot afore i mak up my min'. a tramp, ye ken, needsna stan' upo' ceremony." he turned away and walked further along the street. chapter v. the cobbler. at the end of the street he came to a low-arched gateway in the middle of a poor-looking house. within it sat a little bowed man, cobbling diligently at a boot. the sun had left behind him in the west a heap of golden refuse, and cuttings of rose and purple, which shone right in at the archway, and let him see to work. here was the very man for donal! a respectable shoemaker would have disdained to patch up the shoes he carried--especially as the owner was in so much need of them. "it's a bonny nicht," he said. "ye may weel mak the remark, sir!" replied the cobbler without looking up, for a critical stitch occupied him. "it's a balmy nicht." "that's raither a bonny word to put til't!" returned donal. "there's a kin' o' an air aboot the place i wad hardly hae thoucht balmy! but troth it's no the fau't o' the nicht!" "ye're richt there also," returned the cobbler--his use of the conjunction impressing donal. "still, the weather has to du wi' the smell--wi' the mair or less o' 't, that is. it comes frae a tanneree nearby. it's no an ill smell to them 'at's used til't; and ye wad hardly believe me, sir, but i smell the clover throuw 't. maybe i'm preejudized, seein' but for the tan-pits i couldna weel drive my trade; but sittin' here frae mornin' to nicht, i get a kin' o' a habit o' luikin' oot for my blessin's. to recognize an auld blessin' 's 'maist better nor to get a new ane. a pair o' shune weel cobblet 's whiles full better nor a new pair." "they are that," said donal; "but i dinna jist see hoo yer seemile applies." "isna gettin' on a pair o' auld weel-kent an' weel men'it shune, 'at winna nip yer feet nor yet shochle, like waukin' up til a blessin' ye hae been haein' for years, only ye didna ken 't for ane?" as he spoke, the cobbler lifted a little wizened face and a pair of twinkling eyes to those of the student, revealing a soul as original as his own. he was one of the inwardly inseparable, outwardly far divided company of christian philosophers, among whom individuality as well as patience is free to work its perfect work. in that glance donal saw a ripe soul looking out of its tent door, ready to rush into the sunshine of the new life. he stood for a moment lost in eternal regard of the man. he seemed to have known him for ages. the cobbler looked up again. "ye'll be wantin' a han' frae me i' my ain line, i'm thinkin'!" he said, with a kindly nod towards donal's shoeless feet. "sma' doobt!" returned donal. "i had scarce startit, but was ower far to gang back, whan the sole o' ae shue cam aff, an' i had to tramp it wi' baith my ain." "an' ye thankit the lord for the auld blessin' o' bein' born an' broucht up wi' soles o' yer ain!" "to tell the trowth," answered donal, "i hae sae mony things to be thankfu' for, it's but sma' won'er i forget mony ane o' them. but noo, an' i thank ye for the exhortation, the lord's name be praist 'at he gae me feet fit for gangin' upo'!" he took his shoes from his back, and untying the string that bound them, presented the ailing one to the cobbler. "that's what we may ca' deith!" remarked the cobbler, slowly turning the invalided shoe. "ay, deith it is," answered donal; "it's a sair divorce o' sole an' body." "it's a some auld-farrand joke," said the cobbler, "but the fun intil a thing doesna weir oot ony mair nor the poetry or the trowth intil't." "who will say there was no providence in the loss of my shoe-sole!" remarked donal to himself. "here i am with a friend already!" the cobbler was submitting the shoes, first the sickly one, now the sound one, to a thorough scrutiny. "ye dinna think them worth men'in', i doobt!" said donal, with a touch of anxiety in his tone. "i never thoucht that whaur the leather wad haud the steik," replied the cobbler. "but whiles, i confess, i'm jist a wheen tribled to ken hoo to chairge for my wark. it's no barely to consider the time it'll tak me to cloot a pair, but what the weirer 's like to git oot o' them. i canna tak mair nor the job 'ill be worth to the weirer. an' yet the waur the shune, an' the less to be made o' them, the mair time they tak to mak them worth onything ava'!" "surely ye oucht to be paid in proportion to your labour." "i' that case i wad whiles hae to say til a puir body 'at hadna anither pair i' the warl', 'at her ae pair o' shune wasna worth men'in'; an' that wad be a hertbrak, an' sair feet forby, to sic as couldna, like yersel', sir, gang upo' the lord's ain shune." "but hoo mak ye a livin' that w'y?" suggested donal. "hoots, the maister o' the trade sees to my wauges!" "an' wha may he be?" asked donal, well foreseeing the answer. "he was never cobbler himsel', but he was ance carpenter; an' noo he's liftit up to be heid o' a' the trades. an' there's ae thing he canna bide, an' that's close parin'." he stopped. but donal held his peace, waiting; and he went on. "to them 'at maks little, for reasons good, by their neebour, he gies the better wauges whan they gang hame. to them 'at maks a' 'at they can, he says, 'ye helpit yersel'; help awa'; ye hae yer reward. only comena near me, for i canna bide ye'.--but aboot thae shune o' yours, i dinna weel ken! they're weel eneuch worth duin' the best i can for them; but the morn's sunday, an' what hae ye to put on?" "naething--till my kist comes; an' that, i doobt, winna be afore monday, or maybe the day efter." "an' ye winna be able to gang to the kirk!" "i'm no partic'lar aboot gaein' to the kirk; but gien i wantit to gang, or gien i thoucht i was b'un' to gang, think ye i wad bide at hame 'cause i hadna shune to gang in! wad i fancy the lord affrontit wi' the bare feet he made himsel'!" the cobbler caught up the worst shoe and began upon it at once. "ye s' hae't, sir," he said, "gien i sit a' nicht at it! the ane 'll du till monday. ye s' hae't afore kirk-time, but ye maun come intil the hoose to get it, for the fowk wud be scunnert to see me workin' upo' the sabbath-day. they dinna un'erstan' 'at the maister works sunday an' setterday--an' his father as weel!" "ye dinna think, than, there's onything wrang in men'in' a pair o' shune on the sabbath-day?" "wrang!--in obeyin' my maister, whase is the day, as weel's a' the days? they wad fain tak it frae the son o' man, wha's the lord o' 't, but they canna!" he looked up over the old shoe with eyes that flashed. "but then--excuse me," said donal, "--why shouldna ye haud yer face til 't, an' work openly, i' the name o' god?" "we're telt naither to du oor gude warks afore men to be seen o' them, nor yet to cast oor pearls afore swine. i coont cobblin' your shoes, sir, a far better wark nor gaein' to the kirk, an' i wadna hae't seen o' men. gien i war warkin' for poverty, it wad be anither thing." this last donal did not understand, but learned afterwards what the cobbler meant: the day being for rest, the next duty to helping another was to rest himself. to work for fear of starving would be to distrust the father, and act as if man lived by bread alone. "whan i think o' 't," he resumed after a pause, "bein' sunday, i'll tak them hame to ye. whaur wull ye be?" "that's what i wad fain hae ye tell me," answered donal. "i had thoucht to put up at the morven airms, but there's something i dinna like aboot the lan'lord. ken ye ony dacent, clean place, whaur they wad gie me a room to mysel', an' no seek mair nor i could pey them?" "we hae a bit roomie oorsel's," said the cobbler, "at the service o' ony dacent wayfarin' man that can stan' the smell, an' put up wi' oor w'ys. for peyment, ye can pey what ye think it's worth. we're never varra partic'lar." "i tak yer offer wi' thankfu'ness," answered donal. "weel, gang ye in at that door jist 'afore ye, an' ye'll see the guidwife--there's nane ither til see. i wad gang wi' ye mysel', but i canna, wi' this shue o' yours to turn intil a sunday ane!" donal went to the door indicated. it stood wide open; for while the cobbler sat outside at his work, his wife would never shut the door. he knocked, but there came no answer. "she's some dull o' hearin'," said the cobbler, and called her by his own name for her. "doory! doory!" he said. "she canna be that deif gien she hears ye!" said donal; for he spoke hardly louder than usual. "whan god gies you a wife, may she be ane to hear yer lichtest word!" answered the cobbler. sure enough, he had scarcely finished the sentence, when doory appeared at the door. "did ye cry, guidman?" she said. "na, doory: i canna say i cried; but i spak, an' ye, as is yer custom, hearkent til my word!--here's a believin' lad--i'm thinkin' he maun be a gentleman, but i'm no sure; it's hard for a cobbler to ken a gentleman 'at comes til him wantin' shune; but he may be a gentleman for a' that, an' there's nae hurry to ken. he's welcome to me, gien he be welcome to you. can ye gie him a nicht's lodgin'?" "weel that! an' wi' a' my hert!" said doory. "he's welcome to what we hae." turning, she led the way into the house. chapter vi. doory. she was a very small, spare woman, in a blue print with little white spots--straight, not bowed like her husband. otherwise she seemed at first exactly like him. but ere the evening was over, donal saw there was no featural resemblance between the two faces, and was puzzled to understand how the two expressions came to be so like: as they sat it seemed in the silence as if they were the same person thinking in two shapes and two places. following the old woman, donal ascended a steep and narrow stair, which soon brought him to a landing where was light, coming mainly through green leaves, for the window in the little passage was filled with plants. his guide led him into what seemed to him an enchanting room--homely enough it was, but luxurious compared to what he had been accustomed to. he saw white walls and a brown-hued but clean-swept wooden floor, on which shone a keen-eyed little fire from a low grate. two easy chairs, covered with some party-coloured striped stuff, stood one on each side of the fire. a kettle was singing on the hob. the white deal-table was set for tea--with a fat brown teapot, and cups of a gorgeous pattern in bronze, that shone in the firelight like red gold. in one of the walls was a box-bed. "i'll lat ye see what accommodation we hae at yer service, sir," said doory, "an' gien that'll shuit ye, ye s' be welcome." so saying, she opened what looked like the door of a cupboard at the side of the fireplace. it disclosed a neat little parlour, with a sweet air in it. the floor was sanded, and so much the cleaner than if it had been carpeted. a small mahogany table, black with age, stood in the middle. on a side-table covered with a cloth of faded green, lay a large family bible; behind it were a few books and a tea-caddy. in the side of the wall opposite the window, was again a box-bed. to the eyes of the shepherd-born lad, it looked the most desirable shelter he had ever seen. he turned to his hostess and said, "i'm feart it's ower guid for me. what could ye lat me hae't for by the week? i wad fain bide wi' ye, but whaur an' whan i may get wark i canna tell; sae i maunna tak it ony gait for mair nor a week." "mak yersel' at ease till the morn be by," said the old woman. "ye canna du naething till that be ower. upo' the mononday mornin' we s' haud a cooncil thegither--you an' me an' my man: i can du naething wantin' my man; we aye pu' thegither or no at a'." well content, and with hearty thanks, donal committed his present fate into the hands of the humble pair, his heaven-sent helpers; and after much washing and brushing, all that was possible to him in the way of dressing, reappeared in the kitchen. their tea was ready, and the cobbler seated in the window with a book in his hand, leaving for donal his easy chair. "i canna tak yer ain cheir frae ye," said donal. "hoots!" returned the cobbler, "what's onything oors for but to gie the neeper 'at stan's i' need o' 't." "but ye hae had a sair day's wark!" "an' you a sair day's traivel!" "but i'm yoong!" "an' i'm auld, an' my labour the nearer ower." "but i'm strong!" "there's nane the less need ye sud be hauden sae. sit ye doon, an' wastena yer backbane. my business is to luik to the bodies o' men, an' specially to their puir feet 'at has to bide the weicht, an' get sair pressed therein. life 's as hard upo' the feet o' a man as upo' ony pairt o' 'm! whan they gang wrang, there isna muckle to be dune till they be set richt again. i'm sair honourt, i say to mysel' whiles, to be set ower the feet o' men. it's a fine ministration!--full better than bein' a door-keeper i' the hoose o' the lord! for the feet 'at gang oot an' in at it 's mair nor the door!" "the lord be praist!" said donal to himself; "there's mair i' the warl' like my father an' mither!" he took the seat appointed him. "come to the table, anerew," said the old woman, "gien sae be ye can pairt wi' that buik o' yours, an' lat yer sowl gie place to yer boady's richts.--i doobt, sir, gien he wad ait or drink gien i wasna at his elbuck." "doory," returned her husband, "ye canna deny i gie ye a bit noo an' than, specially whan i come upo' onything by ord'nar' tasty!" "that ye du, anerew, or i dinna ken what wud come o' my sowl ony mair nor o' your boady! sae ye see, sir, we're like john sprat an' his wife:--ye'll ken the bairns' say aboot them?" "ay, fine that," replied donal. "ye couldna weel be better fittit." "god grant it!" she said. "but we wad fit better yet gien i had but a wheen mair brains." "the lord kenned what brains ye had whan he broucht ye thegither," said donal. "ye never uttert a truer word," replied the cobbler. "gien the lord be content wi' the brains he's gien ye, an' i be content wi' the brains ye gie me, what richt hae ye to be discontentit wi' the brains ye hae, doory?--answer me that. but i s' come to the table.--wud ye alloo me to speir efter yer name, sir?" "my name 's donal grant," replied donal. "i thank ye, sir, an' i'll haud it in respec'," returned the cobbler. "maister grant, wull ye ask a blessin'?" "i wad raither j'in i' your askin'," replied donal. the cobbler said a little prayer, and then they began to eat--first of oat-cakes, baked by the old woman, then of loaf-breid, as they called it. "i'm sorry i hae nae jeally or jam to set afore ye, sir," said doory, "we're but semple fowk, ye see--content to haud oor earthly taibernacles in a haibitable condition till we hae notice to quit." "it's a fine thing to ken," said the cobbler, with a queer look, "'at whan ye lea' 't, yer hoose fa's doon, an' ye haena to think o' ony damages to pey--forby 'at gien it laistit ony time efter ye was oot o' 't, there micht be a wheen deevils takin' up their abode intil 't." "hoot, anerew!" interposed his wife, "there's naething like that i' scriptur'!" "hoot, doory!" returned andrew, "what ken ye aboot what's no i' scriptur'? ye ken a heap, i alloo, aboot what's in scriptur', but ye ken little aboot what's no intil 't!" "weel, isna 't best to ken what's intil 't?" "'ayont a doobt." "weel!" she returned in playful triumph. donal saw that he had got hold of a pair of originals: it was a joy to his heart: he was himself an original--one, namely, that lived close to the simplicities of existence! andrew comin, before offering him house-room, would never have asked anyone what he was; but he would have thought it an equal lapse in breeding not to show interest in the history as well as the person of a guest. after a little more talk, so far from commonplace that the common would have found it mirth-provoking, the cobbler said: "an' what office may ye haud yersel', sir, i' the ministry o' the temple?" "i think i un'erstan' ye," replied donal; "my mother says curious things like you." "curious things is whiles no that curious," remarked andrew. a pause following, he resumed: "gien onything gie ye reason to prefar waitin' till ye ken doory an' me a bit better, sir," he said, "coont my ill-mainnert queston no speirt." "there's naething," answered donal. "i'll tell ye onything or a'thing aboot mysel'." "tell what ye wull, sir, an' keep what ye wull," said the cobbler. "i was broucht up a herd-laddie," proceeded donal, "an' whiles a shepherd ane. for mony a year i kent mair aboot the hill-side nor the ingle-neuk. but it's the same god an' father upo' the hill-side an' i' the king's pailace." "an' ye'll ken a' aboot the win', an' the cloods, an' the w'ys o' god ootside the hoose! i ken something hoo he hauds things gaein' inside the hoose--in a body's hert, i mean--in mine an' doory's there, but i ken little aboot the w'y he gars things work 'at he's no sae far ben in." "ye dinna surely think god fillsna a'thing?" exclaimed donal. "na, na; i ken better nor that," answered the cobbler; "but ye maun alloo a tod's hole 's no sae deep as the thro't o' a burnin' m'untain! god himsel' canna win sae far ben in a shallow place as in a deep place; he canna be sae far ben i' the win's, though he gars them du as he likes, as he is, or sud be, i' your hert an' mine, sir!" "i see!" responded donal. "could that hae been hoo the lord had to rebuke the win's an' the wawves, as gien they had been gaein' at their ain free wull, i'stead o' the wull o' him 'at made them an' set them gaein'?" "maybe; but i wud hae to think aboot it 'afore i answert," replied the cobbler. a silence intervened. then said andrew, thoughtfully, "i thoucht, when i saw ye first, ye was maybe a lad frae a shop i' the muckle toon--or a clerk, as they ca' them, 'at sits makin' up accoonts." "na, i'm no that, i thank god," said donal. "what for thank ye god for that?" asked andrew. "a' place is his. i wudna hae ye thank god ye're no a cobbler like me! ye micht, though, for it's little ye can ken o' the guid o' the callin'!" "i'll tell ye what for," answered donal. "i ken weel toon-fowk think it a heap better to hae to du wi' figures nor wi' sheep, but i'm no o' their min'; an' for ae thing, the sheep's alive. i could weel fancy an angel a shepherd--an' he wad coont my father guid company! troth, he wad want wings an' airms an' feet an' a' to luik efter the lambs whiles! but gien sic a ane was a clerk in a coontin' hoose, he wad hae to stow awa the wings; i cannot see what use he wad hae for them there. he micht be an angel a' the time, an' that no a fallen ane, but he bude to lay aside something to fit the place." "but ye're no a shepherd the noo?" said the cobbler. "na," replied donal, "--'cep' it be i'm set to luik efter anither grade o' lamb. a freen'--ye may 'a' h'ard his name--sir gilbert galbraith--made the beginnin' o' a scholar o' me, an' noo i hae my degree frae the auld university o' inverdaur." "didna i think as muckle!" cried mistress comin triumphant. "i hadna time to say 't to ye, anerew, but i was sure he was frae the college, an' that was hoo his feet war sae muckle waur furnisht nor his heid." "i hae a pair o' shune i' my kist, though--whan that comes!" said donal, laughing. "i only houp it winna be ower muckle to win up oor stair!" "i dinna think it. but we'll lea' 't i' the street afore it s' come 'atween 's!" said donal. "gien ye'll hae me, sae lang's i'm i' the toon, i s' gang nae ither gait." "an' ye'll doobtless read the greek like yer mither-tongue?" said the cobbler, with a longing admiration in his tone. "na, no like that; but weel eneuch to get guid o' 't." "weel, that's jist the ae thing i grutch ye--na, no grutch--i'm glaid ye hae't--but the ae thing i wud fain be a scholar for mysel'! to think i kenna a cheep o' the word spoken by the word himsel'!" "but the letter o' the word he made little o' comparet wi' the speerit!" said donal. "ay, that's true! an' yet it's whaur a man may weel be greedy an' want to hae a'thing: wha has the speerit wad fain hae the letter tu! but it disna maitter; i s' set to learnin' 't the first thing whan i gang up the stair--that is, gien it be the lord's wull." "hoots!" said his wife, "what wad ye du wi' greek up there! i s' warran' the fowk there, ay, an' the maister himsel', speyks plain scotch! what for no! what wad they du there wi' greek, 'at a body wad hae to warstle wi' frae mornin' to nicht, an' no mak oot the third pairt o' 't!" her husband laughed merrily, but donal said, "'deed maybe ye're na sae far wrang, guidwife! i'm thinkin' there maun be a gran' mither-tongue there, 'at 'll soop up a' the lave, an' be better to un'erstan' nor a body's ain--for it'll be yet mair his ain." "hear til him!" cried the cobbler, with hearty approbation. "ye ken," donal went on, "a' the languages o' the earth cam, or luik as gien they had come, frae ane, though we're no jist dogsure o' that. there's my mither's ain gaelic, for enstance: it's as auld, maybe aulder nor the greek; onygait, it has mair greek nor laitin words intil 't, an' ye ken the greek 's an aulder tongue nor the laitin. weel, gien we could work oor w'y back to the auldest grit-gran'mither-tongue o' a', i'm thinkin' it wad come a kin o' sae easy til 's, 'at, wi' the impruvt faculties o' oor h'avenly condition, we micht be able in a feow days to haud communication wi' ane anither i' that same, ohn stammert or hummt an' hawt." "but there's been sic a heap o' things f'un' oot sin' syne, i' the min' o' man, as weel 's i' the warl' ootside," said andrew, "that sic a language wad be mair like a bairn's tongue nor a mither's, i'm thinkin', whan set against a' 'at wad be to speyk aboot!" "ye're verra richt there, i dinna doobt. but hoo easy wad it be for ilk ane to bring in the new word he wantit, haein' eneuch common afore to explain 't wi'! afore lang the language wad hae intil 't ilka word 'at was worth haein' in ony language 'at ever was spoken sin' the toor o' babel." "eh, sirs, but it's dreidfu' to think o' haein' to learn sae muckle!" said the old woman. "i'm ower auld an' dottlet!" her husband laughed again. "i dinna see what ye hae to lauch at!" she said, laughing too. "ye'll be dottlet yersel' gien ye live lang eneuch!" "i'm thinkin'," said andrew, "but i dinna ken--'at it maun be a man's ain wyte gien age maks him dottlet. gien he's aye been haudin' by the trowth, i dinna think he'll fin' the trowth, hasna hauden by him.--but what i was lauchin' at was the thoucht o' onybody bein' auld up there. we'll a' be yoong there, lass!" "it sall be as the lord wulls," returned his wife. "it sall. we want nae mair; an' eh, we want nae less!" responded her husband. so the evening wore away. the talk was to the very mind of donal, who never loved wisdom so much as when she appeared in peasant-garb. in that garb he had first known her, and in the form of his mother. "i won'er," said doory at length, "'at yoong eppy 's no puttin' in her appearance! i was sure o' her the nicht: she hasna been near 's a' the week!" the cobbler turned to donal to explain. he would not talk of things their guest did not understand; that would be like shutting him out after taking him in! "yoong eppy 's a gran'child, sir--the only ane we hae. she's a weel behavet lass, though ta'en up wi' the things o' this warl' mair nor her grannie an' me could wuss. she's in a place no far frae here--no an easy ane, maybe, to gie satisfaction in, but she's duin' no that ill." "hoot, anerew! she's duin' jist as well as ony lassie o' her years could in justice be expeckit," interposed the grandmother. "it's seldom the lord 'at sets auld heid upo' yoong shoothers." the words were hardly spoken when a light foot was heard coming up the stair. "--but here she comes to answer for hersel'!" she added cheerily. the door of the room opened, and a good-looking girl of about eighteen came in. "weel, yoong eppy, hoo 's a' wi' ye?" said the old man. the grandmother's name was elspeth, the grand-daughter's had therefore always the prefix. "brawly, thank ye, gran'father," she answered. "hoo 's a' wi' yersel'?" "ow, weel cobblet!" he replied. "sit ye doon," said the grandmother, "by the spark o' fire; the nicht 's some airy like." "na, grannie, i want nae fire," said the girl. "i hae run a' the ro'd to get a glimp' o' ye 'afore the week was oot." "hoo 's things gaein' up at the castel?" "ow, sic-like 's usual--only the hoosekeeper 's some dowy, an' that puts mair upo' the lave o' 's: whan she's weel, she's no ane to spare hersel'--or ither fowk aither!--i wadna care, gien she wud but lippen til a body!" concluded young eppy, with a toss of her head. "we maunna speyk evil o' dignities, yoong eppy!" said the cobbler, with a twinkle in his eye. "ca' ye mistress brookes a dignity, gran'father!" said the girl, with a laugh that was nowise rude. "i do," he answered. "isna she ower ye? haena ye to du as she tells ye? 'atween her an' you that's eneuch: she's ane o' the dignities spoken o'." "i winna dispute it. but, eh, it's queer wark yon'er!" "tak ye care, yoong eppy! we maun haud oor tongues aboot things committit til oor trust. ane peyt to serve in a hoose maunna tre't the affairs o' that hoose as gien they war her ain." "it wad be weel gien a'body about the hoose was as partic'lar as ye wad hae me, gran'father!" "hoo's my lord, lass?" "ow, muckle the same--aye up the stair an' doon the stair the forepairt o' the nicht, an' maist inveesible a' day." the girl cast a shy glance now and then at donal, as if she claimed him on her side, though the older people must be humoured. donal was not too simple to understand her: he gave her look no reception. bethinking himself that they might have matters to talk about, he rose, and turning to his hostess, said, "wi' yer leave, gudewife, i wad gang to my bed. i hae traivelt a maitter o' thirty mile the day upo' my bare feet." "eh, sir!" she answered, "i oucht to hae considert that!--come, yoong eppy, we maun get the gentleman's bed made up for him." with a toss of her pretty head, eppy followed her grandmother to the next room, casting a glance behind her that seemed to ask what she meant by calling a lad without shoes or stockings a gentleman. not the less readily or actively, however, did she assist her grandmother in preparing the tired wayfarer's couch. in a few minutes they returned, and telling him the room was quite ready for him, doory added a hope that he would sleep as sound as if his own mother had made the bed. he heard them talking for a while after the door was closed, but the girl soon took her leave. he was just falling asleep in the luxury of conscious repose, when the sound of the cobbler's hammer for a moment roused him, and he knew the old man was again at work on his behalf. a moment more and he was too fast asleep for any cyclops' hammer to wake him. chapter vii. a sunday. notwithstanding his weariness donal woke early, for he had slept thoroughly. he rose and dressed himself, drew aside the little curtain that shrouded the window, and looked out. it was a lovely morning. his prospect was the curious old main street of the town. the sun that had shone into it was now shining from the other side, but not a shadow of living creature fell upon the rough stones! yes--there was a cat shooting across them like the culprit he probably was! if there was a garden to the house, he would go and read in the fresh morning air! he stole softly through the outer room, and down the stair; found the back-door and a water-butt; then a garden consisting of two or three plots of flowers well cared for; and ended his discoveries with a seat surrounded and almost canopied with honeysuckle, where doubtless the cobbler sometimes smoked his pipe! "why does he not work here rather than in the archway?" thought donal. but, dearly as he loved flowers and light and the free air of the garden, the old cobbler loved the faces of his kind better. his prayer for forty years had been to be made like his master; and if that prayer was not answered, how was it that, every year he lived, he found himself loving the faces of his fellows more and more? ever as they passed, instead of interfering with his contemplations, they gave him more and more to think: were these faces, he asked, the symbols of a celestial language in which god talked to him? donal sat down, and took his greek testament from his pocket. but all at once, brilliant as was the sun, the light of his life went out, and the vision rose of the gray quarry, and the girl turning from him in the wan moonlight. then swift as thought followed the vision of the women weeping about the forsaken tomb; and with his risen lord he rose also--into a region far "above the smoke and stir of this dim spot," a region where life is good even with its sorrow. the man who sees his disappointment beneath him, is more blessed than he who rejoices in fruition. then prayer awoke, and in the light of that morning of peace he drew nigh the living one, and knew him as the source of his being. weary with blessedness he leaned against the shadowing honeysuckle, gave a great sigh of content, smiled, wiped his eyes, and was ready for the day and what it should bring. but the bliss went not yet; he sat for a while in the joy of conscious loss in the higher life. with his meditations and feelings mingled now and then a few muffled blows of the cobbler's hammer: he was once more at work on his disabled shoe. "here is a true man!" he thought, "--a godlike helper of his fellow!" when the hammer ceased, the cobbler was stitching; when donal ceased thinking, he went on feeling. again and again came a little roll of the cobbler's drum, giving glory to god by doing his will: the sweetest and most acceptable music is that which rises from work a doing; its incense ascends as from the river in its flowing, from the wind in its blowing, from the grass in its growing. all at once he heard the voices of two women in the next garden, close behind him, talking together. "eh," said one, "there's that godless cratur, an'rew comin, at his wark again upo' the sawbath mornin'!" "ay, lass," answered the other, "i hear him! eh, but it 'll be an ill day for him whan he has to appear afore the jeedge o' a'! he winna hae his comman'ments broken that gait!" "troth, na!" returned the former; "it'll be a sair sattlin day for him!" donal rose, and looking about him, saw two decent, elderly women on the other side of the low stone wall. he was approaching them with the request on his lips to know which of the lord's commandments they supposed the cobbler to be breaking, when, seeing that he must have overheard them, they turned their backs and walked away. and now his hostess, having discovered he was in the garden, came to call him to breakfast--the simplest of meals--porridge, with a cup of tea after it because it was sunday, and there was danger of sleepiness at the kirk. "yer shune 's waitin' ye, sir," said the cobbler. "ye'll fin' them a better job nor ye expeckit. they're a better job, onygait, nor i expeckit!" donal made haste to put them on, and felt dressed for the sunday. "are ye gaein' to the kirk the day, anerew?" asked the old woman, adding, as she turned to their guest, "my man's raither pecooliar aboot gaein' to the kirk! some days he'll gang three times, an' some days he winna gang ance!--he kens himsel' what for!" she added with a smile, whose sweetness confessed that, whatever was the reason, it was to her the best in the world. "ay, i'm gaein' the day: i want to gang wi' oor new freen'," he answered. "i'll tak him gien ye dinna care to gang," rejoined his wife. "ow, i'll gang!" he persisted. "it'll gie's something to talk aboot, an' sae ken ane anither better, an' maybe come a bit nearer ane anither, an' sae a bit nearer the maister. that's what we're here for--comin' an' gaein'." "as ye please, anerew! what's richt to you's aye richt to me. o' my ain sel' i wad be doobtfu' o' sic a rizzon for gaein' to the kirk--to get something to speyk aboot." "it's a gude rizzon whaur ye haena a better," he answered. "it's aften i get at the kirk naething but what angers me--lees an' lees agen my lord an' my god. but whan there's ane to talk it ower wi', ane 'at has some care for god as weel's for himsel', there's some guid sure to come oot o' 't--some revelation o' the real richteousness--no what fowk 'at gangs by the ministers ca's richteousness.--is yer shune comfortable to yer feet, sir?" "ay, that they are! an' i thank ye: they're full better nor new." "weel, we winna hae worship this mornin'; whan ye gang to the kirk it's like aitin' mair nor's guid for ye." "hoots, anerew! ye dinna think a body can hae ower muckle o' the word!" said his wife, anxious as to the impression he might make on donal. "ow na, gien a body tak it in, an' disgeist it! but it's no a bonny thing to hae the word stickin' about yer moo', an' baggin' oot yer pooches, no to say lyin' cauld upo' yer stamack, an' it for the life o' men. the less ye tak abune what ye put in practice the better; an' gien the thing said hae naething to du wi' practice, the less ye heed it the better.--gien ye hae dune yer brakfast, sir, we'll gang--no 'at it's freely kirk-time yet, but the sabbath 's 'maist the only day i get a bit o' a walk, an' gien ye hae nae objection til a turn aboot the lord's muckle hoose afore we gang intil his little ane--we ca' 't his, but i doobt it--i'll be ready in a meenute." donal willingly agreed, and the cobbler, already clothed in part of his sunday best, a pair of corduroy trousers of a mouse colour, having indued an ancient tail-coat of blue with gilt buttons, they set out together; and for their conversation, it was just the same as it would have been any other day: where every day is not the lord's, the sunday is his least of all. they left the town, and were soon walking in meadows through which ran a clear river, shining and speedy in the morning sun. its banks were largely used for bleaching, and the long lines of white in the lovely green of the natural grass were pleasant both to eye and mind. all about, the rooks were feeding in peace, knowing their freedom that day from the persecution to which, like all other doers of good, they are in general exposed. beyond the stream lay a level plain stretching towards the sea, divided into numberless fields, and dotted with farmhouses and hamlets. on the side where the friends were walking, the ground was more broken, rising in places into small hills, many of them wooded. half a mile away was one of a conical shape, on whose top towered a castle. old and gray and sullen, it lifted itself from the foliage around it like a great rock from a summer sea, and stood out against the clear blue sky of the june morning. the hill was covered with wood, mostly rather young, but at the bottom were some ancient firs and beeches. at the top, round the base of the castle, the trees were chiefly delicate birches with moonlight skin, and feathery larches not thriving over well. "what ca' they yon castel?" questioned donal. "it maun be a place o' some importance!" "they maistly ca' 't jist the castel," answered the cobbler. "its auld name 's graham's grip. it's lord morven's place, an' they ca' 't castel graham: the faimily-name 's graham, ye ken. they ca, themsel's graeme-graham--jist twa w'ys o' spellin' the name putten thegither. the last lord, no upo' the main brainch, they tell me, spelled his name wi' the diphthong, an' wasna willin' to gie't up a'thegither--sae tuik the twa o' them. you 's whaur yoong eppy 's at service.--an' that min's me, sir, ye haena tellt me yet what kin' o' a place ye wad hae yersel.' it's no 'at a puir body like me can help, but it's aye weel to lat fowk ken what ye're efter. a word gangs speirin' lang efter it's oot o' sicht--an' the answer may come frae far. the lord whiles brings aboot things i' the maist oonlikly fashion." "i'm ready for onything i'm fit to do," said donal; "but i hae had what's ca'd a good education--though i hae learned mair frae my ain needs than frae a' my buiks; sae i wad raither till the human than the earthly soil, takin' mair interest i' the schoolmaister's craps than i' the fairmer's." "wad ye objec' to maister ane by himsel'--or maybe twa?" "na, surely--gien i saw mysel' fit." "eppy mentiont last nicht 'at there was word aboot the castel o' a tutor for the yoongest. hae ye ony w'y o' approachin' the place?" "not till the minister comes home," answered donal. "i have a letter to him." "he'll be back by the middle o' the week, i hear them say." "can you tell me anything about the people at the castle?" asked donal. "i could," answered andrew; "but some things is better f'un' oot nor kenned 'afore han'. ilka place has its ain shape, an' maist things has to hae some parin' to gar them fit. that's what i tell yoong eppy--mony 's the time!" here came a pause, and when andrew spoke again, it seemed on a new line. "did it ever occur to ye, sir," he said, "'at maybe deith micht be the first waukin' to some fowk?" "it has occurrt to me," answered donal; "but mony things come intil a body's heid 'at he's no able to think oot! they maun lie an' bide their time." "lat nane o' the lovers o' law an' letter perswaud ye the lord wadna hae ye think--though nane but him 'at obeys can think wi' safety. we maun do first the thing 'at we ken, an' syne we may think aboot the thing 'at we dinna ken. i fancy 'at whiles the lord wadna say a thing jist no to stop fowk thinkin' aboot it. he was aye at gettin' them to mak use o' the can'le o' the lord. it's my belief the main obstacles to the growth o' the kingdom are first the oonbelief o' believers, an' syne the w'y 'at they lay doon the law. 'afore they hae learnt the rudimen's o' the trowth themsel's, they begin to lay the grievous burden o' their dullness an' ill-conceived notions o' holy things upo' the min's an' consciences o' their neebours, fain, ye wad think, to haud them frae growin' ony mair nor themsel's. eh, man, but the lord 's won'erfu'! ye may daur an' daur, an' no come i' sicht o' 'im!" the church stood a little way out of the town, in a churchyard overgrown with grass, which the wind blew like a field of corn. many of the stones were out of sight in it. the church, a relic of old catholic days, rose out of it like one that had taken to growing and so got the better of his ills. they walked into the musty, dingy, brown-atmosphered house. the cobbler led the way to a humble place behind a pillar; there doory was seated waiting them. the service was not so dreary to donal as usual; the sermon had some thought in it; and his heart was drawn to a man who would say he did not understand. "yon was a fine discoorse," remarked the cobbler as they went homeward. donal saw nothing fine in it, but his experience was not so wide as the cobbler's: to him the discourse had hinted many things which had not occurred to donal. some people demand from the householder none but new things, others none but old; whereas we need in truth of all the sorts in his treasury. "i haena a doobt it was a' richt an' as ye say, anerew," said his wife; "but for mysel' i could mak naither heid nor tail o' 't." "i saidna, doory, it was a' richt," returned her husband; "that would be to say a heap for onything human! but it was a guid honest sermon." "what was yon 'at he said aboot the mirracles no bein' teeps?" asked his wife. "it was god's trowth 'at," he said. "gie me a share o' the same i beg o' ye, anerew comin." "what the man said was this--'at the sea 'at peter gaed oot upo' wasna first an' foremost to be luikit upon as a teep o' the inward an' spiritual troubles o' the believer, still less o' the troubles o' the church o' christ. the lord deals wi' fac's nane the less 'at they canna help bein' teeps. here was terrible fac's to peter. here was angry watter an' roarin' win'; here was danger an' fear: the man had to trust or gang doon. gien the hoose be on fire we maun trust; gien the watter gang ower oor heids we maun trust; gien the horse rin awa', we maun trust. him 'at canna trust in siclike conditions, i wadna gie a plack for ony ither kin' o' faith he may hae. god 's nae a mere thoucht i' the warl' o' thoucht, but a leevin' pooer in a' warl's alike. him 'at gangs to god wi' a sair heid 'ill the suner gang til 'im wi' a sair hert; an' them 'at thinksna he cares for the pains o' their bodies 'ill ill believe he cares for the doobts an' perplexities o' their inquirin' speerits. to my min' he spak the best o' sense!" "i didna hear him say onything like that!" said donal. "did ye no? weel, i thoucht it cam frae him to me!" "maybe i wasna giein' the best heed," said donal. "but what ye say is as true as the sun. it stan's to rizzon." the day passed in pleasure and quiet. donal had found another father and mother. chapter viii. the gate. the next day, after breakfast, donal said to his host-- "noo i maun pey ye for my shune, for gien i dinna pey at ance, i canna tell hoo muckle to ca' my ain, an' what i hae to gang by till i get mair." "na, na," returned the cobbler. "there's jist ae preejudice i hae left concernin' the sawbath-day; i firmly believe it a preejudice, for siller 's the lord's tu, but i canna win ower 't: i canna bring mysel' to tak siller for ony wark dune upo' 't! sae ye maun jist be content to lat that flee stick to the lord's wa'. ye'll du as muckle for me some day!" "there's naething left me but to thank ye," said donal. "there's the ludgin' an' the boord, though!--i maun ken aboot them 'afore we gang farther." "they're nane o' my business," replied andrew. "i lea' a' that to the gudewife, an' i coonsel ye to du the same. she's a capital manager, an' winna chairge ye ower muckle." donal could but yield, and presently went out for a stroll. he wandered along the bank of the river till he came to the foot of the hill on which stood the castle. seeing a gate, he approached it, and finding it open went in. a slow-ascending drive went through the trees, round and round the hill. he followed it a little way. an aromatic air now blew and now paused as he went. the trees seemed climbing up to attack the fortress above, which he could not see. when he had gone a few yards out of sight of the gate, he threw himself down among them, and fell into a reverie. the ancient time arose before him, when, without a tree to cover the approach of an enemy, the castle rose defiant and bare in its strength, like an athlete stripped for the fight, and the little town huddled close under its protection. what wars had there blustered, what rumours blown, what fears whispered, what sorrows moaned! but were there not now just as many evils as then? let the world improve as it may, the deeper ill only breaks out afresh in new forms. time itself, the staring, vacant, unlovely time, is to many the one dread foe. others have a house empty and garnished, in which neither love nor hope dwells. a self, with no god to protect from it, a self unrulable, insatiable, makes of existence to some the hell called madness. godless man is a horror of the unfinished--a hopeless necessity for the unattainable! the most discontented are those who have all the truthless heart desires. thoughts like these were coming and going in donal's brain, when he heard a slight sound somewhere near him--the lightest of sounds indeed--the turning of the leaf of a book. he raised his head and looked, but could see no one. at last, up through the tree-boles on the slope of the hill, he caught the shine of something white: it was the hand that held an open book. he took it for the hand of a lady. the trunk of a large tree hid the reclining form. he would go back! there was the lovely cloth-striped meadow to lie in! he rose quietly, but not quietly enough to steal away. from behind the tree, a young man, rather tall and slender, rose and came towards him. donal stood to receive him. "i presume you are unaware that these grounds are not open to the public!" he said, not without a touch of haughtiness. "i beg your pardon, sir," said donal. "i found the gate open, and the shade of the trees was enticing." "it is of no consequence," returned the youth, now with some condescension; "only my father is apt to be annoyed if he sees any one--" he was interrupted by a cry from farther up the hill-- "oh, there you are, percy!" "and there you are, davie!" returned the youth kindly. a boy of about ten came towards them precipitately, jumping stumps, and darting between stems. "take care, take care, davie!" cried the other: "you may slip on a root and fall!" "oh, i know better than that!--but you are engaged!" "not in the least. come along." donal lingered: the youth had not finish his speech! "i went to arkie," said the boy, "but she couldn't help me. i can't make sense of this! i wouldn't care if it wasn't a story." he had an old folio under one arm, with a finger of the other hand in its leaves. "it is a curious taste for a child!" said the youth, turning to donal, in whom he had recognized the peasant-scholar: "this little brother of mine reads all the dull old romances he can lay his hands on." "perhaps," suggested donal, "they are the only fictions within his reach! could you not turn him loose upon sir walter scott?" "a good suggestion!" he answered, casting a keen glance at donal. "will you let me look at the passage?" said donal to the boy, holding out his hand. the boy opened the book, and gave it him. on the top of the page donal read, "the countess of pembroke's arcadia." he had read of the book, but had never seen it. "that's a grand book!" he said. "horribly dreary," remarked the elder brother. the younger reached up, and laid his finger on the page next him. "there, sir!" he said; "that is the place: do tell me what it means." "i will try," answered donal; "i may not be able." he began to read at the top of the page. "that's not the place, sir!" said the boy. "it is there." "i must know something of what goes before it first," returned donal. "oh, yes, sir; i see!" he answered, and stood silent. he was a fair-haired boy, with ruddy cheeks and a healthy look--sweet-tempered evidently. donal presently saw both what the sentence meant and the cause of his difficulty. he explained the thing to him. "thank you! thank you! now i shall get on!" he cried, and ran up the hill. "you seem to understand boys!" said the brother. "i have always had a sort of ambition to understand ignorance." "understand ignorance?" "you know what queer shapes the shadows of the plainest things take: i never seem to understand any thing till i understand its shadow." the youth glanced keenly at donal. "i wish i had had a tutor like you!" he said. "why?" asked donal. "i should done better.--where do you live?" donal told him he was lodging with andrew comin, the cobbler. a silence followed. "good morning!" said the youth. "good morning, sir!" returned donal, and went away. chapter ix. the morven arms. on wednesday evening donal went to the morven arms to inquire for the third time if his box was come. the landlord said, if a great heavy tool-chest was the thing he expected, it had come. "donal grant wad be the name upo' 't," said donal. "'deed, i didna luik," said the landlord. "its i' the back yard." as donal went through the house to the yard, he passed the door of a room where some of the townsfolk sat, and heard the earl mentioned. he had not asked andrew anything about the young man he had spoken with; for he understood that his host held himself not at liberty to talk about the family in which his granddaughter was a servant. but what was said in public he surely might hear! he requested the landlord to let him have a bottle of ale, and went into the room and sat down. it was a decent parlour with a sanded floor. those assembled were a mixed company from town and country, having a tumbler of whisky-toddy together after the market. one of them was a stranger who had been receiving from the others various pieces of information concerning the town and its neighbourhood. "i min' the auld man weel," a wrinkled gray-haired man was saying as donal entered, "--a varra different man frae this present. he wud sit doon as ready as no--that wud he--wi' ony puir body like mysel', an' gie him his cracks, an' hear his news, an' drink his glaiss, an' mak naething o' 't. but this man, haith! wha ever saw him cheenge word wi' brither man?" "i never h'ard hoo he came to the teetle: they say he was but some far awa' cousin!" remarked a farmer-looking man, florid and stout. "hoots! he was ain brither to the last yerl, wi' richt to the teetle, though nane to the property. that he's but takin' care o' till his niece come o' age. he was a heap aboot the place afore his brither dee'd, an' they war freen's as weel 's brithers. they say 'at the lady arctoora--h'ard ye ever sic a hathenish name for a lass!--is b'un' to merry the yoong lord. there 's a sicht o' clapper-clash aboot the place, an' the fowk, an' their strange w'ys. they tell me nane can be said to ken the yerl but his ain man. for mysel' i never cam i' their coonsel--no' even to the buyin' or sellin' o' a lamb." "weel," said a fair-haired, pale-faced man, "we ken frae scriptur 'at the sins o' the fathers is veesitit upo' the children to the third an' fourth generation--an' wha can tell?" "wha can tell," rejoined another, who had a judicial look about him, in spite of an unshaven beard, and a certain general disregard to appearances, "wha can tell but the sins o' oor faithers may be lyin' upo' some o' oorsel's at this varra moment?" "in oor case, i canna see the thing wad be fair," said a fifth: "we dinna even ken what they did!" "we're no to interfere wi' the wull o' the almichty," rejoined the former. "it gangs its ain gait, an' mortal canna tell what that gait is. his justice winna be contert." donal felt that to be silent now would be to decline witnessing. he feared argument, lest he should fail and wrong the right, but he must not therefore hang back. he drew his chair towards the table. "wad ye lat a stranger put in a word, freen's?" he said. "ow ay, an' welcome! we setna up for the men o' gotham." "weel, i wad spier a question gien i may." "speir awa'. answer i winna insure," said the man unshaven. "weel, wad ye please tell me what ye ca' the justice o' god?" "onybody could tell ye that: it consists i' the punishment o' sin. he gies ilka sinner what his sin deserves." "that seems to me an unco ae-sidit definition o' justice." "weel, what wad ye mak o' 't?" "i wad say justice means fair play; an' the justice o' god lies i' this, 'at he gies ilka man, beast, an' deevil, fair play." "i'm doobtfu' aboot that!" said a drover-looking fellow. "we maun gang by the word; an' the word says he veesits the ineequities o' the fathers upo' the children to the third an' fourth generation: i never could see the fair play o' that!" "dinna ye meddle wi' things, john, 'at ye dinna un'erstan'; ye may wauk i' the wrang box!" said the old man. "i want to un'erstan'," returned john. "i'm no sayin' he disna du richt; i'm only sayin' i canna see the fair play o' 't." "it may weel be richt an' you no see 't!" "ay' weel that! but what for sud i no say i dinna see 't? isna the blin' man to say he's blin'?" this was unanswerable, and donal again spoke. "it seems to me," he said, "we need first to un'erstan' what's conteened i' the veesitin' o' the sins o' the fathers upo' the children, afore we daur ony jeedgment concernin' 't." "ay, that 's sense eneuch!" confessed a responsive murmur. "i haena seen muckle o' this warl' yet, compared wi' you, sirs," donal went on, "but i hae been a heap my lane wi' nowt an' sheep, whan a heap o' things gaed throuw my heid; an' i hae seen something as weel, though no that muckle. i hae seen a man, a' his life 'afore a douce honest man, come til a heap o' siller, an' gang to the dogs!" a second murmur seemed to indicate corroboration. "he gaed a' to the dogs, as i say," continued donal; "an' the bairns he left 'ahint him whan he dee'd o' drink, cam upo' the perris, or wad hae hungert but for some 'at kenned him whan he was yet in honour an' poverty. noo, wad ye no say this was a veesitin' o' the sins o' the father upo' the children?" "ay, doobtless!" "weel, whan i h'ard last aboot them, they were a' like eneuch to turn oot honest lads an' lasses." "ow, i daursay!" "an' what micht ye think the probability gien they had come intil a lot o' siller whan their father dee'd?" "maybe they micht hae gane the same gait he gaed!" "was there injustice than, or was there favour i' that veesitation o' the sins o' their father upo' them?" there was no answer. the toddy went down their throats and the smoke came out of their mouths, but no one dared acknowledge it might be a good thing to be born poor instead of rich. so entirely was the subject dropped that donal feared he had failed to make himself understood. he did not know the general objection to talking of things on eternal principles. we set up for judges of right while our very selves are wrong! he saw that he had cast a wet blanket over the company, and judged it better to take his leave. borrowing a wheelbarrow, he trundled his chest home, and unpacking it in the archway, carried his books and clothes to his room. chapter x the parish clergyman. the next day, donal put on his best coat, and went to call on the minister. shown into the study, he saw seated there the man he had met on his first day's journey, the same who had parted from him in such displeasure. he presented his letter. mr. carmichael gave him a keen glance, but uttered no word until he had read it. "well, young man," he said, looking up at him with concentrated severity, "what would you have me do?" "tell me of any situation you may happen to know or hear of, sir," said donal. "that is all i could expect." "all!" repeated the clergyman, with something very like a sneer; "--but what if i think that all a very great deal? what if i imagine myself set in charge over young minds and hearts? what if i know you better than the good man whose friendship for your parents gives him a kind interest in you? you little thought how you were undermining your prospects last friday! my old friend would scarcely have me welcome to my parish one he may be glad to see out of his own! you can go to the kitchen and have your dinner--i have no desire to render evil for evil--but i will not bid you god-speed. and the sooner you take yourself out of this, young man, the better!" "good morning, sir!" said donal, and left the room. on the doorstep he met a youth he had known by sight at the university: it was the minister's son--the worst-behaved of all the students. was this a case of the sins of the father being visited on the child? does god never visit the virtues of the father on the child? a little ruffled, and not a little disappointed, donal walked away. almost unconsciously he took the road to the castle, and coming to the gate, leaned on the top bar, and stood thinking. suddenly, down through the trees came davie bounding, pushed his hand through between the bars, and shook hands with him. "i have been looking for you all day," he said. "why?" asked donal. "forgue sent you a letter." "i have had no letter." "eppy took it this morning." "ah, that explains! i have not been home since breakfast." "it was to say my father would like to see you." "i will go and get it: then i shall know what to do." "why do you live there? the cobbler is a dirty little man! your clothes will smell of leather!" "he is not dirty," said donal. "his hands do get dirty--very dirty with his work--and his face too; and i daresay soap and water can't get them quite clean. but he will have a nice earth-bath one day, and that will take all the dirt off. and if you could see his soul--that is as clean as clean can be--so clean it is quite shining!" "have you seen it?" said the boy, looking up at donal, unsure whether he was making game of him, or meaning something very serious. "i have had a glimpse or two of it. i never saw a cleaner.--you know, my dear boy, there's a cleanness much deeper than the skin!" "i know!" said davie, but stared as if he wondered he would speak of such things. donal returned his gaze. out of the fullness of his heart his eyes shone. davie was reassured. "can you ride?" he asked. "yes, a little." "who taught you?" "an old mare i was fond of." "ah, you are making game of me! i do not like to be made game of," said davie, and turned away. "no indeed," replied donal. "i never make game of anybody.--but now i will go and find the letter." "i would go with you," said the boy, "but my father will not let me beyond the grounds. i don't know why." donal hastened home, and found himself eagerly expected, for the letter young eppy had brought was from the earl. it informed donal that it would give his lordship pleasure to see him, if he would favour him with a call. in a few minutes he was again on the road to the castle. chapter xi. the earl. he met no one on his way from the gate up through the wood. he ascended the hill with its dark ascending firs, to its crown of silvery birches, above which, as often as the slowly circling road brought him to the other side, he saw rise like a helmet the gray mass of the fortress. turret and tower, pinnacle and battlement, appeared and disappeared as he climbed. not until at last he stood almost on the top, and from an open space beheld nearly the whole front, could he tell what it was like. it was a grand pile, but looked a gloomy one to live in. he stood on a broad grassy platform, from which rose a gravelled terrace, and from the terrace the castle. he ran his eye along the front seeking a door but saw none. ascending the terrace by a broad flight of steps, he approached a deep recess in the front, where two portions of the house of differing date nearly met. inside this recess he found a rather small door, flush with the wall, thickly studded and plated with iron, surmounted by the morven horses carved in gray stone, and surrounded with several mouldings. looking for some means of announcing his presence, he saw a handle at the end of a rod of iron, and pulled, but heard nothing: the sound of the bell was smothered in a wilderness of stone walls. by and by, however, appeared an old servant, bowed and slow, with plentiful hair white as wool, and a mingled look of childishness and caution in his wrinkled countenance. "the earl wants to see me," said donal. "what name?" said the man. "donal grant; but his lordship will be nothing the wiser, i suspect; i don't think he knows my name. tell him--the young man he sent for to andrew comin's." the man left him, and donal began to look about him. the place where he stood was a mere entry, a cell in huge walls, with a second, a low, round-headed door, like the entrance to a prison, by which the butler had disappeared. there was nothing but bare stone around him, with again the morven arms cut deep into it on one side. the ceiling was neither vaulted nor groined nor flat, but seemed determined by the accidental concurrence of ends of stone stairs and corners of floors on different levels. it was full ten minutes before the man returned and requested him to follow him. immediately donal found himself in a larger and less irregular stone-case, adorned with heads and horns and skins of animals. crossing this, the man opened a door covered with red cloth, which looked strange in the midst of the cold hard stone, and donal entered an octagonal space, its doors of dark shining oak, with carved stone lintels and doorposts, and its walls adorned with arms and armour almost to the domed ceiling. into it, as if it descended suddenly out of some far height, but dropping at last like a gently alighting bird, came the end of a turnpike-stair, of slow sweep and enormous diameter--such a stair as in wildest gothic tale he had never imagined. like the revolving centre of a huge shell, it went up out of sight, with plain promise of endless convolutions beyond. it was of ancient stone, but not worn as would have been a narrow stair. a great rope of silk, a modern addition, ran up along the wall for a hand-rail; and with slow-moving withered hand upon it, up the glorious ascent climbed the serving man, suggesting to donal's eye the crawling of an insect, to his heart the redemption of the sons of god. with the stair yet ascending above them as if it would never stop, the man paused upon a step no broader than the rest, and opening a door in the round of the well, said, "mr. grant, my lord," and stood aside for donal to enter. he found himself in the presence of a tall, bowed man, with a large-featured white face, thin and worn, and a deep-sunken eye that gleamed with an unhealthy life. his hair was thin, but covered his head, and was only streaked with gray. his hands were long and thin and white; his feet in large shoes, looking the larger that they came out from narrow trousers, which were of shepherd-tartan. his coat was of light-blue, with a high collar of velvet, and much too wide for him. a black silk neckerchief tied carelessly about his throat, and a waistcoat of pineapple shawl-stuff, completed his dress. on one long little finger shone a stone which donal took for an emerald. he motioned his visitor to a seat, and went on writing, with a rudeness more like that of a successful contractor than a nobleman. but it gave donal the advantage of becoming a little accustomed to his surroundings. the room was not large, was wainscoted, and had a good many things on the walls: donal noted two or three riding whips, a fishing rod, several pairs of spurs, a sword with golden hilt, a strange looking dagger like a flame of fire, one or two old engravings, and what seemed a plan of the estate. at the one window, small, with a stone mullion, the summer sun was streaming in. the earl sat in its flood, and in the heart of it seemed cold and bloodless. he looked about sixty years of age, and as if he rarely or never smiled. donal tried to imagine what a smile would do for his face, but failed. he was not in the least awed by the presence of the great man. what is rank to the man who honours everything human, has no desire to look what he is not, has nothing to conceal and nothing to compass, is fearful of no to-morrow, and does not respect riches! toward such ends of being the tide of donal's life was at least setting. so he sat neither fidgeting nor staring, but quietly taking things in. the earl raised himself, pushed his writing from him, turned towards him, and said with courtesy, "excuse me, mr. grant; i wished to talk to you with the ease of duty done." more polite his address could not have been, but there was a something between him and donal that was not to be passed a--nameless gulf of the negative. "my time is at your lordship's service," replied donal, with the ease that comes of simplicity. "you have probably guessed why i sent for you?" "i have hoped, my lord." there was something of old-world breeding about the lad that commended him to the earl. such breeding is not rare among celt-born peasants. "my sons told me that they had met a young man in the grounds--" "for which i beg your lordship's pardon," said donal. "i did not know the place was forbidden." "i hope you will soon be familiar with it. i am glad of your mistake. from what they said, i supposed you might be a student in want of a situation, and i had been looking out for a young man to take charge of the boy: it seemed possible you might serve my purpose. i do not question you can show yourself fit for such an office: i presume it would suit you. do you believe yourself one to be so trusted?" donal had not a glimmer of false modesty; he answered immediately, "i do, my lord." "tell me something of your history: where were you born? what were your parents?" donal told him all he thought it of any consequence he should know. his lordship did not once interrupt him with question or remark. when he had ended-- "well," he said, "i like all you tell me. you have testimonials?" "i have from the professors, my lord, and one from the minister of the parish, who knew me before i went to college. i could get one from mr. sclater too, whose church i attended while there." "show me what you have," said his lordship. donal took the papers from the pocket-book his mother had made him, and handed them to him. the earl read them with some attention, returning each to him without remark as he finished it, only saying with the last, "quite satisfactory." "but," said donal, "there is one thing i should be more at ease if i told your lordship: mr. carmichael, the minister of this parish, would tell you i was an atheist, or something very like it--therefore an altogether unsafe person. but he knows nothing of me." "on what grounds then would he say so?" asked the earl--showing not the least discomposure. "i thought you were a stranger to this place!" donal told him how they had met, what had passed between them, and how the minister had behaved in consequence. his lordship heard him gravely, was silent for a moment, and then said, "should mr. carmichael address me on the subject, which i do not think likely, he will find me already too much prejudiced in your favour. but i can imagine his mistaking your freedom of speech: you are scarcely prudent enough. why say all you think?" "i fear nothing, my lord." the earl was silent; his gray face seemed to grow grayer, but it might be that just then the sun went under a cloud, and he was suddenly folded in shadow. after a moment he spoke again. "i am quite satisfied with you so far, mr. grant; and as i should not like to employ you in direct opposition to mr. carmichel--not that i belong to his church--we will arrange matters before he can hear of the affair. what salary do you want?" donal replied he would prefer leaving the salary to his lordship's judgment upon trial. "i am not a wealthy man," returned his lordship, "and would prefer an understanding." "try me then for three months, my lord; give me my board and lodging, the use of your library, and at the end of the quarter a ten-pound-note: by that time you will be able to tell whether i suit you." the earl nodded agreement, and donal rose at once. with a heart full of thankfulness and hope he walked back to his friends. he had before him pleasant work; plenty of time and book-help; an abode full of interest; and something for his labour! "'surely the wrath of man shall praise thee!'" said the cobbler, rejoicing against the minister; "'the remainder of wrath shalt thou restrain.'" in the afternoon donal went into the town to get some trifles he wanted before going to the castle. as he turned to the door of a draper's shop, he saw at the counter the minister talking to him. he would rather have gone elsewhere but for unwillingness to turn his back on anything: he went in. beside the minister stood a young lady, who, having completed her purchases, was listening to their conversation. the draper looked up as he entered. a glance passed between him and the minister. he came to donal, and having heard what he wanted, left him, went back to the minister, and took no more notice of him. donal found it awkward, and left the shop. "high an' michty!" said the draper, annoyed at losing the customer to whose dispraise he had been listening. "far beyond dissent, john!" said the minister, pursuing a remark. "doobtless, sir, it is that!" answered the draper. "i'm thankfu' to say i never harboured a doobt mysel', but aye took what i was tauld, ohn argle-barglet. what hae we sic as yersel' set ower's for, gien it binna to haud's i' the straicht path o' what we're to believe an' no to believe? it's a fine thing no to be accoontable!" the minister was an honest man so far as he knew himself and honesty, and did not relish this form of submission. but he did not ask himself where was the difference between accepting the word of man and accepting man's explanation of the word of god! he took a huge pinch from his black snuffbox and held his peace. in the evening donal would settle his account with mistress comin: he found her demand so much less than he had expected, that he expostulated. she was firm, however, and assured him she had gained, not lost. as he was putting up his things, "lea' a buik or twa, sir," she said, "'at whan ye luik in, the place may luik hame-like. we s' ca' the room yours. come as aften as ye can. it does my anerew's hert guid to hae a crack wi' ane 'at kens something o' what the maister wad be at. mony ane 'll ca' him lord, but feow 'ill tak the trible to ken what he wad hae o' them. but there's my anerew--he'll sit yon'er at his wark, thinkin' by the hoor thegither ower something the maister said 'at he canna win at the richts o'. 'depen' upo' 't,' he says whiles, 'depen' upo' 't, lass, whaur onything he says disna luik richt to hiz, it maun be 'at we haena won at it!'" as she ended, her husband came in, and took up what he fancied the thread of the dialogue. "an' what are we to think o' the man," he said, "at's content no to un'erstan' what he was at the trible to say? wad he say things 'at he didna mean fowk to un'erstan' whan he said them?" "weel, anerew," said his wife, "there's mony a thing he said 'at i can not un'erstan'; naither am i muckle the better for your explainin' o' the same; i maun jist lat it sit." andrew laughed his quiet pleased laugh. "weel, lass," he said, "the duin' o' ae thing 's better nor the un'erstan'in' o' twenty. nor wull ye be lang ohn un'erstan't muckle 'at's dark to ye noo; for the maister likes nane but the duer o' the word, an' her he likes weel. be blythe, lass; ye s' hae yer fill o' un'erstan'in' yet!" "i'm fain to believe ye speyk the trowth, anerew!" "it 's great trowth," said donal. chapter xii. the castle. the next morning came a cart from the castle to fetch his box; and after breakfast he set out for his new abode. he took the path by the river-side. the morning was glorious. the sun and the river and the birds were jubilant, and the wind gave life to everything. it rippled the stream, and fluttered the long webs bleaching in the sun: they rose and fell like white waves on the bright green lake; and women, homely nereids of the grassy sea, were besprinkling them with spray. there were dull sounds of wooden machinery near, but they made no discord with the sweetness of the hour, speaking only of activity, not labour. from the long bleaching meadows by the river-side rose the wooded base of the castle. donal's bosom swelled with delight; then came a sting: was he already forgetting his inextinguishable grief? "but," he answered himself, "god is more to me than any woman! when he puts joy in my heart, shall i not be glad? when he calls my name shall i not answer?" he stepped out joyfully, and was soon climbing the hill. he was again admitted by the old butler. "i will show you at once," he said, "how to go and come at your own will." he led him through doors and along passages to a postern opening on a little walled garden at the east end of the castle. "this door," he said, "is, you observe, at the foot of baliol's tower, and in that tower is your room; i will show it you." he led the way up a spiral stair that might almost have gone inside the newel of the great staircase. up and up they went, until donal began to wonder, and still they went up. "you're young, sir," said the butler, "and sound of wind and limb; so you'll soon think nothing of it." "i never was up so high before, except on a hill-side," returned donal. "the college-tower is nothing to this!" "in a day or two you'll be shooting up and down it like a bird. i used to do so myself. i got into the way of keeping a shoulder foremost, and screwing up as if i was a blob of air! old age does make fools of us!" "you don't like it then?" "no, i do not: who does?" "it's only that you get spent as you go up. the fresh air at the top of the stair will soon revive you," said donal. but his conductor did not understand him. "that's all very well so long as you're young; but when it has got you, you'll pant and grumble like the rest of us." in the distance donal saw age coming slowly after him, to claw him in his clutch, as the old song says. "please god," he thought, "by the time he comes up, i'll be ready to try a fall with him! o thou eternally young, the years have no hold on thee; let them have none on thy child. i too shall have life eternal." ere they reached the top of the stair, the man halted and opened a door. donal entering saw a small room, nearly round, a portion of the circle taken off by the stair. on the opposite side was a window projecting from the wall, whence he could look in three different directions. the wide country lay at his feet. he saw the winding road by which he had ascended, the gate by which he had entered, the meadow with its white stripes through which he had come, and the river flowing down. he followed it with his eyes:--lo, there was the sea, shining in the sun like a diamond shield! it was but the little german ocean, yet one with the great world-ocean. he turned to his conductor. "yes," said the old man, answering his look, "it's a glorious sight! when first i looked out there i thought i was in eternity." the walls were bare even of plaster; he could have counted the stones in them; but they were dry as a bone. "you are wondering," said the old man, "how you are to keep warm in the winter! look here: you shut this door over the window! see how thick and strong it is! there is your fireplace; and for fuel, there's plenty below! it is a labour to carry it up, i grant; but if i was you, i would set to o' nights when nobody was about, and carry till i had a stock laid in!" "but," said donal, "i should fill up my room. i like to be able to move about a little!" "ah," replied the old man, "you don't know what a space you have up here all to yourself! come this way." two turns more up the stair, and they came to another door. it opened into wide space: from it donal stepped on a ledge or bartizan, without any parapet, that ran round the tower, passing above the window of his room. it was well he had a steady brain, for he found the height affect him more than that of a precipice on glashgar: doubtless he would get used to it, for the old man had stepped out without the smallest hesitation! round the tower he followed him. on the other side a few steps rose to a watch-tower--a sort of ornate sentry-box in stone, where one might sit and regard with wide vision the whole country. avoiding this, another step or two led them to the roof of the castle--of great stone slabs. a broad passage ran between the rise of the roof and a battlemented parapet. by this time they came to a flat roof, on to which they descended by a few steps. here stood two rough sheds, with nothing in them. "there's stowage!" said the old man. "yes, indeed!" answered donal, to whom the idea of his aerie was growing more and more agreeable. "but would there be no objection to my using the place for such a purpose?" "what objection?" returned his guide. "i doubt if a single person but myself knows it." "and shall i be allowed to carry up as much as i please?" "i allow you," said the butler, with importance. "of course you will not waste--i am dead against waste! but as to what is needful, use your freedom.--dinner will be ready for you in the schoolroom at seven." at the door of his room the old man left him, and after listening for a moment to his descending steps, donal re-entered his chamber. why they put him so apart, donal never asked himself; that he should have such command of his leisure as this isolation promised him was a consequence very satisfactory. he proceeded at once to settle himself in his new quarters. finding some shelves in a recess of the wall, he arranged his books upon them, and laid his few clothes in the chest of drawers beneath. he then got out his writing material, and sat down. though his window was so high, the warm pure air came in full of the aromatic odours rising in the hot sunshine from the young pine trees far below, and from a lark far above descended news of heaven-gate. the scent came up and the song came down all the time he was writing to his mother--a long letter. when he had closed and addressed it, he fell into a reverie. apparently he was to have his meals by himself: he was glad of it: he would be able to read all the time! but how was he to find the schoolroom! some one would surely fetch him! they would remember he did not know his way about the place! it wanted yet an hour to dinner-time when, finding himself drowsy, he threw himself on his bed, where presently he fell fast asleep. the night descended, and when he came to himself, its silences were deep around him. it was not dark: there was no moon, but the twilight was clear. he could read the face of his watch: it was twelve o'clock! no one had missed him! he was very hungry! but he had been hungrier before and survived it! in his wallet were still some remnants of oat-cake! he took it in his hand, and stepping out on the bartizan, crept with careful steps round to the watch-tower. there he seated himself in the stone chair, and ate his dry morsels in the starry presences. sleep had refreshed him, and he was wide awake, yet there was on him the sense of a strange existence. never before had he so known himself! often had he passed the night in the open air, but never before had his night-consciousness been such! never had he felt the same way alone. he was parted from the whole earth, like the ship-boy on the giddy mast! nothing was below but a dimness; the earth and all that was in it was massed into a vague shadow. it was as if he had died and gone where existence was independent of solidity and sense. above him was domed the vast of the starry heavens; he could neither flee from it nor ascend to it! for a moment he felt it the symbol of life, yet an unattainable hopeless thing. he hung suspended between heaven and earth, an outcast of both, a denizen of neither! the true life seemed ever to retreat, never to await his grasp. nothing but the beholding of the face of the son of man could set him at rest as to its reality; nothing less than the assurance from his own mouth could satisfy him that all was true, all well: life was a thing so essentially divine, that he could not know it in itself till his own essence was pure! but alas, how dream-like was the old story! was god indeed to be reached by the prayers, affected by the needs of men? how was he to feel sure of it? once more, as often heretofore, he found himself crying into the great world to know whether there was an ear to hear. what if there should come to him no answer? how frightful then would be his loneliness! but to seem not to be heard might be part of the discipline of his darkness! it might be for the perfecting of his faith that he must not yet know how near god was to him! "lord," he cried, "eternal life is to know thee and thy father; i do not know thee and thy father; i have not eternal life; i have but life enough to hunger for more: show me plainly of the father whom thou alone knowest." and as he prayed, something like a touch of god seemed to begin and grow in him till it was more than his heart could hold, and the universe about him was not large enough to hold in its hollow the heart that swelled with it. "god is enough," he said, and sat in peace. chapter xiii. a sound. all at once came to his ear through the night a strange something. whence or what it was he could not even conjecture. was it a moan of the river from below? was it a lost music-tone that had wandered from afar and grown faint? was it one of those mysterious sounds he had read of as born in the air itself, and not yet explained of science? was it the fluttered skirt of some angelic song of lamentation?--for if the angels rejoice, they surely must lament! or was it a stilled human moaning? was any wrong being done far down in the white-gleaming meadows below, by the banks of the river whose platinum-glimmer he could descry through the molten amethystine darkness of the starry night? presently came a long-drawn musical moan: it must be the sound of some muffled instrument! verily night was the time for strange things! could sounds be begotten in the fir trees by the rays of the hot sun, and born in the stillness of the following dark, as the light which the diamond receives in the day glows out in the gloom? there are parents and their progeny that never exist together! again the sound--hardly to be called sound! it resembled a vibration of organ-pipe too slow and deep to affect the hearing; only this rather seemed too high, as if only his soul heard it. he would steal softly down the dumb stone-stair! some creature might be in trouble and needing help! he crept back along the bartizan. the stair was dark as the very heart of the night. he groped his way down. the spiral stair is the safest of all: you cannot tumble far ere brought up by the inclosing cylinder. arrived at the bottom, and feeling about, he could not find the door to the outer air which the butler had shown him; it was wall wherever his hands fell. he could not find again the stair he had left; he could not tell in what direction it lay. he had got into a long windowless passage connecting two wings of the house, and in this he was feeling his way, fearful of falling down some stair or trap. he came at last to a door--low-browed like almost all in the house. opening it--was it a thinner darkness or the faintest gleam of light he saw? and was that again the sound he had followed, fainter and farther off than before--a downy wind-wafted plume from the skirt of some stray harmony? at such a time of the night surely it was strange! it must come from one who could not sleep, and was solacing himself with sweet sounds, breathing a soul into the uncompanionable silence! if so it was, he had no right to search farther! but how was he to return? he dared hardly move, lest he should be found wandering over the house in the dead of night like a thief, or one searching after its secrets. he must sit down and wait for the morning: its earliest light would perhaps enable him to find his way to his quarters! feeling about him a little, his foot struck against the step of a stair. examining it with his hands, he believed it the same he had ascended in the morning: even in a great castle, could there be two such royal stairs? he sat down upon it, and leaning his head on his hands, composed himself to a patient waiting for the light. waiting pure is perhaps the hardest thing for flesh and blood to do well. the relations of time to mind are very strange. some of their phenomena seem to prove that time is only of the mind--belonging to the intellect as good and evil belong to the spirit. anyhow, if it were not for the clocks of the universe, one man would live a year, a century, where another would live but a day. but the mere motion of time, not to say the consciousness of empty time, is fearful. it is this empty time that the fool is always trying to kill: his effort should be to fill it. yet nothing but the living god can fill it--though it be but the shape our existence takes to us. only where he is, emptiness is not. eternity will be but an intense present to the child with whom is the father. such thoughts alighted, flitted, and passed, for the first few moments, through the mind of donal, as he sat half consciously waiting for the dawn. it was thousands of miles away, over the great round of the sunward-turning earth! his imagination woke, and began to picture the great hunt of the shadows, fleeing before the arrows of the sun, over the broad face of the mighty world--its mountains, seas, and plains in turn confessing the light, and submitting to him who slays for them the haunting demons of their dark. then again the moments were the small cogs on the wheels of time, whereby the dark castle in which he sat was rushing ever towards the light: the cogs were caught and the wheels turned swiftly, and the time and the darkness sped. he forgot the labour of waiting. if now and then he fancied a tone through the darkness, it was to his mind the music-march of the morning to his rescue from the dungeon of the night. but that was no musical tone which made the darkness shudder around him! he sprang to his feet. it was a human groan--a groan as of one in dire pain, the pain of a soul's agony. it seemed to have descended the stair to him. the next instant donal was feeling his way up--cautiously, as if on each succeeding step he might come against the man who had groaned. tales of haunted houses rushed into his memory. what if he were but pursuing the groan of an actor in the past--a creature the slave of his own conscious memory--a mere haunter of the present which he could not influence--one without physical relation to the embodied, save in the groans he could yet utter! but it was more in awe than in fear that he went. up and up he felt his way, all about him as still as darkness and the night could make it. a ghostly cold crept through his skin; it was drawn together as by a gently freezing process; and there was a pulling at the muscles of his chest, as if his mouth were being dragged open by a martingale. as he felt his way along the wall, sweeping its great endless circle round and round in spiral ascent, all at once his hand seemed to go through it; he started and stopped. it was the door of the room into which he had been shown to meet the earl! it stood wide open. a faint glimmer came through the window from the star-filled sky. he stepped just within the doorway. was not that another glimmer on the floor--from the back of the room--through a door he did not remember having seen yesterday? there again was the groan, and nigh at hand! someone must be in sore need! he approached the door and looked through. a lamp, nearly spent, hung from the ceiling of a small room which might be an office or study, or a place where papers were kept. it had the look of an antechamber, but that it could not be, for there was but the one door!--in the dim light he descried a vague form leaning up against one of the walls, as if listening to something through it! as he gazed it grew plainer to him, and he saw a face, its eyes staring wide, which yet seemed not to see him. it was the face of the earl. donal felt as if in the presence of the disembodied; he stood fascinated, nor made attempt to retire or conceal himself. the figure turned its face to the wall, put the palms of its hands against it, and moved them up and down, and this way and that; then looked at them, and began to rub them against each other. donal came to himself. he concluded it was a case of sleepwalking. he had read that it was dangerous to wake the sleeper, but that he seldom came to mischief when left alone, and was about to slip away as he had come, when the faint sound of a far-off chord crept through the silence. the earl again laid his ear to the wall. but there was only silence. he went through the same dumb show as before, then turned as if to leave the place. donal turned also, and hurriedly felt his way to the stair. then first he was in danger of terror; for in stealing through the darkness from one who could find his way without his eyes, he seemed pursued by a creature not of this world. on the stair he went down a step or two, then lingered, and heard the earl come on it also. he crept close to the newel, leaving the great width of the stair free, but the steps of the earl went upward. donal descended, sat down again at the bottom of the stair, and began again to wait. no sound came to him through the rest of the night. the slow hours rolled away, and the slow light drew nearer. now and then he was on the point of falling into a doze, but would suddenly start wide awake, listening through a silence that seemed to fill the whole universe and deepen around the castle. at length he was aware that the darkness had, unobserved of him, grown weaker--that the approach of the light was sickening it: the dayspring was about to take hold of the ends of the earth that the wicked might be shaken out of its lap. he sought the long passage by which he had come, and felt his way to the other end: it would be safer to wait there if he could get no farther. but somehow he came to the foot of his own stair, and sped up as if it were the ladder of heaven. he threw himself on his bed, fell fast asleep, and did not wake till the sun was high. chapter xiv. the schoolroom. old simmons, the butler, woke him. "i was afraid something was the matter, sir. they tell me you did not come down last night; and breakfast has been waiting you two hours." "i should not have known where to find it," said donal. "the knowledge of an old castle is not intuitive." "how long will you take to dress?" asked simmons. "ten minutes, if there is any hurry," answered donal. "i will come again in twenty; or, if you are willing to save an old man's bones, i will be at the bottom of the stair at that time to take charge of you. i would have looked after you yesterday, but his lordship was poorly, and i had to be in attendance on him till after midnight." donal thought it impossible he should of himself have found his way to the schoolroom. with all he could do to remember the turnings, he found the endeavour hopeless, and gave it up with a not unpleasing despair. through strange passages, through doors in all directions, up stairs and down they went, and at last came to a long, low room, barely furnished, with a pleasant outlook, and immediate access to the open air. the windows were upon a small grassy court, with a sundial in the centre; a door opened on a paved court. at one end of the room a table was laid with ten times as many things as he could desire to eat, though he came to it with a good appetite. the butler himself waited upon him. he was a good-natured old fellow, with a nose somewhat too red for the ordinary wear of one in his responsible position. "i hope the earl is better this morning," said donal. "well, i can't say. he's but a delicate man is the earl, and has been, so long as i have known him. he was with the army in india, and the sun, they say, give him a stroke, and ever since he have headaches that bad! but in between he seems pretty well, and nothing displeases him more than ask after his health, or how he slep the night. but he's a good master, and i hope to end my days with him. i'm not one as likes new faces and new places! one good place is enough for me, says i--so long as it is a good one.--take some of this game pie, sir." donal made haste with his breakfast, and to simmons's astonishment had ended when he thought him just well begun. "how shall i find master davie?" he asked. "he is wild to see you, sir. when i've cleared away, just have the goodness to ring this bell out of that window, and he'll be with you as fast as he can lay his feet to the ground." donal rang the handbell. a shout mingled with the clang of it. then came the running of swift feet over the stones of the court, and davie burst into the room. "oh, sir," he cried, "i am glad! it is good of you to come!" "well, you see, davie," returned donal, "everybody has got to do something to carry the world on a bit: my work is to help make a man of you. only i can't do much except you help me; and if i find i am not making a good job of you, i shan't stop many hours after the discovery. if you want to keep me, you must mind what i say, and so help me to make a man of you." "it will be long before i am a man!" said davie rather disconsolately. "it depends on yourself. the boy that is longest in becoming a man, is the boy that thinks himself a man before he is a bit like one." "come then, let us do something!" said davie. "come away," rejoined donal. "what shall we do first?" "i don't know: you must tell me, sir." "what would you like best to do--i mean if you might do what you pleased?" davie thought a little, then said: "i should like to write a book." "what kind of a book?" "a beautiful story." "isn't it just as well to read such a book? why should you want to write one?" "because then i should have it go just as i wanted it! i am always--almost always--disappointed with the thing that comes next. but if i wrote it myself, then i shouldn't get tired of it; it would be what pleased me, and not what pleased somebody else." "well," said donal, after thinking for a moment, "suppose you begin to write a book!" "oh, that will be fun!--much better than learning verbs and nouns!" "but the verbs and nouns are just the things that go to make a story--with not a few adjectives and adverbs, and a host of conjunctions; and, if it be a very moving story, a good many interjections! these all you have got to put together with good choice, or the story will not be one you would care to read.--perhaps you had better not begin till i see whether you know enough about those verbs and nouns to do the thing decently. show me your school-books." "there they all are--on that shelf! i haven't opened one of them since percy came home. he laughed at them all, and so arkie--that's lady arctura, told him he might teach me himself. and he wouldn't; and she wouldn't--with him to laugh at her. and i've had such a jolly time ever since--reading books out of the library! have you seen the library, mr. grant?" "no; i've seen nothing yet. suppose we begin with a holiday, and you begin by teaching me!" "teaching you, sir! i'm not able to teach you!" "why, didn't you as much as offer to teach me the library? can't you teach me this great old castle? and aren't you going to teach yourself to me?" "that would be a funny lesson, sir!" "the least funny, the most serious lesson you could teach me! you are a book god has begun, and he has sent me to help him go on with it; so i must learn what he has written already before i try to do anything." "but you know what a boy is, sir! why should you want to learn me?" "you might as well say that, because i have read one or two books, i must know every book. to understand one boy helps to understand another, but every boy is a new boy, different from every other boy, and every one has to be understood." "yes--for sometimes arkie won't hear me out, and i feel so cross with her i should like to give her a good box on the ear. what king was it, sir, that made the law that no lady, however disagreeable, was to have her ears boxed? do you think it a good law, sir?" "it is good for you and me anyhow." "and when percy says, 'oh, go away! don't bother,' i feel as if i could hit him hard! yet, if i happen to hurt him, i am so sorry! and why then should i want to hurt him?" "there's something in this little fellow!" said donal to himself. "ah, why indeed?" he answered. "you see you don't understand yourself yet!" "no indeed!" "then how could you think i should understand you all at once?--and a boy must be understood, else what's to become of him! fancy a poor boy living all day, and sleeping all night, and nobody understanding him!" "that would be dreadful! but you will understand me?" "only a little: i'm not wise enough to understand any boy." "then--but isn't that what you said you came for?--i thought--" "yes," answered donal, "that is what i came for; but if i fancied i quite understood any boy, that would be a sure sign i did not understand him.--there is one who understands every boy as well as if there were no other boy in the whole world." "then why doesn't every boy go to him when he can't get fair play?" "ah, why? that is just what i want you to do. he can do better than give you fair play even: he can make you give other people fair play, and delight in it." "tell me where he is." "that is what i have to teach you: mere telling is not much use. telling is what makes people think they know when they do not, and makes them foolish." "what is his name?" "i will not tell you that just yet; for then you would think you knew him, when you knew next to nothing about him. look here; look at this book," he went on, pulling a copy of boethius from his pocket; "look at the name on the back of it: it is the name of the man that wrote the book." davie spelled it out. "now you know all about the book, don't you?" "no, sir; i don't know anything about it." "well then, my father's name is robert grant: you know now what a good man he is!" "no, i don't. i should like to see him though!" "you would love him if you did! but you see now that knowing the name of a person does not make you know the person." "but you said, sir, that if you told me the name of that person, i should fancy i knew all about him: i don't fancy i know all about your father now you have told me his name!" "you have me there!" answered donal. "i did not say quite what i ought to have said. i should have said that when we know a little about a person, and are used to hearing his name, then we are ready to think we know all about him. i heard a man the other day--a man who had never spoken to your father--talk as if he knew all about him." "i think i understand," said davie. to confess ignorance is to lose respect with the ignorant who would appear to know. but there is a worse thing than to lose the respect even of the wise--to deserve to lose it; and that he does who would gain a respect that does not belong to him. but a confession of ignorance is a ground of respect with a well-bred child, and even with many ordinary boys will raise a man's influence: they recognize his loyalty to the truth. act-truth is infinitely more than fact-truth; the love of the truth infinitely beyond the knowledge of it. they went out together, and when they had gone the round of the place outside, davie would have taken him over the house; but donal said they would leave something for another time, and made him lie down for ten minutes. this the boy thought a great hardship, but donal saw that he needed to be taught to rest. ten times in those ten minutes he was on the point of jumping up, but donal found a word sufficient to restrain him. when the ten minutes were over, he set him an addition sum. the boy protested he knew all the rules of arithmetic. "but," said donal, "i must know that you know them; that is my business. do this one, however easy it is." the boy obeyed, and brought him the sum--incorrect. "now, davie," said donal, "you said you knew all about addition, but you have not done this sum correctly." "i have only made a blunder, sir." "but a rule is no rule if it is not carried out. everything goes on the supposition of its being itself, and not something else. people that talk about good things without doing them are left out. you are not master of addition until your addition is to be depended upon." the boy found it hard to fix his attention: to fix it on something he did not yet understand, would be too hard! he must learn to do so in the pursuit of accuracy where he already understood! then he would not have to fight two difficulties at once--that of understanding, and that of fixing his attention. but for a long time he never kept him more than a quarter of an hour at work on the same thing. when he had done the sum correctly, and a second without need of correction, he told him to lay his slate aside, and he would tell him a fairy-story. therein he succeeded tolerably--in the opinion of davie, wonderfully: what a tutor was this, who let fairies into the school-room! the tale was of no very original construction--the youngest brother gaining in the path of righteousness what the elder brothers lose through masterful selfishness. a man must do a thing because it is right, even if he die for it; but truth were poor indeed if it did not bring at last all things subject to it! as beauty and truth are one, so are truth and strength one. must god be ever on the cross, that we poor worshippers may pay him our highest honour? is it not enough to know that if the devil were the greater, yet would not god do him homage, but would hang for ever on his cross? truth is joy and victory. the true hero is adjudged to bliss, nor can in the nature of things, that is, of god, escape it. he who holds by life and resists death, must be victorious; his very life is a slaying of death. a man may die for his opinion, and may only be living to himself: a man who dies for the truth, dies to himself and to all that is not true. "what a beautiful story!" cried davie when it ceased. "where did you get it, mr. grant?" "where all stories come from." "where is that?" "the think-book." "what a funny name! i never heard it! will it be in the library?" "no; it is in no library. it is the book god is always writing at one end, and blotting out at the other. it is made of thoughts, not words. it is the think-book." "now i understand! you got the story out of your own head!" "yes, perhaps. but how did it get in to my head?" "i can't tell that. nobody can tell that!" "nobody can that never goes up above his own head--that never shuts the think-book, and stands upon it. when one does, then the think-book swells to a great mountain and lifts him up above all the world: then he sees where the stories come from, and how they get into his head.--are you to have a ride to-day?" "i ride or not just as i like." "well, we will now do just as we both like, i hope, and it will be two likes instead of one--that is, if we are true friends." "we shall be true friends--that we shall!" "how can that be--between a little boy like you, and a grown man like me?" "by me being good." "by both of us being good--no other way. if one of us only was good, we could never be true friends. i must be good as well as you, else we shall never understand each other!" "how kind you are, mr. grant! you treat me just like another one!" said davie. "but we must not forget that i am the big one and you the little one, and that we can't be the other one to each other except the little one does what the big one tells him! that's the way to fit into each other." "oh, of course!" answered davie, as if there could not be two minds about that. chapter xv. horse and man. during the first day and the next, donal did not even come in sight of any other of the family; but on the third day, after their short early school--for he seldom let davie work till he was tired, and never after--going with him through the stable-yard, they came upon lord forgue as he mounted his horse--a nervous, fiery, thin-skinned thoroughbred. the moment his master was on him, he began to back and rear. forgue gave him a cut with his whip. he went wild, plunging and dancing and kicking. the young lord was a horseman in the sense of having a good seat; but he knew little about horses; they were to him creatures to be compelled, not friends with whom to hold sweet concert. he had not learned that to rule ill is worse than to obey ill. kings may be worse than it is in the power of any subject to be. as he was raising his arm for a second useless, cruel, and dangerous blow, donal darted to the horse's head. "you mustn't do that, my lord!" he said. "you'll drive him mad." but the worst part of forgue's nature was uppermost, in his rage all the vices of his family rushed to the top. he looked down on donal with a fury checked only by contempt. "keep off," he said, "or it will be the worse for you. what do you know about horses?" "enough to know that you are not fair to him. i will not let you strike the poor animal. just look at this water-chain!" "hold your tongue, and stand away, or, by--" "ye winna fricht me, sir," said donal, whose english would, for years, upon any excitement, turn cowardly and run away, leaving his mother-tongue to bear the brunt, "--i'm no timorsome." forgue brought down his whip with a great stinging blow upon donal's shoulder and back. the fierce blood of the highland celt rushed to his brain, and had not the man in him held by god and trampled on the devil, there might then have been miserable work. but though he clenched his teeth, he fettered his hands, and ruled his tongue, and the master of men was master still. "my lord," he said, after one instant's thunderous silence, "there's that i' me wad think as little o' throttlin' ye as ye du o' ill-usin' yer puir beast. but i'm no gaein' to drop his quarrel, an' tak up my ain: that wad be cooardly." here he patted the creature's neck, and recovering his composure and his english, went on. "i tell you, my lord, the curb-chain is too tight! the animal is suffering as you can have no conception of, or you would pity him." "let him go," cried forgue, "or i will make you." he raised his whip again, the more enraged that the groom stood looking on with his mouth open. "i tell your lordship," said donal, "it is my turn to strike; and if you hit the animal again before that chain is slackened, i will pitch you out of the saddle." for answer forgue struck the horse over the head. the same moment he was on the ground; donal had taken him by the leg and thrown him off. he was not horseman enough to keep his hold of the reins, and donal led the horse a little way off, and left him to get up in safety. the poor animal was pouring with sweat, shivering and trembling, yet throwing his head back every moment. donal could scarcely undo the chain; it was twisted--his lordship had fastened it himself--and sharp edges pressed his jaw at the least touch of the rein. he had not yet rehooked it, when forgue was upon him with a second blow of his whip. the horse was scared afresh at the sound, and it was all he could do to hold him, but he succeeded at length in calming him. when he looked about him, forgue was gone. he led the horse into the stable, put him in his stall, and proceeded to unsaddle him. then first he was re-aware of the presence of davie. the boy was stamping--with fierce eyes and white face--choking with silent rage. "davie, my child!" said donal, and davie recovered his power of speech. "i'll go and tell my father!" he said, and made for the stable door. "which of us are you going to tell upon?" asked donal with a smile. "percy, of course!" he replied, almost with a scream. "you are a good man, mr. grant, and he is a bad fellow. my father will give it him well. he doesn't often--but oh, can't he just! to dare to strike you! i'll go to him at once, whether he's in bed or not!" "no, you won't, my boy! listen to me. some people think it's a disgrace to be struck: i think it a disgrace to strike. i have a right over your brother by that blow, and i mean to keep it--for his good. you didn't think i was afraid of him?" "no, no; anybody could see you weren't a bit afraid of him. i would have struck him again if he had killed me for it!" "i don't doubt you would. but when you understand, you will not be so ready to strike. i could have killed your brother more easily than held his horse. you don't know how strong i am, or what a blow of my fist would be to a delicate fellow like that. i hope his fall has not hurt him." "i hope it has--a little, i mean, only a little," said the boy, looking in the face of his tutor. "but tell me why you did not strike him. it would be good for him to be well beaten." "it will, i hope, be better for him to be well forgiven: he will be ashamed of himself the sooner, i think. but why i did not strike him was, that i am not my own master." "but my father, i am sure, would not have been angry with you. he would have said you had a right to do it." "perhaps; but the earl is not the master i mean." "who is, then?" "jesus christ." "o--oh!" "he says i must not return evil for evil, a blow for a blow. i don't mind what people say about it: he would not have me disgrace myself! he never even threatened those that struck him." "but he wasn't a man, you know!" "not a man! what was he then?" "he was god, you know." "and isn't god a man--and ever so much more than a man?" the boy made no answer, and donal went on. "do you think god would have his child do anything disgraceful? why, davie, you don't know your own father! what god wants of us is to be down-right honest, and do what he tells us without fear." davie was silent. his conscience reproved him, as the conscience of a true-hearted boy will reprove him at the very mention of the name of god, until he sets himself consciously to do his will. donal said no more, and they went for their walk. chapter xvi. colloquies. in the evening donal went to see andrew comin. "weel, hoo are ye gettin' on wi' the yerl?" asked the cobbler. "you set me a good example of saying nothing about him," answered donal; "and i will follow it--at least till i know more: i have scarce seen him yet." "that's right!" returned the cobbler with satisfaction. "i'm thinkin' ye'll be ane o' the feow 'at can rule their ane hoose--that is, haud their ain tongues till the hoor for speech be come. stick ye to that, my dear sir, an' mair i'll be weel nor in general is weel." "i'm come to ye for a bit o' help though; i want licht upon a queston 'at 's lang triblet me.--what think ye?--hoo far does the comman' laid upo' 's, as to warfare 'atween man an' man, reach? are we never ta raise the han' to human bein', think ye?" "weel, i hae thoucht a heap aboot it, an' i daurna say 'at i'm jist absolute clear upo' the maitter. but there may be pairt clear whaur a' 's no clear; an' by what we un'erstan' we come the nearer to what we dinna un'erstan'. there's ae thing unco plain--'at we're on no accoont to return evil for evil: onybody 'at ca's himsel' a christian maun un'erstan' that muckle. we're to gie no place to revenge, inside or oot. therefore we're no to gie blow for blow. gien a man hit ye, ye're to take it i' god's name. but whether things mayna come to a p'int whaurat ye're bu'n', still i' god's name, to defen' the life god has gien ye, i canna say--i haena the licht to justifee me in denyin' 't. there maun surely, i hae said to mysel', be a time whan a man may hae to du what god dis sae aften--mak use o' the strong han'! but it's clear he maunna do 't in rage--that's ower near hate--an' hate 's the deevil's ain. a man may, gien he live varra near the lord, be whiles angry ohn sinned: but the wrath o' man worketh not the richteousness o' god; an' the wrath that rises i' the mids o' encoonter, is no like to be o' the natur o' divine wrath. to win at it, gien 't be possible, lat's consider the lord--hoo he did. there's no word o' him ever liftin' han' to protec' himsel'. the only thing like it was for ithers. to gar them lat his disciples alane--maybe till they war like eneuch til himsel' no to rin, he pat oot mair nor his han' upo' them 'at cam to tak him: he strak them sair wi' the pooer itsel' 'at muvs a' airms. but no varra sair naither--he but knockit them doon!--jist to lat them ken they war to du as he bade them, an' lat his fowk be;--an' maybe to lat them ken 'at gien he loot them tak him, it was no 'at he couldna hin'er them gien he likit. i canna help thinkin' we may stan' up for ither fowk. an' i'm no sayin' 'at we arena to defen' oorsels frae a set attack wi' design.--but there's something o' mair importance yet nor kennin' the richt o' ony queston." "what can that be? what can be o' mair importance nor doin' richt i' the sicht o' god?" said donal. "bein' richt wi' the varra thoucht o' god, sae 'at we canna mistak, but maun ken jist what he wad hae dune. that's the big richt, the mother o' a' the lave o' the richts. that's to be as the maister was. onygait, whatever we du, it maun be sic as to be dune, an' it maun be dune i' the name o' god; whan we du naething we maun du that naething i' the name o' god. a body may weel say, 'o lord, thoo hasna latten me see what i oucht to du, sae i'll du naething!' gien a man ought to defen' himsel', but disna du 't, 'cause he thinks god wadna hae him du 't, wull god lea' him oondefent for that? or gien a body stan's up i' the name o' god, an' fronts an airmy o' enemies, div ye think god 'ill forsake him 'cause he 's made a mistak? whatever's dune wantin' faith maun be sin--it canna help it; whatever's dune in faith canna be sin, though it may be a mistak. only latna a man tak presumption for faith! that's a fearsome mistak, for it's jist the opposite." "i thank ye," said donal. "i'll consider wi' my best endeevour what ye hae said." "but o' a' things," resumed the cobbler, "luik 'at ye lo'e fairplay. fairplay 's a won'erfu' word--a gran' thing constantly lost sicht o'. man, i hae been tryin' to win at the duin' o' the richt this mony a year, but i daurna yet lat mysel' ac' upo' the spur o' the moment whaur my ain enterest 's concernt: my ain side micht yet blin' me to the ither man's side o' the business. onybody can un'erstan' his ain richt, but it taks trible an' thoucht to un'erstan' what anither coonts his richt. twa richts canna weel clash. it's a wrang an' a richt, or pairt wrang an' a pairt richt 'at clashes." "gien a'body did that, i doobt there wad be feow fortins made!" said donal. "aboot that i canna say, no kennin'; i daurna discover a law whaur i haena knowledge! but this same fairplay lies, alang wi' love, at the varra rute and f'undation o' the universe. the theologians had a glimmer o' the fac' whan they made sae muckle o' justice, only their justice is sic a meeserable sma' bit plaister eemage o' justice, 'at it maist gars an honest body lauch. they seem to me like shepherds 'at rive doon the door-posts, an' syne block up the door wi' them." donal told him of the quarrel he had had with lord forgue, and asked him whether he thought he had done right. "weel," answered the cobbler, "i'm as far frae blamin' you as i am frae justifeein' the yoong lord." "he seems to me a fine kin' o' a lad," said donal, "though some owerbeirin'." "the likes o' him are mair to be excused for that nor ither fowk, for they hae great disadvantages i' the position an' the upbringin'. it's no easy for him 'at's broucht up a lord to believe he's jist ane wi' the lave." donal went for a stroll through the town, and met the minister, but he took no notice of him. he was greatly annoyed at the march which he said the fellow had stolen upon him, and regarded him as one who had taken an unfair advantage of him. but he had little influence at the castle. the earl never by any chance went to church. his niece, lady arctura, did, however, and held the minister for an authority at things spiritual--one of whom living water was to be had without money and without price. but what she counted spiritual things were very common earthly stuff, and for the water, it was but stagnant water from the ditches of a sham theology. only what was a poor girl to do who did not know how to feed herself, but apply to one who pretended to be able to feed others? how was she to know that he could not even feed himself? out of many a difficulty she thought he helped her--only the difficulty would presently clasp her again, and she must deal with it as she best could, until a new one made her forget it, and go to the minister, or rather to his daughter, again. she was one of those who feel the need of some help to live--some upholding that is not of themselves, but who, through the stupidity of teachers unconsciously false,--men so unfit that they do not know they are unfit, direct their efforts, first towards having correct notions, then to work up the feelings that belong to those notions. she was an honest girl so far as she had been taught--perhaps not so far as she might have been without having been taught. how was she to think aright with scarce a glimmer of god's truth? how was she to please god, as she called it, who thought of him in a way repulsive to every loving soul? how was she to be accepted of god, who did not accept her own neighbour, but looked down, without knowing it, upon so many of her fellow-creatures? how should such a one either enjoy or recommend her religion? it would have been the worse for her if she had enjoyed it--the worse for others if she had recommended it! religion is simply the way home to the father. there was little of the path in her religion except the difficulty of it. the true way is difficult enough because of our unchildlikeness--uphill, steep, and difficult, but there is fresh life on every surmounted height, a purer air gained, ever more life for more climbing. but the path that is not the true one is not therefore easy. up hill is hard walking, but through a bog is worse. those who seek god with their faces not even turned towards him, who, instead of beholding the father in the son, take the stupidest opinions concerning him and his ways from other men--what should they do but go wandering on dark mountains, spending their strength in avoiding precipices and getting out of bogs, mourning and sighing over their sins instead of leaving them behind and fleeing to the father, whom to know is eternal life. did they but set themselves to find out what christ knew and meant and commanded, and then to do it, they would soon forget their false teachers. but alas! they go on bowing before long-faced, big-worded authority--the more fatally when it is embodied in a good man who, himself a victim to faith in men, sees the son of god only through the theories of others, and not with the sight of his own spiritual eyes. donal had not yet seen the lady. he neither ate, sat, nor held intercourse with the family. away from davie, he spent his time in his tower chamber, or out of doors. all the grounds were open to him except a walled garden on the south-eastern slope, looking towards the sea, which the earl kept for himself, though he rarely walked in it. on the side of the hill away from the town, was a large park reaching down to the river, and stretching a long way up its bank--with fine trees, and glorious outlooks to the sea in one direction, and to the mountains in the other. here donal would often wander, now with a book, now with davie. the boy's presence was rarely an interruption to his thoughts when he wanted to think. sometimes he would thrown himself on the grass and read aloud; then davie would throw himself beside him, and let the words he could not understand flow over him in a spiritual cataract. on the river was a boat, and though at first he was awkward enough in the use of the oars, he was soon able to enjoy thoroughly a row up or down the stream, especially in the twilight. he was alone with his book under a beech-tree on a steep slope to the river, the day after his affair with lord forgue: reading aloud, he did not hear the approach of his lordship. "mr. grant," he said, "if you will say you are sorry you threw me from my horse, i will say i am sorry i struck you." "i am very sorry," said donal, rising, "that it was necessary to throw you from your horse; and perhaps your lordship may remember that you struck me before i did so." "that has nothing to do with it. i propose an accommodation, or compromise, or what you choose to call it: if you will do the one, i will do the other." "what i think i ought to do, my lord, i do without bargaining. i am not sorry i threw you from your horse, and to say so would be to lie." "of course everybody thinks himself in the right!" said his lordship with a small sneer. "it does not follow that no one is ever in the right!" returned donal. "does your lordship think you were in the right--either towards me or the poor animal who could not obey you because he was in torture?" "i don't say i do." "then everybody does not think himself in the right! i take your lordship's admission as an apology." "by no means: when i make an apology, i will do it; i will not sneak out of it." he was evidently at strife with himself: he knew he was wrong, but could not yet bring himself to say so. it is one of the poorest of human weaknesses that a man should be ashamed of saying he has done wrong, instead of so ashamed of having done wrong that he cannot rest till he has said so; for the shame cleaves fast until the confession removes it. forgue walked away a step or two, and stood with his back to donal, poking the point of his stick into the grass. all at once he turned and said: "i will apologize if you will tell me one thing." "i will tell you whether you apologize or not," said donal. "i have never asked you to apologize." "tell me then why you did not return either of my blows yesterday." "i should like to know why you ask--but i will answer you: simply because to do so would have been to disobey my master." "that's a sort of thing i don't understand. but i only wanted to know it was not cowardice; i could not make an apology to a coward." "if i were a coward, you would owe me an apology all the same, and he is a poor creature who will not pay his debts. but i hope it is not necessary i should either thrash or insult your lordship to convince you i fear you no more than that blackbird there!" forgue gave a little laugh. a moment's pause followed. then he held out his hand, but in a half-hesitating, almost sheepish way: "well, well! shake hands," he said. "no, my lord," returned donal. "i bear your lordship not the slightest ill-will, but i will shake hands with no one in a half-hearted way, and no other way is possible while you are uncertain whether i am a coward or not." so saying, he threw himself again upon the grass, and lord forgue walked away, offended afresh. the next morning he came into the school-room where donal sat at lessons with davie. he had a book in his hand. "mr. grant," he said, "will you help me with this passage in xenophon?" "with all my heart," answered donal, and in a few moments had him out of his difficulty. but instead of going, his lordship sat down a little way off, and went on with his reading--sat until master and pupil went out, and left him sitting there. the next morning he came with a fresh request, and donal found occasion to approve warmly of a translation he proposed. from that time he came almost every morning. he was no great scholar, but with the prospect of an english university before him, thought it better to read a little. the housekeeper at the castle was a good woman, and very kind to donal, feeling perhaps that he fell to her care the more that he was by birth of her own class; for it was said in the castle, "the tutor makes no pretence to being a gentleman." whether he was the more or the less of one on that account, i leave my reader to judge according to his capability. sometimes when his dinner was served, mistress brookes would herself appear, to ensure proper attention to him, and would sit down and talk to him while he ate, ready to rise and serve him if necessary. their early days had had something in common, though she came from the southern highlands of green hills and more sheep. she gave him some rather needful information about the family; and he soon perceived that there would have been less peace in the house but for her good temper and good sense. lady arctura was the daughter of the last lord morven, and left sole heir to the property; forgue and his brother davie were the sons of the present earl. the present lord was the brother of the last, and had lived with him for some years before he succeeded. he was a man of peculiar and studious habits; nobody ever seemed to take to him; and since his wife's death, his health had been precarious. though a strange man, he was a just if not generous master. his brother had left him guardian to lady arctura, and he had lived in the castle as before. his wife was a very lovely, but delicate woman, and latterly all but confined to her room. since her death a great change had passed upon her husband. certainly his behaviour was sometimes hard to understand. "he never gangs to the kirk--no ance in a twalmonth!" said mrs. brookes. "fowk sud be dacent, an' wha ever h'ard o' dacent fowk 'at didna gang to the kirk ance o' the sabbath! i dinna haud wi' gaein' twise mysel': ye hae na time to read yer ain chapters gien ye do that. but the man's a weel behavet man, sae far as ye see, naither sayin' nor doin' the thing he shouldna: what he may think, wha's to say! the mair ten'er conscience coonts itsel' the waur sinner; an' i'm no gaein' to think what i canna ken! there's some 'at says he led a gey lowse kin' o' a life afore he cam to bide wi' the auld yerl; he was wi' the airmy i' furreign pairts, they say; but aboot that i ken naething. the auld yerl was something o' a sanct himsel', rist the banes o' 'im! we're no the jeedges o' the leevin' ony mair nor o' the deid! but i maun awa' to luik efter things; a minute's an hoor lost wi' thae fule lasses. ye're a freen' o' an'rew comin's, they tell me, sir: i dinna ken what to do wi' 's lass, she's that upsettin'! ye wad think she was ane o' the faimily whiles; an' ither whiles she 's that silly!" "i'm sorry to hear it!" said donal. "her grandfather and grandmother are the best of good people." "i daursay! but there's jist what i hae seen: them 'at 's broucht up their ain weel eneuch, their son's bairn they'll jist lat gang. aither they're tired o' the thing, or they think they're safe. they hae lippent til yoong eppy a heap ower muckle. but i'm naither a prophet nor the son o' a prophet, as the minister said last sunday--an' said well, honest man! for it's the plain trowth: he's no ane o' the major nor yet the minor anes! but haud him oot o' the pu'pit an' he dis no that ill. his dochter 's no an ill lass aither, an' a great freen' o' my leddy's. but i'm clean ashamed o' mysel' to gang on this gait. hae ye dune wi' yer denner, mr. grant?--weel, i'll jist sen' to clear awa', an' lat ye til yer lessons." chapter xvii. lady arctura. it was now almost three weeks since donal had become an inmate of the castle, and he had scarcely set his eyes on the lady of the house. once he had seen her back, and more than once had caught a glimpse of her profile, but he had never really seen her face, and they had never spoken to each other. one afternoon he was sauntering along under the overhanging boughs of an avenue of beeches, formerly the approach to a house in which the family had once lived, but which had now another entrance. he had in his hand a copy of the apocrypha, which he had never seen till he found this in the library. in his usual fashion he had begun to read it through, and was now in the book called the wisdom of solomon, at the th chapter, narrating the discomfiture of certain magicians. taken with the beauty of the passage, he sat down on an old stone-roller, and read aloud. parts of the passage were these--they will enrich my page:-- "for they, that promised to drive away terrors and troubles from a sick soul, were sick themselves of fear, worthy to be laughed at. "...for wickedness, condemned by her own witness, is very timorous, and being pressed with conscience, always forecasteth grievous things. "...but they sleeping the same sleep that night, which was indeed intolerable, and which came upon them out of the bottoms of inevitable hell, "were partly vexed with monstrous apparitions, and partly fainted, their heart failing them: for a sudden fear, and not looked for, came upon them. "so then whosoever there fell down was straitly kept, shut up in a prison without iron bars. "for whether he were husbandman, or shepherd, or a labourer in the field, he was overtaken, and endured that necessity, which could not be avoided: for they were all bound with one chain of darkness. "whether it were a whistling wind, or a melodious noise of birds among the spreading branches, or a pleasing fall of water running violently, "or a terrible sound of stones cast down, or a running that could not be seen of skipping beasts, or a roaring voice of most savage wild beasts, or a rebounding echo from the hollow mountains; these things made them to swoon for fear. "for the whole world shined with clear light, and none were hindered in their labour: "over them only was spread an heavy night, an image of that darkness which should afterward receive them: but yet were they unto themselves more grievous than the darkness." he had read so much, and stopped to think a little; for through the incongruity of it, which he did not doubt arose from poverty of imagination in the translator, rendering him unable to see what the poet meant, ran yet an indubitable vein of awful truth, whether fully intended by the writer or not mattered little to such a reader as donal--when, lifting his eyes, he saw lady arctura standing before him with a strange listening look. a spell seemed upon her; her face was white, her lips white and a little parted. attracted, as she was about to pass him, by the sound of what was none the less like the bible from the solemn crooning way in which donal read it to the congregation of his listening thoughts, yet was certainly not the bible, she was presently fascinated by the vague terror of what she heard, and stood absorbed: without much originative power, she had an imagination prompt and delicate and strong in response. donal had but a glance of her; his eyes returned again at once to his book, and he sat silent and motionless, though not seeing a word. for one instant she stood still; then he heard the soft sound of her dress as, with noiseless foot, she stole back, and took another way. i must give my reader a shadow of her. she was rather tall, slender, and fair. but her hair was dark, and so crinkly that, when merely parted, it did all the rest itself. her forehead was rather low. her eyes were softly dark, and her features very regular--her nose perhaps hardly large enough, or her chin. her mouth was rather thin-lipped, but would have been sweet except for a seemingly habitual expression of pain. a pair of dark brows overhung her sweet eyes, and gave a look of doubtful temper, yet restored something of the strength lacking a little in nose and chin. it was an interesting--not a quite harmonious face, and in happiness might, donal thought, be beautiful even. her figure was eminently graceful--as donal saw when he raised his eyes at the sound of her retreat. he thought she needed not have run away as from something dangerous: why did she not pass him like any other servant of the house? but what seemed to him like contempt did not hurt him. he was too full of realities to be much affected by opinion however shown. besides, he had had his sorrow and had learned his lesson. he was a poet--but one of the few without any weak longing after listening ears. the poet whose poetry needs an audience, can be but little of a poet; neither can the poetry that is of no good to the man himself, be of much good to anybody else. there are the song-poets and the life-poets, or rather the god-poems. sympathy is lovely and dear--chiefly when it comes unsought; but the fame after which so many would-be, yea, so many real poets sigh, is poorest froth. donal could sing his songs like the birds, content with the blue heaven or the sheep for an audience--or any passing angel that cared to listen. on the hill-sides he would sing them aloud, but it was of the merest natural necessity. a look of estrangement on the face of a friend, a look of suffering on that of any animal, would at once and sorely affect him, but not a disparaging expression on the face of a comparative stranger, were she the loveliest woman he had ever seen. he was little troubled about the world, because little troubled about himself. lady arctura and lord forgue lived together like brother and sister, apparently without much in common, and still less of misunderstanding. there would have been more chance of their taking a fancy to each other if they had not been brought up together; they were now little together, and never alone together. very few visitors came to the castle, and then only to call. lord morven seldom saw any one, his excuse being his health. but lady arctura was on terms of intimacy with sophia carmichael, the minister's daughter--to whom her father had communicated his dissatisfaction with the character of donal, and poured out his indignation at his conduct. he ought to have left the parish at once! whereas he had instead secured for himself the best, the only situation in it, without giving him a chance of warning his lordship! the more injustice her father spoke against him, the more miss carmichael condemned him; for she was a good daughter, and looked up to her father as the wisest and best man in the parish. very naturally therefore she repeated his words to lady arctura. she in her turn conveyed them to her uncle. he would not, however, pay much attention to them. the thing was done, he said. he had himself seen and talked with donal, and liked him! the young man had himself told him of the clergyman's disapprobation! he would request him to avoid all reference to religious subjects! therewith he dismissed the matter, and forgot all about it. anything requiring an effort of the will, an arrangement of ideas, or thought as to mode, his lordship would not encounter. nor was anything to him of such moment that he must do it at once. lady arctura did not again refer to the matter: her uncle was not one to take liberties with--least of all to press to action. but she continued painfully doubtful whether she was not neglecting her duty, trying to persuade herself that she was waiting only till she should have something definite to say of her own knowledge against him. and now what was she to conclude from his reading the apocrypha? the fact was not to be interpreted to his advantage: was he not reading what was not the bible as if it were the bible, and when he might have been reading the bible itself? besides, the apocrypha came so near the bible when it was not the bible! it must be at least rather wicked! at the same time she could not drive from her mind the impressiveness both of the matter she had heard, and his manner of reading it: the strong sound of judgment and condemnation in it came home to her--she could not have told how or why, except generally because of her sins. she was one of those--not very few i think--who from conjunction of a lovely conscience with an ill-instructed mind, are doomed for a season to much suffering. she was largely different from her friend: the religious opinions of the latter--they were in reality rather metaphysical than religious, and bad either way--though she clung to them with all the tenacity of a creature with claws, occasioned her not an atom of mental discomposure: perhaps that was in part why she clung to them! they were as she would have them! she did not trouble herself about what god required of her, beyond holding the doctrine the holding of which guaranteed, as she thought, her future welfare. conscience toward god had very little to do with her opinions, and her heart still less. her head on the contrary, perhaps rather her memory, was considerably occupied with the matter; nothing she held had ever been by her regarded on its own merits--that is, on its individual claim to truth; if it had been handed down by her church, that was enough; to support it she would search out text after text, and press it into the service. any meaning but that which the church of her fathers gave to a passage must be of the devil, and every man opposed to the truth who saw in that meaning anything but truth! it was indeed impossible miss carmichael should see any meaning but that, even if she had looked for it; she was nowise qualified for discovering truth, not being herself true. what she saw and loved in the doctrines of her church was not the truth, but the assertion; and whoever questioned, not to say the doctrine, but even the proving of it by any particular passage, was a dangerous person, and unsound. all the time her acceptance and defence of any doctrine made not the slightest difference to her life--as indeed how should it? such was the only friend lady arctura had. but the conscience and heart of the younger woman were alive to a degree that boded ill either for the doctrine that stinted their growth, or the nature unable to cast it off. miss carmichael was a woman about six-and-twenty--and had been a woman, like too many scotch girls, long before she was out of her teens--a human flower cut and dried--an unpleasant specimen, and by no means valuable from its scarcity. self-sufficient, assured, with scarce shyness enough for modesty, handsome and hard, she was essentially a self-glorious philistine; nor would she be anything better till something was sent to humble her, though what spiritual engine might be equal to the task was not for man to imagine. she was clever, but her cleverness made nobody happier; she had great confidence, but her confidence gave courage to no one, and took it from many; she had little fancy, and less imagination than any other i ever knew. the divine wonder was, that she had not yet driven the delicate, truth-loving arctura mad. from her childhood she had had the ordering of all her opinions: whatever sophy carmichael said, lady arctura never thought of questioning. a lie is indeed a thing in its nature unbelievable, but there is a false belief always ready to receive the false truth, and there is no end to the mischief the two can work. the awful punishment of untruth in the inward parts is that the man is given over to believe a lie. lady arctura was in herself a gentle creature who shrank from either giving or receiving a rough touch; but she had an inherited pride, by herself unrecognized as such, which made her capable of hurting as well as being hurt. next to the doctrines of the scottish church, she respected her own family: it had in truth no other claim to respect than that its little good and much evil had been done before the eyes of a large part of many generations--whence she was born to think herself distinguished, and to imagine a claim for the acknowledgment of distinction upon all except those of greatly higher rank than her own. this inborn arrogance was in some degree modified by respect for the writers of certain books--not one of whom was of any regard in the eyes of the thinkers of the age. of any writers of power, beyond those of the bible, either in this country or another, she knew nothing. yet she had a real instinct for what was good in literature; and of the writers to whom i have referred she not only liked the worthiest best, but liked best their best things. i need hardly say they were all religious writers; for the keen conscience and obedient heart of the girl had made her very early turn herself towards the quarter where the sun ought to rise, the quarter where all night long gleams the auroral hope; but unhappily she had not gone direct to the heavenly well in earthly ground--the words of the master himself. how could she? from very childhood her mind had been filled with traditionary utterances concerning the divine character and the divine plans--the merest inventions of men far more desirous of understanding what they were not required to understand, than of doing what they were required to do--whence their crude and false utterances concerning a god of their own fancy--in whom it was a good man's duty, in the name of any possible god, to disbelieve; and just because she was true, authority had immense power over her. the very sweetness of their nature forbids such to doubt the fitness of others. she had besides had a governess of the orthodox type, a large proportion of whose teaching was of the worst heresy, for it was lies against him who is light, and in whom is no darkness at all; her doctrines were so many smoked glasses held up between the mind of her pupil and the glory of the living god; nor had she once directed her gaze to the very likeness of god, the face of jesus christ. had arctura set herself to understand him the knowledge of whom is eternal life, she would have believed none of these false reports of him, but she had not yet met with any one to help her to cast aside the doctrines of men, and go face to face with the son of man, the visible god. first lie of all, she had been taught that she must believe so and so before god would let her come near him or listen to her. the old cobbler could have taught her differently; but she would have thought it improper to hold conversation with such a man, even if she had known him for the best man in auchars. she was in sore and sad earnest to believe as she was told she must believe; therefore instead of beginning to do what jesus christ said, she tried hard to imagine herself one of the chosen, tried hard to believe herself the chief of sinners. there was no one to tell her that it is only the man who sees something of the glory of god, the height and depth and breadth and length of his love and unselfishness, not a child dabbling in stupid doctrines, that can feel like st. paul. she tried to feel that she deserved to be burned in hell for ever and ever, and that it was boundlessly good of god--who made her so that she could not help being a sinner--to give her the least chance of escaping it. she tried to feel that, though she could not be saved without something which the god of perfect love could give her if he pleased, but might not please to give her, yet if she was not saved it would be all her own fault: and so ever the round of a great miserable treadmill of contradictions! for a moment she would be able to say this or that she thought she ought to say; the next the feeling would be gone, and she as miserable as before. her friend made no attempt to imbue her with her own calm indifference, nor could she have succeeded had she attempted it. but though she had never been troubled herself, and that because she had never been in earnest, she did not find it the less easy to take upon her the rôle of a spiritual adviser, and gave no end of counsel for the attainment of assurance. she told her truly enough that all her trouble came of want of faith; but she showed her no one fit to believe in. chapter xviii. a clash. all this time, donal had never again seen the earl, neither had the latter shown any interest in davie's progress. but lady arctura was full of serious anxiety concerning him. heavily prejudiced against the tutor, she dreaded his influence on the mind of her little cousin. there was a small recess in the schoolroom--it had been a bay window, but from an architectural necessity arising from decay, it had, all except a narrow eastern light, been built up--and in this recess donal was one day sitting with a book, while davie was busy writing at the table in the middle of the room: it was past school-hours, but the weather did not invite them out of doors, and donal had given davie a poem to copy. lady arctura came into the room--she had never entered it before since donal came--and thinking he was alone, began to talk to the boy. she spoke in so gentle a tone that donal, busy with his book, did not for some time distinguish a word she said. he never suspected she was unaware of his presence. by degrees her voice grew a little louder, and by and by these words reached him: "you know, davie dear, every sin, whatever it is, deserves god's wrath and curse, both in this life and that which is to come; and if it had not been that jesus christ gave himself to turn away his anger and satisfy his justice by bearing the punishment for us, god would send us all to the place of misery for ever and ever. it is for his sake, not for ours, that he pardons us." she had not yet ceased when donal rose in the wrath of love, and came out into the room. "lady arctura," he said, "i dare not sit still and hear such false things uttered against the blessed god!" lady arctura started in dire dismay, but in virtue of her breed and her pride recovered herself immediately, drew herself up, and said-- "mr. grant, you forget yourself!" "i'm very willing to do that, my lady," answered donal, "but i must not forget the honour of my god. if you were a heathen woman i might think whether the hour was come for enlightening you further, but to hear one who has had the bible in her hands from her childhood say such things about the god who made her and sent his son to save her, without answering a word for him, would be cowardly!" "what do you know about such things? what gives you a right to speak?" said lady arctura. her pride-strength was already beginning to desert her. "i had a christian mother," answered donal, "--have her yet, thank god!--who taught me to love nothing but the truth; i have studied the bible from my childhood, often whole days together, when i was out with the cattle or the sheep; and i have tried to do what the lords tells me, from nearly the earliest time i can remember. therefore i am able to set to my seal that god is true--that he is light, and there is no darkness of unfairness or selfishness in him. i love god with my whole heart and soul, my lady." arctura tried to say she too loved him so, but her conscience interfered, and she could not. "i don't say you don't love him," donal went on; "but how you can love him and believe such things of him, i don't understand. whoever taught them first was a terrible liar against god, who is lovelier than all the imaginations of all his creatures can think." lady arctura swept from the room--though she was trembling from head to foot. at the door she turned and called davie. the boy looked up in his tutor's face, mutely asking if he should obey her. "go," said donal. in less than a minute he came back, his eyes full of tears. "arkie says she is going to tell papa. is it true, mr. grant, that you are a dangerous man? i do not believe it--though you do carry such a big knife." donal laughed. "it is my grandfather's skean dhu," he said: "i mend my pens with it, you know! but it is strange, davie, that, when a body knows something other people don't, they should be angry with him! they will even think he wants to make them bad when he wants to help them to be good!" "but arkie is good, mr. grant!" "i am sure she is. but she does not know so much about god as i do, or she would never say such things of him: we must talk about him more after this!" "no, no, please, mr. grant! we won't say a word about him, for arkie says except you promise never to speak of god, she will tell papa, and he will send you away." "davie," said donal with solemnity, "i would not give such a promise for the castle and all it contains--no, not to save your life and the life of everybody in it! for jesus says, 'whosoever denieth me before men, him will i deny before my father in heaven;' and rather than that, i would jump from the top of the castle. why, davie! would a man deny his own father or mother?" "i don't know," answered davie; "i don't remember my mother." "i'll tell you what," said donal, with sudden inspiration: "i will promise not to speak about god at any other time, if she will promise to sit by when i do speak of him--say once a week.--perhaps we shall do what he tells us all the better that we don't talk so much about him!" "oh, thank you, mr. grant!--i will tell her," cried davie, jumping up relieved. "oh, thank you, mr. grant!" he repeated; "i could not bear you to go away. i should never stop crying if you did. and you won't say any wicked things, will you? for arkie reads her bible every day." "so do i, davie." "do you?" returned davie, "i'll tell her that too, and then she will see she must have been mistaken." he hurried to his cousin with donal's suggestion. it threw her into no small perplexity--first from doubt as to the propriety of the thing proposed, next because of the awkwardness of it, then from a sudden fear lest his specious tongue should lead herself into the bypaths of doubt, and to the castle of giant despair--at which, indeed, it was a gracious wonder she had not arrived ere now. what if she should be persuaded of things which it was impossible to believe and be saved! she did not see that such belief as she desired to have was in itself essential damnation. for what can there be in heaven or earth for a soul that believes in an unjust god? to rejoice in such a belief would be to be a devil, and to believe what cannot be rejoiced in, is misery. no doubt a man may not see the true nature of the things he thinks she believes, but that cannot save him from the loss of not knowing god, whom to know is alone eternal life; for who can know him that believes evil things of him? that many a good man does believe such things, only argues his heart not yet one towards him. to make his belief possible he must dwell on the good things he has learned about god, and not think about the bad things. and what would sophia say? lady arctura would have sped to her friend for counsel before giving any answer to the audacious proposal, but she was just then from home for a fortnight, and she must resolve without her! she reflected also that she had not yet anything sufficiently definite to say to her uncle about the young man's false doctrine; and, for herself, concluded that, as she was well grounded for argument, knowing thoroughly the shorter catechism with the proofs from scripture of every doctrine it contained, it was foolish to fear anything from one who went in the strength of his own ignorant and presumptuous will, regardless of the opinions of the fathers of the church, and accepting only such things as were pleasing to his unregenerate nature. but she hesitated; and after waiting for a week without receiving any answer to his proposal, donal said to davie, "we shall have a lesson in the new testament to-morrow: you had better mention it to your cousin." the next morning he asked him if he had mentioned it. the boy said he had. "what did she say, davie?" "nothing--only looked strange," answered davie. when the hour of noon was past, and lady arctura did not appear, donal said, "davie, we'll have our new testament lesson out of doors: that is the best place for it!" "it is the best place!" responded davie, jumping up. "but you're not taking your book, mr. grant!" "never mind; i will give you a lesson or two without book first." just as they were leaving the room, appeared lady arctura with miss carmichael. "i understood," said the former, with not a little haughtiness, "that you--" she hesitated, and miss carmichael took up the word. "we wish to form our own judgment," she said, "on the nature of the religious instruction you give your pupil." "i invited lady arctura to be present when i taught him about god," said donal. "then are you not now going to do so?" said arctura. "as your ladyship made no answer to my proposal, and school hours were over, i concluded you were not coming." "and you would not give the lesson without her ladyship!" said miss carmichael. "very right!" "excuse me," returned donal; "we were going to have it out of doors." "but you had agreed not to give him any so-called religious instruction but in the presence of lady arctura!" "by no means. i only offered to give it in her presence if she chose. there was no question of the lessons being given." miss carmichael looked at lady arctura as much as to say--"is he speaking the truth?" and if she replied, it was in the same fashion. donal looked at miss carmichael. he did not at all relish her interference. he had never said he would give his lesson before any who chose to be present! but he did not see how to meet the intrusion. neither could he turn back into the schoolroom, sit down, and begin. he put his hand on davie's shoulder, and walked slowly towards the lawn. the ladies followed in silence. he sought to forget their presence, and be conscious only of his pupil's and his master's. on the lawn he stopped suddenly. "davie," he said, "where do you fancy the first lesson in the new testament ought to begin?" "at the beginning," replied davie. "when a thing is perfect, davie, it is difficult to say what is the beginning of it: show me one of your marbles." the boy produced from his pocket a pure white one--a real marble. "that is a good one for the purpose," remarked donal, "--very smooth and white, with just one red streak in it! now where is the beginning of this marble?" "nowhere," answered davie. "if i should say everywhere?" suggested donal. "ah, yes!" said the boy. "but i agree with you that it begins nowhere." "it can't do both!" "oh, yes, it can! it begins nowhere for itself, but everywhere for us. only all its beginnings are endings, and all its endings are beginnings. look here: suppose we begin at this red streak, it is just there we should end again. that is because it is a perfect thing.--well, there was one who said, 'i am alpha and omega,'--the first greek letter and the last, you know--'the beginning and the end, the first and the last.' all the new testament is about him. he is perfect, and i may begin about him where i best can. listen then as if you had never heard anything about him before.--many years ago--about fifty or sixty grandfathers off--there appeared in the world a few men who said that a certain man had been their companion for some time and had just left them; that he was killed by cruel men, and buried by his friends; but that, as he had told them he would, he lay in the grave only three days, and left it on the third alive and well; and that, after forty days, during which they saw him several times, he went up into the sky, and disappeared.--it wasn't a very likely story, was it?" "no," replied davie. the ladies exchanged looks of horror. neither spoke, but each leaned eagerly forward, in fascinated expectation of worse to follow. "but, davie," donal went on, "however unlikely it must have seemed to those who heard it, i believe every word of it." a ripple of contempt passed over miss carmichael's face. "for," continued donal, "the man said he was the son of god, come down from his father to see his brothers, his father's children, and take home with him to his father those who would go." "excuse me," interrupted miss carmichael, with a pungent smile: "what he said was, that if any man believed in him, he should be saved." "run along, davie," said donal. "i will tell you more of what he said next lesson. don't forget what i've told you now." "no, sir," answered davie, and ran off. donal lifted his hat, and would have gone towards the river. but miss carmichael, stepping forward, said, "mr. grant, i cannot let you go till you answer me one question: do you believe in the atonement?" "i do," answered donal. "favour me then with your views upon it," she said. "are you troubled in your mind on the subject?" asked donal. "not in the least," she replied, with a slight curl of her lip. "then i see no occasion for giving you my views." "but i insist." donald smiled. "of what consequence can my opinions be to you, ma'am? why should you compel a confession of my faith?" "as the friend of this family, and the daughter of the clergyman of this parish, i have a right to ask what your opinions are: you have a most important charge committed to you--a child for whose soul you have to account!" "for that i am accountable, but, pardon me, not to you." "you are accountable to lord morven for what you teach his child." "i am not." "what! he will turn you away at a moment's notice if you say so to him." "i should be quite ready to go. if i were accountable to him for what i taught, i should of course teach only what he pleased. but do you suppose i would take any situation on such a condition?" "it is nothing to me, or his lordship either, i presume, what you would or would not do." "then i see no reason why you should detain me.--lady arctura, i did not offer to give my lesson in the presence of any other than yourself: i will not do so again. you will be welcome, for you have a right to know what i am teaching him. if you bring another, except it be my lord morven, i will take david to my own room." with these words he left them. lady arctura was sorely bewildered. she could not but feel that her friend had not shown to the better advantage, and that the behaviour of donal had been dignified. but surely he was very wrong! what he said to davie sounded so very different from what was said at church, and by her helper, miss carmichael! it was a pity they had heard so little! he would have gone on if only sophy had had patience and held her peace! perhaps he might have spoken better things if she had not interfered! it would hardly be fair to condemn him upon so little! he had said that he believed every word of the new testament--or something very like it! "i have heard enough!" said miss carmichael: "i will speak to my father at once." the next day donal received a note to the following effect:-- "sir, in consequence of what i felt bound to report to my father of the conversation we had yesterday, he desires that you will call upon him at your earliest convenience he is generally at home from three to five. yours truly, sophia agnes carmichael." to this donal immediately replied:-- "madam, notwithstanding the introduction i brought him from another clergyman, your father declined my acquaintance, passing me afterwards as one unknown to him. from this fact, and from the nature of the report which your behaviour to me yesterday justifies me in supposing you must have carried to him, i can hardly mistake his object in wishing to see me. i will attend the call of no man to defend my opinions; your father's i have heard almost every sunday since i came to the castle, and have been from childhood familiar with them. yours truly, donal grant." not a word more came to him from either of them. when they happened to meet, miss carmichael took no more notice of him than her father. but she impressed it upon the mind of her friend that, if unable to procure his dismission, she ought at least to do what she could to protect her cousin from the awful consequences of such false teaching: if she was present, he would not say such things as he would in her absence, for it was plain he was under restraint with her! she might even have some influence with him if she would but take courage to show him where he was wrong! or she might find things such that her uncle must see the necessity of turning him away; as the place belonged to her, he would never go dead against her! she did not see that that was just the thing to fetter the action of a delicate-minded girl. continually haunted, however, with the feeling that she ought to do something, lady arctura felt as if she dared not absent herself from the lesson, however disagreeable it might prove: that much she could do! upon the next occasion, therefore, she appeared in the schoolroom at the hour appointed, and with a cold bow took the chair donal placed for her. "now, davie," said donal, "what have you done since our last lesson?" davie stared. "you didn't tell me to do anything, mr. grant!" "no; but what then did i give you the lesson for? where is the good of such a lesson if it makes no difference to you! what was it i told you?" davie, who had never thought about it since, the lesson having been broken off before donal could bring it to its natural fruit, considered, and said, "that jesus christ rose from the dead." "well--where is the good of knowing that?" davie was silent; he knew no good of knowing it, neither could imagine any. the catechism, of which he had learned about half, suggested nothing. "come, davie, i will help you: is jesus dead, or is he alive?" davie considered. "alive," he answered. "what does he do?" davie did not know. "what did he die for?" here davie had an answer--a cut and dried one: "to take away our sins," he said. "then what does he live for?" davie was once more silent. "do you think if a man died for a thing, he would be likely to forget it the minute he rose again?" "no, sir." "do you not think he would just go on doing the same thing as before?" "i do, sir." "then, as he died to take away our sins, he lives to take them away!" "yes, sir." "what are sins, davie?" "bad things, sir." "yes; the bad things we think, and the bad things we feel, and the bad things we do. have you any sins, davie?" "yes; i am very wicked." "oh! are you? how do you know it?" "arkie told me." "what is being wicked?" "doing bad things." "what bad things do you do?" "i don't know, sir." "then you don't know that you are wicked; you only know that arkie told you so!" lady arctura drew herself up; but donal was too intent to perceive the offence he had given. "i will tell you," donal went on, "something you did wicked to-day." davie grew rosy red. "when we find out one wicked thing we do, it is a beginning to finding out all the wicked things we do. some people would rather not find them out, but have them hidden from themselves and from god too. but let us find them out, everyone of them, that we may ask jesus to take them away, and help jesus to take them away, by fighting them with all our strength.--this morning you pulled the little pup's ears till he screamed." davie hung his head. "you stopped a while, and then did it again! so i knew it wasn't that you didn't know. is that a thing jesus would have done when he was a little boy?" "no, sir." "why?" "because it would have been wrong." "i suspect, rather, it is because he would have loved the little pup. he didn't have to think about its being wrong. he loves every kind of living thing. he wants to take away your sin because he loves you. he doesn't merely want to make you not cruel to the little pup, but to take away the wrong think that doesn't love him. he wants to make you love every living creature. davie, jesus came out of the grave to make us good." tears were flowing down davie's checks. "the lesson 's done, davie," said donal, and rose and went, leaving him with lady arctura. but ere he reached the door, he turned with sudden impulse, and said:-- "davie, i love jesus christ and his father more than i can tell you--more than i can put in words--more than i can think; and if you love me you will mind what jesus tells you." "what a good man you must be, mr. grant!--mustn't he, arkie?" sobbed davie. donal laughed. "what, davie!" he exclaimed. "you think me very good for loving the only good person in the whole world! that is very odd! why, davie, i should be the most contemptible creature, knowing him as i do, not to love him with all my heart--yes, with all the big heart i shall have one day when he has done making me." "is he making you still, mr. grant? i thought you were grown up!" "well, i don't think he will make me any taller," answered donal. "but the live part of me--the thing i love you with, the thing i think about god with, the thing i love poetry with, the thing i read the bible with--that thing god keeps on making bigger and bigger. i do not know where it will stop, i only know where it will not stop. that thing is me, and god will keep on making it bigger to all eternity, though he has not even got it into the right shape yet." "why is he so long about it?" "i don't think he is long about it; but he could do it quicker if i were as good as by this time i ought to be, with the father and mother i have, and all my long hours on the hillsides with my new testament and the sheep. i prayed to god on the hill and in the fields, and he heard me, davie, and made me see the foolishness of many things, and the grandeur and beauty of other things. davie, god wants to give you the whole world, and everything in it. when you have begun to do the things jesus tells you, then you will be my brother, and we shall both be his little brothers, and the sons of his father god, and so the heirs of all things." with that he turned again and went. the tears were rolling down arctura's face without her being aware of it. "he is a well-meaning man," she said to herself, "but dreadfully mistaken: the bible says believe, not do!" the poor girl, though she read her bible regularly, was so blinded by the dust and ashes of her teaching, that she knew very little of what was actually in it. the most significant things slipped from her as if they were merest words without shadow of meaning or intent: they did not support the doctrines she had been taught, and therefore said nothing to her. the story of christ and the appeals of those who had handled the word of life had another end in view than making people understand how god arranged matters to save them. god would have us live: if we live we cannot but know; all the knowledge in the universe could not make us live. obedience is the road to all things--the only way in which to grow able to trust him. love and faith and obedience are sides of the same prism. regularly after that, lady arctura came to the lesson--always intending to object as soon as it was over. but always before the end came, donal had said something that went so to the heart of the honest girl that she could say nothing. as if she too had been a pupil, as indeed she was, far more than either knew, she would rise when davie rose, and go away with him. but it was to go alone into the garden, or to her room, not seldom finding herself wishing things true which yet she counted terribly dangerous: listening to them might not she as well as davie fail miserably of escape from the wrath to come? chapter xix. the factor. the old avenue of beeches, leading immediately nowhither any more, but closed at one end by a built-up gate, and at the other by a high wall, between which two points it stretched quite a mile, was a favourite resort of donal's, partly for its beauty, partly for its solitude. the arms of the great trees crossing made of it a long aisle--its roof a broken vault of leaves, upheld by irregular pointed arches--which affected one's imagination like an ever shifting dream of architectural suggestion. having ceased to be a way, it was now all but entirely deserted, and there was eeriness in the vanishing vista that showed nothing beyond. when the wind of the twilight sighed in gusts through its moanful crowd of fluttered leaves; or when the wind of the winter was tormenting the ancient haggard boughs, and the trees looked as if they were weary of the world, and longing after the garden of god; yet more when the snow lay heavy upon their branches, sorely trying their aged strength to support its oppression, and giving the onlooker a vague sense of what the world would be if god were gone from it--then the old avenue was a place from which one with more imagination than courage would be ready to haste away, and seek instead the abodes of men. but donal, though he dearly loved his neighbour, and that in the fullest concrete sense, was capable of loving the loneliest spots, for in such he was never alone. it was altogether a neglected place. long grass grew over its floor from end to end--cut now and then for hay, or to feed such animals as had grass in their stalls. along one border, outside the trees, went a footpath--so little used that, though not quite conquered by the turf, the long grass often met over the top of it. finding it so lonely, donal grew more and more fond of it. it was his outdoor study, his proseuche {compilers note: pi, rho, omicron, sigma, epsilon upsilon, chi, eta with stress--[outdoor] place of prayer}--a little aisle of the great temple! seldom indeed was his reading or meditation there interrupted by sight of human being. about a month after he had taken up his abode at the castle, he was lying one day in the grass with a book-companion, under the shade of one of the largest of its beeches, when he felt through the ground ere he heard through the air the feet of an approaching horse. as they came near, he raised his head to see. his unexpected appearance startled the horse, his rider nearly lost his seat, and did lose his temper. recovering the former, and holding the excited animal, which would have been off at full speed, he urged him towards donal, whom he took for a tramp. he was rising--deliberately, that he might not do more mischief, and was yet hardly on his feet, when the horse, yielding to the spur, came straight at him, its rider with his whip lifted. donal took off his bonnet, stepped a little aside, and stood. his bearing and countenance calmed the horseman's rage; there was something in them to which no gentleman could fail of response. the rider was plainly one who had more to do with affairs bucolic than with those of cities or courts, but withal a man of conscious dignity, socially afloat, and able to hold his own. "what the devil--," he cried--for nothing is so irritating to a horseman as to come near losing his seat, except perhaps to lose it altogether, and indignation against the cause of an untoward accident is generally a mortal's first consciousness thereupon: however foolishly, he feels himself injured. but there, having better taken in donal's look, he checked himself. "i beg your pardon, sir," said donal. "it was foolish of me to show myself so suddenly; i might have thought it would startle most horses. i was too absorbed to have my wits about me." the gentleman lifted his hat. "i beg your pardon in return," he said with a smile which cleared every cloud from his face. "i took you for some one who had no business here; but i imagine you are the tutor at the castle, with as good a right as i have myself." "you guess well, sir." "pardon me that i forget your name." "my name is donal grant," returned donal, with an accent on the my intending a wish to know in return that of the speaker. "i am a graeme," answered the other, "one of the clan, and factor to the earl. come and see where i live. my sister will be glad to make your acquaintance. we lead rather a lonely life here, and don't see too many agreeable people." "you call this lonely, do you!" said donal thoughtfully. "--it is a grand place, anyhow!" "you are right--as you see it now. but wait till winter! then perhaps you will change your impression a little." "pardon me if i doubt whether you know what winter can be so well as i do. this east coast is by all accounts a bitter place, but i fancy it is only upon a great hill-side you can know the heart and soul of a snow-blast." "i yield that," returned mr. graeme. "--it is bitter enough here though, and a mercy we can keep warm in-doors." "which is often more than we shepherd-folk can do," said donal. mr. graeme used to say afterwards he was never so immediately taken with a man. it was one of the charms of donal's habit of being, that he never spoke as if he belonged to any other than the class in which he had been born and brought up. this came partly of pride in his father and mother, partly of inborn dignity, and partly of religion. to him the story of our lord was the reality it is, and he rejoiced to know himself so nearly on the same social level of birth as the master of his life and aspiration. it was donal's one ambition--to give the high passion a low name--to be free with the freedom which was his natural inheritance, and which is to be gained only by obedience to the words of the master. from the face of this aspiration fled every kind of pretence as from the light flies the darkness. hence he was entirely and thoroughly a gentleman. what if his clothes were not even of the next to the newest cut! what if he had not been used to what is called society! he was far above such things. if he might but attain to the manners of the "high countries," manners which appear because they exist--because they are all through the man! he did not think what he might seem in the eyes of men. courteous, helpful, considerate, always seeking first how far he could honestly agree with any speaker, opposing never save sweetly and apologetically--except indeed some utterance flagrantly unjust were in his ears--there was no man of true breeding, in or out of society, who would not have granted that donal was fit company for any man or woman. mr. graeme's eye glanced down over the tall square-shouldered form, a little stooping from lack of drill and much meditation, but instantly straightening itself upon any inward stir, and he said to himself, "this is no common man!" they were moving slowly along the avenue, donal by the rider's near knee, talking away like men not unlikely soon to know each other better. "you don't make much use of this avenue!" said donal. "no; its use is an old story. the castle was for a time deserted, and the family, then passing through a phase of comparative poverty, lived in the house we are in now--to my mind much the more comfortable." "what a fine old place it must be, if such trees are a fit approach to it!" "they were never planted for that; they are older far. either there was a wood here, and the rest were cut down and these left, or there was once a house much older than the present. the look of the garden, and some of the offices, favour the latter idea." "i have never seen the house," said donal. "you have not then been much about yet?" said mr. graeme. "i have been so occupied with my pupil, and so delighted with all that lay immediately around me, that i have gone nowhere--except, indeed, to see andrew comin, the cobbler." "ah, you know him! i have heard of him as a remarkable man. there was a clergyman here from glasgow--i forget his name--so struck with him he seemed actually to take him for a prophet. he said he was a survival of the old mystics. for my part i have no turn for extravagance." "but," said donal, in the tone of one merely suggesting a possibility, "a thing that from the outside may seem an extravagance, may look quite different when you get inside it." "the more reason for keeping out of it! if acquaintance must make you in love with it, the more air between you and it the better!" "would not such precaution as that keep you from gaining a true knowledge of many things? nothing almost can be known from what people say." "true; but there are things so plainly nonsense!" "yes; but there are things that seem to be nonsense, because the man thinks he knows what they are when he does not. who would know the shape of a chair who took his idea of it from its shadow on the floor? what idea can a man have of religion who knows nothing of it except from what he hears at church?" mr. graeme was not fond of going to church yet went: he was the less displeased with the remark. but he made no reply, and the subject dropped. chapter xx. the old garden. the avenue seemed to donal about to stop dead against a high wall, but ere they quite reached the end, they turned at right angles, skirted the wall for some distance, then turned again with it. it was a somewhat dreary wall--of gray stone, with mortar as gray--not like the rich-coloured walls of old red brick one meets in england. but its roof-like coping was crowned with tufts of wall-plants, and a few lichens did something to relieve the grayness. it guided them to a farm-yard. mr. graeme left his horse at the stable, and led the way to the house. they entered it by a back door whose porch was covered with ivy, and going through several low passages, came to the other side of the house. there mr. graeme showed donal into a large, low-ceiled, old-fashioned drawing-room, smelling of ancient rose-leaves, their odour of sad hearts rather than of withered flowers--and leaving him went to find his sister. glancing about him donal saw a window open to the ground, and went to it. beyond lay a more fairy-like garden than he had ever dreamed of. but he had read of, though never looked on such, and seemed to know it from times of old. it was laid out in straight lines, with soft walks of old turf, and in it grew all kinds of straight aspiring things: their ambition seemed--to get up, not to spread abroad. he stepped out of the window, drawn as by the enchantment of one of childhood's dreams, and went wandering down a broad walk, his foot sinking deep in the velvety grass, and the loveliness of the dream did not fade. hollyhocks, gloriously impatient, whose flowers could not wait to reach the top ere they burst into the flame of life, making splendid blots of colour along their ascending stalks, received him like stately dames of faerie, and enticed him, gently eager for more, down the long walks between rows of them--deep red and creamy white, primrose and yellow: sure they were leading him to some wonderful spot, some nest of lovely dreams and more lovely visions! the walk did lead to a bower of roses--a bed surrounded with a trellis, on which they climbed and made a huge bonfire--altar of incense rather, glowing with red and white flame. it seemed more glorious than his brain could receive. seeing was hardly believing, but believing was more than seeing: though nothing is too good to be true, many things are too good to be grasped. "poor misbelieving birds of god," he said to himself, "we hover about a whole wood of the trees of life, venturing only here and there a peck, as if their fruit might be poison, and the design of our creation was our ruin! we shake our wise, owl-feathered heads, and declare they cannot be the trees of life: that were too good to be true! ten times more consistent are they who deny there is a god at all, than they who believe in a middling kind of god--except indeed that they place in him a fitting faith!" the thoughts rose gently in his full heart, as the flowers, one after the other, stole in at his eyes, looking up from the dark earth like the spirits of its hidden jewels, which themselves could not reach the sun, exhaled in longing. over grass which fondled his feet like the lap of an old nurse, he walked slowly round the bed of the roses, turning again towards the house. but there, half-way between him and it, was the lady of the garden descending to meet him!--not ancient like the garden, but young like its flowers, light-footed, and full of life. prepared by her brother to be friendly, she met him with a pleasant smile, and he saw that the light which shone in her dark eyes had in it rays of laughter. she had a dark, yet clear complexion, a good forehead, a nose after no recognized generation of noses, yet an attractive one, a mouth larger than to human judgment might have seemed necessary, yet a right pleasing mouth, with two rows of lovely teeth. all this donal saw approach without dismay. he was no more shy with women than with men; while none the less his feeling towards them partook largely of the reverence of the ideal knight errant. he would not indeed have been shy in the presence of an angel of god; for his only courage came of truth, and clothed in the dignity of his reverence, he could look in the face of the lovely without perturbation. he would not have sought to hide from him whose voice was in the garden, but would have made haste to cast himself at his feet. bonnet in hand he advanced to meet kate graeme. she held out to him a well-shaped, good-sized hand, not ignorant of work--capable indeed of milking a cow to the cow's satisfaction. then he saw that her chin was strong, and her dark hair not too tidy; that she was rather tall, and slenderly conceived though plumply carried out. her light approach pleased him. he liked the way her foot pressed the grass. if donal loved anything in the green world, it was neither roses nor hollyhocks, nor even sweet peas, but the grass that is trodden under foot, that springs in all waste places, and has so often to be glad of the dews of heaven to heal the hot cut of the scythe. he had long abjured the notion of anything in the vegetable kingdom being without some sense of life, without pleasure and pain also, in mild form and degree. chapter xxi. a first meeting. he took her hand, and felt it an honest one--a safe, comfortable hand. "my brother told me he had brought you," she said. "i am glad to see you." "you are very kind," said donal. "how did either of you know of my existence? a few minutes back, i was not aware of yours." was it a rude utterance? he was silent a moment with the silence that promises speech, then added-- "has it ever struck you how many born friends there are in the world who never meet--persons to love each other at first sight, but who never in this world have that sight?" "no," returned miss graeme, with a merrier laugh than quite responded to the remark, "i certainly never had such a thought. i take the people that come, and never think of those who do not. but of course it must be so." "to be in the world is to have a great many brothers and sisters you do not know!" said donal. "my mother told me," she rejoined, "of a man who had had so many wives and children that his son, whom she had met, positively did not know all his brothers and sisters." "i suspect," said donal, "we have to know our brothers and sisters." "i do not understand." "we have even got to feel a man is our brother the moment we see him," pursued donal, enhancing his former remark. "that sounds alarming!" said miss graeme, with another laugh. "my little heart feels not large enough to receive so many." "the worst of it is," continued donal, who once started was not ready to draw rein, "that those who chiefly advocate this extension of the family bonds, begin by loving their own immediate relations less than anybody else. extension with them means slackening--as if any one could learn to love more by loving less, or go on to do better without doing well! he who loves his own little will not love others much." "but how can we love those who are nothing to us?" objected miss graeme. "that would be impossible. the family relations are for the sake of developing a love rooted in a far deeper though less recognized relation.--but i beg your pardon, miss graeme. little davie alone is my pupil, and i forget myself." "i am very glad to listen to you," returned miss graeme. "i cannot say i am prepared to agree with you. but it is something, in this out-of-the-way corner, to hear talk from which it is even worth while to differ." "ah, you can have that here if you will!" "indeed!" "i mean talk from which you would probably differ. there is an old man in the town who can talk better than ever i heard man before. but he is a poor man, with a despised handicraft, and none heed him. no community recognizes its great men till they are gone." "where is the use then of being great?" said miss graeme. "to be great," answered donal, "--to which the desire to be known of men is altogether destructive. to be great is to seem little in the eyes of men." miss graeme did not answer. she was not accustomed to consider things seriously. a good girl in a certain true sense, she had never yet seen that she had to be better, or indeed to be anything. but she was able to feel, though she was far from understanding him, that donal was in earnest, and that was much. to recognize that a man means something, is a great step towards understanding him. "what a lovely garden this is!" remarked donal after the sequent pause. "i have never seen anything like it." "it is very old-fashioned," she returned. "do you not find it very stiff and formal?" "stately and precise, i should rather say." "i do not mean i can help liking it--in a way." "who could help liking it that took his feeling from the garden itself, not from what people said about it!" "you cannot say it is like nature!" "yes; it is very like human nature. man ought to learn of nature, but not to imitate nature. his work is, through the forms that nature gives him, to express the idea or feeling that is in him. that is far more likely to produce things in harmony with nature, than the attempt to imitate nature upon the small human scale." "you are too much of a philosopher for me!" said miss graeme. "i daresay you are quite right, but i have never read anything about art, and cannot follow you." "you have probably read as much as i have. i am only talking out of what necessity, the necessity for understanding things, has made me think. one must get things brought together in one's thoughts, if only to be able to go on thinking." this too was beyond miss graeme. the silence again fell, and donal let it lie, waiting for her to break it this time. chapter xxii. a talk about ghosts. but again he was the first. they had turned and gone a good way down the long garden, and had again turned towards the house. "this place makes me feel as i never felt before," he said. "there is such a wonderful sense of vanished life about it. the whole garden seems dreaming about things of long ago--when troops of ladies, now banished into pictures, wandered about the place, each full of her own thoughts and fancies of life, each looking at everything with ways of thinking as old-fashioned as her garments. i could not be here after nightfall without feeling as if every walk were answering to unseen feet, as if every tree might be hiding some lovely form, returned to dream over old memories." "where is the good of fancying what is not true? i can't care for what i know to be nonsense!" she was glad to find a spot where she could put down the foot of contradiction, for she came of a family known for what the neighbours called common sense, and in the habit of casting contempt upon everything characterized as superstition: she had now something to say for herself! "how do you know it is nonsense?" asked donald, looking round in her face with a bright smile. "not nonsense to keep imagining what nobody can see?" "i can only imagine what i do not see." "nobody ever saw such creatures as you suppose in any garden! then why fancy the dead so uncomfortable, or so ill looked after, that they come back to plague us!" "plainly they have never plagued you much!" rejoined donal laughing. "but how often have you gone up and down these walks at dead of night?" "never once," answered miss graeme, not without a spark of indignation. "i never was so absurd!" "then there may be a whole night-world that you know nothing about. you cannot tell that the place is not then thronged with ghosts: you have never given them a chance of appearing to you. i don't say it is so, for i know nothing, or at least little, about such things. i have had no experience of the sort any more than you--and i have been out whole nights on the mountains when i was a shepherd." "why then should you trouble your fancy about them?" "perhaps just for that reason." "i do not understand you." "i mean, because i can come into no communication with such a world as may be about me, i therefore imagine it. if, as often as i walked abroad at night, i met and held converse with the disembodied, i should use my imagination little, but make many notes of facts. when what may be makes no show, what more natural than to imagine about it? what is the imagination here for?" "i do not know. the less one has to do with it the better." "then the thing, whatever it be, should not be called a faculty, but a weakness!" "yes." "but the history of the world shows it could never have made progress without suggestions upon which to ground experiments: whence may these suggestions come if not from the weakness or impediment called the imagination?" again there was silence. miss graeme began to doubt whether it was possible to hold rational converse with a man who, the moment they began upon anything, went straight aloft into some high-flying region of which she knew and for which she cared nothing. but donal's unconscious desire was in reality to meet her upon some common plane of thought. he always wanted to meet his fellow, and hence that abundance of speech, which, however poetic the things he said, not a few called prosiness. "i should think," resumed miss graeme, "if you want to work your imagination, you will find more scope for it at the castle than here! this is a poor modern place compared to that." "it is a poor imagination," returned donal, "that requires age or any mere accessory to rouse it. the very absence of everything external, the bareness of the mere humanity involved, may in itself be an excitement greater than any accompaniment of the antique or the picturesque. but in this old-fashioned garden, in the midst of these old-fashioned flowers, with all the gentlenesses of old-fashioned life suggested by them, it is easier to imagine the people themselves than where all is so cold, hard, severe--so much on the defensive, as in that huge, sullen pile on the hilltop." "i am afraid you find it dull up there!" said miss graeme. "not at all," replied donal; "i have there a most interesting pupil. but indeed one who has been used to spend day after day alone, clouds and heather and sheep and dogs his companions, does not depend much for pastime. give me a chair and a table, fire enough to keep me from shivering, the few books i like best and writing materials, and i am absolutely content. but beyond these things i have at the castle a fine library--useless no doubt for most purposes of modern study, but full of precious old books. there i can at any moment be in the best of company! there is more of the marvellous in an old library than ever any magic could work!" "i do not quite understand you," said the lady. but she would have spoken nearer the truth if she had said she had not a glimmer of what he meant. "let me explain!" said donal: "what could necromancy, which is one of the branches of magic, do for one at the best?" "well!" exclaimed miss graeme; "--but i suppose if you believe in ghosts, you may as well believe in raising them!" "i did not mean to start any question about belief; i only wanted to suppose necromancy for the moment a fact, and put it at its best: suppose the magician could do for you all he professed, what would it amount to?--only this--to bring before your eyes a shadowy resemblance of the form of flesh and blood, itself but a passing shadow, in which the man moved on the earth, and was known to his fellow-men? at best the necromancer might succeed in drawing from him some obscure utterance concerning your future, far more likely to destroy your courage than enable you to face what was before you; so that you would depart from your peep into the unknown, merely less able to encounter the duties of life." "whoever has a desire for such information must be made very different from me!" said miss graeme. "are you sure of that? did you never make yourself unhappy about what might be on its way to you, and wish you could know beforehand something to guide you how to meet it?" "i should have to think before answering that question." "now tell me--what can the art of writing, and its expansion, or perhaps its development rather, in printing, do in the same direction as necromancy? may not a man well long after personal communication with this or that one of the greatest who have lived before him? i grant that in respect of some it can do nothing; but in respect of others, instead of mocking you with an airy semblance of their bodily forms, and the murmur of a few doubtful words from their lips, it places in your hands a key to their inmost thoughts. some would say this is not personal communication; but it is far more personal than the other. a man's personality does not consist in the clothes he wears; it only appears in them; no more does it consist in his body, but in him who wears it." as he spoke, miss graeme kept looking him gravely in the face, manifesting, however, more respect than interest. she had been accustomed to a very different tone in young men. she had found their main ambition to amuse; to talk sense about other matters than the immediate uses of this world, was an out-of-the-way thing! i do not say miss graeme, even on the subject last in hand, appreciated the matter of donal's talk. she perceived he was in earnest, and happily was able to know a deep pond from a shallow one, but her best thought concerning him was--what a strange new specimen of humanity was here! the appearance of her brother coming down the walk, put a stop to the conversation. chapter xxiii. a tradition of the castle. "well," he said as he drew near, "i am glad to see you two getting on so well!" "how do you know we are?" asked his sister, with something of the antagonistic tone which both in jest and earnest is too common between near relations. "because you have been talking incessantly ever since you met." "we have been only contradicting each other." "i could tell that too by the sound of your voices; but i took it for a good sign." "i fear you heard mine almost only!" said donal. "i talk too much, and i fear i have gathered the fault in a way that makes it difficult to cure." "how was it?" asked mr. graeme. "by having nobody to talk to. i learned it on the hill-side with the sheep, and in the meadows with the cattle. at college i thought i was nearly cured of it; but now, in my comparative solitude at the castle, it seems to have returned." "come here," said mr. graeme, "when you find it getting too much for you: my sister is quite equal to the task of re-curing you." "she has not begun to use her power yet!" remarked donal, as miss graeme, in hoydenish yet not ungraceful fashion, made an attempt to box the ear of her slanderous brother--a proceeding he had anticipated, and so was able to frustrate. "when she knows you better," he said, "you will find my sister kate more than your match." "if i were a talker," she answered, "mr. grant would be too much for me: he quite bewilders me! what do you think! he has been actually trying to persuade me--" "i beg your pardon, miss graeme; i have been trying to persuade you of nothing." "what! not to believe in ghosts and necromancy and witchcraft and the evil eye and ghouls and vampyres, and i don't know what all out of nursery stories and old annuals?" "i give you my word, mr. graeme," returned donal, laughing, "i have not been persuading your sister of any of these things! i am certain she could be persuaded of nothing of which she did not first see the common sense. what i did dwell upon, without a doubt she would accept it, was the evident fact that writing and printing have done more to bring us into personal relations with the great dead, than necromancy, granting the magician the power he claimed, could ever do. for do we not come into contact with the being of a man when we hear him pour forth his thoughts of the things he likes best to think about, into the ear of the universe? in such a position does the book of a great man place us!--that was what i meant to convey to your sister." "and," said mr. graeme, "she was not such a goose as to fail of understanding you, however she may have chosen to put on the garb of stupidity." "i am sure," persisted kate, "mr. grant talked so as to make me think he believed in necromancy and all that sort of thing!" "that may be," said donal; "but i did not try to persuade you to believe." "oh, if you hold me to the letter!" cried miss graeme, colouring a little.--"it would be impossible to get on with such a man," she thought, "for he not only preached when you had no pulpit to protect you from him, but stuck so to his text that there was no amusement to be got out of the business!" she did not know that if she could have met him, breaking the ocean-tide of his thoughts with fitting opposition, his answers would have come short and sharp as the flashes of waves on rocks. "if mr. grant believes in such things," said mr. graeme, "he must find himself at home in the castle, every room of which way well be the haunt of some weary ghost!" "i do not believe," said donal, "that any work of man's hands, however awful with crime done in it, can have nearly such an influence for belief in the marvellous, as the still presence of live nature. i never saw an old castle before--at least not to make any close acquaintance with it, but there is not an aspect of the grim old survival up there, interesting as every corner of it is, that moves me like the mere thought of a hill-side with the veil of the twilight coming down over it, making of it the last step of a stair for the descending foot of the lord." "surely, mr. grant, you do not expect such a personal advent!" said miss graeme. "i should not like to say what i do or don't expect," answered donal--and held his peace, for he saw he was but casting stumbling-blocks. the silence grew awkward; and mr. graeme's good breeding called on him to say something; he supposed donal felt himself snubbed by his sister. "if you are fond of the marvellous, though, mr. grant," he said, "there are some old stories about the castle would interest you. one of them was brought to my mind the other day in the town. it is strange how superstition seems to have its ebbs and flows! a story or legend will go to sleep, and after a time revive with fresh interest, no one knows why." "probably," said donal, "it is when the tale comes to ears fitted for its reception. they are now in many counties trying to get together and store the remnants of such tales: possibly the wind of some such inquiry may have set old people recollecting, and young people inventing. that would account for a good deal--would it not?" "yes, but not for all, i think. there has been no such inquiry made anywhere near us, so far as i am aware. i went to the morven arms last night to meet a tenant, and found the tradesmen were talking, over their toddy, of various events at the castle, and especially of one, the most frightful of all. it should have been forgotten by this time, for the ratio of forgetting, increases." "i should like much to hear it!" said donal. "do tell him, hector," said miss graeme, "and i will watch his hair." "it is the hair of those who mock at such things you should watch," returned donal. "their imagination is so rarely excited that, when it is, it affects their nerves more than the belief of others affects theirs." "now i have you!" cried miss graeme. "there you confess yourself a believer!" "i fear you have come to too general a conclusion. because i believe the bible, do i believe everything that comes from the pulpit? some tales i should reject with a contempt that would satisfy even miss graeme; of others i should say--'these seem as if they might be true;' and of still others, 'these ought to be true, i think.'--but do tell me the story." "it is not," replied mr. graeme, "a very peculiar one--certainly not peculiar to our castle, though unique in some of its details; a similar legend belongs to several houses in scotland, and is to be found, i fancy, in other countries as well. there is one not far from here, around whose dark basements--or hoary battlements--who shall say which?--floats a similar tale. it is of a hidden room, whose position or entrance nobody knows. whether it belongs to our castle by right i cannot tell." "a species of report," said donal, "very likely to arise by a kind of cryptogamic generation! the common people, accustomed to the narrowest dwellings, gazing on the huge proportions of the place, and upon occasion admitted, and walking through a succession of rooms and passages, to them as intricate and confused as a rabbit-warren, must be very ready, i should think, to imagine the existence within such a pile, of places unknown even to the inhabitants of it themselves!--but i beg your pardon: do tell us the story." "mr. grant," said kate, "you perplex me! i begin to doubt if you have any principles. one moment you take one side and the next the other!" "no, no; i but love my own side too well to let any traitors into its ranks: i would have nothing to do with lies." "they are all lies together!" "then i want to hear this one," said donal. "i daresay you have heard it before!" remarked mr. graeme, and began. "it was in the earldom of a certain recklessly wicked wretch, who not only robbed his poor neighbours, and even killed them when they opposed him, but went so far as to behave as wickedly on the sabbath as on any other day of the week. late one saturday night, a company were seated in the castle, playing cards, and drinking; and all the time sunday was drawing nearer and nearer, and nobody heeding. at length one of them, seeing the hands of the clock at a quarter to twelve, made the remark that it was time to stop. he did not mention the sacred day, but all knew what he meant. the earl laughed, and said, if he was afraid of the kirk-session, he might go, and another would take his hand. but the man sat still, and said no more till the clock gave the warning. then he spoke again, and said the day was almost out, and they ought not to go on playing into the sabbath. and as he uttered the word, his mouth was pulled all on one side. but the earl struck his fist on the table, and swore a great oath that if any man rose he would run him through. 'what care i for the sabbath!' he said. 'i gave you your chance to go,' he added, turning to the man who had spoken, who was dressed in black like a minister, 'and you would not take it: now you shall sit where you are.' he glared fiercely at him, and the man returned him an equally fiery stare. and now first they began to discover what, through the fumes of the whisky and the smoke of the pine-torches, they had not observed, namely, that none of them knew the man, or had ever seen him before. they looked at him, and could not turn their eyes from him, and a cold terror began to creep through their vitals. he kept his fierce scornful look fixed on the earl for a moment, and then spoke. 'and i gave you your chance,' he said, 'and you would not take it: now you shall sit still where you are, and no sabbath shall you ever see.' the clock began to strike, and the man's mouth came straight again. but when the hammer had struck eleven times, it struck no more, and the clock stopped. 'this day twelvemonth,' said the man, 'you shall see me again; and so every year till your time is up. i hope you will enjoy your game!' the earl would have sprung to his feet, but could not stir, and the man was nowhere to be seen. he was gone, taking with him both door and windows of the room--not as samson carried off the gates of gaza, however, for he left not the least sign of where they had been. from that day to this no one has been able to find the room. there the wicked earl and his companions still sit, playing with the same pack of cards, and waiting their doom. it has been said that, on that same day of the year--only, unfortunately, testimony differs as to the day--shouts of drunken laughter may be heard issuing from somewhere in the castle; but as to the direction whence they come, none can ever agree. that is the story." "a very good one!" said donal. "i wonder what the ground of it is! it must have had its beginning!" "then you don't believe it?" said miss graeme. "not quite," he replied. "but i have myself had a strange experience up there." "what! you have seen something?" cried miss graeme, her eyes growing bigger. "no; i have seen nothing," answered donal, "--only heard something.--one night, the first i was there indeed, i heard the sound of a far-off musical instrument, faint and sweet." the brother and sister exchanged looks. donal went on. "i got up and felt my way down the winding stair--i sleep at the top of baliol's tower--but at the bottom lost myself, and had to sit down and wait for the light. then i heard it again, but seemed no nearer to it than before. i have never heard it since, and have never mentioned the thing. i presume, however, that speaking of it to you can do no harm. you at least will not raise any fresh rumours to injure the respectability of the castle! do you think there is any instrument in it from which such a sound might have proceeded? lady arctura is a musician, i am told, but surely was not likely to be at her piano 'in the dead waste and middle of the night'!" "it is impossible to say how far a sound may travel in the stillness of the night, when there are no other sound-waves to cross and break it." "that is all very well, hector," said his sister; "but you know mr. grant is neither the first nor the second that has heard that sound!" "one thing is pretty clear," said her brother, "it can have nothing to do with the revellers at their cards! the sound reported is very different from any attributed to them!" "are you sure," suggested donal, "that there was not a violin shut up with them? even if none of them could play, there has been time enough to learn. the sound i heard might have been that of a ghostly violin. though like that of a stringed instrument, it was different from anything i had ever heard before--except perhaps certain equally inexplicable sounds occasionally heard among the hills." they went on talking about the thing for a while, pacing up and down the garden, the sun hot above their heads, the grass cool under their feet. "it is enough," said miss graeme, with a rather forced laugh, "to make one glad the castle does not go with the title." "why so?" asked donal. "because," she answered, "were anything to happen to the boys up there, hector would come in for the title." "i'm not of my sister's mind!" said mr. graeme, laughing more genuinely. "a title with nothing to keep it up is a simple misfortune. i certainly should not take out the patent. no wise man would lay claim to a title without the means to make it respected." "have we come to that!" exclaimed donal. "must even the old titles of the country be buttressed into respectability with money? away in quiet places, reading old history books, we peasants are accustomed to think differently. if some millionaire money-lender were to buy the old keep of arundel castle, you would respect him just as much as the present earl!" "i would not," said mr. graeme. "i confess you have the better of me.--but is there not a fallacy in your argument?" he added, thinkingly. "i believe not. if the title is worth nothing without the money, the money must be more than the title!--if i were lazarus," donal went on, "and the inheritor of a title, i would use it, if only for a lesson to dives up stairs. i scorn to think that honour should wait on the heels of wealth. you may think it is because i am and always shall be a poor man; but if i know myself it is not therefore. at the same time a title is but a trifle; and if you had given any other reason for not using it than homage to mammon, i should have said nothing." "for my part," said miss graeme, "i have no quarrel with riches except that they do not come my way. i should know how to use and not abuse them!" donal made no other reply than to turn a look of divinely stupid surprise and pity upon the young woman. it was of no use to say anything! were argument absolutely triumphant, mammon would sit just where he was before! he had marked the great indifference of the lord to the convincing of the understanding: when men knew the thing itself, then and not before would they understand its relations and reasons! if truth belongs to the human soul, then the soul is able to see it and know it: if it do the truth, it takes therein the first possible, and almost the last necessary step towards understanding it. miss graeme caught his look, and must have perceived its expression, for her face flushed a more than rosy red, and the conversation grew crumbly. it was a half-holiday, and he stayed to tea, and after it went over the arm-buildings with mr. graeme, revealing such a practical knowledge of all that was going on, that his entertainer soon saw his opinion must be worth something whether his fancies were or not. chapter xxiv. stephen kennedy. the great comforts of donal's life, next to those of the world in which his soul lived--the eternal world, whose doors are ever open to him who prays--were the society of his favourite books, the fashioning of his thoughts into sweetly ordered sounds in the lofty solitude of his chamber, and not infrequent communion with the cobbler and his wife. to these he had as yet said nothing of what went on at the castle: he had learned the lesson the cobbler himself gave him. but many a lesson of greater value did he learn from the philosopher of the lapstone. he who understands because he endeavours, is a freed man of the realm of human effort. he who has no experience of his own, to him the experience of others is a sealed book. the convictions that in donal rose vaporous were rapidly condensed and shaped when he found his new friend thought likewise. by degrees he made more and more of a companion of davie, and such was the sweet relation between them that he would sometimes have him in his room even when he was writing. when it was time to lay in his winter-fuel, he said to him-- "up here, davie, we must have a good fire when the nights are long; the darkness will be like solid cold. simmons tells me i may have as much coal and wood as i like: will you help me to get them up?" davie sprang to his feet: he was ready that very minute. "i shall never learn my lessons if i am cold," added donal, who could not bear a low temperature so well as when he was always in the open air. "do you learn lessons, mr. grant?" "yes indeed i do," replied donal. "one great help to the understanding of things is to brood over them as a hen broods over her eggs: words are thought-eggs, and their chickens are truths; and in order to brood i sometimes learn by heart. i have set myself to learn, before the winter is over if i can, the gospel of john in the greek." "what a big lesson!" exclaimed davie. "ah, but how rich it will make me!" said donal, and that set davie pondering. they began to carry up the fuel, donal taking the coals, and davie the wood. but donal got weary of the time it took, and set himself to find a quicker way. so next saturday afternoon, the rudimentary remnant of the jewish sabbath, and the schoolboy's weekly carnival before lent, he directed his walk to a certain fishing village, the nearest on the coast, about three miles off, and there succeeded in hiring a spare boat-spar with a block and tackle. the spar he ran out, through a notch of the battlement, near the sheds, and having stayed it well back, rove the rope through the block at the peak of it, and lowered it with a hook at the end. a moment of davie's help below, and a bucket filled with coals was on its way up: this part of the roof was over a yard belonging to the household offices, and davie filled the bucket from a heap they had there made. "stand back, davie," donal would cry, and up would go the bucket, to the ever renewed delight of the boy. when it reached the block, donal, by means of a guy, swung the spar on its but-end, and the bucket came to the roof through the next notch of the battlement. there he would empty it, and in a moment it would be down again to be re-filled. when he thought he had enough of coal, he turned to the wood; and thus they spent an hour of a good many of the cool evenings of autumn. davie enjoyed it immensely; and it was no small thing for a boy delicately nurtured to be helped out of the feeling that he must have every thing done for him. when after a time he saw the heap on the roof, he was greatly impressed with the amount that could be done by little and little. in return donal told him that if he worked well through the week, he should every saturday evening spend an hour with him by the fire he had thus helped to provide, and they would then do something together. after his first visit donal went again and again to the village: he had made acquaintance with some of the people, and liked them. there was one man, however, who, although, attracted by his look despite its apparent sullenness, he had tried to draw him into conversation, seemed to avoid, almost to resent his advances. but one day as he was walking home, stephen kennedy overtook him, and saying he was going in his direction, walked alongside of him--to the pleasure of donal, who loved all humanity, and especially the portion of it acquainted with hard work. he was a middle-sized young fellow, with a slouching walk, but a well shaped and well set head, and a not uncomely countenance. he was brown as sun and salt sea-winds could make him, and had very blue eyes and dark hair, telling of norwegian ancestry. he lounged along with his hands in his pockets, as if he did not care to walk, yet got over the ground as fast as donal, who, with yet some remnant of the peasant's stride, covered the ground as if he meant walking. after their greeting a great and enduring silence fell, which lasted till the journey was half-way over; then all at once the fisherman spoke. "there's a lass at the castel, sir," he said, "they ca' eppy comin." "there is," answered donal. "do ye ken the lass, sir--to speak til her, i mean?" "surely," replied donal. "i know her grandfather and grandmother well." "dacent fowk!" said stephen. "they are that!" responded donal, "--as good people as i know!" "wud ye du them a guid turn?" asked the fisherman. "indeed i would!" "weel, it's this, sir: i hae grit doobts gien a' be gaein' verra weel wi' the lass at the castel." as he said the words he turned his head aside, and spoke so low and in such a muffled way that donal could but just make out what he said. "you must be a little plainer if you would have me do anything," he returned. "i'll be richt plain wi' ye, sir," answered stephen, and then fell silent as if he would never speak again. donal waited, nor uttered a sound. at last he spoke once more. "ye maun ken, sir," he said "i hae had a fancy to the lass this mony a day; for ye'll alloo she's baith bonny an' winsome!" donal did not reply, for although he was ready to grant her bonny, he had never felt her winsome. "weel," he went on, "her an' me 's been coortin' this twa year; an' guid freen's we aye was till this last spring, whan a' at ance she turnt highty-tighty like, nor, du what i micht, could i get her to say what it was 'at cheengt her: sae far as i kenned i had dune naething, nor wad she say i had gi'en her ony cause o' complaint. but though she couldna say i had ever gi'en mair nor a ceevil word to ony lass but hersel', she appeart unco wullin' to fix me wi' this ane an' that ane or ony ane! i couldna think what had come ower her! but at last--an' a sair last it is!--i hae come to the un'erstan'in o' 't: she wud fain hae a pretence for br'akin' wi' me! she wad hae 't 'at i was duin' as she was duin' hersel'--haudin' company wi' anither!" "are you quite sure of what you say?" asked donal. "ower sure, sir, though i'm no at leeberty to tell ye hoo i cam to be.--dinna think, sir, 'at i'm ane to haud a lass til her word whan her hert disna back it; i wud hae said naething aboot it, but jist borne the hert-brak wi' the becomin' silence, for greitin' nor ragin' men' no nets, nor tak the life o' nae dogfish. but it's god's trowth, sir, i'm terrible feart for the lassie hersel'. she's that ta'en up wi' him, they tell me, 'at she can think o' naething but him; an' he's a yoong lord, no a puir lad like me--an' that's what fears me!" a great dread and a great compassion together laid hold of donal, but he did not speak. "gien it cam to that," resumed stephen, "i doobt the fisher-lad wud win her better breid nor my lord; for gien a' tales be true, he wud hae to work for his ain breid; the castel 's no his, nor canna be 'cep' he merry the leddy o' 't. but it's no merryin' eppy he'll be efter, or ony the likes o' 'im!" "you don't surely hint," said donal, "that there's anything between her and lord forgue? she must be an idle girl to take such a thing into her head!" "i wuss weel she hae ta'en 't intil her heid! she'll get it the easier oot o' her hert? but 'deed, sir, i'm sair feart! i speakna o' 't for my ain sake; for gien there be trowth intil't, there can never be mair 'atween her and me! but, eh, sir, the peety o' 't wi' sic a bonny lass!--for he canna mean fair by her! thae gran' fowk does fearsome things! it's sma' won'er 'at whiles the puir fowk rises wi' a roar, an' tears doon a', as they did i' france!" "all you say is quite true; but the charge is such a serious one!" "it is that, sir! but though it be true, i'm no gaein' to mak it 'afore the warl'." "you are right there: it could do no good." "i fear it may du as little whaur i am gaein' to mak it! i'm upo' my ro'd to gar my lord gie an accoont o' himsel'. faith, gien it bena a guid ane, i'll thraw the neck o' 'im! it's better me to hang, nor her to gang disgraced, puir thing! she can be naething mair to me, as i say; but i wud like weel the wringin' o' a lord's neck! it wud be like killin' a shark!" "why do you tell me this?" asked donal. "'cause i look to you to get me to word o' the man." "that you may wring his neck?--you should not have told me that: i should be art and part in his murder!" "wud ye hae me lat the lassie tak her chance ohn dune onything?" said the fisherman with scorn. "by no means. i would do something myself whoever the girl was--and she is the granddaughter of my best friends." "sir, ye winna surely fail me!" "i will help you somehow, but i will not do what you want me. i will turn the thing over in my mind. i promise you i will do something--what, i cannot say offhand. you had better go home again, and i will come to you to-morrow." "na, na, that winna do!" said the man, half doggedly, half fiercely. "the hert ill be oot o' my body gien i dinna du something! this verra nicht it maun be dune! i canna bide in hell ony langer. the thoucht o' the rascal slaverin' his lees ower my eppy 's killin' me! my brain 's like a fire: i see the verra billows o' the ocean as reid 's blude." "if you come near the castle to-night, i will have you taken up. i am too much your friend to see you hanged! but if you go home and leave the matter to me, i will do my best, and let you know. she shall be saved if i can compass it. what, man! you would not have god against you?" "he'll be upo' the side o' the richt, i'm thinkin'!" "doubtless; but he has said, 'vengeance is mine!' he can't trust us with that. he won't have us interfering. it's more his concern than yours yet that the lassie have fair play. i will do my part." they walked on in gloomy silence for some time. suddenly the fisherman put out his hand, seized donal's with a convulsive grasp, was possibly reassured by the strength with which donal's responded, turned, and without a word went back. donal had to think. here was a most untoward affair! what could he do? what ought he to attempt? from what he had seen of the young lord, he could not believe he intended wrong to the girl; but he might he selfishly amusing himself, and was hardly one to reflect that the least idle familiarity with her was a wrong! the thing, if there was the least truth in it, must be put a stop to at once! but it might be all a fancy of the justly jealous lover, to whom the girl had not of late been behaving as she ought! or might there not be somebody else? at the same time there was nothing absurd in the idea that a youth, fresh from college and suddenly discompanioned at home, without society, possessed by no love of literature, and with almost no amusements, should, if only for very ennui, be attracted by the pretty face and figure of eppy, and then enthralled by her coquetries of instinctive response. there was danger to the girl both in silence and in speech: if there was no ground for the apprehension, the very supposition was an injury--might even suggest the thing it was intended to frustrate! still something must be risked! he had just been reading in sir philip sidney, that "whosoever in great things will think to prevent all objections, must lie still and do nothing." but what was he to do? the readiest and simplest thing was to go to the youth, tell him what he had heard, and ask him if there was any ground for it. but they must find the girl another situation! in either case distance must be put between them! he would tell her grandparents; but he feared, if there was any truth in it, they would have no great influence with her. if on the other hand, the thing was groundless, they might make it up between her and her fisherman, and have them married! she might only have been teasing him!--he would certainly speak to the young lord! yet again, what if he should actually put the mischief into his thoughts! if there should be ever so slight a leaning in the direction, might he not so give a sudden and fatal impulse? he would take the housekeeper into his counsel! she must understand the girl! things would at once show themselves to her on the one side or the other, which might reveal the path he ought to take. but did he know mistress brookes well enough? would she be prudent, or spoil everything by precipitation? she might ruin the girl if she acted without sympathy, caring only to get the appearance of evil out of the house! the way the legally righteous act the policeman in the moral world would be amusing were it not so sad. they are always making the evil "move on," driving it to do its mischiefs to other people instead of them; dispersing nests of the degraded to crowd them the more, and with worse results, in other parts: why should such be shocked at the idea of sending out of the world those to whom they will not give a place in it to lay their heads? they treat them in this world as, according to the old theology, their god treats them in the next, keeping them alive for sin and suffering. some with the bright lamp of their intellect, others with the smoky lamp of their life, cast a shadow of god on the wall of the universe, and then believe or disbelieve in the shadow. donal was still in meditation when he reached home, and still undecided what he should do. crossing a small court on his way to his aerie, he saw the housekeeper making signs to him from the window of her room. he turned and went to her. it was of eppy she wanted to speak to him! how often is the discovery of a planet, of a truth, of a scientific fact, made at once in different places far apart! she asked him to sit down, and got him a glass of milk, which was his favourite refreshment, little imagining the expression she attributed to fatigue arose from the very thing occupying her own thoughts. "it's a queer thing," she began, "for an auld wife like me to come til a yoong gentleman like yersel', sir, wi' sic a tale; but, as the sayin' is, 'needs maun whan the deil drives'; an' here's like to be an unco stramash aboot the place, gien we comena thegither upo' some gait oot o' 't. dinna luik sae scaret like, sir; we may be in time yet er' the warst come to the warst, though it's some ill to say what may be the warst in sic an ill coopered kin' o' affair! there's thae twa fules o' bairns--troth, they're nae better; an' the tane 's jist as muckle to blame as the tither--only the lass is waur to blame nor the lad, bein' made sharper, an' kennin' better nor him what comes o' sic!--eh, but she is a gowk!" here mrs. brookes paused, lost in contemplation of the gowkedness of eppy. she was a florid, plump, good-looking woman, over forty, with thick auburn hair, brushed smooth--one of those women comely in soul as well as body, who are always to the discomfiture of wrong and the healing of strife. left a young widow, she had refused many offers: once was all that was required of her in the way of marriage! she had found her husband good enough not to be followed by another, and marriage hard enough to favour the same result. when she sat down, smoothing her apron on her lap, and looking him in the face with clear blue eyes, he must have been either a suspicious or an unfortunate man who would not trust her. she was a general softener of shocks, foiler of encounters, and soother of angers. she was not one of those housekeepers always in black silk and lace, but was mostly to be seen in a cotton gown--very clean, but by no means imposing. she would put her hands to anything--show a young servant how a thing ought to be done, or relieve cook or housemaid who was ill or had a holiday. donal had taken to her, as like does to like. he did not hurry her, but waited. "i may as weel gie ye the haill story, sir!" she recommenced. "syne ye'll be whaur i am mysel'. "i was oot i' the yard to luik efter my hens--i never lat onybody but mysel' meddle wi' them, for they're jist as easy sp'ilt as ither fowk's bairns; an' the twa doors o' the barn stan'in open, i took the straucht ro'd throuw the same to win the easier at my feathert fowk, as my auld minnie used to ca' them. i'm but a saft kin' o' a bein', as my faither used to tell me, an' mak but little din whaur i gang, sae they couldna hae h'ard my fut as i gaed; but what sud i hear--but i maun tell ye it was i' the gloamin' last nicht, an' i wad hae tellt ye the same this mornin', sir, seekin' yer fair coonsel, but ye was awa' 'afore i kenned, an' i was resolvt no to lat anither gloamin' come ohn ta'en precautions--what sud i hear, i say, as i was sayin', but a laich tshe--tshe--tshe, somewhaur, i couldna tell whaur, as gien some had mair to say nor wud be spoken oot! weel, ye see, bein' ane accoontable tae ithers for them 'at's accoontable to me, i stude still an' hearkent: gien a' was richt, nane wad be the waur for me; an' gien a' wasna richt, a' sud be wrang gien i could make it sae! weel, as i say, i hearkent--but eh, sir! jist gie a keek oot at that door, an' see gein there bena somebody there hearkin', for that eppy--i wudna lippen til her ae hair! she's as sly as an edder! naebody there? weel, steek ye the door, sir, an' i s' gang on wi' my tale. i stude an' hearkent, as i was sayin', an' what sud i hear but a twasome toot-moot, as my auld auntie frae ebberdeen wud hae ca'd it--ae v'ice that o' a man, an' the ither that o' a wuman, for it's strange the differ even whan baith speyks their laichest! i was aye gleg i' the hearin', an' hae reason for the same to be thankfu,' but i couldna, for a' my sharpness, mak oot what they war sayin'. so, whan i saw 'at i wasna to hear, i jist set aboot seein', an' as quaietly as my saft fit--it's safter nor it's licht--wud carry me, i gaed aboot the barnflure, luikin' whaur onybody could be hidden awa'. "there was a great heap o' strae in ae corner, no hard again' the wa'; an' 'atween the wa' an' that heap o' thrashen strae, sat the twa. up gat my lord wi' a spang, as gien he had been ta'en stealin'. eppy wud hae bidden, an' creepit oot like a moose ahint my back, but i was ower sharp for her: 'come oot o' that, my lass,' says i. 'oh, mistress brookes!' says my lord, unco ceevil, 'for my sake don't be hard upon her.' noo that angert me! for though i say the lass is mair to blame nor the lad, it's no for the lad, be he lord or labourer, to lea' himsel' oot whan the blame comes. an' says i, 'my lord,' says i, 'ye oucht to ken better! i s' say nae mair i' the noo, for i'm ower angry. gang yer ways--but na! no thegither, my lord! i s' luik weel to that!--gang up til yer ain room, eppy!' i said, 'an' gien i dinna see ye there whan i come in, it's awa' to your grannie i gang this varra nicht!' "eppy she gaed; an' my lord he stude there, wi' a face 'at glowert white throuw the gloamin'. i turned upon him like a wild beast, an' says i, 'i winna speir what ye 're up til, my lord, but ye ken weel eneuch what it luiks like! an' i wud never hae expeckit it o' ye!' he began an' he stammert, an' he beggit me to believe there was naething 'atween them, an' he wudna harm the lassie to save his life, an' a' the lave o' 't, 'at i couldna i' my hert but pity them baith--twa sic bairns, doobtless drawn thegither wi' nae thoucht o' ill, ilk ane by the bonny face o' the ither, as is but nait'ral, though it canna be allooed! he beseekit me sae sair 'at i foolishly promised no to tell his faither gien he on his side wud promise no to hae mair to du wi' eppy. an' that he did. noo i never had reason to doobt my yoong lord's word, but in a case o' this kin' it's aye better no to lippen. ony gait, the thing canna be left this wise, for gien ill cam o' 't, whaur wud we a' be! i didna promise no to tell onybody; i'm free to tell yersel,' maister grant; an' ye maun contrive what's to be dune." "i will speak to him," said donal, "and see what humour he is in. that will help to clear the thing up. we will try to do right, and trust to be kept from doing wrong." donal left her to go to his room, but had not reached the top of the stair when he saw clearly that he must speak to lord forgue at once: he turned and went down to a room that was called his. when he reached it, only davie was there, turning over the leaves of a folio worn by fingers that had been dust for centuries. he said percy went out, and would not let him go with him. knowing mistress brookes was looking after eppy, donal put off seeking farther for forgue till the morrow. chapter xxv. evasion. the next day he could find him nowhere, and in the evening went to see the comins. it was pretty dark, but the moon would be up by and by. when he reached the cobbler's house, he found him working as usual, only in-doors now that the weather was colder, and the light sooner gone. he looked innocent, bright, and contented as usual. "if god be at peace," he would say to himself, "why should not i?" once he said this aloud, almost unconsciously, and was overheard: it strengthened the regard with which worldly church-goers regarded him: he was to them an irreverent yea, blasphemous man! they did not know god enough to understand the cobbler's words, and all the interpretation they could give them was after their kind. their long sunday faces indicated their reward; the cobbler's cheery, expectant look indicated his. the two were just wondering a little when he entered, that young eppy had not made her appearance; but then, as her grandmother said, she had often, especially during the last few weeks, been later still! as she spoke, however, they heard her light, hurried foot on the stair. "here she comes at last!" said her grandmother, and she entered. she said she could not get away so easily now. donal feared she had begun to lie. after sitting a quarter of an hour, she rose suddenly, and said she must go, for she was wanted at home. donal rose also and said, as the night was dark, and the moon not yet up, it would be better to go together. her face flushed: she had to go into the town first, she said, to get something she wanted! donal replied he was in no hurry, and would go with her. she cast an inquiring, almost suspicious look on her grandparents, but made no further objection, and they went out together. they walked to the high street, and to the shop where donal had encountered the parson. he waited in the street till she came out. then they walked back the way they had come, little thinking, either of them, that their every step was dogged. kennedy, the fisherman, firm in his promise not to go near the castle, could not therefore remain quietly at home: he knew it was eppy's day for visiting her folk, went to the town, and had been lingering about in the hope of seeing her. not naturally suspicious, justifiable jealousy had rendered him such; and when he saw the two together he began to ask whether donal's anxiety to keep him from encountering lord forgue might not be due to other grounds than those given or implied. so he followed, careful they should not see him. they came to a baker's shop, and, stopping at the door, eppy, in a voice that in vain sought to be steady, asked donal if he would be so good as wait for her a moment, while she went in to speak to the baker's daughter. donal made no difficulty, and she entered, leaving the door open as she found it. lowrie leper's shop was lighted with only one dip, too dim almost to show the sugar biscuits and peppermint drops in the window, that drew all day the hungry eyes of the children. a pleasant smell of bread came from it, and did what it could to entertain him in the all but deserted street. while he stood no one entered or issued. "she's having a long talk!" he said to himself, but for a long time was not impatient. he began at length, however, to fear she must have been taken ill, or have found something wrong in the house. when more than half an hour was gone, he thought it time to make inquiry. he entered therefore, shutting the door and opening it again, to ring the spring-bell, then mechanically closing it behind him. straightway mrs. leper appeared from somewhere to answer the squall of the shrill-tongued summoner. donal asked if eppy was ready to go. the woman stared at him a moment in silence. "eppy wha, said ye?" she asked at length. "eppy comin," he answered. "i ken naething aboot her.--lucy!" a good-looking girl, with a stocking she was darning drawn over one hand and arm, followed her mother into the shop. "whaur's eppy comin, gien ye please?" asked donal. "i ken naething aboot her. i haena seen her sin' this day week," answered the girl in a very straight-forward manner. donal saw he had been tricked, but judging it better to seek no elucidation, turned with apology to go. as he opened the door, there came through the house from behind a blast of cold wind: there was an open outer door in that direction! the girl must have slipped through the house, and out by that door, leaving her squire to cool himself, vainly expectant, in the street! if she had found another admirer, as probably she imagined, his polite attentions were at the moment inconvenient! but she had tried the trick too often, for she had once served her fisherman in like fashion. seeing her go into the baker's, kennedy had conjectured her purpose, and hurrying toward the issue from the other exit, saw her come out of the court, and was again following her. donal hastened homeward. the moon rose. it was a lovely night. dull-gleaming glimpses of the river came through the light fog that hovered over it in the rising moon like a spirit-river continually ascending from the earthly one and resting upon it, but flowing in heavenly places. the white webs shone very white in the moon, and the green grass looked gray. a few minutes more, and the whole country was covered with a low-lying fog, on whose upper surface the moon shone, making it appear to donal's wondering eyes a wide-spread inundation, from which rose half-submerged houses and stacks and trees. one who had never seen the thing before, and who did not know the country, would not have doubted he looked on a veritable expanse of water. absorbed in the beauty of the sight he trudged on. suddenly he stopped: were those the sounds of a scuffle he heard on the road before him? he ran. at the next turn, in the loneliest part of the way, he saw something dark, like the form of a man, lying in the middle of the road. he hastened to it. the moon gleamed on a pool beside it. a death-like face looked heavenward: it was that of lord forgue--without breath or motion. there was a cut in his head: from that the pool had flowed. he examined it as well as he could with anxious eyes. it had almost stopped bleeding. what was he to do? what could be done? there was but one thing! he drew the helpless form to the side of the way, and leaning it up against the earth-dyke, sat down on the road before it, and so managed to get it upon his back, and rise with it. if he could but get him home unseen, much scandal might be forestalled! on the level road he did very well; but, strong as he was, he did not find it an easy task to climb with such a burden the steep approach to the castle. he had little breath left when at last he reached the platform from which rose the towering bulk. he carried him straight to the housekeeper's room. it was not yet more than half-past ten; and though the servants were mostly in bed, mistress brookes was still moving about. he laid his burden on her sofa, and hastened to find her. like a sensible woman she kept her horror and dismay to herself. she got some brandy, and between them they managed to make him swallow a little. he began to recover. they bathed his wound, and did for it what they could with scissors and plaster, then carried him to his own room, and got him to bed. donal sat down by him, and staid. his patient was restless and wandering all the night, but towards morning fell into a sound sleep, and was still asleep when the housekeeper came to relieve him. as soon as mrs. brookes left donal with lord forgue, she went to eppy's room, and found her in bed, pretending to be asleep. she left her undisturbed, thinking to come easier at the truth if she took her unprepared to lie. it came out afterwards that she was not so heartless as she seemed. she found lord forgue waiting her upon the road, and almost immediately kennedy came up to them. forgue told her to run home at once: he would soon settle matters with the fellow. she went off like a hare, and till she was out of sight the men stood looking at each other. kennedy was a powerful man, and forgue but a stripling; the latter trusted, however, to his skill, and did not fear his adversary. he did not know what he was. he seemed now in no danger, and his attendants agreed to be silent till he recovered. it was given out that he was keeping his room for a few days, but that nothing very serious was the matter with him. in the afternoon, donal went to find kennedy, loitered a while about the village, and made several inquiries after him; but no one had seen him. forgue recovered as rapidly as could have been expected. davie was troubled that he might not go and see him, but he would have been full of question, remark, and speculation! for what he had himself to do in the matter, donal was but waiting till he should be strong enough to be taken to task. chapter xxvi. confrontment. at length one evening donal knocked at the door of forgue's room, and went in. he was seated in an easy chair before a blazing fire, looking comfortable, and showing in his pale face no sign of a disturbed conscience. "my lord," said donal, "you will hardly be surprised to find i have something to talk to you about!" his lordship was so much surprised that he made him no answer--only looked in his face. donal went on:-- "i want to speak to you about eppy comin," he said. forgue's face flamed up. the devil of pride, and the devil of fear, and the devil of shame, all rushed to the outworks to defend the worthless self. but his temper did not at once break bounds. "allow me to remind you, mr. grant," he said, "that, although i have availed myself of your help, i am not your pupil, and you have no authority over me." "the reminder is unnecessary, my lord," answered donal. "i am not your tutor, but i am the friend of the comins, and therefore of eppy." his lordship drew himself up yet more erect in his chair, and a sneer came over his handsome countenance. but donal did not wait for him to speak. "don't imagine me, my lord," he said, "presuming on the fact that i had the good fortune to carry you home: that i should have done for the stable-boy in similar plight. but as i interfered for you then, i have to interfere for eppie now." "damn your insolence! do you think because you are going to be a parson, you may make a congregation of me!" "i have not the slightest intention of being a parson," returned donal quietly, "but i do hope to be an honest man, and your lordship is in great danger of ceasing to be one!" "get out of my room," cried forgue. donal took a seat opposite him. "if you do not, i will!" said the young lord, and rose. but ere he reached the door, donal was standing with his back against it. he locked it, and took out the key. the youth glared at him, unable to speak for fury, then turned, caught up a chair, and rushed at him. one twist of donal's ploughman-hand wrenched it from him. he threw it over his head upon the bed, and stood motionless and silent, waiting till his rage should subside. in a few moments his eye began to quail, and he went back to his seat. "now, my lord," said donal, following his example and sitting down, "will you hear me?" "i'll be damned if i do!" he answered, flaring up again at the first sound of donal's voice. "i'm afraid you'll be damned if you don't," returned donal. his lordship took the undignified expedient of thrusting his fingers in his ears. donal sat quiet until he removed them. but the moment he began to speak he thrust them in again. donal rose, and seizing one of his hands by the wrist, said, "be careful, my lord; if you drive me to extremity, i will speak so that the house shall hear me; if that will not do, i go straight to your father." "you are a spy and a sneak!" "a man who behaves like you, should have no terms held with him." the youth broke out in a fresh passion. donal sat waiting till the futile outburst should be over. it was presently exhausted, the rage seeming to go out for want of fuel. nor did he again stop his ears against the truth he saw he was doomed to hear. "i am come," said donal, "to ask your lordship whether the course you are pursuing is not a dishonourable one." "i know what i am about." "so much the worse--but i doubt it. for your mother's sake, if for no other, you should scorn to behave to a woman as you are doing now." "what do you please to imagine i am doing now?" "there is no imagination in this--that you are behaving to eppy as no man ought except he meant to marry her." "how do you know i do not mean to marry her?" "do you mean to marry her, my lord?" "what right have you to ask?" "at least i live under the same roof with you both." "what if she knows i do not intend to marry her?" "my duty is equally plain: i am the friend of her only relatives. if i did not do my best for the poor girl, i dared not look my master in the face!--where is your honour, my lord?" "i never told her i would marry her." "i never supposed you had." "well, what then?" "i repeat, such attentions as yours must naturally be supposed by any innocent girl to mean marriage." "bah! she is not such a fool!" "i fear she is fool enough not to know to what they must then point!" "they point to nothing." "then you take advantage of her innocence to amuse yourself with her." "what if she be not quite so innocent as you would have her." "my lord, you are a scoundrel." for one moment forgue seemed to wrestle with an all but uncontrollable fury; the next he laughed--but it was not a nice laugh. "come now," he said, "i'm glad i've put you in a rage! i've got over mine. i'll tell you the whole truth: there is nothing between me and the girl--nothing whatever, i give you my word, except an innocent flirtation. ask herself." "my lord," said donal, "i believe what you mean me to understand. i thought nothing worse of it myself." "then why the devil kick up such an infernal shindy about it?" "for these reasons, my lord:--" "oh, come! don't be long-winded." "you must hear me." "go on." "i will suppose she does not imagine you mean to marry her." "she can't!" "why not?" "she's not a fool, and she can't imagine me such an idiot!" "but may she not suppose you love her?" he tried to laugh. "you have never told her so?--never said or done anything to make her think so?" "oh, well! she may think so--after a sort of a fashion!" "would she speak to you again if she heard you talking so of the love you give her?" "you know as well as i do the word has many meanings?" "and which is she likely to take? that which is confessedly false and worth nothing?" "she may take which she pleases, and drop it when she pleases." "but now, does she not take your words of love for more than they are worth?" "she says i will soon forget her." "will any saying keep her from being so in love with you as to reap misery? you don't know what the consequences may be! her love wakened by yours, may be infinitely stronger than yours!" "oh, women don't now-a-days die for love!" said his lordship, feeling a little flattered. "it would be well for some of them if they did! they never get over it. she mayn't die, true! but she may live to hate the man that led her to think he loved her, and taught her to believe in nobody. her whole life may be darkened because you would amuse yourself." "she has her share of the amusement, and i have my share, by jove, of the danger! she's a very pretty, clever, engaging girl--though she is but a housemaid!" said forgue, as if uttering a sentiment of quite communistic liberality. "what you say shows the more danger to her! if you admire her so much you must have behaved to her so much the more like a genuine lover? but any suffering the affair may have caused you, will hardly, i fear, persuade you to the only honourable escape!" "by jupiter!" cried forgue. "would you have me marry the girl? that's coming it rather strong with your friendship for the cobbler!" "no, my lord; if things are as you represent, i have no such desire. what i want is to put a stop to the whole affair. every man has to be his brother's keeper; and if our western notions concerning women be true, a man is yet more bound to be his sister's keeper. he who does not recognize this, be he earl or prince, is viler than the murderous prowler after a battle. for a man to say 'she can take care of herself,' is to speak out of essential hell. the beauty of love is, that it does not take care of itself, but of the person loved. to approach a girl in any other fashion is a mean scoundrelly thing. i am glad it has already brought on you some of the chastisement it deserves." his lordship started to his feet in a fresh access of rage. "you dare say that to my face!" "assuredly, my lord. the fact stands just so." "i gave the fellow as good as he gave me!" "that is nothing to the point--though from the state i found you in, it is hard to imagine. pardon me, i do not believe you behaved like what you call a coward." lord forgue was almost crying with rage. "i have not done with him yet!" he stammered. "if i only knew who the rascal is! if i don't pay him out, may--" "stop, stop, my lord. all that is mere waste! i know who the man is, but i will not tell you. he gave you no more than you deserved, and i will do nothing to get him punished for it." "you are art and part with him!" "i neither knew of his intent, saw him do it, nor have any proof against him." "you will not tell me his name?" "no." "i will find it out, and kill him." "he threatens to kill you. i will do what i can to prevent either." "i will kill him," repeated forgue through his clenched teeth. "and i will do my best to have you hanged for it," said donal. "leave the room, you insolent bumpkin." "when you have given me your word that you will never again speak to eppy comin." "i'll be damned first." "she will be sent away." "where i shall see her the easier." his lordship said this more from perversity than intent, for he had begun to wish himself clear of the affair--only how was he to give in to this unbearable clown! "i will give you till to-morrow to think of it," said donal, and opened the door. his lordship made him no reply, but cast after him a look of uncertain anger. donal, turning his head as he shut the door, saw it: "i trust," he said, "you will one day be glad i spoke to you plainly." "oh, go along with your preaching!" cried forgue, more testily than wrathfully; and donal went. in the meantime eppy had been soundly taken to task by mrs. brookes, and told that if once again she spoke a word to lord forgue, she should that very day have her dismissal. the housekeeper thought she had at least succeeded in impressing upon her that she was in danger of losing her situation in a way that must seriously affect her character. she assured donal that she would not let the foolish girl out of her sight; and thereupon donal thought it better to give lord forgue a day to make up his mind. on the second morning he came to the schoolroom when lessons were over, and said frankly, "i've made a fool of myself, mr. grant! make what excuse for me you can. i am sorry. believe me, i meant no harm. i have made up my mind that all shall be over between us." "promise me you will not once speak to her again." "i don't like to do that: it might happen to be awkward. but i promise to do my best to avoid her." donald was not quite satisfied, but thought it best to leave the thing so. the youth seemed entirely in earnest. for a time he remained in doubt whether he should mention the thing to eppy's grandparents. he reflected that their influence with her did not seem very great, and if she were vexed by anything they said, it might destroy what little they had. then it would make them unhappy, and he could not bear to think of it. he made up his mind that he would not mention it, but, in the hope she would now change her way, leave the past to be forgotten. he had no sooner thus resolved, however, than he grew uncomfortable, and was unsatisfied with the decision. all would not be right between his friend and him! andrew comin would have something against him! he could no longer meet him as before, for he would be hiding something from him, and he would have a right to reproach him! then his inward eyes grew clear. he said to himself, "what a man has a right to know, another has no right to conceal from him. if sorrow belong to him, i have as little right to keep that from him as joy. his sorrows and his joys are part of a man's inheritance. my wisdom to take care of this man!--his own is immeasurably before mine! the whole matter concerns him: i will let him know at once!" the same night he went to see him. his wife was out, and donal was glad of it. he told him all that had taken place. he listened in silence, his eyes fixed on him, his work on his lap, his hand with the awl hanging by his side. when he heard how eppy had tricked donal that night, leaving him to watch in vain, tears gathered in his old eyes. he wiped them away with the backs of his horny hands, and there came no more. donal told him he had first thought he would say nothing to him about it all, he was so loath to trouble them, but neither his heart nor his conscience would let him be silent. "ye did richt to tell me," said andrew, after a pause. "it's true we haena that muckle weicht wi' her, for it seems a law o' natur 'at the yoong 's no to be hauden doon by the experrience o' the auld--which can be experrience only to themsel's; but whan we pray to god, it puts it mair in his pooer to mak use o' 's for the carryin' oot o' the thing we pray for. it's no aye by words he gies us to say; wi' some fowk words gang for unco little; it may be whiles by a luik o' whilk ye ken naething, or it may be by a motion o' yer han', or a turn o' yer heid. wha kens but ye may haud a divine pooer ower the hert ye hae 'maist gi'en up the houp o' ever winnin' at! ye hae h'ard o' the convic' broucht to sorrow by seein' a bit o' the same mattin' he had been used to see i' the aisle o' the kirk his mither tuik him til! that was a stroke o' god's magic! there's nae kennin' what god can do, nor yet what best o' rizzons he has for no doin' 't sooner! whan we think he's lattin' the time gang, an' doin' naething, he may be jist doin' a' thing! no 'at i ever think like that noo; lat him do 'at he likes, what he does i'm sure o'. i'm o' his min' whether i ken his min' or no.--eh, my lassie! my lassie! i could better win ower a hantle nor her giein' you the slip that gait, sir. it was sae dooble o' her! it's naething wrang in itsel' 'at a yoong lass sud be taen wi' the attentions o' a bonny lad like lord forgue! that's na agen the natur 'at god made! but to preten' an' tak in!--to be cunnin' an' sly! that's evil. an' syne for the ither lad--eh, i doobt that's warst o' 'a! only i kenna hoo far she had committit hersel' wi' him, for she was never open-hertit. eh, sir! it's a fine thing to hae nae sacrets but sic as lie 'atween yersel' an' yer macker! i can but pray the father o' a' to haud his e'e upon her, an' his airms aboot her, an' keep aff the hardenin' o' the hert 'at despises coonsel! i'm sair doobtin' we canna do muckle mair for her! she maun tak her ain gait, for we canna put a collar roon' her neck, an' lead her aboot whaurever we gang. she maun win her ain breid; an' gien she didna that, she wad be but the mair ta'en up wi' sic nonsense as the likes o' lord forgue 's aye ready to say til ony bonny lass. an' i varily believe she's safer there wi' you an' the hoosekeeper nor whaur he could win at her easier, an' whaur they wud be readier to tak her character fra her upo' less offence, an' sen' her aboot her business. fowk 's unco' jealous about their hoose 'at wad trouble themsel's little aboot a lass! sae lang as it's no upo' their premises, she may do as she likes for them! doory an' me, we'll jist lay oor cares i' the fine sicht an' 'afore the compassionate hert o' the maister, an' see what he can do for 's! sic things aiven we can lea' to him! i houp there'll be nae mair bludeshed! he's a fine lad, steenie kennedy--come o' a fine stock! his father was a god-fearin' man--some dour by natur, but wi' an unco clearin' up throuw grace. i wud wullin'ly hae seen oor eppy his wife; he's an honest lad! i'm sorry he gied place to wrath, but he may hae repentit by the noo, an' troth, i canna blame him muckle at his time o' life! it's no as gien you or me did it, ye ken, sir!" the chosen agonize after the light; stretch out their hands to god; stir up themselves to lay hold upon god! these are they who gather grace, as the mountain-tops the snow, to send down rivers of water to their fellows. the rest are the many called, of whom not a few have to be compelled. alas for the one cast out! as he was going home in the dark of a clouded moonlight, just as he reached the place where he found lord forgue, donal caught sight of the vague figure of a man apparently on the watch, and put himself a little on his guard as he went on. it was kennedy. he came up to him in a hesitating way. "stephen," said donal, for he seemed to wait for him to speak first, "you may thank god you are not now in hiding." "i wad never hide, sir. gien i had killed the man, i wad hae hauden my face til't. but it was a foolish thing to do, for it'll only gar the lass think the mair o' him: they aye side wi' the ane they tak to be ill-used!" "i thought you said you would in any case have no more to do with her!" said donal. kennedy was silent for a moment. "a body may tear at their hert," he muttered, "but gien it winna come, what's the guid o' sweirin' oot it maun!" "well," returned donal, "it may be some comfort to you to know that, for the present at least, and i hope for altogether, the thing is put a stop to. the housekeeper at the castle knows all about it, and she and i will do our best. her grandparents know too. eppie herself and lord forgue have both of them promised there shall be no more of it. and i do believe, kennedy, there has been nothing more than great silliness on either side. i hope you will not forget yourself again. you gave me a promise and broke it!" "no i' the letter, sir--only i' the speerit!" rejoined kennedy: "i gaedna near the castel!" "'only in the spirit!' did you say, stephen? what matters the word but for the spirit? the bible itself lets the word go any time for the spirit! would it have been a breach of your promise if you had gone to the castle on some service to the man you almost murdered? if ever you lay your hand on the lad again, i'll do my best to give you over to justice. but keep quiet, and i'll do all i can for you." kennedy promised to govern himself, and they parted friends. chapter xxvii. the soul of the old garden. the days went on and on, and still donal saw nothing, or next to nothing of the earl. thrice he met him on the way to the walled garden in which he was wont to take his unfrequent exercise; on one of these occasions his lordship spoke to him courteously, the next scarcely noticed him, the third passed him without recognition. donal, who with equal mind took everything as it came, troubled himself not at all about the matter. he was doing his work as well as he knew how, and that was enough. now also he saw scarcely anything of lord forgue either; he no longer sought his superior scholarship. lady arctura he saw generally once a week at the religion-lesson; of miss carmichael happily nothing at all. but as he grew more familiar with the countenance of lady arctura, it pained him more and more to see it so sad, so far from peaceful. what might be the cause of it? most well-meaning young women are in general tolerably happy--partly perhaps because they have few or no aspirations, not troubling themselves about what alone is the end of thought--and partly perhaps because they despise the sadness ever ready to assail them, as something unworthy. but if condemned to the round of a tormenting theological mill, and at the same time consumed with strenuous endeavour to order thoughts and feelings according to supposed requirements of the gospel, with little to employ them and no companions to make them forget themselves, such would be at once more sad and more worthy. the narrow ways trodden of men are miserable; they have high walls on each side, and but an occasional glimpse of the sky above; and in such paths lady arctura was trying to walk. the true way, though narrow, is not unlovely: most footpaths are lovelier than high roads. it may be full of toil, but it cannot be miserable. it has not walls, but fields and forests and gardens around it, and limitless sky overhead. it has its sorrows, but many of them lie only on its borders, and they that leave the path gather them. lady arctura was devouring her soul in silence, with such effectual help thereto as the self-sufficient friend, who had never encountered a real difficulty in her life, plenteously gave her. miss carmichael dealt with her honestly according to her wisdom, but that wisdom was foolishness; she said what she thought right, but was wrong in what she counted right; nay, she did what she thought right--but no amount of doing wrong right can set the soul on the high table-land of freedom, or endow it with liberating help. the autumn passed, and the winter was at hand--a terrible time to the old and ailing even in tracts nearer the sun--to the young and healthy a merry time even in the snows and bitter frosts of eastern scotland. davie looked chiefly to the skating, and in particular to the pleasure he was going to have in teaching mr. grant, who had never done any sliding except on the soles of his nailed shoes: when the time came, he acquired the art the more rapidly that he never minded what blunders he made in learning a thing. the dread of blundering is a great bar to success. he visited the comins often, and found continual comfort and help in their friendship. the letters he received from home, especially those of his friend sir gibbie, who not unfrequently wrote also for donal's father and mother, were a great nourishment to him. as the cold and the nights grew, the water-level rose in donal's well, and the poetry began to flow. when we have no summer without, we must supply it from within. those must have comfort in themselves who are sent to help others. up in his aerie, like an eagle above the low affairs of the earth, he led a keener life, breathed the breath of a more genuine existence than the rest of the house. no doubt the old cobbler, seated at his last over a mouldy shoe, breathed a yet higher air than donal weaving his verse, or reading grand old greek, in his tower; but donal was on the same path, the only path with an infinite end--the divine destiny. he had often thought of trying the old man with some of the best poetry he knew, desirous of knowing what receptivity he might have for it; but always when with him had hitherto forgot his proposed inquiry, and thought of it again only after he had left him: the original flow of the cobbler's life put the thought of testing it out of his mind. one afternoon, when the last of the leaves had fallen, and the country was bare as the heart of an old man who has lived to himself, donal, seated before a great fire of coal and boat-logs, fell a thinking of the old garden, vanished with the summer, but living in the memory of its delight. all that was left of it at the foot of the hill was its corpse, but its soul was in the heaven of donal's spirit, and there this night gathered to itself a new form. it grew and grew in him, till it filled with its thoughts the mind of the poet. he turned to his table, and began to write: with many emendations afterwards, the result was this:-- the old garden. i. i stood in an ancient garden with high red walls around; over them gray and green lichens in shadowy arabesque wound. the topmost climbing blossoms on fields kine-haunted looked out; but within were shelter and shadow, and daintiest odours about. there were alleys and lurking arbours-- deep glooms into which to dive; the lawns were as soft as fleeces-- of daisies i counted but five. the sun-dial was so aged it had gathered a thoughtful grace; and the round-about of the shadow seemed to have furrowed its face. the flowers were all of the oldest that ever in garden sprung; red, and blood-red, and dark purple, the rose-lamps flaming hung. along the borders fringéd with broad thick edges of box, stood fox-gloves and gorgeous poppies, and great-eyed hollyhocks. there were junipers trimmed into castles, and ash-trees bowed into tents; for the garden, though ancient and pensive, still wore quaint ornaments. it was all so stately fantastic, its old wind hardly would stir: young spring, when she merrily entered, must feel it no place for her! ii. i stood in the summer morning under a cavernous yew; the sun was gently climbing, and the scents rose after the dew. i saw the wise old mansion, like a cow in the noonday-heat, stand in a pool of shadows that rippled about its feet. its windows were oriel and latticed, lowly and wide and fair; and its chimneys like clustered pillars stood up in the thin blue air. white doves, like the thoughts of a lady, haunted it in and out; with a train of green and blue comets, the peacock went marching about. the birds in the trees were singing a song as old as the world, of love and green leaves and sunshine, and winter folded and furled. they sang that never was sadness but it melted and passed away; they sang that never was darkness but in came the conquering day. and i knew that a maiden somewhere, in a sober sunlit gloom, in a nimbus of shining garments, an aureole of white-browed bloom, looked out on the garden dreamy, and knew not that it was old; looked past the gray and the sombre, and saw but the green and the gold. iii. i stood in the gathering twilight, in a gently blowing wind; and the house looked half uneasy, like one that was left behind. the roses had lost their redness, and cold the grass had grown; at roost were the pigeons and peacock, and the dial was dead gray stone. the world by the gathering twilight in a gauzy dusk was clad; it went in through my eyes to my spirit, and made me a little sad. grew and gathered the twilight, and filled my heart and brain; the sadness grew more than sadness, and turned to a gentle pain. browned and brooded the twilight, and sank down through the calm, till it seemed for some human sorrows there could not be any balm. iv. then i knew that, up a staircase, which untrod will yet creak and shake, deep in a distant chamber, a ghost was coming awake. in the growing darkness growing-- growing till her eyes appear, like spots of a deeper twilight, but more transparent clear-- thin as hot air up-trembling, thin as a sun-molten crape, the deepening shadow of something taketh a certain shape; a shape whose hands are uplifted to throw back her blinding hair; a shape whose bosom is heaving, but draws not in the air. and i know, by what time the moonlight on her nest of shadows will sit, out on the dim lawn gliding that shadow of shadows will flit. v. the moon is dreaming upward from a sea of cloud and gleam; she looks as if she had seen us never but in a dream. down that stair i know she is coming, bare-footed, lifting her train; it creaks not--she hears it creaking, for the sound is in her brain. out at the side-door she's coming, with a timid glance right and left! her look is hopeless yet eager, the look of a heart bereft. across the lawn she is flitting, her eddying robe in the wind! are her fair feet bending the grasses? her hair is half lifted behind! vi. shall i stay to look on her nearer? would she start and vanish away? no, no; she will never see me, if i stand as near as i may! it is not this wind she is feeling, not this cool grass below; 'tis the wind and the grass of an evening a hundred years ago. she sees no roses darkling, no stately hollyhocks dim; she is only thinking and dreaming of the garden, the night, and him; of the unlit windows behind her, of the timeless dial-stone, of the trees, and the moon, and the shadows, a hundred years agone. 'tis a night for all ghostly lovers to haunt the best-loved spot: is he come in his dreams to this garden? i gaze, but i see him not. vii. i will not look on her nearer-- my heart would be torn in twain; from mine eyes the garden would vanish in the falling of their rain! i will not look on a sorrow that darkens into despair; on the surge of a heart that cannot-- yet cannot cease to bear! my soul to hers would be calling-- she would hear no word it said; if i cried aloud in the stillness, she would never turn her head! she is dreaming the sky above her, she is dreaming the earth below:-- this night she lost her lover, a hundred years ago. chapter xxviii. a presence yet not a presence. the twilight had fallen while he wrote, and the wind had risen. it was now blowing a gale. when he could no longer see, he rose to light his lamp, and looked out of the window. all was dusk around him. above and below was nothing to be distinguished from the mass; nothing and something seemed in it to share an equal uncertainty. he heard the wind, but could not see the clouds that swept before it, for all was cloud overhead, and no change of light or feature showed the shifting of the measureless bulk. gray stormy space was the whole idea of the creation. he was gazing into a void--was it not rather a condition of things inappreciable by his senses? a strange feeling came over him as of looking from a window in the wall of the visible into the region unknown, to man shapeless quite, therefore terrible, wherein wander the things all that have not yet found or form or sensible embodiment, so as to manifest themselves to eyes or ears or hands of mortals. as he gazed, the huge shapeless hulks of the ships of chaos, dimly awful suggestions of animals uncreate, yet vaguer motions of what was not, came heaving up, to vanish, even from the fancy, as they approached his window. earth lay far below, invisible; only through the night came the moaning of the sea, as the wind drove it, in still enlarging waves, upon the flat shore, a level of doubtful grass and sand, three miles away. it seemed to his heart as if the moaning were the voice of the darkness, lamenting, like a repentant satan or judas, that it was not the light, could not hold the light, might not become as the light, but must that moment cease when the light began to enter it. darkness and moaning was all that the earth contained! would the souls of the mariners shipwrecked this night go forth into the ceaseless turmoil? or would they, leaving behind them the sense for storms, as for all things soft and sweet as well, enter only a vast silence, where was nothing to be aware of but each solitary self? thoughts and theories many passed through donal's mind as he sought to land the conceivable from the wandering bosom of the limitless; and he was just arriving at the conclusion, that, as all things seen must be after the fashion of the unseen whence they come, as the very genius of embodiment is likeness, therefore the soul of man must of course have natural relations with matter; but, on the other hand, as the spirit must be the home and origin of all this moulding, assimilating, modelling energy, and the spirit only that is in harmonious oneness with its origin can fully exercise the deputed creative power, it can be only in proportion to the eternal life in them, that spirits are able to draw to themselves matter and clothe themselves in it, so entering into full relation with the world of storms and sunsets;--he was, i say, just arriving at this hazarded conclusion, when he started out of his reverie, and was suddenly all ear to listen.--again!--yes! it was the same sound that had sent him that first night wandering through the house in fruitless quest! it came in two or three fitful chords that melted into each other like the colours in the lining of a shell, then ceased. he went to the door, opened it, and listened. a cold wind came rushing up the stair. he heard nothing. he stepped out on the stair, shut his door, and listened. it came again--a strange unearthly musical cry! if ever disembodied sound went wandering in the wind, just such a sound must it be! knowing little of music save in the forms of tone and vowel-change and rhythm and rime, he felt as if he could have listened for ever to the wild wandering sweetness of its lamentation. almost immediately it ceased--then once more came again, apparently from far off, dying away on the distant tops of the billowy air, out of whose wandering bosom it had first issued. it was as the wailing of a summer-wind caught and swept along in a tempest from the frozen north. the moment he ceased to expect it any more, he began to think whether it must not have come from the house. he stole down the stair--to do what, he did not know. he could not go following an airy nothing all over the castle: of a great part of it he as yet knew nothing! his constructive mind had yearned after a complete idea of the building, for it was almost a passion with him to fit the outsides and insides of things together; but there were suites of rooms into which, except the earl and lady arctura were to leave home, he could not hope to enter. it was little more than mechanically therefore that he went vaguely after the sound; and ere he was half-way down the stair, he recognized the hopelessness of the pursuit. he went on, however, to the schoolroom, where tea was waiting him. he had returned to his room, and was sitting again at work, now reading and meditating, when, in one of the lulls of the storm, he became aware of another sound--one most unusual to his ears, for he never required any attendance in his room--that of steps coming up the stair--heavy steps, not as of one on some ordinary errand. he waited listening. the steps came nearer and nearer, and stopped at his door. a hand fumbled about upon it, found the latch, lifted it, and entered. to donal's wonder--and dismay as well, it was the earl. his dismay arose from his appearance: he was deadly pale, and his eyes more like those of a corpse than a man among his living fellows. donal started to his feet. the apparition turned its head towards him; but in its look was no atom of recognition, no acknowledgment or even perception of his presence; the sound of his rising had had merely a half-mechanical influence upon its brain. it turned away immediately, and went on to the window. there it stood, much as donal had stood a little while before--looking out, but with the attitude of one listening rather than one trying to see. there was indeed nothing but the blackness to be seen--and nothing to be heard but the roaring of the wind, with the roaring of the great billows rolled along in it. as it stood, the time to donal seemed long: it was but about five minutes. was the man out of his mind, or only a sleep-walker? how could he be asleep so early in the night? as donal stood doubting and wondering, once more came the musical cry out of the darkness--and immediately from the earl a response--a soft, low murmur, by degrees becoming audible, in the tone of one meditating aloud, but in a restrained ecstacy. from his words he seemed still to be hearkening the sounds aerial, though to donal at least they came no more. "yet once again," he murmured, "once again ere i forsake the flesh, are my ears blest with that voice! it is the song of the eternal woman! for me she sings!--sing on, siren; my soul is a listening universe, and therein nought but thy voice!" he paused, and began afresh:-- "it is the wind in the tree of life! its leaves rustle in words of love. under its shadow i shall lie, with her i loved--and killed! ere that day come, she will have forgiven and forgotten, and all will be well! "hark the notes! clear as a flute! full and stringent as a violin! they are colours! they are flowers! they are alive! i can see them as they grow, as they blow! those are primroses! those are pimpernels! those high, intense, burning tones--so soft, yet so certain--what are they? jasmine?--no, that flower is not a note! it is a chord!--and what a chord! i mean, what a flower! i never saw that flower before--never on this earth! it must be a flower of the paradise whence comes the music! it is! it is! do i not remember the night when i sailed in the great ship over the ocean of the stars, and scented the airs of heaven, and saw the pearly gates gleaming across myriads of wavering miles!--saw, plain as i see them now, the flowers on the fields within! ah, me! the dragon that guards the golden apples! see his crest--his crest and his emerald eyes! he comes floating up through the murky lake! it is geryon!--come to bear me to the gyre below!" he turned, and with a somewhat quickened step left the room, hastily shutting the door behind him, as if to keep back the creature of his vision. strong-hearted and strong-brained, donal had yet stood absorbed as if he too were out of the body, and knew nothing more of this earth. there is something more terrible in a presence that is not a presence than in a vision of the bodiless; that is, a present ghost is not so terrible as an absent one, a present but deserted body. he stood a moment helpless, then pulled himself together and tried to think. what should he do? what could he do? what was required of him? was anything required of him? had he any right to do anything? could anything be done that would not both be and cause a wrong? his first impulse was to follow: a man in such a condition was surely not to be left to go whither he would among the heights and depths of the castle, where he might break his neck any moment! interference no doubt was dangerous, but he would follow him at least a little way! he heard the steps going down the stair, and made haste after them. but ere they could have reached the bottom, the sound of them ceased; and donal knew the earl must have left the stair at a point from which he could not follow him. chapter xxix. eppy again. he would gladly have told his friend the cobbler all about the strange occurrence; but he did not feel sure it would be right to carry a report of the house where he held a position of trust; and what made him doubtful was, that first he doubted whether the cobbler would consider it right. but he went to see him the next day, in the desire to be near the only man to whom it was possible he might tell what he had seen. the moment he entered the room, where the cobbler as usual sat at work by his wife, he saw that something was the matter. but they welcomed him with their usual cordiality, nor was it many minutes before mistress comin made him acquainted with the cause of their anxiety. "we're jist a wee triblet, sir," she said, "aboot eppy!" "i am very sorry," said donal, with a pang: he had thought things were going right with her. "what is the matter?" "it's no sae easy to say!" returned the grandmother. "it may weel be only a fancy o' the auld fowk, but it seems to baith o' 's she has a w'y wi' her 'at disna come o' the richt. she'll be that meek as gien she thoucht naething at a' o' hersel', an' the next moment be angert at a word. she canna bide a syllable said 'at 's no correc' to the verra hair. it's as gien she dreidit waur 'ahint it, an' wud mairch straucht to the defence. i'm no makin' my meanin' that clear, i doobt; but ye'll ken 't for a' that!" "i think i do," said donal. "--i see nothing of her." "i wudna mak a won'er o' that, sir! she may weel haud oot o' your gait, feelin' rebukit 'afore ane 'at kens a' aboot her gaein's on wi' my lord!" "i don't know how i should see her, though!" returned donal. "didna she sweep oot the schoolroom first whan ye gaed, sir?" "when i think of it--yes." "does she still that same?" "i do not know. understanding at what hour in the morning the room will be ready for me, i do not go to it sooner." "it's but the luik, an' the general cairriage o' the lassie!" said the old woman. "gien we had onything to tak a haud o', we wad maybe think the less. true, she was aye some--what ye micht ca' a bit cheengeable in her w'ys; but she was aye, whan she had the chance, unco' willin' to gie her faither there or mysel' a spark o' glaidness like. it pleased her to be pleasin' i' the eyes o' the auld fowk, though they war but her ain. but noo we maunna say a word til her. we hae nae business to luik til her for naething! no 'at she's aye like that; but it comes sae aft 'at at last we daur hardly open oor moo's for the fear o' hoo she'll tak it. only a' the time it's mair as gien she was flingin' something frae her, something she didna like an' wud fain be rid o', than 'at she cared sae verra muckle aboot onything we said no til her min'. she taks a haud o' the words, no doobt! but i canna help thinkin' 'at 'maist whatever we said, it wud be the same. something to compleen o' 's never wantin' whan ye're ill-pleast a'ready!" "it's no the duin' o' the richt, ye see," said the cobbler, "--i mean, that's no itsel' the en', but the richt humour o' the sowl towards a' things thoucht or felt or dune! that's richteousness, an' oot o' that comes, o' the verra necessity o' natur', a' richt deeds o' whatever kin'. whaur they comena furth, it's whaur the sowl, the thoucht o' the man 's no richt. oor puir lassie shaws a' mainner o' sma' infirmities jist 'cause the humour o' her sowl 's no hermonious wi' the trowth, no hermonious in itsel', no at ane wi' the true thing--wi' the true man--wi' the true god. it may even be said it's a sma' thing 'at a man sud du wrang, sae lang as he's capable o' duin' wrang, an' lovesna the richt wi' hert an' sowl. but eh, it's no a sma' thing 'at he sud be capable!" "surely, anerew," interposed his wife, holding up her hands in mild deprecation, "ye wudna lat the lassie du wrang gien ye could haud her richt?" "no, i wudna," replied her husband, "--supposin' the haudin' o' her richt to fa' in wi' ony degree o' perception o' the richt on her pairt. but supposin' it was only the haudin' o' her frae ill by ootward constraint, leavin' her ready upo' the first opportunity to turn aside; whereas, gien she had dune wrang, she wud repent o' 't, an' see what a foul thing it was to gang again' the holy wull o' him 'at made an' dee'd for her--i lea' ye to jeedge for yersel' what ony man 'at luved god an' luved the lass an' luved the richt, wud chuise. we maun haud baith een open upo' the trowth, an' no blink sidewise upo' the warl' an' its richteousness wi' ane o' them. wha wadna be zacchay wi' the lord in his hoose, an' the richteousness o' god himsel' growin' in his hert, raither nor the prood pharisee wha kent nae ill he was duin', an' thoucht it a shame to speak to sic a man as zacchay!" the grandmother held her peace, thinking probably that so long as one kept respectable, there remained the more likelihood of a spiritual change. "is there anything you think i could do?" asked donal. "i confess i'm afraid of meddling." "i wudna hae you appear, sir," said andrew, "in onything, concernin' her. ye're a yoong man yersel', an' fowk's herts as well as fowk's tongues are no to be lippent til. i hae seen fowk, 'cause they couldna believe a body duin' a thing frae a sma' modicum o' gude wull, set themsel's to invent what they ca'd a motive til accoont for't--something, that is, that wud hae prevailt wi' themsel's to gar them du't. sic fowk canna un'erstan' a body duin' onything jist 'cause it was worth duin' in itsel'!" "but maybe," said the old woman, returning to the practical, "as ye hae been pleased to say ye're on freen'ly terms wi' mistress brookes, ye micht jist see gien she 's observed ony ten'ency to resumption o' the auld affair!" donal promised, and as soon as he reached the castle sought an interview with the house keeper. she told him she had been particularly pleased of late with eppy's attention to her work, and readiness to make herself useful. if she did look sometimes a little out of heart, they must remember, she said, that they had been young themselves once, and that it was not so easy to forget as to give up. but she would keep her eyes open! chapter xxx. lord morven. the winter came at last in good earnest--first black frost, then white snow, then sleet and wind and rain; then snow again, which fell steady and calm, and lay thick. after that came hard frost, and brought plenty of skating, and to davie the delight of teaching his master. donal had many falls, but was soon, partly in virtue of those same falls, a very decent skater. davie claimed all the merit of his successful training; and when his master did anything particularly well, would remark with pride, that he had taught him. but the good thing in it for davie was, that he noted the immediate faith with which donal did or tried to do what he told him: this reacted in opening his mind to the beauty and dignity of obedience, and went a long way towards revealing the low moral condition of the man who seeks freedom through refusal to act at the will of another. he who does so will come by degrees to have no will of his own, and act only from impulse--which may be the will of a devil. so donal and davie grew together into one heart of friendship. donal never longed for his hours with davie to pass, and davie was never so happy as when with donal. the one was gently leading the other into the paths of liberty. nothing but the teaching of him who made the human soul can make that soul free, but it is in great measure through those who have already learned that he teaches; and davie was an apt pupil, promising to need less of the discipline of failure and pain that he was strong to believe, and ready to obey. but donal was not all the day with davie, and latterly had begun to feel a little anxious about the time the boy spent away from him--partly with his brother, partly with the people about the stable, and partly with his father, who evidently found the presence of his younger son less irksome to him than that of any other person, and saw more of him than of forgue: the amount of loneliness the earl could endure was amazing. but after what he had seen and heard, donal was most anxious concerning his time with his father, only he felt it a delicate thing to ask him about it. at length, however, davie himself opened up the matter. "mr. grant," he said one day, "i wish you could hear the grand fairy-stories my papa tells!" "i wish i might!" answered donal. "i will ask him to let you come and hear. i have told him you can make fairy-tales too; only he has quite another way of doing it;--and i must confess," added davie a little pompously, "i do not follow him so easily as you.--besides," he added, "i never can find anything in what you call the cupboard behind the curtain of the story. i wonder sometimes if his stories have any cupboard!--i will ask him to-day to let you come." "i think that would hardly do," said donal. "your father likes to tell his boy fairy-tales, but he might not care to tell them to a man. you must remember, too, that though i have been in the house what you think a long time, your father has seen very little of me, and might feel me in the way: invalids do not generally enjoy the company of strangers. you had better not ask him." "but i have often told him how good you are, mr. grant, and how you can't bear anything that is not right, and i am sure he must like you--i don't mean so well as i do, because you haven't to teach him anything, and nobody can love anybody so well as the one he teaches to be good." "still i think you had better leave it alone lest he should not like your asking him. i should be sorry to have you disappointed." "i do not mind that so much as i used. if you do not tell me i am not to do it, i think i will venture." donal said no more. he did not feel at liberty, from his own feeling merely, to check the boy. the thing was not wrong, and something might be intended to come out of it! he shrank from the least ruling of events, believing man's only call to action is duty. so he left davie to do as he pleased. "does your father often tell you a fairy-tale?" he asked. "not every day, sir." "what time does he tell them?" "generally when i go to him after tea." "do you go any time you like?" "yes; but he does not always let me stay. sometimes he talks about mamma, i think; but only coming into the fairy-tale.--he has told me one in the middle of the day! i think he would if i woke him up in the night! but that would not do, for he has terrible headaches. perhaps that is what sometimes makes his stories so terrible i have to beg him to stop!" "and does he stop?" "well--no--i don't think he ever does.--when a story is once begun, i suppose it ought to be finished!" so the matter rested for the time. but about a week after, donal received one morning through the butler an invitation to dine with the earl, and concluded it was due to davie, whom he therefore expected to find with his father. he put on his best clothes, and followed simmons up the grand staircase. the great rooms of the castle were on the first floor, but he passed the entrance to them, following his guide up and up to the second floor, where the earl had his own apartment. here he was shown into a small room, richly furnished after a sombrely ornate fashion, the drapery and coverings much faded, worn even to shabbiness. it had been for a century or so the private sitting-room of the lady of the castle, but was now used by the earl, perhaps in memory of his wife. here he received his sons, and now donal, but never any whom business or politeness compelled him to see. there was no one in the room when donal entered, but after about ten minutes a door opened at the further end, and lord morven appearing from his bedroom, shook hands with him with some faint show of kindness. almost the same moment the butler entered from a third door, and said dinner waited. the earl walked on, and donal followed. this room also was a small one. the meal was laid on a little round table. there were but two covers, and simmons alone was in waiting. while they ate and drank, which his lordship did sparingly, not a word was spoken. donal would have found it embarrassing had he not been prepared for the peculiar. his lordship took no notice of his guest, leaving him to the care of the butler. he looked very white and worn--donal thought a good deal worse than when he saw him first. his cheeks were more sunken, his hair more gray, and his eyes more weary--with a consuming fire in them that had no longer much fuel and was burning remnants. he stooped over his plate as if to hide the operation of eating, and drank his wine with a trembling hand. every movement indicated indifference to both his food and his drink. at length the more solid part of the meal was removed, and they were left alone, fruit upon the table, and two wine-decanters. from one of them the earl helped himself, then passed it to donal, saying, "you are very good to my little davie, mr. grant! he is full of your kindness to him. there is nobody like you!" "a little goes a long way with davie, my lord," answered donal. "then much must go a longer way!" said the earl. there was nothing remarkable in the words, yet he spoke them with the difficulty a man accustomed to speak, and to weigh his words, might find in clothing a new thought to his satisfaction. the effort seemed to have tried him, and he took a sip of wine. this, however, he did after every briefest sentence he uttered: a sip only he took, nothing like a mouthful. donal told him that davie, of all the boys he had known, was far the quickest, and that just because he was morally the most teachable. "you greatly gratify me, mr. grant," said the earl. "i have long wished such a man as you for davie. if only i had known you when forgue was preparing for college!" "i must have been at that time only at college myself, my lord!" "true! true!" "but for davie, it is a privilege to teach him!" "if only it might last a while!" returned the earl. "but of course you have the church in your eye!" "my lord, i have not." "what!" cried his lordship almost eagerly; "you intend giving your life to teaching?" "my lord," returned donal, "i never trouble myself about my life. why should we burden the mule of the present with the camel-load of the future. i take what comes--what is sent me, that is." "you are right, mr. grant! if i were in your position, i should think just as you do. but, alas, i have never had any choice!" "perhaps your lordship has not chosen to choose!" donal was on the point of saying, but bethought himself in time not to hazard the remark. "if i were a rich man, mr. grant," the earl continued, "i would secure your services for a time indefinite; but, as every one knows, not an acre of the property belongs to me, or goes with the title. davie, dear boy, will have nothing but a thousand or two. the marriage i have in view for lord forgue will arrange a future for him." "i hope there will be some love in the marriage!" said donal uneasily, with a vague thought of eppy. "i had no intention," returned his lordship with cold politeness, "of troubling you concerning lord forgue!" "i beg your pardon, my lord," said donal. "--davie, poor boy--he is my anxiety!" resumed the earl, in his former condescendingly friendly, half sleepy tone. "what to do with him, i have not yet succeeded in determining. if the church of scotland were episcopal now, we might put him into that: he would be an honour to it! but as it has no dignities to confer, it is not the place for one of his birth and social position. a few shabby hundreds a year, and the associations he would necessarily be thrown into!--however honourable the profession in itself!" he added, with a bow to donal, apparently unable to get it out of his head that he had an embryo-clergyman before him. "davie is not quite a man yet," said donal; "and by the time he begins to think of a profession, he will, i trust, be fit to make a choice: the boy has a great deal of common sense. if your lordship will pardon me, i cannot help thinking there is no need to trouble about him." "it is very well for one in your position to think in that way, mr. grant! men like you are free to choose; you may make your bread as you please. but men in our position are greatly limited in their choice; the paths open to them are few. tradition oppresses us. we are slaves to the dead and buried. i could well wish i had been born in your humbler but in truth less contracted sphere. certain rôles are not open to you, to be sure; but your life in the open air, following your sheep, and dreaming all things beautiful and grand in the world beyond you, is entrancing. it is the life to make a poet!" "or a king!" thought donal. "but the earl would have made a discontented shepherd!" the man who is not content where he is, would never have been content somewhere else, though he might have complained less. "take another glass of wine, mr. grant," said his lordship, filling his own from the other decanter. "try this; i believe you will like it better." "in truth, my lord," answered donal, "i have drunk so little wine that i do not know one sort from another." "you know whisky better, i daresay! would you like some now? touch the bell behind you." "no, thank you, my lord; i know as little about whisky: my mother would never let us even taste it, and i have never tasted it." "a new taste is a gain to the being." "i suspect, however, a new appetite can only be a loss." as he said this, donal, half mechanically, filled a glass from the decanter his host had pushed towards him. "i should like you, though," resumed his lordship, after a short pause, "to keep your eyes open to the fact that davie must do something for himself. you would then be able to let me know by and by what you think him fit for!" "i will with pleasure, my lord. tastes may not be infallible guides to what is fit for us, but they may lead us to the knowledge of what we are fit for." "extremely well said!" returned the earl. i do not think he understood in the least what donal meant. "shall i try how he takes to trigonometry? he might care to learn land-surveying! gentlemen now, not unfrequently, take charge of the properties of their more favoured relatives. there is mr. graeme, your own factor, my lord--a relative, i understand!" "a distant one," answered his lordship with marked coldness, "--the degree of relationship hardly to be counted." "in the lowlands, my lord, you do not care to count kin as we do in the highlands! my heart warms to the word kinsman." "you have not found kinship so awkward as i, possibly!" said his lordship, with a watery smile. "the man in humble position may allow the claim of kin to any extent: he has nothing, therefore nothing can be taken from him! but the man who has would be the poorest of the clan if he gave to every needy relation." "i never knew the man so poor," answered donal, "that he had nothing to give. but the things of the poor are hardly to the purpose of the predatory relative." "'predatory relative!'--a good phrase!" said his lordship, with a sleepy laugh, though his eyes were wide open. his lips did not seem to care to move, yet he looked pleased. "to tell you the truth," he began again, "at one period of my history i gave and gave till i was tired of giving! ingratitude was the sole return. at one period i had large possessions--larger than i like to think of now: if i had the tenth part of what i have given away, i should not be uneasy concerning davie." "there is no fear of davie, my lord, so long as he is brought up with the idea that he must work for his bread." his lordship made no answer, and his look reminded donal of that he wore when he came to his chamber. a moment, and he rose and began to pace the room. an indescribable suggestion of an invisible yet luminous cloud hovered about his forehead and eyes--which latter, if not fixed on very vacancy, seemed to have got somewhere near it. at the fourth or fifth turn he opened the door by which he had entered, continuing a remark he had begun to donal--of which, although he heard every word and seemed on the point of understanding something, he had not caught the sense when his lordship disappeared, still talking. donal thought it therefore his part to follow him, and found himself in his lordship's bedroom. but out of this his lordship had already gone, through an opposite door, and donal still following entered an old picture-gallery, of which he had heard davie speak, but which the earl kept private for his exercise indoors. it was a long, narrow place, hardly more than a wide corridor, and appeared nowhere to afford distance enough for seeing a picture. but donal could ill judge, for the sole light in the place came from the fires and candles in the rooms whose doors they had left open behind them, with just a faint glimmer from the vapour-buried moon, sufficing to show the outline of window after window, and revealing something of the great length of the gallery. by the time donal overtook the earl, he was some distance down, holding straight on into the long dusk, and still talking. "this is my favourite promenade," he said, as if brought to himself by the sound of donal's overtaking steps. "after dinner always, mr. grant, wet weather or dry, still or stormy, i walk here. what do i care for the weather! it will be time when i am old to consult the barometer!" donal wondered a little: there seemed no great hardihood in the worst of weather to go pacing a picture-gallery, where the fiercest storm that ever blew could send in only little threads of air through the chinks of windows and doors! "yes," his lordship went on, "i taught myself hardship in my boyhood, and i reap the fruits of it in my prime!--come up here: i will show you a prospect unequalled." he stopped in front of a large picture, and began to talk as if expatiating on the points of a landscape outspread before him. his remarks belonged to something magnificent; but whether they were applicable to the picture donal could not tell; there was light enough only to give a faint gleam to its gilded frame. "reach beyond reach!" said his lordship; "endless! infinite! how would not poor maldon, with his ever fresh ambition after the unattainable, have gloated on such a scene! in nature alone you front success! she does what she means! she alone does what she means!" "if," said donal, more for the sake of confirming the earl's impression that he had a listener, than from any idea that he would listen--"if you mean the object of nature is to present us with perfection, i cannot allow she does what she intends: you rarely see her produce anything she would herself call perfect. but if her object be to make us behold perfection with the inner eye, this object she certainly does gain, and that just by stopping short of--" he did not finish the sentence. a sudden change was upon him, absorbing him so that he did not even try to account for it: something seemed to give way in his head--as if a bubble burst in his brain; and from that moment whatever the earl said, and whatever arose in his own mind, seemed to have outward existence as well. he heard and knew the voice of his host, but seemed also in some inexplicable way, which at the time occasioned him no surprise, to see the things which had their origin in the brain of the earl. whether he went in very deed out with him into the night, he did not know--he felt as if he had gone, and thought he had not--but when he woke the next morning in his bed at the top of the tower, which he had no recollection of climbing, he was as weary as if he had been walking the night through. chapter xxxi. bewilderment. his first thought was of a long and delightful journey he had made on horseback with the earl--through scenes of entrancing interest and variety,--with the present result of a strange weariness, almost misery. what had befallen him? was the thing a fact or a fancy? if a fancy, how was he so weary? if a fact, how could it have been? had he in any way been the earl's companion through such a long night as it seemed? could they have visited all the places whose remembrance lingered in his brain? he was so confused, so bewildered, so haunted with a shadowy uneasiness almost like remorse, that he even dreaded the discovery of the cause of it all. might a man so lose hold of himself as to be no more certain he had ever possessed or could ever possess himself again? he bethought himself at last that he might perhaps have taken more wine than his head could stand. yet he remembered leaving his glass unemptied to follow the earl; and it was some time after that before the change came! could it have been drunkenness? had it been slowly coming without his knowing it? he could hardly believe it? but whatever it was, it had left him unhappy, almost ashamed. what would the earl think of him? he must have concluded him unfit any longer to keep charge of his son! for his own part he did not feel he was to blame, but rather that an accident had befallen him. whence then this sense of something akin to shame? why should he be ashamed of anything coming upon him from without? of that shame he had to be ashamed, as of a lack of faith in god! would god leave his creature who trusted in him at the mercy of a chance--of a glass of wine taken in ignorance? there was a thing to be ashamed of, and with good cause! he got up, found to his dismay that it was almost ten o'clock--his hour for rising in winter being six--dressed in haste, and went down, wondering that davie had not come to see after him. in the schoolroom he found him waiting for him. the boy sprang up, and darted to meet him. "i hope you are better, mr. grant!" he said. "i am so glad you are able to be down!" "i am quite well," answered donal. "i can't think what made me sleep so long? why didn't you come and wake me, davie, my boy?" "because simmons told me you were ill, and i must not disturb you if you were ever so late in coming down." "i hardly deserve any breakfast!" said donal, turning to the table; "but if you will stand by me, and read while i take my coffee, we shall save a little time so." "yes, sir.--but your coffee must be quite cold! i will ring." "no, no; i must not waste any more time. a man who cannot drink cold coffee ought to come down while it is hot." "forgue won't drink cold coffee!" said davie: "i don't see why you should!" "because i prefer to do with my coffee as i please; i will not have hot coffee for my master. i won't have it anything to me what humour the coffee may be in. i will be donal grant, whether the coffee be cold or hot. a bit of practical philosophy for you, davie!" "i think i understand you, sir: you would not have a man make a fuss about a trifle." "not about a real trifle. the co-relative of a trifle, davie, is a smile. but i would take heed whether the thing that is called a trifle be really a trifle. besides, there may be a point in a trifle that is the egg of an ought. it is a trifle whether this or that is nice; it is a point that i should not care. with us highlanders it is a point of breeding not to mind what sort of dinner we have, but to eat as heartily of bread and cheese as of roast beef. at least so my father and mother used to teach me, though i fear that refinement of good manners is going out of fashion even with highlanders." "it is good manners!" rejoined davie with decision, "--and more than good manners! i should count it grand not to care what kind of dinner i had. but i am afraid it is more than i shall ever come to!" "you will never come to it by trying because you think it grand. only mind, i did not say we were not to enjoy our roast beef more than our bread and cheese; that would be not to discriminate, where there is a difference. if bread and cheese were just as good to us as roast beef, there would be no victory in our contentment." "i see!" said davie.--"wouldn't it be well," he asked, after a moment's pause, "to put one's self in training, mr. grant, to do without things--or at least to be able to do without them?" "it is much better to do the lessons set you by one who knows how to teach, than to pick lessons for yourself out of your books. davie, i have not that confidence in myself to think i should be a good teacher of myself." "but you are a good teacher of me, sir!" "i try--but then i'm set to teach you, and i am not set to teach myself: i am only set to make myself do what i am taught. when you are my teacher, davie, i try--don't i--to do everything you tell me?" "yes, indeed, sir!" "but i am not set to obey myself!" "no, nor anyone else, sir! you do not need to obey anyone, or have anyone teach you, sir!" "oh, don't i, davie! on the contrary, i could not get on for one solitary moment without somebody to teach me. look you here, davie: i have so many lessons given me, that i have no time or need to add to them any of my own. if you were to ask the cook to let you have a cold dinner, you would perhaps eat it with pride, and take credit for what your hunger yet made quite agreeable to you. but the boy who does not grumble when he is told not to go out because it is raining and he has a cold, will not perhaps grumble either should he happen to find his dinner not at all nice." davie hung his head. it had been a very small grumble, but there are no sins for which there is less reason or less excuse than small ones: in no sense are they worth committing. and we grown people commit many more such than little children, and have our reward in childishness instead of childlikeness. "it is so easy," continued donal, "to do the thing we ordain ourselves, for in holding to it we make ourselves out fine fellows!--and that is such a mean kind of thing! then when another who has the right, lays a thing upon us, we grumble--though it be the truest and kindest thing, and the most reasonable and needful for us--even for our dignity--for our being worth anything! depend upon it, davie, to do what we are told is a far grander thing than to lay the severest rules upon ourselves--ay, and to stick to them, too!" "but might there not be something good for us to do that we were not told of?" "whoever does the thing he is told to do--the thing, that is, that has a plain ought in it, will become satisfied that there is one who will not forget to tell him what must be done as soon as he is fit to do it." the conversation lasted only while donal ate his breakfast, with the little fellow standing beside him; it was soon over, but not soon to be forgotten. for the readiness of the boy to do what his master told him, was beautiful--and a great help and comfort, sometimes a rousing rebuke to his master, whose thoughts would yet occasionally tumble into one of the pitfalls of sorrow. "what!" he would say to himself, "am i so believed in by this child, that he goes at once to do my words, and shall i for a moment doubt the heart of the father, or his power or will to set right whatever may have seemed to go wrong with his child!--go on, davie! you are a good boy; i will be a better man!" but naturally, as soon as lessons were over, he fell again to thinking what could have befallen him the night before. at what point did the aberration begin? the earl must have taken notice of it, for surely simmons had not given davie those injunctions of himself--except indeed he had exposed his condition even to him! if the earl had spoken to simmons, kindness seemed intended him; but it might have been merely care over the boy! anyhow, what was to be done? he did not ponder the matter long. with that directness which was one of the most marked features of his nature, he resolved at once to request an interview with the earl, and make his apologies. he sought simmons, therefore, and found him in the pantry rubbing up the forks and spoons. "ah, mr. grant," he said, before donal could speak, "i was just coming to you with a message from his lordship! he wants to see you." "and i came to you," replied donal, "to say i wanted to see his lordship!" "that's well fitted, then, sir!" returned simmons. "i will go and see when. his lordship is not up, nor likely to be for some hours yet; he is in one of his low fits this morning. he told me you were not quite yourself last night." as he spoke his red nose seemed to examine donal's face with a kindly, but not altogether sympathetic scrutiny. "the fact is, simmons," answered donal, "not being used to wine, i fear i drank more of his lordship's than was good for me." "his lordship's wine," murmured simmons, and there checked himself. "--how much did you drink, sir--if i may make so bold?" "i had one glass during dinner, and more than one, but not nearly two, after." "pooh! pooh, sir! that could never hurt a strong man like you! you ought to know better than that! look at me!" but he did not go on with his illustration. "tut!" he resumed, "that make you sleep till ten o'clock!--if you will kindly wait in the hall, or in the schoolroom, i will bring you his lordship's orders." so saying while he washed his hands and took off his white apron, simmons departed on his errand to his master. donal went to the foot of the grand staircase, and there waited. as he stood he heard a light step above him, and involuntarily glancing up, saw the light shape of lady arctura come round the curve of the spiral stair, descending rather slowly and very softly, as if her feet were thinking. she checked herself for an infinitesimal moment, then moved on again. donal stood with bended head as she passed. if she acknowledged his obeisance it was with the slightest return, but she lifted her eyes to his face with a look that seemed to have in it a strange wistful trouble--not very marked, yet notable. she passed on and vanished, leaving that look a lingering presence in donal's thought. what was it? was it anything? what could it mean? had he really seen it? was it there, or had he only imagined it? simmons kept him waiting a good while. he had found his lordship getting up, and had had to stay to help him dress. at length he came, excusing himself that his lordship's temper at such times--that was, in his dumpy fits--was not of the evenest, and required a gentle hand. but his lordship would see him--and could mr. grant find the way himself, for his old bones ached with running up and down those endless stone steps? donal answered he knew the way, and sprang up the stair. but his mind was more occupied with the coming interview than with the way to it, which caused him to take a wrong turn after leaving the stair: he had a good gift in space-relations, but instinct was here not so keen as on a hill-side. the consequence was that he found himself in the picture-gallery. a strange feeling of pain, as at the presence of a condition he did not wish to encourage, awoke in him at the discovery. he walked along, however, thus taking, he thought, the readiest way to his lordship's apartment: either he would find him in his bedroom, or could go through that to his sitting-room! he glanced at the pictures he passed, and seemed, strange to say, though, so far as he knew, he had never been in the place except in the dark, to recognize some of them as belonging to the stuff of the dream in which he had been wandering through the night--only that was a glowing and gorgeous dream, whereas the pictures were even commonplace! here was something to be meditated upon--but for the present postponed! his lordship was expecting him! arrived, as he thought, at the door of the earl's bedroom, he knocked, and receiving no answer, opened it, and found himself in a narrow passage. nearly opposite was another door, partly open, and hearing a movement within, he ventured to knock there. a voice he knew at once to be lady arctura's, invited him to enter. it was an old, lovely, gloomy little room, in which sat the lady writing. it had but one low lattice-window, to the west, but a fire blazed cheerfully in the old-fashioned grate. she looked up, nor showed more surprise than if he had been a servant she had rung for. "i beg your pardon, my lady," he said: "my lord wished to see me, but i have lost my way." "i will show it you," she answered, and rising came to him. she led him along the winding narrow passage, pointed out to him the door of his lordship's sitting-room, and turned away--again, donal could not help thinking, with a look as of some anxiety about him. he knocked, and the voice of the earl bade him enter. his lordship was in his dressing-gown, on a couch of faded satin of a gold colour, against which his pale yellow face looked cadaverous. "good morning, mr. grant," he said. "i am glad to see you better!" "i thank you, my lord," returned donal. "i have to make an apology. i cannot understand how it was, except, perhaps, that, being so little accustomed to strong drink,--" "there is not the smallest occasion to say a word," interrupted his lordship. "you did not once forget yourself, or cease to behave like a gentleman!" "your lordship is very kind. still i cannot help being sorry. i shall take good care in the future." "it might be as well," conceded the earl, "to set yourself a limit--necessarily in your case a narrow one.--some constitutions are so immediately responsive!" he added in a murmur. "the least exhibition of--!--but a man like you, mr. grant," he went on aloud, "will always know to take care of himself!" "sometimes, apparently, when it is too late!" rejoined donal. "but i must not annoy your lordship with any further expression of my regret!" "will you dine with me to-night?" said the earl. "i am lonely now. sometimes, for months together, i feel no need of a companion: my books and pictures content me. all at once a longing for society will seize me, and that longing my health will not permit me to indulge. i am not by nature unsociable--much the contrary. you may wonder i do not admit my own family more freely; but my wretched health makes me shrink from loud voices and abrupt motions." "but lady arctura!" thought donal. "your lordship will find me a poor substitute, i fear," he said, "for the society you would like. but i am at your lordship's service." he could not help turning with a moment's longing and regret to his tower-nest and the company of his books and thoughts; but he did not feel that he had a choice. chapter xxxii. the second dinner with the earl. he went as before, conducted by the butler, and formally announced. to his surprise, with the earl was lady arctura. his lordship made him give her his arm, and followed. this was to donal a very different dinner from that of the evening before. whether the presence of his niece made the earl rouse himself to be agreeable, or he had grown better since the morning and his spirits had risen, certainly he was not like the same man. he talked in a rather forced-playful way, but told two or three good stories; described with vivacity some of the adventures of his youth; spoke of several great men he had met; and in short was all that could be desired in a host. donal took no wine during dinner, the earl as before took very little, and lady arctura none. she listened respectfully to her uncle's talk, and was attentive when donal spoke; he thought she looked even sympathetic two or three times; and once he caught the expression as of anxiety he had seen on her face that same day twice before. it was strange, too, he thought, that, not seeing her sometimes for a week together, he should thus meet her three times in one day. when the last of the dinner was removed and the wine placed on the table, donal thought his lordship looked as if he expected his niece to go; but she kept her place. he asked her which wine she would have, but she declined any. he filled his glass, and pushed the decanter to donal. he too filled his glass, and drank slowly. the talk revived. but donal could not help fancying that the eyes of the lady now and then sought his with a sort of question in them--almost as if she feared something was going to happen to him. he attributed this to her having heard that he took too much wine the night before. the situation was unpleasant. he must, however, brave it out! when he refused a second glass, which the earl by no means pressed, he thought he saw her look relieved; but more than once thereafter he saw, or fancied he saw her glance at him with that expression of slight anxiety. in its course the talk fell upon sheep, and donal was relating some of his experiences with them and their dogs, greatly interested in the subject; when all at once, just as before, something seemed to burst in his head, and immediately, although he knew he was sitting at table with the earl and lady arctura, he was uncertain whether he was not at the same time upon the side of a lonely hill, closed in a magic night of high summer, his woolly and hairy friends lying all about him, and a light glimmering faintly on the heather a little way off, which he knew for the flame that marks for a moment the footstep of an angel, when he touches ever so lightly the solid earth. he seemed to be reading the thoughts of his sheep around him, yet all the time went on talking, and knew he was talking, with the earl and the lady. after a while, everything was changed. he was no longer either with his sheep or his company. he was alone, and walking swiftly through and beyond the park, in a fierce wind from the north-east, battling with it, and ruling it like a fiery horse. by and by came a hoarse, terrible music, which he knew for the thunderous beat of the waves on the low shore, yet imagined issuing from an indescribable instrument, gigantic and grotesque. he felt it first--through his feet, as one feels without hearing the tones of an organ for which the building is too small to allow scope to their vibration: the waves made the ground beat against the soles of his feet as he walked; but soon he heard it like the infinitely prolonged roaring of a sky-built organ. it was drawing him to the sea, whether in the body or out of the body he knew not: he was but conscious of forms of existence: whether those forms had relation to things outside him, or whether they belonged only to the world within him, he was unaware. the roaring of the great water-organ grew louder and louder. he knew every step of the way to the shore--across the fields and over fences and stiles. he turned this way and that, to avoid here a ditch, there a deep sandy patch. and still the music grew louder and louder--and at length came in his face the driving spray: it was the flying touch of the wings on which the tones went hurrying past into the depths of awful distance! his feet were now wading through the bent-tufted sand, with the hard, bare, wave-beaten sand in front of him. through the dark he could see the white fierceness of the hurrying waves as they rushed to the shore, then leaning, toppling, curling, self-undermined, hurled forth at once all the sound that was in them in a falling roar of defeat. every wave was a complex chord, with winnowed tones feathering it round. he paced up and down the sand--it seemed for ages. why he paced there he did not know--why always he turned and went back instead of going on. suddenly he thought he saw something dark in the hollow of a wave that swept to its fall. the moon came out as it broke, and the something was rolled in the surf up the shore. donal stood watching it. why should he move? what was it to him? the next wave would reclaim it for the ocean! it looked like the body of a man, but what did it matter! many such were tossed in the hollows of that music! but something came back to him out of the ancient years: in the ages gone by men did what they could! there was a word they used then: they said men ought to do this or that! this body might not be dead--or dead, some one might like to have it! he rushed into the water, and caught it--ere the next wave broke, though hours of cogitation, ratiocination, recollection, seemed to have intervened. the breaking wave drenched him from head to foot: he clung to his prize and dragged it out. a moment's bewilderment, and he came to himself lying on the sand, his arms round a great lump of net, lost from some fishing boat. his illusions were gone. he was sitting in a cold wind, wet to the skin, on the border of a wild sea. a poor, shivering, altogether ordinary and uncomfortable mortal, he sat on the shore of the german ocean, from which he had rescued a tangled mass of net and seaweed! he dragged it beyond the reach of the waves, and set out for home. by the time he reached the castle he was quite warm. his door at the foot of the tower was open, he crept up, and was soon fast asleep. chapter xxxiii. the housekeeper's room. he was not so late the next morning. ere he had finished his breakfast he had made up his mind that he must beware of the earl. he was satisfied that the experiences of the past night could not be the consequence of one glass of wine. if he asked him again, he would go to dinner with him, but would drink nothing but water. school was just over when simmons came from his lordship, to inquire after him, and invite him to dine with him that evening. donald immediately consented. this time lady arctura was not with the earl. after as during dinner donal declined to drink. his lordship cast on him a keen, searching glance, but it was only a glance, and took no farther notice of his refusal. the conversation, however, which had not been brilliant from the first, now sank and sank till it was not; and after a cup of coffee, his lordship, remarking that he was not feeling himself, begged donal to excuse him, and proceeded to retire. donal rose, and with a hope that his lordship would have a good night and feel better in the morning, left the room. the passage outside was lighted only by a rather dim lamp, and in the distance donal saw what he could but distinguish as the form of a woman, standing by the door which opened upon the great staircase. he supposed it at first to be one of the maids; but the servants were so few compared with the size of the castle that one was seldom to be met on stair or in passage; and besides, the form stood as if waiting for some one! as he drew nearer, he saw it was lady arctura, and would have passed with an obeisance. but ere he could lay his hand on the lock, hers was there to prevent him. he then saw that she was agitated, and that she had stopped him thus because her voice had at the moment failed her. the next moment, however, she recovered it, and her self-possession as well. "mr. grant," she said, in a low voice, "i wish to speak to you--if you will allow me." "i am at your service, my lady," answered donal. "but we cannot here! my uncle--" "shall we go into the picture-gallery?" suggested donal; "there is moonlight there." "no; that would be still nearer my uncle. his hearing is sometimes preternaturally keen; and besides, as you know, he often walks there after his evening meal. but--excuse me, mr. grant--you will understand me presently--are you--are you quite--?" "you mean, my lady--am i quite myself this evening!" said donal, wishing to help her with the embarrassing question: "--i have drunk nothing but water to-night." with that she opened the door, and descended the stair, he following; but as soon as the curve of the staircase hid the door they had left, she stopped, and turning to him said, "i would not have you mistake me, mr. grant! i should be ashamed to speak to you if--" "indeed i am very sorry!" said donal, "--though hardly so much to blame as i fear you think me." "you mistake me at once! you suppose i imagine you took too much wine last night! it would be absurd. i saw what you took! but we must not talk here. come." she turned again, and going down, led the way to the housekeeper's room. they found her at work with her needle. "mistress brookes," said lady arctura, "i want to have a little talk with mr. grant, and there is no fire in the library: may we sit here?" "by all means! sit doon, my lady! why, bairn! you look as cold as if you had been on the roof! there! sit close to the fire; you're all trem'lin'!" lady arctura obeyed like the child mrs. brookes called her, and sat down in the chair she gave up to her. "i've something to see efter i' the still-room," said the housekeeper. "you sit here and hae yer crack. sit doon, mr. grant. i'm glad to see you an' my lady come to word o' mooth at last. i began to think it wud never be!" had donal been in the way of looking to faces for the interpretation of words and thoughts, he would have seen a shadow sweep over lady arctura's, followed by a flush, which he would have attributed to displeasure at this utterance of the housekeeper. but, with all his experience of the world within, and all his unusually developed power of entering into the feelings of others, he had never come to pry into those feelings, or to study their phenomena for the sake of possessing himself of them. man was by no means an open book to him--"no, nor woman neither," but he would have scorned to supplement by such investigation what a lady chose to tell him. he sat looking into the fire, with an occasional upward glance, waiting for what was to come, and saw neither shadow nor flush. lady arctura sat also gazing into the fire, and seemed in no haste to begin. "you are so good to davie!" she said at length, and stopped. "no better than i have to be," returned donal. "not to be good to davie would be to be a wretch." "you know, mr. grant, i cannot agree with you!" "there is no immediate necessity, my lady." "but i suppose one may be fair to another!" she went on, doubtingly, "--and it is only fair to confess that he is much more manageable since you came. only that is no good if it does not come from the right source." "grapes do not come from thorns, my lady. we must not allow in evil a power of good." she did not reply. "he minds everything i say to him now," she resumed. "what is it makes him so good?--i wish i had had such a tutor!" she stopped again: she had spoken out of the simplicity of her thought, but the words when said looked to her as if they ought not to have been said. "something is working in her!" thought donal. "she is so different! her voice is different!" "but that is not what i wanted to speak to you about, mr. grant," she re-commenced, "--though i did want you to know i was aware of the improvement in davie. i wished to say something about my uncle." here followed another pause. "you may have remarked," she said at length, "that, though we live together, and he is my guardian, and the head of the house, there is not much communication between us." "i have gathered as much: i ask no questions, but i cannot tell davie not to talk to me!" "of course not.--lord morven is a strange man. i do not understand him, and i do not want to judge him, or make you judge him. but i must speak of a fact, concerning yourself, which i have no right to keep from you." once more a pause followed. there was nothing now of the grand dame about arctura. "has nothing occurred to wake a doubt in you?" she said at last, abruptly. "have you not suspected him of--of using you in any way?" "i have had an undefined ghost of a suspicion," answered donal. "please tell me what you know." "i should know nothing--although, my room being near his, i should have been the more perplexed about some things--had he not made an experiment upon myself a year ago." "is it possible?" "i sometimes fancy i have not been so well since. it was a great shock to me when i came to myself:--you see i am trusting you, mr. grant!" "i thank you heartily, my lady," said donal. "i believe," continued lady arctura, gathering courage, "that my uncle is in the habit of taking some horrible drug for the sake of its effect on his brain. there are people who do so! what it is i don't know, and i would rather not know. it is just as bad, surely, as taking too much wine! i have heard himself remark to mr. carmichael that opium was worse than wine, for it destroyed the moral sense more. mind i don't say it is opium he takes!" "there are other things," said donal, "even worse!--but surely you do not mean he dared try anything of the sort on you!" "i am sure he gave me something! for, once that i dined with him,--but i cannot describe the effect it had upon me! i think he wanted to see its operation on one who did not even know she had taken anything. the influence of such things is a pleasant one, they say, at first, but i would not go through such agonies as i had for the world!" she ceased, evidently troubled by the harassing remembrance. donal hastened to speak. "it was because of such a suspicion, my lady, that this evening i would not even taste his wine. i am safe to-night, i trust, from the insanity--i can call it nothing else--that possessed me the last two nights." "was it very dreadful?" asked lady arctura. "on the contrary, i had a sense of life and power such as i could never of myself have imagined!" "oh, mr. grant, do take care! do not be tempted to take it again. i don't know where it might not have led me if i had found it as pleasant as it was horrible; for i am sorely tried with painful thoughts, and feel sometimes as if i would do almost anything to get rid of them." "there must be a good way of getting rid of them! think it of god's mercy," said donal, "that you cannot get rid of them the other way." "i do; i do!" "the shield of his presence was over you." "how glad i should be to think so! but we have no right to think he cares for us till we believe in christ--and--and--i don't know that i do believe in him!" "wherever you learned that, it is a terrible lie," said donal. "is not christ the same always, and is he not of one mind with god? was it not while we were yet sinners that he poured out his soul for us? it is a fearful thing to say of the perfect love, that he is not doing all he can, with all the power of a maker over the creature he has made, to help and deliver him!" "i know he makes his sun to shine and his rain to fall upon the evil and the good; but those good things are only of this world!" "are those the good things then that the lord says the father will give to those that ask him? how can you worship a god who gives you all the little things he does not care much about, but will not do his best for you?" "but are there not things he cannot do for us till we believe in christ?" "certainly there are. but what i want you to see is that he does all that can be done. he finds it very hard to teach us, but he is never tired of trying. anyone who is willing to be taught of god, will by him be taught, and thoroughly taught." "i am afraid i am doing wrong in listening to you, mr. grant--and the more that i cannot help wishing what you say might be true! but are you not in danger--you will pardon me for saying it--of presumption?--how can all the good people be wrong?" "because the greater part of their teachers have set themselves to explain god rather than to obey and enforce his will. the gospel is given to convince, not our understandings, but our hearts; that done, and never till then, our understandings will be free. our lord said he had many things to tell his disciples, but they were not able to hear them. if the things be true which i have heard from sunday to sunday since i came here, the lord has brought us no salvation at all, but only a change of shape to our miseries. they have not redeemed you, lady arctura, and never will. nothing but christ himself, your lord and friend and brother, not all the doctrines about him, even if every one of them were true, can save you. poor orphan children, we cannot find our god, and they would have us take instead a shocking caricature of him!" "but how should sinners know what is or is not like the true god?" "if a man desires god, he cannot help knowing enough of him to be capable of learning more--else how should he desire him? made in the image of god, his idea of him cannot be all wrong. that does not make him fit to teach others--only fit to go on learning for himself. but in jesus christ i see the very god i want. i want a father like him. he reproaches some of those about him for not knowing him--for, if they had known god, they would have known him: they were to blame for not knowing god. no other than the god exactly like christ can be the true god. it is a doctrine of devils that jesus died to save us from our father. there is no safety, no good, no gladness, no purity, but with the father, his father and our father, his god and our god." "but god hates sin and punishes it!" "it would be terrible if he did not. all hatred of sin is love to the sinner. do you think jesus came to deliver us from the punishment of our sins? he would not have moved a step for that. the horrible thing is being bad, and all punishment is help to deliver us from that, nor will punishment cease till we have ceased to be bad. god will have us good, and jesus works out the will of his father. where is the refuge of the child who fears his father? is it in the farthest corner of the room? is it down in the dungeon of the castle, my lady?" "no, no!" cried lady arctura, "--in his father's arms!" "there!" said donal, and was silent. "i hold by jesus!" he added after a pause, and rose as he said it, but stood where he rose. lady arctura sat motionless, divided between reverence for distorted and false forms of truth taught her from her earliest years, and desire after a god whose very being is the bliss of his creatures. some time passed in silence, and then she too rose to depart. she held out her hand to donal with a kind of irresolute motion, but withdrawing it, smiled almost beseechingly, and said, "i wish i might ask you something. i know it is a rude question, but if you could see all, you would answer me and let the offence go." "i will answer you anything you choose to ask." "that makes it the more difficult; but i will--i cannot bear to remain longer in doubt: did you really write that poem you gave to kate graeme--compose it, i mean, your own self?" "i made no secret of that when i gave it her," said donal, not perceiving her drift. "then you did really write it?" donal looked at her in perplexity. her face grew very red, and tears began to come in her eyes. "you must pardon me!" she said: "i am so ignorant! and we live in such an out-of-the-way place that--that it seems very unlikely a real poet--! and then i have been told there are people who have a passion for appearing to do the thing they are not able to do, and i was anxious to be quite sure! my mind would keep brooding over it, and wondering, and longing to know for certain!--so i resolved at last that i would be rid of the doubt, even at the risk of offending you. i know i have been rude--unpardonably rude, but--" "but," supplemented donal, with a most sympathetic smile, for he understood her as his own thought, "you do not feel quite sure yet! what a priori reason do you see why i should not be able to write verses? there is no rule as to where poetry grows: one place is as good as another for that!" "i hope you will forgive me! i hope i have not offended you very much!" "nobody in such a world as this ought to be offended at being asked for proof. if there are in it rogues that look like honest men, how is any one, without a special gift of insight, to be always sure of the honest man? even the man whom a woman loves best will sometimes tear her heart to pieces! i will give you all the proof you can desire.--and lest the tempter should say i made up the proof itself between now and to-morrow morning, i will fetch it at once." "oh, mr. grant, spare me! i am not, indeed i am not so bad as that!" "who can tell when or whence the doubt may wake again, or what may wake it!" "at least let me explain a little before you go," she said. "certainly," he answered, reseating himself, in compliance with her example. "miss graeme told me that you had never seen a garden like theirs before!" "i never did. there are none such, i fancy, in our part of the country." "nor in our neighbourhood either." "then what is surprising in it?" "nothing in that. but is there not something in your being able to write a poem like that about a garden such as you had never seen? one would say you must have been familiar with it from childhood to be able so to enter into the spirit of the place!" "perhaps if i had been familiar with it from childhood, that might have disabled me from feeling the spirit of it, for then might it not have looked to me as it looked to those in whose time such gardens were the fashion? two things are necessary--first, that there should be a spirit in a place, and next that the place should be seen by one whose spirit is capable of giving house-room to its spirit.--by the way, does the ghost-lady feel the place all right?" "i am not sure that i know what you mean; but i felt the grass with her feet as i read, and the wind lifting my hair. i seemed to know exactly how she felt!" "now tell me, were you ever a ghost?" "no," she answered, looking in his face like a child--without even a smile. "did you ever see a ghost?" "no, never." "then how should you know how a ghost would feel?" "i see! i cannot answer you." donal rose. "i am indeed ashamed!" said lady arctura. "ashamed of giving me the chance of proving myself a true man?" "that, at least, is no longer necessary!" "but i want my revenge. as a punishment for doubting one whom you had so little ground for believing, you shall be compelled to see the proof--that is, if you will do me the favour to wait here till i come back. i shall not be long, though it is some distance to the top of baliol's tower." "davie told me your room was there: do you not find it cold? it must be very lonely! i wonder why mistress brookes put you there!" donal assured her he could not have had a place more to his mind, and before she could well think he had reached the foot of his stair, was back with a roll of papers, which he laid on the table. "there!" he said, opening it out; "if you will take the trouble to go over these, you may read the growth of the poem. here first you see it blocked out rather roughly, and much blotted with erasures and substitutions. here next you see the result copied--clean to begin with, but afterwards scored and scored. you see the words i chose instead of the first, and afterwards in their turn rejected, until in the proofs i reached those which i have as yet let stand. i do not fancy miss graeme has any doubt the verses are mine, for it was plain she thought them rubbish. from your pains to know who wrote them, i believe you do not think so badly of them!" she thought he was satirical, and gave a slight sigh as of pain. it went to his heart. "i did not mean the smallest reflection, my lady, on your desire for satisfaction," he said; "rather, indeed, it flatters me. but is it not strange the heart should be less ready to believe what seems worth believing? something must be true: why not the worthy--oftener at least than the unworthy? why should it be easier to believe hard things of god, for instance, than lovely things?--or that one man copied from another, than that he should have made the thing himself? some would yet say i contrived all this semblance of composition in order to lay the surer claim to that to which i had none--nor would take the trouble to follow the thing through its development! but it will be easy for you, my lady, and no bad exercise in logic and analysis, to determine whether the genuine growth of the poem be before you in these papers or not." "i shall find it most interesting," said lady arctura: "so much i can tell already! i never saw anything of the kind before, and had no idea how poetry was made. does it always take so much labour?" "some verses take much more; some none at all. the labour is in getting the husks of expression cleared off, so that the thought may show itself plainly." at this point mrs. brookes, thinking probably the young people had had long enough conference, entered, and after a little talk with her, lady arctura kissed her and bade her good night. donal retired to his aerial chamber, wondering whether the lady of the house had indeed changed as much as she seemed to have changed. from that time, whether it was that lady arctura had previously avoided meeting him and now did not, or from other causes, donal and she met much oftener as they went about the place, nor did they ever pass without a mutual smile and greeting. the next day but one, she brought him his papers to the schoolroom. she had read every erasure and correction, she told him, and could no longer have had a doubt that the writer of the papers was the maker of the verses, even had she not previously learned thorough confidence in the man himself. "they would possibly fail to convince a jury though!" he said, as he rose and went to throw them in the fire. divining his intent, arctura darted after him, and caught them just in time. "let me keep them," she pleaded, "--for my humiliation!" "do with them what you like, my lady," said donal. "they are of no value to me--except that you care for them." chapter xxxiv. cobbler and castle. in the bosom of the family in which the elements seem most kindly mixed, there may yet lie some root of discord and disruption, upon which the foreign influence necessary to its appearance above ground, has not yet come to operate. that things are quiet is no proof, only a hopeful sign of harmony. in a family of such poor accord as that at the castle, the peace might well at any moment be broken. lord forgue had been for some time on a visit to edinburgh, had doubtless there been made much of, and had returned with a considerable development of haughtiness, and of that freedom which means subjugation to self, and freedom from the law of liberty. it is often when a man is least satisfied--not with himself but with his immediate doings--that he is most ready to assert his superiority to the restraints he might formerly have grumbled against, but had not dared to dispute--and to claim from others such consideration as accords with a false idea of his personal standing. but for a while donal and he barely saw each other; donal had no occasion to regard him; and lord forgue kept so much to himself that davie made lamentation: percy was not half so jolly as he used to be! for a fortnight eppy had not been to see her grand-parents; and as the last week something had prevented donal also from paying them his customary visit, the old people had naturally become uneasy; and one frosty twilight, when the last of the sunlight had turned to cold green in the west, andrew comin appeared in the castle kitchen, asking to see mistress brookes. he was kindly received by the servants, among whom eppy was not present; and mrs. brookes, who had a genuine respect for the cobbler, soon came to greet him. she told him she knew no reason why eppy had not gone to inquire after them as usual: she would send for her, she said, and left the kitchen. eppy was not at the moment to be found, but donal, whom mistress brookes had gone herself to seek, went at once to the kitchen. "will you come out a bit, andrew," he said, "--if you're not tired? it's a fine night, and it's easy to talk in the gloamin'!" andrew consented with alacrity. on the side of the castle away from the town, the descent was at first by a succession of terraces with steps from the one to the other, the terraces themselves being little flower-gardens. at the bottom of the last of these terraces and parallel with them, was a double row of trees, forming a long narrow avenue between two little doors in two walls at opposite ends of the castle. one of these led to some of the offices; the other admitted to a fruit garden which turned the western shoulder of the hill, and found for the greater part a nearly southern exposure. at this time of the year it was a lonely enough place, and at this time of the day more than likely to be altogether deserted: thither donal would lead his friend. going out therefore by the kitchen-door, they went first into a stable-yard, from which descended steps to the castle-well, on the level of the second terrace. thence they arrived, by more steps, at the mews where in old times the hawks were kept, now rather ruinous though not quite neglected. here the one wall-door opened on the avenue which led to the other. it was one of the pleasantest walks in immediate proximity to the castle. the first of the steely stars were shining through the naked rafters of leafless boughs overhead, as donal and the cobbler stepped, gently talking, into the aisle of trees. the old man looked up, gazed for a moment in silence, and said:-- "'the heavens declare the glory o' god, an' the firmament showeth his handy-work.' i used, whan i was a lad, to study astronomy a wee, i' the houp o' better hearin' what the h'avens declared aboot the glory o' god: i wud fain un'erstan' the speech ae day cried across the nicht to the ither. but i was sair disapp'intit. the things the astronomer tellt semple fowk war verra won'erfu', but i couldna fin' i' my hert 'at they made me think ony mair o' god nor i did afore. i dinna mean to say they michtna be competent to work that in anither, but it wasna my experrience o' them. my hert was some sair at this, for ye see i was set upo' winnin' intil the presence o' him i couldna bide frae, an' at that time i hadna learnt to gang straucht to him wha's the express image o' 's person, but, aye soucht him throuw the philosophy--eh, but it was bairnly philosophy!--o' the guid buiks 'at dwall upo' the natur' o' god an' a' that, an' his hatred o' sin an' a' that--pairt an' pairt true, nae doobt! but i wantit god great an' near, an' they made him oot sma', sma', an' unco' far awa'. ae nicht i was oot by mysel' upo' the shore, jist as the stars war teetin' oot. an' it wasna as gien they war feart o' the sun, an' pleast 'at he was gane, but as gien they war a' teetin' oot to see what had come o' their father o' lichts. a' at ance i cam to mysel', like oot o' some blin' delusion. up i cuist my e'en aboon--an' eh, there was the h'aven as god made it--awfu'!--big an' deep, ay faddomless deep, an' fu' o' the wan'erin' yet steady lichts 'at naething can blaw oot, but the breath o' his mooth! awa' up an' up it gaed, an' deeper an' deeper! an' my e'en gaed traivellin' awa' an' awa', till it seemed as though they never could win back to me. a' at ance they drappit frae the lift like a laverock, an' lichtit upo' the horizon, whaur the sea an' the sky met like richteousness an' peace kissin' ane anither, as the psalm says. noo i canna tell what it was, but jist there whaur the earth an' the sky cam thegither, was the meetin' o' my earthly sowl wi' god's h'avenly sowl! there was bonny colours, an' bonny lichts, an' a bonny grit star hingin' ower 't a', but it was nane o' a' thae things; it was something deeper nor a', an' heicher nor a'! frae that moment i saw--no hoo the h'avens declare the glory o' god, but i saw them declarin' 't, an' i wantit nae mair. astronomy for me micht sit an' wait for a better warl', whaur fowk didna weir oot their shune, an' ither fowk hadna to men' them. for what is the great glory o' god but that, though no man can comprehen' him, he comes doon, an' lays his cheek til his man's, an' says til him, 'eh, my cratur!'" while the cobbler was thus talking, they had gone the length of the avenue, and were within less than two trees of the door of the fruit-garden, when it opened, and was hurriedly shut again--not, however, before donal had caught sight, as he believed, of the form of eppy. he called her by name, and ran to the door, followed by andrew: the same suspicion had struck both of them at once! donal lifted the latch, and would have opened the door, but some one held it against him, and he heard the noise of an attempt to push the rusty bolt into the staple. he set his strength to it, and forced the door open. lord forgue was on the other side of it, and a little way off stood eppy trembling. donal turned away from his lordship, and said to the girl, "eppy, here's your grandfather come to see you!" the cobbler, however, went up to lord forgue. "you're a young man, my lord," he said, "an' may regard it as folly in an auld man to interfere between you an' your wull; but i warn ye, my lord, excep' you cease to carry yourself thus towards my granddaughter, his lordship, your father, shall be informed of the matter. eppy, you come home with me." "i will not," said eppy, her voice trembling with passion, though which passion it were hard to say; "i am a free woman. i make my own living. i will not be treated like a child!" "i will speak to mistress brookes," said the old man, with sad dignity. "and make her turn me away!" said eppy. she seemed quite changed--bold and determined--was probably relieved that she could no more play a false part. his lordship stood and said nothing. "but don't you think, grandfather," continued eppy, "that whatever mistress brookes says or does, i'll go home with you! i've saved money, and, as i can't get another place here when you've taken away my character, i'll leave the country." his lordship advanced, and with strained composure said, "i confess, mr. comin, things do look against us. it is awkward you should have found us together, but you know"--and here he attempted a laugh--"we are told not to judge by appearances!" "we may be forced to act by them, though, my lord!" said andrew. "i should be sorry to judge aither of you by them. eppy must come home with me, or it will be more awkward yet for both of you!" "oh, if you threaten us," said forgue contemptuously, "then of course we are very frightened! but you had better beware! you will only make it the more difficult for me to do your granddaughter the justice i always intended." "what your lordship's notion o' justice may be, i wull not trouble you to explain," said the old man. "all i desire for the present is, that she come home with me." "let us leave the matter to mistress brookes!" said forgue. "i shall easily satisfy her that there is no occasion for any hurry. believe me, you will only bring trouble on the innocent!" "then it canna be on you, my lord! for in this thing you have not behaved as a gentleman ought!" said the cobbler. "you dare tell me so!" cried forgue, striding up to the little old man, as if he would sweep him away with the very wind of his approach. "yes; for else how should i say it to another, an' that may soon be necessar'!" answered the cobbler. "didna yer lordship promise an en' to the haill meeserable affair?" "i remember nothing of the sort." "you did to me!" said donal. "do hold your tongue, grant, and don't make things worse. to you i can easily explain it. besides, you have nothing to do with it now this good fellow has taken it up. it is quite possible, besides, to break one's word to the ear and yet keep it to the sense." "the only thing to justify that suggestion," said donal, "would be that you had married eppy, or were about to marry her!" eppy would have spoken; but she only gave a little cry, for forgue put his hand over her mouth. "you hold your tongue!" he said; "you will only complicate matters!" "and there's another point, my lord," resumed donal: "you say i have nothing to do now with the affair: if not for my friend's sake, i have for my own." "what do you mean?" "that i am in the house a paid servant, and must not allow anything mischievous to go on in it without acquainting my master." "you acknowledge, mr. grant, that you are neither more nor less than a paid servant, but you mistake your duty as such: i shall be happy to explain it to you.--you have nothing whatever to do with what goes on in the house; you have but to mind your work. i told you before, you are my brother's tutor, not mine! to interfere with what i do, is nothing less than a piece of damned impertinence!" "that impertinence, however, i intend to be guilty of the moment i can get audience of your father." "you will not, if i give you such explanation as satisfies you i have done the girl no harm, and mean honestly by her!" said forgue in a confident, yet somewhat conciliatory tone. "in any case," returned donal, "you having once promised, and then broken your promise, i shall without fail tell your father all i know." "and ruin her, and perhaps me too, for life?" "the truth will ruin only those that ought to be ruined!" said donal. forgue sprang upon him, and struck him a heavy blow between the eyes. he had been having lessons in boxing while in edinburgh, and had confidence in himself. it was a well-planted blow, and donal unprepared for it. he staggered against the wall, and for a moment could neither see nor think: all he knew was that there was something or other he had to attend to. his lordship, excusing himself perhaps on the ground of necessity, there being a girl in the case, would have struck him again; but andrew threw himself between, and received the blow for him. as donal came to himself, he heard a groan from the ground, and looking, saw andrew at his feet, and understood. "dear old man!" he said; "he dared to strike you!" "he didna mean 't," returned andrew feebly. "are ye winnin' ower 't, sir? he gae ye a terrible ane! ye micht hae h'ard it across the street!" "i shall be all right in a minute!" answered donal, wiping the blood out of his eyes. "i've a good hard head, thank god!--but what has become of them?" "ye didna think he wud be waitin' to see 's come to oorsel's!" said the cobbler. with donal's help, and great difficulty, he rose, and they stood looking at each other through the starlight, bewildered and uncertain. the cobbler was the first to recover his wits. "it's o' no mainner of use," he said, "to rouse the castel wi' hue an' cry! what hae we to say but 'at we faund the twa i' the gairden thegither! it wud but raise a clash--the which, fable or fac', wud do naething for naebody! his lordship maun be loot ken, as ye say; but wull his lordship believe ye, sir? i'm some i' the min' the yoong man 's awa' til's faither a'ready, to prejudeese him again' onything ye may say." "that makes it the more necessary," said donal, "that i should go at once to his lordship. he will fall out upon me for not having told him at once; but i must not mind that: if i were not to tell him now, he would have a good case against me." they were already walking towards the house, the old man giving a groan now and then. he could not go in, he said; he would walk gently on, and donal would overtake him. it was an hour and a half before andrew got home, and donal had not overtaken him. chapter xxxv. the earl's bedchamber. having washed the blood from his face, donal sought simmons. "his lordship can't see you now, i am sure, sir," answered the butler; "lord forgue is with him." donal turned and went straight up to lord morven's apartment. as he passed the door of his bedroom opening on the corridor, he heard voices in debate. he entered the sitting-room. there was no one there. it was not a time for ceremony. he knocked at the door of the bedroom. the voices within were loud, and no answer came. he knocked again, and received an angry permission to enter. he entered, closed the door behind him, and stood in sight of his lordship, waiting what should follow. lord morven was sitting up in bed, his face so pale and distorted that donal thought elsewhere he should hardly have recognized it. the bed was a large four-post bed; its curtains were drawn close to the posts, admitting as much air as possible. at the foot of it stood lord forgue, his handsome, shallow face flushed with anger, his right arm straight down by his side, and the hand of it clenched hard. he turned when donal entered. a fiercer flush overspread his face, but almost immediately the look of rage yielded to one of determined insult. possibly even the appearance of donal was a relief to being alone with his father. "mr. grant," stammered his lordship, speaking with pain, "you are well come!--just in time to hear a father curse his son!" "even such a threat shall not make me play a dishonourable part!" said forgue, looking however anything but honourable, for the heart, not the brain, moulds the expression. "mr. grant," resumed the father, "i have found you a man of sense and refinement! if you had been tutor to this degenerate boy, the worst trouble of my life would not have overtaken me!" forgue's lip curled, but he did not speak, and his father went on. "here is this fellow come to tell me to my face that he intends the ruin and disgrace of the family by a low marriage!" "it will not be the first time it has been so disgraced!" retorted the son, "--if fresh peasant-blood be indeed a disgrace to any family!" "bah! the hussey is not even a wholesome peasant-girl!" cried the father. "who do you think she is, mr. grant?" "i do not need to guess, my lord," replied donal. "i came now to inform your lordship of what i had myself seen." "she must leave the house this instant!" "then i too leave it, my lord!" said forgue. "where's your money?" returned the earl contemptuously. forgue shifted to an attack upon donal. "your lordship hardly places confidence in me," he said; "but it is not the less my duty to warn you against this man: months ago he knew what was going on, and comes to tell you now because this evening i chastised him for his rude interference." in cooler blood lord forgue would not have shown such meanness; but passion brings to the front the thing that lurks. "and it is no doubt to the necessity for forestalling his disclosure that i owe the present ingenuous confession!" said lord morven. "--but explain, mr. grant." "my lord," said donal calmly, "i became aware that there was something between lord forgue and the girl, and was alarmed for the girl: she is the child of friends to whom i am much beholden. but on the promise of both that the thing should end, i concluded it better not to trouble your lordship. i may have blundered in this, but i did what seemed best. this night, however, i discovered that things were going as before, and it became imperative on my position in your house that i should make your lordship acquainted with the fact. he assevered there was nothing dishonest between them, but, having deceived me once, how was i to trust him again!" "how indeed! the young blackguard!" said his lordship, casting a fierce glance at his son. "allow me to remark," said forgue, with comparative coolness, "that i deceived no one. what i promised was, that the affair should not go on: it did not; from that moment it assumed a different and serious aspect. i now intend to marry the girl." "i tell you, forgue, if you do i will disown you." forgue smiled an impertinent smile and held his peace: the threat had for him no terror. "i shall be the better able," continued his lordship, "to provide suitably for davie; he is what a son ought to be! but hear me, forgue: you must be aware that, if i left you all i had, it would be beggary for one handicapped with a title. you may think my anger unreasonable, but it comes solely of anxiety on your account. nothing but a suitable marriage--the most suitable of all is within your arm's length--can save you from the life of a moneyless peer--the most pitiable object on the face of the earth. were it possible to ignore your rank, you have no profession, no trade even, in these trade-loving times, to fall back upon. except you marry as i please, you will have nothing from me but the contempt of a title without a farthing to keep it decent. you threaten to leave the house--can you pay for a railway-ticket?" forgue was silent for a moment. "my lord," he said, "i have given my word to the girl: would you have me disgrace your name by breaking it?" "tut! tut! there are words and words! what obligation can there be in the rash promises of an unworthy love! still less are they binding where the man is not his own master! you are under a bond to your family, under a bond to society, under a bond to your country. marry this girl, and you will be an outcast; marry as i would have you, and no one will think the worse of you for a foolish vow in your boyhood. bah! the merest rumour of it will never rise into the serene air of your position." "and let the girl go and break her heart!" said forgue, with look black as death. "you need fear no such catastrophe! you are no such marvel among men that a kitchen-wench will break her heart for you. she will be sorry for herself, no doubt; but it will be nothing more than she expected, and will only confirm her opinion of you: she knows well enough the risk she runs!" while he spoke, donal, waiting his turn, stood as on hot iron. such sayings were in his ears the foul talk of hell. the moment the earl ceased, he turned to forgue, and said:-- "my lord, you have removed my harder thoughts of you! you have indeed broken your word, but in a way infinitely nobler than i believed you capable of!" lord morven stared dumbfounded. "your comments are out of place, mr. grant!" said forgue, with something like dignity. "the matter is between my father and myself. if you wanted to beg my pardon, you should have waited a fitting opportunity!" donal held his peace. he had felt bound to show sympathy with his enemy where he was right. the earl was perplexed: his one poor ally had gone over to the enemy! he took a glass from the table beside him, and drank: then, after a moment's silence, apparently of exhaustion and suffering, said, "mr. grant, i desire a word with you.--leave the room, forgue." "my lord," returned forgue, "you order me from the room to confer with one whose presence with you is an insult to me!" "he seems to me," answered his father bitterly, "to be after your own mind in the affair!--how indeed should it be otherwise! but so far i have found mr. grant a man of honour, and i desire to have some private conversation with him. i therefore request you will leave us alone together." this was said so politely, yet with such latent command, that the youth dared not refuse compliance. the moment he closed the door behind him, "i am glad he yielded," said the earl, "for i should have had to ask you to put him out, and i hate rows. would you have done it?" "i would have tried." "thank you. yet a moment ago you took his part against me!" "on the girl's part--and for his honesty too, my lord!" "come now, mr. grant! i understand your prejudices, i cannot expect you to look on the affair as i do. i am glad to have a man of such sound general principles to form the character of my younger son; but it is plain as a mountain that what would be the duty of a young man in your rank of life toward a young woman in the same rank, would be simple ruin to one in lord forgue's position. a capable man like you can make a living a hundred different ways; to one born with the burden of a title, and without the means of supporting it, marriage with such a girl means poverty, gambling, hunger, squabbling, dirt--suicide!" "my lord," answered donal, "the moment a man speaks of love to a woman, be she as lowly and ignorant as mother eve, that moment rank and privilege vanish, and distinction is annihilated." the earl gave a small sharp smile. "you would make a good pleader, mr. grant! but if you had seen the consequences of such marriage half as often as i, you would modify your ideas. mark what i say: this marriage shall not take place--by god! what! should i for a moment talk of it with coolness were there the smallest actual danger of its occurrence--did i not know that it never could, never shall take place! the boy is a fool, and he shall know it! i have him in my power--neck and heels in my power! he does not know it, and never could guess how; but it is true: one word from me, and the rascal is paralysed! oblige me by telling him what i have just said. the absurd marriage shall not take place, i repeat. invalid as i am, i am not yet reduced to the condition of an obedient father." he took up a small bottle, poured a little from it, added water, and drank--then resumed. "now for the girl: who knows about it?" "so far as i am aware, no one but her grandfather. he had come to the castle to inquire after her, and was with me when we came upon them in the fruit garden." "then let no further notice be taken of it. tell no one--not even mrs. brookes. let the young fools do as they please." "i cannot consent to that, my lord." "why, what the devil have you to do with it?" "i am the friend of her people." "pooh! pooh! don't talk rubbish. what is it to them! i'll see to them. it will all come right. the affair will settle itself. by jove, i'm sorry you interfered! the thing would have been much better left alone." "my lord," said donal, "i can listen to nothing in this strain." "all i ask is--promise not to interfere." "i will not." "thank you." "my lord, you mistake. i will not promise. nay, i will interfere. what to do, i do not now know; but i will save the girl if i can." "and ruin an ancient family! you think nothing of that!" "its honour, my lord, will be best preserved in that of the girl." "damn you? will you preach to me?" notwithstanding his fierce words, donal could not help seeing or imagining an almost suppliant look in his eye. "you must do as i tell you in my house," he went on, "or you will soon see the outside of it. come: marry the girl yourself--she is deuced pretty--and i will give you five hundred pounds for your wedding journey.--poor davie!" "your lordship insults me." "then, damn you! be off to your lessons, and take your insolent face out of my sight." "if i remain in your house, my lord, it is for davie's sake." "go away," said the earl; and donal went. he had hardly closed the door behind him, when he heard a bell ring violently; and ere he reached the bottom of the stair, he met the butler panting up as fast as his short legs and red nose would permit. he would have stopped to question donal, who hastened past him, and in the refuge of his own room, sat down to think. had his conventional dignity been with him a matter of importance, he would have left the castle the moment he got his things together; but he thought much more of davie, and much more of eppy. he had hardly seated himself when he jumped up again: he must see andrew comin! chapter xxxvi. a night-watch. when he reached the bottom of the hill, there at the gate was forgue, walking up and down, apparently waiting for him. he would have passed him, but forgue stepped in front of him. "grant," he said, "it is well we should understand each other!" "i think, my lord, if you do not yet understand me, it can scarcely be my fault." "what did my father say?" "i would deliver to your lordship a message he gave me for you but for two reasons--one, that i believe he changed his mind though he did not precisely say so, and the other, that i will not serve him or you in the matter." "then you intend neither to meddle nor make?" "that is my affair, my lord. i will not take your lordship into my confidence." "don't be unreasonable, now! do get off your high horse. can't you understand a fellow? everybody can't keep his temper as you do! i mean the girl no harm." "i will not talk with you about her. and whatever you insist on saying to me, i will use against you without scruple, should occasion offer." as he spoke he caught a look on forgue's face which revealed somehow that it was not for him he had been waiting, but for eppy. he turned and went back towards the castle: he might meet her! forgue called after him, but he paid no heed. as he hastened up the hill, not so much as the rustle of bird or mouse did he hear. he lingered about the top of the road for half an hour, then turned and went to the cobbler's. he found doory in great distress; for she was not merely sore troubled about her son's child, but andrew was in bed and suffering great pain. the moment donal saw him he went for the doctor. he said a rib was broken, bound him up, and gave him some medicine. all done that could be done, donal sat down to watch beside him. he lay still, with closed eyes and white face. so patient was he that his very pain found utterance in a sort of blind smile. donal did not know much about pain: he could read in andrew's look his devotion to the will of him whose being was his peace, but he did not know above what suffering his faith lifted him, and held him hovering yet safe. his faith made him one with life, the eternal life--and that is salvation. in closest contact with the divine, the original relation restored, the source once more holding its issue, the divine love pouring itself into the deepest vessel of the man's being, itself but a vessel for the holding of the diviner and divinest, who can wonder if keenest pain should not be able to quench the smile of the prostrate! few indeed have reached the point of health to laugh at disease, but are there none? let not a man say because he cannot that no one can. the old woman was very calm, only every now and then she would lift her hands and shake her head, and look as if the universe were going to pieces, because her husband lay there by the stroke of the ungodly. and if he had lain there forgotten, then indeed the universe would have been going to pieces! when he coughed, every pang seemed to go through her body to her heart. love is as lovely in the old as in the young--lovelier when in them, as often, it is more sympathetic and unselfish--that is, more true. donal wrote to mrs. brookes that he would not be home that night; and having found a messenger at the inn, settled himself to watch by his friend. the hours glided quietly over. andrew slept a good deal, and seemed to have pleasant visions. he was finding yet more saving. now and then his lips would move as if he were holding talk with some friendly soul. once donal heard the murmured words, "lord, i'm a' yer ain;" and noted that his sleep grew deeper thereafter. he did not wake till the day began to dawn. then he asked for some water. seeing donal, and divining that he had been by his bedside all the night, he thanked him with a smile and a little nod--which somehow brought to his memory certain words andrew had spoken on another occasion: "there's ane, an' there's a'; an' the a' 's ane, an' the ane 's a'." when donal reached the castle, he found his breakfast and mrs. brookes waiting for him. she told him that eppy, meeting her in the passage the night before, had burst into tears, but she could get nothing out of her, and had sent her to her room; this morning she had not come down at the proper time, and when she sent after her, did not come: she went up herself, and found her determined to leave the castle that very day; she was now packing her things to go, nor did she see any good in trying to prevent her. donal said if she would go home, there was plenty for her to do there; old people's bones were not easy to mend, and it would be some time before her grandfather was well again! mrs. brookes said she would not keep her now if she begged to stay; she was afraid she would come to grief, and would rather she went home; she would take her home herself. "the lass is no an ill ane," she added: "but she disna ken what she wud be at. she wants some o' the lord's ain discipleen, i'm thinkin!" "an' that ye may be sure she'll get, mistress brookes!" said donal. eppy was quite ready to go home and help nurse her grandfather. she thought her conduct must by this time be the talk of the castle, and was in mortal terror of lord morven. all the domestics feared him--it would be hard to say precisely why; it came in part of seeing him so seldom that he had almost come to represent the ghost some said lived in the invisible room and haunted the castle. it was the easier for eppy to go home that her grandmother needed her, and that her grandfather would not be able to say much to her. she was an affectionate girl, and yet her grandfather's condition roused in her no indignation; for the love of being loved is such a blinding thing, that the greatest injustice from the dearest to the next dearest will by some natures be readily tolerated. god help us! we are a mean set--and meanest the man who is ablest to justify himself! mrs. brookes, having prepared a heavy basket of good things for eppy to carry home to her grandmother, and made it the heavier for the sake of punishing her with the weight of it, set out with her, saying to herself, "the jaud wants a wheen harder wark nor i hae hauden till her han', an' doobtless it's preparin' for her!" she was kindly received, without a word of reproach, by her grandmother; the sufferer, forgetful of, or forgiving her words of rejection in the garden, smiled when she came near his bedside; and she turned away to conceal the tears she could not repress. she loved her grand-parents, and she loved the young lord, and she could not get the two loves to dwell together peaceably in her mind--a common difficulty with our weak, easily divided, hardly united natures--frangible, friable, readily distorted! it needs no less than god himself, not only to unite us to one another, but to make a whole of the ill-fitting, roughly disjointed portions of our individual beings. tearfully but diligently she set about her duties; and not only the heart, but the limbs and joints of her grandmother were relieved by her presence; while doubtless she herself found some refuge from anxious thought in the service she rendered. what she saw as her probable future, i cannot say; one hour her confidence in her lover's faithfulness would be complete, the next it would be dashed with huge blots of uncertainty; but her grandmother rejoiced over her as out of harm's way. chapter xxxvii. lord forgue and lady arctura. at the castle things fell into their old routine. nothing had been arranged between lord forgue and eppy, and he seemed content that it should be so. mrs. brookes told him that she had gone home: he made neither remark nor inquiry, manifesting no interest. it would be well his father should not see it necessary to push things farther! he did not want to turn out of the castle! without means, what was he to do? the marriage could not be to-day or to-morrow! and in the meantime he could see eppy, perhaps more easily than at the castle! he would contrive! he was sorry he had hurt the old fellow, but he could not help it! he would get in the way! things would have been much worse if he had not got first to his father! he would wait a bit, and see what would turn up! for the tutor-fellow, he must not quarrel with him downright! no good would come of that! in the end he would have his way! and that in spite of them all! but what he really wanted he did not know. he only knew, or imagined, that he was over head and ears in love with the girl: what was to come of it was all in the clouds. he had said he meant to marry her; but to that statement he had been driven, more than he knew, by the desire to escape the contempt of the tutor he scorned; and he rejoiced that he had at least discomfited him. he knew that if he did marry eppy, or any one else of whom his father did not approve, he had nothing to look for but absolute poverty, for he knew no way to earn money; he was therefore unprepared to defy him immediately--whatever he might do by and by. he said to himself sometimes that he was as willing as any man to work for his wife if only he knew how; but when he said so, had he always a clear vision of eppy as the wife in prospect? alas, it would take years to make him able to earn even a woman's wages! it would be a fine thing for a lord to labour like a common man for the support of a child of the people for whom he had sacrificed everything; but where was the possibility? when thoughts like these grew too many for him, forgue wished he had never seen the girl. his heart would immediately reproach him; immediately he would comfort his conscience with the reflection that to wish he had never seen her was a very different thing from wishing to act as if he had. he loafed about in her neighbourhood as much as he dared, haunted the house itself in the twilight, and at night even ventured sometimes to creep up the stair, but for some time he never even saw her: for days eppy never went out of doors except into the garden. though she had not spoken of it, arctura had had more than a suspicion that something was going on between her cousin and the pretty maid; for the little window of her sitting room partially overlooked a certain retired spot favoured of the lovers; and after eppy left the house, davie, though he did not associate the facts, noted that she was more cheerful than before. but there was no enlargement of intercourse between her and forgue. they knew it was the wish of the head of the house that they should marry, but the earl had been wise enough to say nothing openly to either of them: he believed the thing would have a better chance on its own merits; and as yet they had shown no sign of drawing to each other. it might, perhaps, have been otherwise on his part had not the young lord been taken with the pretty housemaid, though at first he had thought of nothing more than a little passing flirtation, reckoning his advantage with her by the height on which he stood in his own regard; but it was from no jealousy that arctura was relieved by the departure of eppy. she had never seen anything attractive in her cousin, and her religious impressions would have been enough to protect her from any drawing to him: had they not poisoned in her even the virtue of common house-friendliness toward a very different man? the sense of relief she had when eppy went, lay in being delivered from the presence of something clandestine, with which she could not interfere so far as to confess knowledge of it. it had rendered her uneasy; she had felt shy and uncomfortable. once or twice she had been on the point of saying to mrs. brookes that she thought her cousin and eppy very oddly familiar, but had failed of courage. it was no wonder therefore that she should be more cheerful. chapter xxxviii. arctura and sophia. about this time her friend, miss carmichael, returned from a rather lengthened visit. but after the atonement that had taken place between her and donal, it was with some anxiety that lady arctura looked forward to seeing her. she shrank from telling her what had come about through the wonderful poem, as she thought it, which had so bewitched her. she shrank too from showing her the verses: they were not of a kind, she was sure, to meet with recognition from her. she knew she would make game of them, and that not good-humouredly like kate, who yet confessed to some beauty in them. for herself, the poem and the study of its growth had ministered so much nourishment to certain healthy poetic seeds lying hard and dry in her bosom, that they had begun to sprout, indeed to shoot rapidly up. donal's poem could not fail therefore to be to her thenceforward something sacred. a related result also was that it had made her aware of something very defective in her friend's constitution: she did not know whether in her constitution mental, moral, or spiritual: probably it was in all three. doubtless, thought arctura, she knew most things better than she, and certainly had a great deal more common sense; but, on the other hand, was she not satisfied with far less than she could be satisfied with? to believe as her friend believed would not save her from insanity! she must be made on a smaller scale of necessities than herself! how was she able to love the god she said she believed in? god should at least be as beautiful as his creature could imagine him! but miss carmichael would say her poor earthly imagination was not to occupy itself with such a high subject! oh, why would not god tell her something about himself--something direct--straight from himself? why should she only hear of him at second hand--always and always? alas, poor girl! second hand? five hundredth hand rather? and she might have been all the time communing with the very god himself, manifest in his own shape, which is ours also!--all the time learning that her imagination could never--not to say originate, but, when presented, receive into it the unspeakable excess of his loveliness, of his absolute devotion and tenderness to the creatures, the children of his father! in the absence of miss carmichael she had thought with less oppression of many things that in her presence appeared ghastly-hopeless; now in the prospect of her reappearance she began to feel wicked in daring a thought of her own concerning the god that was nearer to her than her thoughts! such an unhealthy mastery had she gained over her! what if they met donal, and she saw her smile to him as she always did now! one thing she was determined upon--and herein lay the pledge of her coming freedom!--that she would not behave to him in the least otherwise than her wont. if she would be worthy, she must be straightforward! donal and she had never had any further talk, much as she would have liked it, upon things poetic. as a matter of supposed duty--where she had got the idea i do not know--certainly not from miss carmichael, seeing she approved of little poetry but that of young, cowper, pollok, and james montgomery--she had been reading the paradise lost, and wished much to speak of it to donal, but had not the courage. when miss carmichael came, she at once perceived a difference in her, and it set her thinking. she was not one to do or say anything without thinking over it first. she had such a thorough confidence in her judgment, and such a pleasure in exercising it, that she almost always rejected an impulse. judgment was on the throne; feeling under the footstool. there was something in arctura's carriage which reminded her of the only time when she had stood upon her rank with her. this was once she made a remark disparaging a favourite dog: for the animals arctura could brave even her spiritual nightmare: they were not under the wrath and curse like men and women, therefore might be defended! she had on that occasion shown so much offence that miss carmichael saw, if she was to keep her influence over her, she must avoid rousing the phantom of rank in defence of prejudice. she was now therefore careful--said next to nothing, but watched her keenly, and not the less slyly that she looked her straight in the face. there is an effort to see into the soul of others that is essentially treacherous; wherever, friendship being the ostensible bond, inquiry outruns regard, it is treachery--an endeavour to grasp more than the friend would knowingly give. they went for a little walk in the grounds; as they returned they met donal going out with davie. arctura and donal passed with a bow and a friendly smile; davie stopped and spoke to the ladies, then bounded after his friend. "have you attended the scripture-lesson regularly?" asked miss carmichael. "yes; i have been absent only once, i think, since you left," replied arctura. "good, my dear! you have not been leaving your lamb to the wolf!" "i begin to doubt if he be a wolf." "ah! does he wear his sheepskin so well? are you sure he is not plotting to devour sheep and shepherd together?" said miss carmichael, with an open glance of search. "don't you think," suggested arctura, "when you are not able to say anything, it would be better not to be present? your silence looks like agreement." "but you can always protest! you can assert he is all wrong. you can say you do not in the least agree with him!" "but what if you are not sure that you do not agree with him?" "i thought as much!" said miss carmichael to herself. "i might have foreseen this!"--here she spoke.--"if you are not sure you do agree, you can say, 'i can't say i agree with you!' it is always safer to admit little than much." "i do not quite follow you. but speaking of little and much, i am sure i want a great deal more than i know yet to save me. i have never yet heard what seems enough." "is that to say god has not done his part?" "no; it is only to say that i hope he has done more than i have yet heard." "more than send his son to die for your sins?" "more than you say that means." "you have but to believe christ did so." "i don't know that he died for my sins." "he died for the sins of the whole world." "then i must be saved!" "yes, if you believe that he made atonement for your sins." "then i cannot be saved except i believe that i shall be saved. and i cannot believe i shall be saved until i know i shall be saved!" "you are cavilling, arctura! ah, this is what you have been learning of mr. grant! i ought not to have gone away!" "nothing of the sort!" said arctura, drawing herself up a little. "i am sorry if i have said anything wrong; but really i can get hold of nothing! i feel sometimes as if i should go out of my mind." "arctura, i have done my best for you! if you think you have found a better teacher, no warning, i fear, will any longer avail!" "if i did think i had found a better teacher, no warning certainly would; i am only afraid i have not. but of one thing i am sure--that the things mr. grant teaches are much more to be desired than--" "by the unsanctified heart, no doubt!" said sophia. "the unsanctified heart," rejoined arctura, astonished at her own boldness, and the sense of power and freedom growing in her as she spoke, "surely needs god as much as the sanctified! but can the heart be altogether unsanctified that desires to find god so beautiful and good that it can worship him with its whole power of love and adoration? or is god less beautiful and good than that?" "we ought to worship god whatever he is." "but could we love him with all our hearts if he were not altogether lovable?" "he might not be the less to be worshipped though he seemed so to us. we must worship his justice as much as his love, his power as much as his justice." arctura returned no answer; the words had fallen on her heart like an ice-berg. she was not, however, so utterly overwhelmed by them as she would have been some time before; she thought with herself, "i will ask mr. grant! i am sure he does not think like that! worship power as much as love! i begin to think she does not understand what she is talking about! if i were to make a creature needing all my love to make life endurable to him, and then not be kind enough to him, should i not be cruel? would i not be to blame? can god be god and do anything conceivably to blame--anything that is not altogether beautiful? she tells me we cannot judge what it would be right for god to do by what it would be right for us to do: if what seems right to me is not right to god, i must wrong my conscience and be a sinner in order to serve him! then my conscience is not the voice of god in me! how then am i made in his image? what does it mean? ah, but that image has been defaced by the fall! so i cannot tell a bit what god is like? then how am i to love him? i never can love him! i am very miserable! i am not god's child! thus, long after miss carmichael had taken a coldly sorrowful farewell of her, arctura went round and round the old mill-horse rack of her self-questioning: god was not to be trusted in until she had done something she could not do, upon which he would take her into his favour, and then she could trust him! what a god to give all her heart to, to long for, to dream of being at home with! then she compared miss carmichael and donal grant, and thought whether donal might not be as likely to be right as she. oh, where was assurance, where was certainty about anything! how was she ever to know? what if the thing she came to know for certain should be--a god she could not love! the next day was sunday. davie and his tutor overtook her going home from church. it came as of itself to her lips, and she said, "mr. grant, how are we to know what god is like?" "'philip saith unto him, lord, show us the father and it sufficeth us. jesus saith unto him, have i been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not known me, philip? he that hath seen me hath seen the father, and how sayest thou then, show us the father?'" thus answered donal, without a word of his own, and though the three walked side by side, it was ten minutes before another was spoken. then at last said arctura, "if i could but see christ!" "it is not necessary to see him to know what he is like. you can read what those who knew him said he was like; that is the first step to understanding him, which is the true seeing; the second is, doing what he tells you: when you understand him--there is your god!" from that day arctura's search took a new departure. it is strange how often one may hear a thing, yet never have really heard it! the heart can hear only what it is capable of hearing; therefore "the times of this ignorance god winked at;" but alas for him who will not hear what he is capable of hearing! his failure to get word or even sight of eppy, together with some uneasiness at the condition in which her grandfather continued, induced lord forgue to accept the invitation--which his father had taken pains to have sent him--to spend three weeks or a month with a relative in the north of england. he would gladly have sent a message to eppy before he went, but had no one he could trust with it: davie was too much under the influence of his tutor! so he departed without sign, and eppy soon imagined he had deserted her. for a time her tears flowed yet more freely, but by and by she began to feel something of relief in having the matter settled, for she could not see how they were ever to be married. she would have been content to love him always, she said to herself, were there no prospect of marriage, or even were there no marriage in question; but would he continue to care for her love? she did not think she could expect that. so with many tears she gave him up--or thought she did. he had loved her, and that was a grand thing! there was much that was good, and something that was wise in the girl, notwithstanding her folly in allowing such a lover. the temptation was great: even if his attentions were in their nature but transient, they were sweet while they passed. i doubt if her love was of the deepest she had to give; but who can tell? a woman will love where a man can see nothing lovely. so long as she is able still to love, she is never quite to be pitied; but when the reaction comes--? so the dull days went by. but for lady arctura a great hope had begun to dawn--the hope, namely, that the world was in the hand, yea in the heart of one whom she herself might one day see, in her inmost soul, and with clearest eyes, to be love itself--not a love she could not care for, but the very heart, generating centre, embracing circumference, and crown of all loves. donal prayed to god for lady arctura, and waited. her hour was not yet come, but was coming! everyone that is ready the father brings to jesus: the disciple is not greater than his master, and must not think to hasten the hour, or lead one who is not yet taught of god; he must not be miserable about another as if god had forgotten him. strange helpers of god we shall be, if, thinking to do his work, we act as if he were neglecting it! to wait for god, believing it his one design to redeem his creatures, ready to put the hand to, the moment his hour strikes, is the faith fit for a fellow-worker with him! chapter xxxix. the castle-roof. one stormy friday night in the month of march, when a bitter east wind was blowing, donal, seated at the plain deal-table he had got mrs. brookes to find him that he might use it regardless of ink, was drawing upon it a diagram, in quest of a simplification for davie, when a sudden sense of cold made him cast a glance at his fire. he had been aware that it was sinking, but, as there was no fuel in the room, had forgotten it again: it was very low, and he must at once fetch both wood and coal! in certain directions and degrees of wind this was rather a ticklish task; but he had taken the precaution of putting up here and there a bit of rope. closing the door behind him to keep in what warmth he might, and ascending the stairs a few feet higher, he stepped out on the bartizan, and so round the tower to the roof. there he stood for a moment to look about him. it was a moonlit night, so far as the clouds, blown in huge and almost continuous masses over the heavens, would permit the light of the moon to emerge. the roaring of the sea came like a low rolling mist across the flats. the air gloomed and darkened and lightened again around him, as the folds of the cloud-blanket overhead were torn, or dropped trailing, or gathered again in the arms of the hurrying wind. as he stood, it seemed suddenly to change, and take a touch of south in its blowing. the same instant came to his ear a loud wail: it was the ghost-music! there was in it the cry of a discord, mingling with a wild rolling change of harmonies. he stood "like one forbid," and listened with all his power. it came again, and again, and was more continuous than he had ever heard it before. here was now a chance indeed of tracing it home! as a gaze-hound with his eyes, as a sleuth-hound with his nose, he stood ready to start hunting with his listing listening ear. the seeming approach and recession of the sounds might be occasioned by changes in their strength, not by any change of position! "it must come from somewhere on the roof!" he said, and setting down the pail he had brought, he got on his hands and knees, first to escape the wind in his ears, and next to diminish its hold on his person. over roof after roof he crept like a cat, stopping to listen every time a new gush of the sound came, then starting afresh in the search for its source. upon a great gathering of roofs like these, erected at various times on various levels, and with all kinds of architectural accommodations of one part to another, sound would be variously deflected, and as difficult to trace as inside the house! careless of cold or danger, he persisted, creeping up, creeping down, over flat leads, over sloping slates, over great roofing stones, along low parapets, and round ticklish corners--following the sound ever, as a cat a flitting unconscious bird: when it ceased, he would keep slowly on in the direction last chosen. sometimes, when the moon was more profoundly obscured, he would have to stop altogether, unable to get a peep of his way. on one such occasion, when it was nearly pitch-dark, and the sound had for some time ceased, he was crouching upon a high-pitched roof of great slabs, his fingers clutched around the edges of one of them, and his mountaineering habits standing him in good stead, protected a little from the force of the blast by a huge stack of chimneys that rose to windward: while he clung thus waiting--louder than he had yet heard it, almost in his very ear, arose the musical ghost-cry--this time like that of a soul in torture. the moon came out, as at the cry, to see, but donal could spy nothing to suggest its origin. as if disappointed, the moon instantly withdrew, the darkness again fell, and the wind rushed upon him full of keen slanting rain, as if with fierce intent of protecting the secret: there was little chance of success that night! he must break off the hunt till daylight! if there was any material factor in the sound, he would be better able to discover it then! by the great chimney-stack he could identify the spot where he had been nearest to it! there remained for the present but the task of finding his way back to his tower. a difficult task it was--more difficult than he anticipated. he had not an idea in what direction his tower lay--had not an idea of the track, if track it could be called, by which he had come. one thing only was clear--it was somewhere else than where he was. he set out therefore, like any honest pilgrim who knows only he must go somewhere else, and began his wanderings. he found himself far more obstructed than in coming. again and again he could go no farther in the direction he was trying, again and again had to turn and try another. it was half-an-hour at least before he came to a spot he knew, and by that time, with the rain the wind had fallen a little. against a break in the clouds he saw the outline of one of his store-sheds, and his way was thenceforward plain. he caught up his pail, filled it with coal and wood, and hastened to his nest as quickly as cramped joints would carry him, hopeless almost of finding his fire still alive. but when he reached the stair, and had gone down a few steps, he saw a strange sight: below him, at his door, with a small wax-taper in her hand, stood the form of a woman, in the posture of one who had just knocked, and was hearkening for an answer. so intent was she, and so loud was the wind among the roofs, that she had not heard his step, and he stood a moment afraid to speak lest he should startle her. presently she knocked again. he made an attempt at ventriloquy, saying in a voice to sound farther off than it was, "come in." a hand rose to the latch, and opened the door. by the hand he knew it was lady arctura. "welcome to the stormy sky, my lady!" he said, as he entered the room after her--a pleasant object after his crawling excursion! she started a little at his voice behind her, and turning was more startled still. donal was more like a chimney-sweep than a tutor in a lord's castle. he was begrimed and blackened from head to foot, and carried a pailful of coals and wood. reading readily her look, he made haste to explain. "i have been on the roof for the last hour," he said. "what were you doing there," she asked, with a strange mingling of expressions, "in such a night?" "i heard the music, my lady--the ghost-music, you know, that haunts the castle, and--" "i heard it too," she murmured, with a look almost of terror. "i have often heard it before, but never so loud as to-night. have you any notion about it, mr. grant?" "none whatever--except that i am nearly sure it comes from somewhere about the roof." "if you could clear up the mystery!" "i have some hope of it.--you are not frightened, my lady?" she had caught hold of the back of a chair. "do sit down. i will get you some water." "no, no; i shall be right in a moment!" she answered. "your stair has taken my breath away. but my uncle is in such a strange condition that i could not help coming to you." "i have seen him myself, more than once, very strange." "will you come with me?" "anywhere." "come then." she left the room, and led the way, by the light of her dim taper, down the stair. about the middle of it, she stopped at a door, and turning said, with a smile like that of a child, and the first untroubled look donal had yet seen upon her face-- "how delightful it is to be taken out of fear! i am not the least afraid now!" "i am very glad," said donal. "i should like to kill fear; it is the shadow that follows at the heels of wrong.--do you think the music has anything to do with your uncle's condition?" "i do not know." she turned again hastily, and passing through the door, entered a part of the house with which donal had no acquaintance. with many bewildering turns, she led him to the great staircase, down which she continued her course. the house was very still: it must surely be later than he had thought--only there were so few servants in it for its extent! his guide went very fast, with a step light as a bird's: at one moment he had all but lost sight of her in the great curve. at the room in which donal first saw the earl, she stopped. the door was open, but there was no light within. she led him across to the door of the little chamber behind. a murmur, but no light, came from it. in a moment it was gone, and the deepest silence filled the world. arctura entered. one step within the door she stood still, and held high her taper. donal looked in sideways. a small box was on the floor against the foot of the farthest wall, and on the box, in a long dressing gown of rich faded stuff, the silk and gold in which shone feebly in the dim light, stood the tall meagre form of the earl, with his back to the door, his face to the wall, close to it, and his arms and hands stretched out against it, like one upon a cross. he stood without moving a muscle or uttering a sound. what could it mean? donal gazed in a blank dismay. not a minute had passed, though it was to him a long and painful time, when the murmuring came again. he listened as to a voice from another world--a thing terrible to those whose fear dwells in another world. but to donal it was terrible as a voice from no other world could have been; it came from an unseen world of sin and suffering--a world almost a negation of the eternal, a world of darkness and the shadow of death. but surely there was hope for that world yet!--for whose were the words in which its indwelling despair grew audible? "and we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss!" again the silence fell, but the form did not move, and still they stood regarding him. from far away came the sound of the ghost-music. the head against the wall began to move as if waking from sleep. the hands sank along the wall and fell by the sides. the earl gave a deep sigh, but still stood leaning his forehead against the wall. arctura turned, and they left the room. she went down the stair, and on to the library. its dark oak cases and old bindings reflected hardly a ray of the poor taper she carried; but the fire was not yet quite out. she set down the light, and looked at donal in silence. "what does it all mean?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. "god knows!" she returned solemnly. "are we safe?" he asked. "may he not come here?" "i do not think he will. i have seen him in many parts of the house, but never here." even as she spoke the door swung noiselessly open, and the earl entered. his face was ghastly pale; his eyes were wide open; he came straight towards them. but he did not see them; or if he did, he saw them but as phantoms of the dream in which he was walking--phantoms which had not yet become active in the dream. he drew a chair to the embers, in his fancy doubtless a great fire, sat for a moment or two gazing into them, rose, went the whole length of the room, took down a book, returned with it to the fire, drew towards him arctura's tiny taper, opened the book, and began to read in an audible murmur. donal, trying afterwards to recall and set down what he had heard, wrote nothing better than this:-- in the heart of the earth-cave lay the king. through chancel and choir and nave the bells ring. said the worm at his side, sweet fool, turn to thy bride; is the night so cool? wouldst thou lie like a stone till the aching morn out of the dark be born? heavily pressed the night enorm, but he heard the voice of the worm, like the sound of a muttered thunder low, in the realms where no feet go. and he said, i will rise, i will will myself glad; i will open my eyes, and no more sleep sad. for who is a god but the man who can spring up from the sod, and be his own king? i will model my gladness, dig my despair-- and let goodness or badness be folly's own care! i will be content, and the world shall spin round till its force be outspent. it shall drop like a top spun by a boy, while i sit in my tent, in a featureless joy-- sit without sound, and toss up my world, till it burst and be drowned in the blackness upcurled from the deep hell-ground. the dreams of a god are the worlds of his slaves: i will be my own god, and rule my own knaves! he went on in this way for some minutes; then the rimes grew less perfect, and the utterance sank into measured prose. the tone of the speaker showed that he took the stuff for glowing verse, and regarded it as embodying his own present consciousness. one might have thought the worm would have a word to say in rejoinder; but no; the worm had vanished, and the buried dreamer had made himself a god--his own god! donal stole up softly behind him, and peeped at the open book: it was the novum organum! they glided out of the room, and left the dreamer to his dreams. "do you think," said donal, "i ought to tell simmons?" "it would be better. do you know where to find him?" "i do not." "i will show you a bell that rings in his room. he will think his lordship has rung it." they went and rang the bell. in a minute or two they heard the steps of the faithful servant seeking his master, and bade each other good-night. chapter xl. a religion-lesson. in the morning donal learned from simmons that his master was very ill--could not raise his head. "the way he do moan and cry!" said simmons. "you would think sure he was either out of his mind, or had something heavy upon it! all the years i known him, he been like that every now an' then, and back to his old self again, little the worse! only the fits do come oftener." towards the close of school, as donal was beginning to give his lesson in religion, lady arctura entered, and sat down beside davie. "what would you think of me, davie," donal was saying, "if i were angry with you because you did not know something i had never taught you?" davie only laughed. it was to him a grotesque, an impossible supposition. "if," donal resumed, "i were to show you a proposition of euclid which you had never seen before, and say to you, 'now, davie, this is one of the most beautiful of all euclid's propositions, and you must immediately admire it, and admire euclid for constructing it!'--what would you say?" davie thought, and looked puzzled. "but you wouldn't do it, sir!" he said. "--i know you wouldn't do it!" he added, after a moment. "why should i not?" "it isn't your way, sir." "but suppose i were to take that way?" "you would not then be like yourself, sir!" "tell me how i should be unlike myself. think." "you would not be reasonable." "what would you say to me?" "i should say, 'please, sir, let me learn the proposition first, and then i shall be able to admire it. i don't know it yet!'" "very good!--now again, suppose, when you tried to learn it, you were not able to do so, and therefore could see no beauty in it--should i blame you?" "no, sir; i am sure you would not--because i should not be to blame, and it would not be fair; and you never do what is not fair!" "i am glad you think so: i try to be fair.--that looks as if you believed in me, davie!" "of course i do, sir!" "why?" "just because you are fair." "suppose, davie, i said to you, 'here is a very beautiful thing i should like you to learn,' and you, after you had partly learned it, were to say 'i don't see anything beautiful in this: i am afraid i never shall!'--would that be to believe in me?" "no, surely, sir! for you know best what i am able for." "suppose you said, 'i daresay it is all as good as you say, but i don't care to take so much trouble about it,'--what would that be?" "not to believe in you, sir. you would not want me to learn a thing that was not worth my trouble, or a thing i should not be glad of knowing when i did know it." "suppose you said, 'sir, i don't doubt what you say, but i am so tired, i don't mean to do anything more you tell me,'--would you then be believing in me?" "no. that might be to believe your word, but it would not be to trust you. it would be to think my thinks better than your thinks, and that would be no faith at all." davie had at times an oddly childish way of putting things. "suppose you were to say nothing, but go away and do nothing of what i told you--what would that be?" "worse and worse; it would be sneaking." "one question more: what is faith--the big faith i mean--not the little faith between equals--the big faith we put in one above us?" "it is to go at once and do the thing he tells us to do." "if we don't, then we haven't faith in him?" "no; certainly not." "but might not that be his fault?" "yes--if he was not good--and so i could not trust him. if he said i was to do one kind of thing, and he did another kind of thing himself, then of course i could not have faith in him." "and yet you might feel you must do what he told you!" "yes." "would that be faith in him?" "no." "would you always do what he told you?" "not if he told me to do what it would be wrong to do." "now tell me, davie, what is the biggest faith of all--the faith to put in the one only altogether good person." "you mean god, mr. grant?" "whom else could i mean?" "you might mean jesus." "they are one; they mean always the same thing, do always the same thing, always agree. there is only one thing they don't do the same in--they do not love the same person." "what do you mean, mr. grant?" interrupted arctura. she had been listening intently: was the cloven foot of mr. grant's heresy now at last about to appear plainly? "i mean this," answered donal, with a smile that seemed to arctura such a light as she had never seen on human face, "--that god loves jesus, not god; and jesus loves god, not jesus. we love one another, not ourselves--don't we, davie?" "you do, mr. grant," answered davie modestly. "now tell me, davie, what is the great big faith of all--that which we have to put in the father of us, who is as good not only as thought can think, but as good as heart can wish--infinitely better than anybody but jesus christ can think--what is the faith to put in him?" "oh, it is everything!" answered davie. "but what first?" asked donal. "first, it is to do what he tells us." "yes, davie: it is to learn his problems by going and doing his will; not trying to understand things first, but trying first to do things. we must spread out our arms to him as a child does to his mother when he wants her to take him; then when he sets us down, saying, 'go and do this or that,' we must make all the haste in us to go and do it. and when we get hungry to see him, we must look at his picture." "where is that, sir?" "ah, davie, davie! don't you know that yet? don't you know that, besides being himself, and just because he is himself, jesus is the living picture of god?" "i know, sir! we have to go and read about him in the book." "may i ask you a question, mr. grant?" said arctura. "with perfect freedom," answered donal. "i only hope i may be able to answer it." "when we read about jesus, we have to draw for ourselves his likeness from words, and you know what kind of a likeness the best artist would make that way, who had never seen with his own eyes the person whose portrait he had to paint!" "i understand you quite," returned donal. "some go to other men to draw it for them; and some go to others to hear from them what they must draw--thus getting all their blunders in addition to those they must make for themselves. but the nearest likeness you can see of him, is the one drawn by yourself while doing what he tells you. he has promised to come into those who keep his word. he will then be much nearer to them than in bodily presence; and such may well be able to draw for themselves the likeness of god.--but first of all, and before everything else, mind, davie, obedience!" "yes, mr. grant; i know," said davie. "then off with you! only think sometimes it is god who gave you your game." "i'm going to fly my kite, mr. grant." "do. god likes to see you fly your kite, and it is all in his march wind it flies. it could not go up a foot but for that." davie went. "you have heard that my uncle is very ill to-day!" said arctura. "i have. poor man!" replied donal. "he must be in a very peculiar condition." "of body and mind both. he greatly perplexes me." "you would be quite as much perplexed if you had known him as long as i have! never since my father's death, which seems a century ago, have i felt safe; never in my uncle's presence at ease. i get no nearer to him. it seems to me, mr. grant, that the cause of discomfort and strife is never that we are too near others, but that we are not near enough." this was a remark after donal's own heart. "i understand you," he said, "and entirely agree with you." "i never feel that my uncle cares for me except as one of the family, and the holder of its chief property. he would have liked me better, perhaps, if i had been dependent on him." "how long will he be your guardian?" asked donal. "he is no longer my guardian legally. the time set by my father's will ended last year. i am three and twenty, and my own mistress. but of course it is much better to have the head of the house with me. i wish he were a little more like other people!--but tell me about the ghost-music: we had not time to talk of it last night!" "i got pretty near the place it came from. but the wind blew so, and it was so dark, that i could do nothing more then." "you will try again?" "i shall indeed." "i am afraid, if you find a natural cause for it, i shall be a little sorry." "how can there be any other than a natural cause, my lady? god and nature are one. god is the causing nature.--tell me, is not the music heard only in stormy nights, or at least nights with a good deal of wind?" "i have heard it in the daytime!" "on a still day?" "i think not. i think too i never heard it on a still summer night." "do you think it comes in all storms?" "i think not." "then perhaps it has something to do not merely with the wind, but with the direction of the wind!" "perhaps. i cannot say." "that might account for the uncertainty of its visits! the instrument may be accessible, yet its converse with the operating power so rare that it has not yet been discovered. it is a case in which experiment is not permitted us: we cannot make a wind blow, neither can we vary the direction of the wind blowing; observation alone is left us, and that can be only at such times when the sound is heard." "then you can do nothing till the music comes again?" "i think i can do something now; for, last night i seemed so near the place whence the sounds were coming, that the eye may now be able to supplement the ear, and find the music-bird silent on her nest. if the wind fall, as i think it will in the afternoon, i shall go again and see whether i can find anything. i noticed last night that simultaneously with the sound came a change in the wind--towards the south, i think.--what a night it was after i left you!" "i think," said arctura, "the wind has something to do with my uncle's fits. was there anything very strange about it last night? when the wind blows so angrily, i always think of that passage about the prince of the power of the air being the spirit that works in the children of disobedience. tell me what it means." "i do not know what it means," answered donal; "but i suppose the epithet involves a symbol of the difference between the wind of god that inspires the spiritual true self of man, and the wind of the world that works by thousands of impulses and influences in the lower, the selfish self of children that will not obey. i will look at the passage and see what i can make out of it. only the spiritual and the natural blend so that we may one day be astonished!--would you like to join the music-hunt, my lady?" "do you mean, go on the roof? should i be able?" "i would not have you go in the night, and the wind blowing," said donal with a laugh; "but you can come and see, and judge for yourself. the bartizan is the only anxious place, but as i mean to take davie with me, you may think i do not count it very dangerous!" "will it be safe for davie?" "i can venture more with davie than with another: he obeys in a moment." "i will obey too if you will take me," said arctura. "then, please, come to the schoolroom at four o'clock. but we shall not go except the wind be fallen." when davie heard what his tutor proposed, he was filled with the restlessness of anticipation. often while helping donal with his fuel, he had gazed up at him on the roof with longing eyes, but donal had never let him go upon it. chapter xli. the music-nest. the hour came, and with the very stroke of the clock, lady arctura and davie were in the schoolroom. a moment more, and they set out to climb the spiral of baliol's tower. but what a different lady was arctura this afternoon! she was cheerful, even merry--with davie, almost jolly. her soul had many alternating lights and glooms, but it was seldom or never now so clouded as when first donal saw her. in the solitude of her chamber, where most the simple soul should be conscious of life as a blessedness, she was yet often haunted by ghastly shapes of fear; but there also other forms had begun to draw nigh to her; sweetest rays of hope would ever and anon break through the clouds, and mock the darkness from her presence. perhaps god might mean as thoroughly well by her as even her imagination could wish! does a dull reader remark that hers was a diseased state of mind?--i answer, the more she needed to be saved from it with the only real deliverance from any ill! but her misery, however diseased, was infinitely more reasonable than the healthy joy of such as trouble themselves about nothing. some sicknesses are better than any but the true health. "i never thought you were like this, arkie!" said davie. "you are just as if you had come to school to mr. grant! you would soon know how much happier it is to have somebody you must mind!" "if having me, davie," said donal, "doesn't help you to be happy without me, there will not have been much good done. what i want most to teach you is, to leave the door always on the latch, for some one--you know whom i mean--to come in." "race me up the stair, arkie," said davie, when they came to the foot of the spiral. "very well," assented his cousin. "which side will you have--the broad or the narrow?" "the broad." "well then--one, two, three, and away we go!" davie mounted like a clever goat, his hand and arm on the newel, and slipping lightly round it. arctura's ascent was easier but slower: she found her garments in her way, therefore yielded the race, and waited for donal. davie, thinking he heard her footsteps behind him all the time, flew up shrieking with the sweet terror of love's pursuit. "what a darling the boy has grown!" said arctura when donal overtook her. "yes," answered donal; "one would think such a child might run straight into the kingdom of heaven; but i suppose he must have his temptations and trials first: out of the storm alone comes the true peace." "will peace come out of all storms?" "i trust so. every pain and every fear, every doubt is a cry after god. what mother refuses to go to her child because he is only crying--not calling her by name!" "oh, if i could but believe so about god! for if it be all right with god--i mean if god be such a god as to be loved with the heart and soul of loving, then all is well. is it not, mr. grant?" "indeed it is!--and you are not far from the kingdom of heaven," he was on the point of saying, but did not--because she was in it already, only unable yet to verify the things around her, like the man who had but half-way received his sight. when they reached the top, he took them past his door, and higher up the stair to the next, opening on the bartizan. here he said lady arctura must come with him first, and davie must wait till he came back for him. when he had them both safe on the roof, he told davie to keep close to his cousin or himself all the time. he showed them first his stores of fuel--his ammunition, he said, for fighting the winter. next he pointed out where he stood when first he heard the music the night before, and set down his bucket to follow it; and where he found the bucket, blown thither by the wind, when he came back to feel for it in the dark. then he began to lead them, as nearly as he could, the way he had then gone, but with some, for arctura's sake, desirable detours: over one steep-sloping roof they had to cross, he found a little stair up the middle, and down the other side. they came to a part where he was not quite sure about the way. as he stopped to bethink himself, they turned and looked eastward. the sea was shining in the sun, and the flat wet country between was so bright that they could not tell where the land ended and the sea began. but as they gazed a great cloud came over the sun, the sea turned cold and gray as death--a true march sea, and the land lay low and desolate between. the spring was gone and the winter was there. a gust of wind, full of keen hail, drove sharp in their faces. "ah, that settles the question!" said donal. "the music-bird must wait. we will call upon her another day.--it is funny, isn't it, davie, to go a bird's-nesting after music on the roof of a house?" "hark!" said arctura; "i think i heard the music-bird!--she wants us to find her nest! i really don't think we ought to go back for a little blast of wind, and a few pellets of hail! what do you think, davie?" "oh, for me, i wouldn't turn for ever so big a storm!" said davie; "but you know, arkie, it's not you or me, arkie! mr. grant is the captain of this expedition, and we must do as he bids us." "oh, surely, davie! i never meant to dispute that. only mr. grant is not a tyrant; he will let a lady say what she thinks!" "oh, yes, or a boy either! he likes me to say what i think! he says we can't get at each other without. and do you know--he obeys me sometimes!" arctura glanced a keen question at the boy. "it is quite true!" said davie, while donal listened smiling. "last winter, for days together--not all day, you know: i had to obey him most of the time! but at certain times, i was as sure of mr. grant doing as i told him, as he is now of me doing as he tells me." "what times were those?" asked arctura, thinking to hear of some odd pedagogic device. "when i was teaching him to skate!" answered davie, in a triumph of remembrance. "he said i knew better than he there, and so he would obey me. you wouldn't believe how splendidly he did it, arkie--out and out!" concluded davie, in a tone almost of awe. "oh, yes, i would believe it--perfectly!" said arctura. donal suddenly threw an arm round each of them, and pulled them down sitting. the same instant a fierce blast burst upon the roof. he had seen the squall whitening the sea, and looking nearer home saw the tops of the trees between streaming level towards the castle. but seated they were in no danger. "hark!" said arctura again; "there it is!" they all heard the wailing cry of the ghost-music. but while the blast continued they dared not pursue their hunt. it kept on in fits and gusts till the squall ceased--as suddenly almost as it had burst. the sky cleared, and the sun shone as a march sun can. but the blundering blasts and the swan-shot of the flying hail were all about still. "when the storm is upon us," remarked donal, as they rose from their crouching position, "it seems as if there never could be sunshine more; but our hopelessness does not keep back the sun when his hour to shine is come." "i understand!" said arctura: "when one is miserable, misery seems the law of being; and in the midst of it dwells some thought which nothing can ever set right! all at once it is gone, broken up and gone, like that hail-cloud. it just looks its own foolishness and vanishes." "do you know why things so often come right?" said donal. "--i would say always come right, but that is matter of faith, not sight." arctura did not answer at once. "i think i know what you are thinking," she said, "but i want to hear you answer your own question." "why do things come right so often, do you think, davie?" repeated donal. "is it," returned davie, "because they were made right to begin with?" "there is much in that, davie; but there is a better reason than that. it is because things are alive, and the life at the heart of them, that which keeps them going, is the great, beautiful god. so the sun for ever returns after the clouds. a doubting man, like him who wrote the book of ecclesiasties, puts the evil last, and says 'the clouds return after the rain;' but the christian knows that one has mastery who makes the joy the last in every song." "you speak like one who has suffered!" said arctura, with a kind look in his face. "who has not that lives?" "it is how you are able to help others!" "am i able to help others? i am very glad to hear it. my ambition would be to help, if i had any ambition. but if i am able, it is because i have been helped myself, not because i have suffered." "will you tell me what you mean by saying you have no ambition?" "where your work is laid out for you, there is no room for ambition: you have got your work to do!--but give me your hand, my lady; put your other hand on my shoulder. you stop there, davie, and don't move till i come to you. now, my lady--a little jump! that's it! now you are safe!--you were not afraid, were you?" "not in the least. but did you come here in the dark?" "yes. there is this advantage in the dark: you do not see how dangerous the way is. we take the darkness about us for the source of our difficulties: it is a great mistake. christian would hardly have dared go through the valley of the shadow of death, had he not had the shield of the darkness all about him." "can the darkness be a shield? is it not the evil thing?" "yes, the dark that is within us--the dark of distrust and unwillingness, but not the outside dark of mere human ignorance. where we do not see, we are protected. where we are most ignorant and most in danger, is in those things that affect the life of god in us: there the father is every moment watching his child. if he were not constantly pardoning and punishing our sins, what would become of us! we must learn to trust him about our faults as much as about everything else!" in the earnestness of his talk he had stopped, but now turned and went on. "there is my land-, or roof-mark rather!" he said, "--that chimney-stack! close by it i heard the music very near me indeed--when all at once the darkness and the wind came together so thick that i could do nothing more. we shall do better now in the daylight--and three of us instead of one!" "what a huge block of chimneys!" said arctura. "is it not!" returned donal. "it indicates the hugeness of the building below us, of which we can see so little. like the volcanoes of the world, it tells us how much fire is necessary to keep our dwelling warm." "i thought it was the sun that kept the earth warm," said davie. "so it is, but not the sun alone. the earth is like a man: the great glowing fire is god in the heart of the earth, and the great sun is god in the sky, keeping it warm on the other side. our gladness and pleasure, our trouble when we do wrong, our love for all about us, that is god inside us; and the beautiful things and lovable people, and all the lessons of life in history and poetry, in the bible, and in whatever comes to us, is god outside of us. every life is between two great fires of the love of god. so long as we do not give ourselves up heartily to him, we fear his fire will burn us. and burn us it does when we go against its flames and not with them, refusing to burn with the fire with which god is always burning. when we try to put it out, or oppose it, or get away from it, then indeed it burns!" "i think i know," said davie. arctura held her peace. "but now," said donal, "i must go round and have a peep at the other side of the chimney-stack." he disappeared, and arctura and davie stood waiting his return. they looked each in the other's face with the delight of consciously sharing a great adventure. beyond their feet lay the wide country and the great sea; over them the sky with the sun in it going down towards the mountains; under their feet the mighty old pile that was their home; and under that the earth with its molten heart of fire. but davie's look soon changed to one of triumph in his tutor. "is is not grand," it said, "to be all day with a man like that--talking to you and teaching you?" that at least was how arctura interpreted it, reading in it almost an assertion of superiority, in as much as this man was his tutor and not hers. she replied to the look in words:-- "i am his pupil, too, davie," she said, "though mr. grant does not know it." "how can that be," answered davie, "when you are afraid of him? i am not a bit afraid of him!" "how do you know i am afraid of him?" she asked. "oh, anybody could see that!" she was afraid she had spoken foolishly, and davie might repeat her words: she did not desire to hasten further intimacy with donal; things were going in that direction fast enough! her eyes, avoiding davie's, kept reconnoitring the stack of chimneys. "aren't you glad to have such a castle all for your own--to do what you like with, arkie? you know you could pull it all to pieces if you liked!" "would it be less mine," said arctura, "if i was not at liberty to pull it all to pieces? and would it be more mine when i had pulled it to pieces, davie?" donal was coming round the side of the stack, and heard what she said. it pleased him, for it was not a little in his own style. "what makes a thing your own, do you think, davie?" she went on. "to be able to do with it what you like," replied davie. "whether that be good or bad?" "yes, i think so," answered davie, doubtfully. "then i think you are quite wrong," she rejoined. "the moment you begin to use a thing wrong, that moment you make it less yours. i can't quite explain it, but that is how it looks to me." she ceased, and after a moment donal took up the question. "lady arctura is quite right, davie," he said. "the nature, that is the good of a thing, is that only by which it can be possessed. any other possession is like slave-owning; it is not a righteous having. the right and the power to use it to its true purpose, and the using it so, are the conditions that make a thing ours. to have the right and the power, and not use it so, would be to make the thing less ours than anybody's.--suppose you had a very beautiful picture, but from some defect in your sight you could never see that picture as it really was, while a servant in your house not only saw it as it was meant to be seen, but had such delight in gazing on it, that even in his dreams it came to him, and made him think of things he would not have thought of but for it:--which of you, you or the servant in your house, would have the more real possession of that picture? you could sell it away from yourself, and never know anything about it more; but you could not by all the power of a tyrant take it from your servant." "ah, now i understand!" said davie, with a look at lady arctura which seemed to say, "you see how mr. grant can make me understand!" "i wonder," said lady arctura, "what that curious opening in the side of the chimney-stack means! it can't be for smoke to come out at!" "no," said donal; "there is not a mark of smoke about it. if it had been meant for that, it would hardly have been put half-way from the top! i can't make it out! a hole like that in any chimney must surely interfere with the draught! i must get a ladder!" "let me climb on your shoulders, mr. grant," said davie. "come then; up you go!" said donal. and up went davie, and peeped into the horizontal slit. "it looks very like a chimney," he said, turning his head and thrusting it in sideways. "it goes right down to somewhere," he added, bringing his head out again, "but there is something across it a little way down--to prevent the jackdaws from tumbling in, i suppose." "what is it?" asked donal. "something like a grating," answered davie; "--no, not a grating exactly; it is what you might call a grating, but it seems made of wires. i don't think it would keep a strong bird out if he wanted to get in." "aha!" said donal to himself; "what if those wires be tuned! did you ever see an aeolian harp, my lady?" he asked: "i never did." "yes," answered lady arctura, "--once, when i was a little girl. and now you suggest it, i think the sounds we hear are not unlike those of an aeolian harp! the strings are all the same length, if i remember. but i do not understand the principle. they seem all to play together, and make the strangest, wildest harmonies, when the wind blows across them in a particular way." "i fancy then we have found the nest of our music-bird!" said donal. "the wires davie speaks of may be the strings of an aeolian harp! i wonder if there could be a draught across them! i must get up and see! i must go and get a ladder!" "but how could there be an aeolian harp up here?" said arctura. "it will be time enough to answer that question," replied donal, "when it changes to, 'how did an aeolian harp get up here?' something is here that wants accounting for: it may be an aeolian harp!" "but in a chimney! the soot would spoil the strings!" "then perhaps it is not a chimney: is there any sign of soot about, davie?" "no, sir; there is nothing but clean stone and lime." "you see, my lady! we do not even know that it is a chimney!" "what else can it be, standing with the rest?" "it may have been built for one; but if it had ever been used for one, the marks of smoke would remain, had it been disused ever so long. but to-morrow i will bring up a ladder." "could you not do it now?" said arctura, almost coaxingly. "i should so like to have the thing settled!" "as you please, my lady! i will go at once. there is one leaning against the garden-wall, not far from the bottom of the tower." "if you do not mind the trouble!" "i will come and help," said davie. "you mustn't leave lady arctura. i am not sure if i can get it up the stair; i am afraid it is too long. if i cannot, we will haul it up as we did the coal." he went, and the cousins sat down to wait his return. it was a cold evening, but arctura was well wrapt up, and davie was hardy. they sat at the foot of the chimney-stack, and began to talk. "it is such a long time since you told me anything, arkie!" said the boy. "you do not need me now to tell you anything: you have mr. grant! you like him much better than ever you did me!" "you see," said davie, thoughtfully, and making no defence against her half-reproach, "he began by making me afraid of him--not that he meant to do it, i think! he only meant that i should do what he told me: i was never afraid of you, arkie!" "i was much crosser to you than mr. grant, i am sure!" "mr. grant is never cross to me; and if ever you were, i've forgotten it, arkie. i only remember that i was not good to you. i am sorry for it now when i lie awake in bed; but i say to myself you forgive me, and go to sleep." "what makes you think i forgive you, davie?" "because i love you." this was not very logical, and set arctura thinking. she did not forgive the boy because he loved her; but the boy's love to her might make him sure she forgave him! love is its own justification, and sees itself in all its objects: forgiveness is an essential belonging of love, and must be seen where love is seen. "are you fond of my brother?" asked davie, after a pause. "why do you ask me?" "because they say you and he are going to be married some day, yet you don't seem to care much to be together." "it is all nonsense!" replied arctura, reddening. "i wish people would not talk foolishness!" "well, i do think he's not so fond of you as of eppy!" "hush! hush! you must not speak of such thing." "i saw him once kiss eppy, and i never saw him kiss you!" "no, indeed!" "is it right of forgue, if he's going to marry you, to kiss eppy?--that's what i want to know!" "he is not going to marry me." "he would, if you told him you wished it. papa wishes it." "how do you know that?" "from many thing. once i heard him say, 'afterwards, when the house is our own,' and i asked him what he meant, and he said, 'when forgue marries arctura, then the castle will be forgue's. that is how it ought to be, you know! property and title ought never to be parted.'" the hot blood rose to arctura's temples: was she a mere wrappage to her property--the paper of the parcel! but she called to mind how strange her uncle was: but for that could he have been so imprudent as to talk in such a way to a boy whose simplicity rendered the confidence dangerous? "you would not like having to give away your castle--would you, arkie?" he went on. "not to any one i did not love." "if i were you, i would not marry, but keep my castle to myself. i don't see why forgue should have your castle!" "you think i should make my castle my husband?" "he would be a good big husband anyhow, and a strong--one to defend you from your enemies, and not talk to you when you wanted to be quiet." "that is all true; but one might get weary of a stupid husband, however big and strong he was." "there's another thing, though!--he wouldn't be a cruel husband! i've heard papa often speak about some cruel husband! i fancied sometimes he meant himself; but that could not be, you know." arctura made no reply. all but vanished memories of things she had heard, hints and signs here and there that all was not right between her uncle and aunt, vaguely returned: could it be that he now repented of harshness to his wife, that the thought of it was preying upon him, that it drove him to his drugs for forgetfulness?--but in the presence of the boy she could not go on thinking in such a direction about his father. she felt relieved by the return of donal. he had found it rather difficult to get the ladder round the sharp curves of the stair; but at last they saw him with it on his shoulder coming over a distant roof. "now we shall see!" he said, as he leaned it up against the chimney, and stood panting. "you have tired yourself!" said lady arctura. "where's the harm, my lady? a man must get tired a few times before he lies down!" rejoined donald lightly. said davie, "must a woman, mr. grant, marry a man she does not love?" "no, certainly, davie." "mr. grant," said arctura, in dread of what davie might say next, "what do you take to be the duty of one inheriting a property? ought a woman to get rid of it, or attend to it herself?" donal thought a little. "we must first settle the main duty of property," he said; "and that i am hardly prepared to do." "is there not a duty owing to your family?" "there are a thousand duties owing to your family." "i don't mean those you are living with merely, but those also who transmitted the property to you. this property belongs to my family rather than to me, and if i had had a brother it would have gone to him: should i not do better for the family by giving it up to the next heir? i am not disinterested in starting the question; possession and power are of no great importance in my eyes; they are hindrances to me." "it seems to me," said donal, "that the fact that you would not have succeeded had there been a son, points to the fact of a disposer of events: you were sent into the world to take the property. if so, god expects you to perform the duties of it; they are not to be got rid of by throwing the thing aside, or giving them to another to do for you. if your family and not god were the real giver of the property, the question you put might arise; but i should hardly take interest enough in it to be capable of discussing it. i understand my duty to my sheep or cattle, to my master, to my father or mother, to my brother or sister, to my pupil davie here; i owe my ancestors love and honour, and the keeping of their name unspotted, though that duty is forestalled by a higher; but as to the property they leave behind them, over which they have no more power, and which now i trust they never think about, i do not see what obligation i can be under to them with regard to it, other than is comprised in the duties of the property itself." "but a family is not merely those that are gone before; there are those that will come after!" "the best thing for those to come after, is to receive the property with its duties performed, with the light of righteousness radiating from it." "but what then do you call the duties of property?" "in what does the property consist?" "in land, to begin with." "if the land were of no value, would the possession of it involve duties?" "i suppose not." "in what does the value of the land consist?" lady arctura did not attempt an answer to the question, and donal, after a little pause, resumed. "if you valued things as the world values them, i should not care to put the question; but i fear you may have some lingering notion that, though god's way is the true way, the world's way must not be disregarded. one thing, however, is certain--that nothing that is against god's way can be true. the value of property consists only in its being means, ground, or material to work his will withal. there is no success in the universe but in his will being done." arctura was silent. she had inherited prejudices which, while she hated selfishness, were yet thoroughly selfish. such are of the evils in us hardest to get rid of. they are even cherished for a lifetime by some of the otherwise loveliest of souls. knowing that herein much thought would be necessary for her, and that she would think, donal went no farther: a house must have its foundation settled before it is built upon; argument where the grounds of it are at all in dispute is worse than useless. he turned to his ladder, set it right, mounted, and peered into the opening. at the length of his arm he could reach the wires davie had described: they were taut, and free of rust--were therefore not iron or steel. he saw also that a little down the shaft a faint light came in from the opposite side: there was another opening somewhere! next he saw that each following string--for strings he already counted them--was placed a little lower than that before it, so that their succession was inclined to the other side of the shaft--apparently in a plane between the two openings, that a draught might pass along their plane: this must surely be the instrument whence the music flowed! he descended. "do you know, my lady," he asked arctura, "how the aeolian harp is placed for the wind to wake it?" "the only one i have seen," she answered, "was made to fit into a window; the lower sash was opened just wide enough to let it in, so that the wind entering must pass across the strings." then donal was all but certain. "of course," he said, after describing what he had seen, "we cannot be absolutely sure without having been here with the music, and having experimented by covering and uncovering the opening; and for that we must wait a south-easterly wind." chapter xlii. communism. but donal did not feel that even then would he have exhausted the likelihood of discovery. that the source of the music that had so long haunted the house was an aeolian harp in a chimney that had never or scarcely been used, might be enough to satisfy some, but he wanted to know as well why, if this was a chimney, it neither had been nor was used, and to what room it was a chimney. for the question had come to him--might not the music hold some relation with the legend of the lost room? inquiry after legendary lore had drawn nearer and nearer, and the talk about such as belonged to the castle had naturally increased. in this talk was not seldom mentioned a ghost, as yet seen at times about the place. this donal attributed to glimpses of the earl in his restless night-walks; but by the domestics, both such as had seen something and such as had not, the apparition was naturally associated with the lost chamber, as the place whence the spectre issued, and whither he returned. donal's spare hours were now much given to his friend andrew comin. the good man had so far recovered as to think himself able to work again; but he soon found it was little he could do. his strength was gone, and the exertion necessary to the lightest labour caused him pain. it was sad to watch him on his stool, now putting in a stitch, now stopping because of the cough which so sorely haunted his thin, wind-blown tent. his face had grown white and thin, and he had nearly lost his merriment, though not his cheerfulness; he never looked other than content. he had made up his mind he was not going to get better, but to go home through a lingering illness. he was ready to go and ready to linger, as god pleased. there was nothing wonderful in this; but to some good people even it did appear wonderful that he showed no uneasiness as to how doory would fare when he was gone. the house was indeed their own, but there was no money in it--not even enough to pay the taxes; and if she sold it, the price would not be enough to live upon. the neighbours were severe on andrew's imagined indifference to his wife's future, and it was in their eyes a shame to be so cheerful on the brink of the grave. not one of them had done more than peep into the world of faith in which andrew lived. not one of them could have understood that for andrew to allow the least danger of evil to his doory, would have been to behold the universe rocking on the slippery shoulders of chance. a little moan escaping her as she looked one evening into her money-teapot, made donal ask her a question or two. she confessed that she had but sixpence left. now donal had spent next to nothing since he came, and had therefore a few pounds in hand. his father and mother had sent back what he sent them, as being in need of nothing: sir gibbie was such a good son to them that they were living in what they counted luxury: robert doubted whether he was not ministering to the flesh in allowing janet to provide beef-brose for him twice in the week! so donal was free to spend for his next neighbours--just what his people, who were grand about money, would have had him do. never in their cottage had a penny been wasted; never one refused where was need. "an'rew," he said--and found the mother-tongue here fittest--"i'm thinkin' ye maun be growin' some short o' siller i' this time o' warklessness!" "'deed, i wadna won'er!" answered andrew. "doory says naething aboot sic triffles!" "weel," rejoined donal, "i thank god i hae some i' the ill pickle o' no bein' wantit, an' sae in danger o' cankerin'; an' atween brithers there sudna be twa purses!" "ye hae yer ain fowk to luik efter, sir!" said andrew. "they're weel luikit efter--better nor ever they war i' their lives; they're as weel aff as i am mysel' up i' yon gran' castel. they hae a freen' wha but for them wad ill hae lived to be the great man he is the noo; an' there's naething ower muckle for him to du for them; sae my siller 's my ain, an' yours. an'rew, an' doory's!" the old man put him through a catechism as to his ways and means and prospects, and finding that donal believed as firmly as himself in the care of the master, and was convinced there was nothing that master would rather see him do with his money than help those who needed it, especially those who trusted in him, he yielded. "it's no, ye see," said donal, "that i hae ony doobt o' the lord providin' gien i had failt, but he hauds the thing to my han', jist as muckle as gien he said, 'there's for you, donal!' the fowk o' this warl' michtna appruv, but you an' me kens better, an'rew. we ken there's nae guid in siller but do the wull o' the lord wi' 't--an' help to ane anither is his dear wull. it's no 'at he's short o' siller himsel', but he likes to gie anither a turn!" "i'll tak it," said the old man. "there's what i hae," returned donal. "na, na; nane o' that!" said andrew. "ye're treatin' me like a muckle, reivin', sornin' beggar--offerin' me a' that at ance! whaur syne wad be the prolonged sweetness o' haein' 't i' portions frae yer han', as frae the neb o' an angel-corbie sent frae verra hame wi' yer denner!"--here a glimmer of the old merriment shone through the worn look and pale eyes.--"na, na, sir," he went on; "jist talk the thing ower wi' doory, an' lat her hae what she wants an' nae mair. she wudna like it. wha kens what may came i' the meantime--deith himsel', maybe! or see--gie doory a five shillins, an' whan that's dune she can lat ye ken!" donal was forced to leave it thus, but he did his utmost to impress upon doory that all he had was at her disposal. "i had new clothes," he said, "before i came; i have all i want to eat and drink; and for books, there's a whole ancient library at my service!--what possibly could i wish for more? it's a mere luxury to hand the money over to you, doory! i'm thinkin', doory," for he had by this time got to address her by her husband's name for her, "there's naebody i' this warl', 'cep' the oonseen lord himsel', lo'es yer man sae weel as you an' me; an' weel ken i you an' him wad share yer last wi' me; sae i'm only giein' ye o' yer ain gude wull; an' i'll doobt that gien ye takna sae lang as i hae." thus adjured, and satisfied that her husband was content, the old woman made no difficulty. chapter xliii. eppy and kennedy. when stephen kennedy heard that eppy had gone back to her grandparents, a faint hope revived in his bosom; he knew nothing of the late passage between the two parties. he but knew that she was looking sad: she might perhaps allow him to be of some service to her! separation had fostered more and more gentle thoughts of her in his heart; he was ready to forgive her everything, and believe nothing serious against her, if only she would let him love her again. modesty had hitherto kept him from throwing himself in her way, but he now haunted the house in the hope of catching a glimpse of her, and when she began to go again into the town, saw her repeatedly, following her to be near her, but taking care she should not see him: partly from her self-absorption he had succeeded in escaping her notice. at length, however, one night, he tried to summon up courage to accost her. it was a lovely, moonlit night, half the street black with quaint shadows, the other half shining like sand in the yellow light. on the moony side people standing at their doors could recognize each other two houses away, but on the other, friends might pass without greeting. eppy had gone into the baker's; kennedy had seen her go in, and stood in the shadow, waiting, all but determined to speak to her. she staid a good while, but one accustomed to wait for fish learns patience. at length she appeared. by this time, however, though not his patience, kennedy's courage had nearly evaporated; and when he saw her he stepped under an archway, let her pass, and followed afresh. all at once resolve, which yet was no resolve, awoke in him. it was as if some one took him and set him before her. she started when he stepped in front, and gave a little cry. "dinna be feart, eppy," he said; "i wudna hurt a hair o' yer heid. i wud raither be skinned mysel'!" "gang awa," said eppy. "ye hae no richt to stan' i' my gait!" "nane but the richt o' lo'ein' ye better nor ever!" said kennedy, "--gien sae be as ye'll lat me ony gait shaw 't!" the words softened her; she had dreaded reproach, if not indignant remonstrance. she began to cry. "gien onything i' my pooer wud mak the grief lichter upo' ye, eppy," he said, "ye hae but to name 't! i'm no gauin' to ask ye to merry me, for that i ken ye dinna care aboot; but gien i micht be luikit upon as a freen', if no to you, yet to yours--alloot onyw'y to help i' yer trible, i mean, i'm ready to lay me i' the dirt afore ye. i hae nae care for mysel' ony mair, an' maun do something for somebody--an' wha sae soon as yersel', eppy!" for sole answer, eppy went on crying. she was far from happy. she had nearly persuaded herself that all was over between her and lord forgue, and almost she could, but for shame, have allowed kennedy to comfort her as an old friend. everything in her mind was so confused, and everything around her so miserable, that she could but cry. she continued crying, and as they were in a walled lane into which no windows looked, kennedy, in the simplicity of his heart, and the desire to comfort her who little from him deserved comfort, came up to her, and putting his arm round her, said again, "dinna be feart of me, eppy. i'm a man ower sair-hertit to do ye ony hurt. it's no as thinkin' ye my ain, eppy, i wud preshume to du onything for ye, but as an auld freen', fain to tak the dog aff o' ye. are ye in want o' onything? ye maun hae a heap o' trible, i weel ken, wi' yer gran'father's mischance, an' it's easy to un'erstan' 'at things may well be turnin' scarce aboot ye; but be sure o' this, that as lang's my mither has onything, she'll be blyth to share the same wi' you an' yours." he said his mother, but she had nothing save what he provided her with. "i thank ye, stephen," said eppy, touched with his goodness; "but there's nae necessity; we hae plenty." she moved on, her apron still to her eyes. kennedy followed her. "gien the yoong lord hae wranged ye ony gait," he said from behind her, "an' gien there be ony amen's ye wad hae o' him,--" she turned with a quickness that was fierce, and in the dim light kennedy saw her eyes blazing. "i want naething frae your han', stephen kennedy," she said. "my lord's naething to you--nor yet muckle to me!" she added, with sudden reaction and an outburst of self-pity, and again fell a weeping--and sobbing now. with the timidity of a strong man before the girl he loves and therefore fears, kennedy once more tried to comfort her, wiping her eyes with her apron. while he did so, a man, turning a corner quickly, came almost upon them. he started back, then came nearer, looked hard at them, and spoke. it was lord forgue. "eppy!" he exclaimed, in a tone in which indignation blended with surprise. eppy gave a cry, and ran to him. he pushed her away. "my lord," said kennedy, "the lass will nane o' me or mine. i sair doobt there's nane but yersel' can please her. but i sweir by god, my lord, gien ye du her ony wrang, i'll no rest, nicht nor day, till i hae made ye repent it." "go to the devil!" said forgue; "there's an old crow, i suspect, yet to pluck between us! for me you may take her, though. i don't go halves." eppy laid her hand timidly on his arm, but again he pushed her away. "oh, my lord!" she sobbed, and could say no more for weeping. "how is it i find you here with this man?" he asked. "i don't want to be unfair to you, but it looks rather bad!" "my lord," said kennedy. "hold your tongue; let her speak for herself." "i had no tryst wi' him, my lord! i never said come nigh me," sobbed eppy. "--ye see what ye hae dune!" she cried, turning in anger on kennedy, and her tears suddenly ceasing. "never but ill hae ye brocht me! what business had ye to come efter me this gait, makin' mischief 'atween my lord an' me? can a body no set fut ayont the door-sill, but they maun be followt o' them they wud see far eneuch!" kennedy turned and went, and eppy with a fresh burst of tears turned to go also. but she had satisfied forgue that there was nothing between them, and he was soon more successful than kennedy in consoling her. while absent he had been able enough to get on without her, but no sooner was he home than, in the weary lack of interest, the feelings which, half lamenting, half rejoicing, he had imagined extinct, began to revive, and he went to the town vaguely hoping to get a sight of eppy. coming upon her tête à tête with her old lover, first a sense of unpardonable injury possessed him, and next the conviction that he was as madly in love with her as ever. the tide of old tenderness came throbbing and streaming back over the ghastly sands of jealousy, and ere they parted he had made with her an appointment to meet the next night in a more suitable spot. donal was seated by andrew's bedside reading: he had now the opportunity of bringing many things before him such as the old man did not know to exist. those last days of sickness and weakness were among the most blessed of his life; much that could not be done for many a good man with ten times his education, could be done for a man like andrew comin. eppy had done her best to remove all traces of emotion ere she re-entered the house; but she could not help the shining of her eyes: the joy-lamp relighted in her bosom shone through them: and andrew looking up when she entered, donal, seated with his back to her, at once knew her secret: her grandfather read it from her face, and donal read it from his. "she has seen forgue!" he said to himself. "i hope the old man will die soon." chapter xliv. high and low. when lord morven heard of his son's return, he sent for donal, received him in a friendly way, gave him to understand that, however he might fail to fall in with his views, he depended thoroughly on his honesty, and begged he would keep him informed of his son's proceedings. donal replied that, while he fully acknowledged his lordship's right to know what his son was doing, he could not take the office of a spy. "but i will warn lord forgue," he concluded, "that i may see it right to let his father know what he is about. i fancy, however, he understands as much already." "pooh! that would be only to teach him cunning," said the earl. "i can do nothing underhand," replied donal. "i will help no man to keep an unrighteous secret, but neither will i secretly disclose it." meeting him a few days after, forgue would have passed him without recognition, but donal stopped him, and said-- "i believe, my lord, you have seen eppy since your return." "what the deuce is that to you?" "i wish your lordship to understand that whatever comes to my knowledge concerning your proceedings in regard to her, i will report to your father if i see fit." "the warning is unnecessary. few informers, however, would have given me the advantage, and i thank you: so far i am indebted to you. none the less the shame of the informer remains!" "your lordship's judgment of me is no more to me than that of yon rook up there." "you doubt my honour?" said forgue with a sneer. "i do. i doubt you. you do not know yourself. time will show. for god's sake, my lord, look to yourself! you are in terrible danger." "i would rather do wrong for love than right for fear. i scorn such threats." "threats, my lord!" echoed donal. "is it a threat to warn you that your very consciousness may become a curse to you? that to know yourself may be your hell? that you may come to make it your first care to forget what you are? do you know what shakspere says of tarquin-- besides, his soul's fair temple is defaced; to whose weak ruins muster troops of cares, to ask the spotted princess how she fares--?" "oh, hang your preaching!" cried forgue, and turned away. "my lord," said donal, "if you will not hear me, there are preachers you must." "they will not be quite so long-winded then!" forgue answered. "you are right," said donal; "they will not." all forgue's thoughts were now occupied with the question how with least danger eppy and he were to meet. he did not contemplate treachery. at this time of his life he could not have respected himself, little as was required for that, had he been consciously treacherous; but no man who in love yet loves himself more, is safe from becoming a traitor: potentially he is one already. treachery to him who is guilty of it seems only natural self-preservation; the man who can do a vile thing is incapable of seeing it as it is; and that ought to make us doubtful of our judgments of ourselves, especially defensive judgments. forgue did not suspect himself--not although he knew that his passion had but just regained a lost energy, revived at the idea of another man having the girl! it did not shame him that he had begun to forget her, or that he had been so roused to fresh desire. if he had stayed away six months, he would practically have forgotten her altogether. some may think that, if he had devotion enough to surmount the vulgarities of her position and manners and ways of thought, his love could hardly be such as to yield so soon; but eppy was not in herself vulgar. many of even humbler education than she are far less really vulgar than some in the forefront of society. no doubt the conventionalities of a man like forgue must have been sometimes shocked in familiar intercourse with one like eppy; but while he was merely flirting with her, the very things that shocked would also amuse him--for i need hardly say he was not genuinely refined; and by and by the growing passion obscured them. there is no doubt that, had she been confronted as his wife with the common people of society, he would have become aware of many things as vulgarities which were only simplicities; but in the meantime she was no more vulgar to him than a lamb or a baby is vulgar, however unfit either for a belgravian drawing-room. vulgar, at the same time, he would have thought and felt her, but for the love that made him do her justice. love is the opener as well as closer of eyes. but men who, having seen, become blind again, think they have had their eyes finally opened. for some time there was no change in eppy's behaviour but that she was not tearful as before. she continued diligent, never grumbled at the hardest work, and seemed desirous of making up for remissness in the past, when in truth she was trying to make up for something else in the present: she would atone for what she would not tell, by doing immediate duty with the greater devotion. but by and by she began occasionally to show, both in manner and countenance, a little of the old pertness, mingled with uneasiness. the phenomenon, however, was so intermittent and unpronounced, as to be manifest only to eyes familiar with her looks and ways: to donal it was clear that the relation between her and forgue was resumed. yet she never went out in the evening except sent by her grandmother, and then she always came home even with haste--anxious, it might have seemed, to avoid suspicion. it was the custom with donal and davie to go often into the fields and woods in the fine weather--they called this their observation class--to learn what they might of the multitudinous goings on in this or that of nature's workshops: there each for himself and the other exercised his individual powers of seeing and noting and putting together. donal knew little of woodland matters, having been chiefly accustomed to meadows and bare hill-sides; yet in the woods he was the keener of the two to observe, and could the better teach that he was but a better learner. one day, as they were walking together under the thin shade of a fir-thicket, davie said, with a sudden change of subject-- "i wonder if we shall meet forgue to-day! he gets up early now, and goes out. it is neither to fish nor shoot, for he doesn't take his rod or gun; he must be watching or looking for something!--shouldn't you say so, mr. grant?" this set donal thinking. eppy was never out at night, or only for a few minutes; and forgue went out early in the morning! but if eppy would meet him, how could he or anyone help it? chapter xlv. a last encounter. now for a while, donal seldom saw lady arctura, and when he did, received from her no encouragement to address her. the troubled look had reappeared on her face. in her smile, as they passed in hall or corridor, glimmered an expression almost pathetic--something like an appeal, as if she stood in sore need of his help, but dared not ask for it. she was again much in the company of miss carmichael, and donal had good cause to fear that the pharisaism of her would-be directress was coming down upon her spirit, not like rain on the mown grass, but like frost on the spring flowers. the impossibility of piercing the christian pharisee holding the traditions of the elders, in any vital part--so pachydermatous is he to any spiritual argument--is a sore trial to the old adam still unslain in lovers of the truth. at the same time nothing gives patience better opportunity for her perfect work. and it is well they cannot be reached by argument and so persuaded; they would but enter the circles of the faithful to work fresh schisms and breed fresh imposthumes. but donal had begun to think that he had been too forbearing towards the hideous doctrines advocated by miss carmichael. it is one thing where evil doctrines are quietly held, and the truth associated with them assimilated by good people doing their best with what has been taught them, and quite another thing where they are forced upon some shrinking nature, weak to resist through the very reverence which is its excellence. the finer nature, from inability to think another of less pure intent than itself, is often at a great disadvantage in the hands of the coarser. he made up his mind that, risk as it was to enter into disputations with a worshipper of the letter, inasmuch as for argument the letter is immeasurably more available than the spirit--for while the spirit lies in the letter unperceived, it has no force, and the letter-worshipper is incapable of seeing that god could not possibly mean what he makes of it--notwithstanding the risk, he resolved to hold himself ready, and if anything was given him, to cry it out and not spare. nor had he long resolved ere the opportunity came. it had come to be known that donal frequented the old avenue, and it was with intent, in the pride of her acquaintance with scripture, and her power to use it, that miss carmichael one afternoon led her unwilling, rather recusant, and very unhappy disciple thither: she sought an encounter with him: his insolence towards the old-established faith must be confounded, his obnoxious influence on arctura frustrated! it was a bright autumnal day. the trees were sorely bereaved, but some foliage yet hung in thin yellow clouds upon their patient boughs. there was plenty of what davie called scushlin, that is the noise of walking with scarce lifted feet amongst the thick-lying withered leaves. but less foliage means more sunlight. donal was sauntering along, his book in his hand, now and then reading a little, now and then looking up to the half-bared branches, now and then, like davie, sweeping a cloud of the fallen multitude before him. he was in this childish act when, looking up, he saw the two ladies approaching; he did not see the peculiar glance miss carmichael threw her companion: "behold your prophet!" it said. he would have passed with lifted bonnet, but miss carmichael stopped, smiling: her smile was bright because it showed her good teeth, but was not pleasant because it showed nothing else. "glorying over the fallen, mr. grant?" she said. donal in his turn smiled. "that is not mr. grant's way," said arctura, "--so far at least as i have known him!" "how careless the trees are of their poor children!" said miss carmichael, affecting sympathy for the leaves. "pardon me," said donal, "if i grudge them your pity: there is nothing more of children in those leaves than there is in the hair that falls on the barber's floor." "it is not very gracious to pull a lady up so sharply!" returned miss carmichael, still smiling: "i spoke poetically." "there is no poetry in what is not true," rejoined donal. "those are not the children of the tree." "of course," said miss carmichael, a little surprised to find their foils crossed already, "a tree has no children! but--" "a tree no children!" exclaimed donal. "what then are all those beech-nuts under the leaves? are they not the children of the tree?" "yes; and lost like the leaves!" sighed miss carmichael. "why do you say they are lost? they must fulfil the end for which they were made, and if so, they cannot be lost." "for what end were they made?" "i do not know. if they all grew up, they would be a good deal in the way." "then you say there are more seeds than are required?" "how could i, when i do not know what they are required for? how can i tell that it is not necessary for the life of the tree that it should produce them all, and necessary too for the ground to receive so much life-rent from the tree!" "but you must admit that some things are lost!" "yes, surely!" answered donal. "why else should he come and look till he find?" no such answer had the theologian expected; she was not immediate with her rejoinder. "but some of them are lost after all!" she said. "doubtless; there are sheep that will keep running away. but he goes after them again." "he will not do that for ever!" "he will." "i do not believe it." "then you do not believe that god is infinite!" "i do." "how can you? is he not the lord god merciful and gracious?" "i am glad you know that." "but if his mercy and his graciousness are not infinite, then he is not infinite!" "there are other attributes in which he is infinite." "but he is not infinite in all his attributes? he is partly infinite, and partly finite!--infinite in knowledge and power, but in love, in forgiveness, in all those things which are the most beautiful, the most divine, the most christ-like, he is finite, measurable, bounded, small!" "i care nothing for such finite reasoning. i take the word of inspiration, and go by that!" "let me hear then," said donal, with an uplifting of his heart in prayer; for it seemed no light thing for arctura which of them should show the better reason. now it had so fallen that the ladies were talking about the doctrine called adoption when first they saw donal; whence this doctrine was the first to occur to the champion of orthodoxy as a weapon wherewith to foil the enemy. "the most precious doctrine, if one may say so, in the whole bible, is that of adoption. god by the mouth of his apostle paul tells us that god adopts some for his children, and leaves the rest. if because of this you say he is not infinite in mercy, when the bible says he is, you are guilty of blasphemy." in a tone calm to solemnity, donal answered-- "god's mercy is infinite; and the doctrine of adoption is one of the falsest of false doctrines. in bitter lack of the spirit whereby we cry abba, father, the so-called church invented it; and it remains, a hideous mask wherewith false and ignorant teachers scare god's children from their father's arms." "i hate sentiment--most of all in religion!" said miss carmichael with contempt. "you shall have none," returned donal. "tell me what is meant by adoption." "the taking of children," answered miss carmichael, already spying a rock ahead, "and treating them as your own." "whose children?" asked donal. "anyone's." "whose," insisted donal, "are the children whom god adopts?" she was on the rock, and a little staggered. but she pulled up courage and said-- "the children of satan." "then how are they to be blamed for doing the deeds of their father?" "you know very well what i mean! satan did not make them. god made them, but they sinned and fell." "then did god repudiate them?" "yes." "and they became the children of another?" "yes, of satan." "then god disowns his children, and when they are the children of another, adopts them? miss carmichael, it is too foolish! would that be like a father? because his children do not please him, he repudiates them altogether; and then he wants them again--not as his own, but as the children of a stranger, whom he will adopt! the original relationship is no longer of any force--has no weight even with their very own father! what ground could such a parent have to complain of his children?" "you dare not say the wicked are the children of god the same as the good." "that be far from me! those who do the will of god are infinitely more his children than those who do not; they are born of the innermost heart of god; they are then of the nature of jesus christ, whose glory is obedience. but if they were not in the first place, and in the most profound fact, the children of god, they could never become his children in that higher, that highest sense, by any fiction of adoption. do you think if the devil could create, his children could ever become the children of god? but you and i, and every pharisee, publican, and sinner in the world, are equally the children of god to begin with. that is the root of all the misery and all the hope. because we are his children, we must become his children in heart and soul, or be for ever wretched. if we ceased to be his, if the relation between us were destroyed, which is impossible, no redemption would be possible, there would be nothing left to redeem." "you may talk as you see fit, mr. grant, but while paul teaches the doctrine, i will hold it; he may perhaps know a little better than you." "paul teaches no such doctrine. he teaches just what i have been saying. the word translated adoption, he uses for the raising of one who is a son to the true position of a son." "the presumption in you to say what the apostle did or did not mean!" "why, miss carmichael, do you think the gospel comes to us as a set of fools? is there any way of truly or worthily receiving a message without understanding it? a message is sent for the very sake of being in some measure at least understood. without that it would be no message at all. i am bound by the will and express command of the master to understand the things he says to me. he commands me to see their rectitude, because they being true, i ought to be able to see them true. in the hope of seeing as he would have me see, i read my greek testament every day. but it is not necessary to know greek to see what paul means by the so-translated adoption. you have only to consider his words with intent to find out his meaning, and without intent to find in them the teaching of this or that doctor of divinity. in the epistle to the galatians, whose child does he speak of as adopted? it is the father's own child, his heir, who differs nothing from a slave until he enters upon his true relation to his father--the full status of a son. so also, in another passage, by the same word he means the redemption of the body--its passing into the higher condition of outward things, into a condition in itself, and a home around it, fit for the sons and daughters of god--that we be no more like strangers, but like what we are, the children of the house. to use any word of paul's to make human being feel as if he were not by birth, making, origin, or whatever word of closer import can be found, the child of god, or as if anything he had done or could do could annul that relationship, is of the devil, the father of evil, not either of paul or of christ.--why, my lady," continued donal, turning to arctura, "all the evil lies in this--that he is our father and we are not his children. to fulfil the poorest necessities of our being, we must be his children in brain and heart, in body and soul and spirit, in obedience and hope and gladness and love--his out and out, beyond all that tongue can say, mind think, or heart desire. then only is our creation finished--then only are we what we were made to be. this is that for the sake of which we are troubled on all sides." he ceased. miss carmichael was intellectually cowed, but her heart was nowise touched. she had never had that longing after closest relation with god which sends us feeling after the father. but now, taking courage under the overshadowing wing of the divine, arctura spoke. "i do hope what you say is true, mr. grant!" she said with a longing sigh. "oh yes, hope! we all hope! but it is the word we have to do with!" said miss carmichael. "i have given you the truth of this word!" said donal. but as if she heard neither of them, arctura went on, "if it were but true!" she moaned. "it would set right everything on the face of the earth!" "you mean far more than that, my lady!" said donal. "you mean everything in the human heart, which will to all eternity keep moaning and crying out for the father of it, until it is one with its one relation!" he lifted his bonnet, and would have passed on. "one word, mr. grant," said miss carmichael. "--no man holding such doctrines could with honesty become a clergyman of the church of scotland." "very likely," replied donal, "good afternoon." "thank you, mr. grant!" said arctura. "i hope you are right." when he was gone, the ladies resumed their walk in silence. at length miss carmichael spoke. "well, i must say, of all the conceited young men i have had the misfortune to meet, your mr. grant bears the palm! such self-assurance! such presumption! such forwardness!" "are you certain, sophia," rejoined arctura, "that it is self-assurance, and not conviction that gives him his courage?" "he is a teacher of lies! he goes dead against all that good men say and believe! the thing is as clear as daylight: he is altogether wrong!" "what if god be sending fresh light into the minds of his people?" "the old light is good enough for me!" "but it may not be good enough for god! what if mr. grant should be his messenger to you and me!" "a likely thing! a raw student from the hills of daurside!" "i cherish a profound hope that he may be in the right. much good, you know, did come out of galilee! every place and every person is despised by somebody!" "arctura! he has infected you with his frightful irreverence!" "if he be a messenger of jesus christ," said arctura, quietly, "he has had from you the reception he would expect, for the disciple must be as his master." miss carmichael stood still abruptly. her face was in a flame, but her words came cold and hard. "i am sorry," she said, "our friendship should come to so harsh a conclusion, lady arctura; but it is time it should end when you speak so to one who has been doing her best for so long to enlighten you! if this be the first result of your new gospel--well! remember who said, 'if an angel from heaven preach any other gospel to you than i have preached, let him be accursed!" she turned back. "oh, sophia, do not leave me so!" cried arctura. but she was already yards away, her skirt making a small whirlwind that went after her through the withered leaves. arctura burst into tears, and sat down at the foot of one of the great beeches. miss carmichael never looked behind her. she met donal again, for he too had turned: he uncovered, but she took no heed. she had done with him! her poor arctura. donal was walking gently on, thinking, with closed book, when the wind bore to his ear a low sob from arctura. he looked up, and saw her: she sat weeping like one rejected. he could not pass or turn and leave her thus! she heard his steps in the withered leaves, glanced up, dropped her head for a moment, then rose with a feeble attempt at a smile. donal understood the smile: she would not have him troubled because of what had taken place! "mr. grant," she said, coming towards him, "st. paul laid a curse upon even an angel from heaven if he preached any other gospel than his! it is terrible!" "it is terrible, and i say amen to it with all my heart," returned donal. "but the gospel you have received is not the gospel of paul; it is one substituted for it--and that by no angel from heaven, but by men with hide-bound souls, who, in order to get them into their own intellectual pockets, melted down the ingots of the kingdom, and re-cast them in moulds of wretched legalism, borrowed of the romans who crucified their master. grand, childlike, heavenly things they must explain, forsooth, after vulgar worldly notions of law and right! but they meant well, seeking to justify the ways of god to men, therefore the curse of the apostle does not fall, i think, upon them. they sought a way out of their difficulties, and thought they had found one, when in reality it was their faith in god himself that alone got them out of the prison of their theories. but gladly would i see discomfited such as, receiving those inventions at the hundredth hand, and moved by none of the fervour with which they were first promulgated, lay, as the word and will of god, lumps of iron and heaps of dust upon live, beating, longing hearts that cry out after their god!" "oh, i do hope what you say is true!" panted arctura. "i think i shall die if i find it is not!" "if you find what i tell you untrue, it will only be that it is not grand and free and bounteous enough. to think anything too good to be true, is to deny god--to say the untrue may be better than the true--that there might be a greater god than he. remember, christ is in the world still, and within our call." "i will think of what you tell me," said arctura, holding out her hand. "if anything in particular troubles you," said donal, "i shall be most glad to help you if i can; but it is better there should not be much talking. the thing lies between you and your father." with these words he left her. arctura followed slowly to the house, and went straight to her room, her mind filling as she went with slow-reviving strength and a great hope. no doubt some of her relief came from the departure of her incubus friend; but that must soon have vanished in fresh sorrow, save for the hope and strength to which this departure yielded the room. she trusted that by the time she saw her again she would be more firmly grounded concerning many things, and able to set them forth aright. she was not yet free of the notion that you must be able to defend your convictions; she scarce felt at liberty to say she believed a thing, so long as she knew an argument against it which she could not show to be false. alas for our beliefs if they go no farther than the poor horizon of our experience or our logic, or any possible wording of the beliefs themselves! alas for ourselves if our beliefs are not what we shape our lives, our actions, our aspirations, our hopes, our repentances by! donal was glad indeed to hope that now at length an open door stood before the poor girl. he had been growing much interested in her, as one on whom life lay heavy, one who seemed ripe for the kingdom of heaven, yet in whose way stood one who would neither enter herself, nor allow her to enter that would. she was indeed fit for nothing but the kingdom of heaven, so much was she already the child of him whom, longing after him, she had not yet dared to call her father. his regard for her was that of the gentle strong towards the weak he would help; and now that she seemed fairly started on the path of life, the path, namely, to the knowledge of him who is the life, his care over her grew the more tender. it is the part of the strong to serve the weak, to minister that whereby they too may grow strong. but he rather than otherwise avoided meeting her, and for a good many days they did not so much as see each other. chapter xlvi. a horrible story. the health of the earl remained fluctuating. its condition depended much on the special indulgence. there was hardly any sort of narcotic with which he did not at least make experiment, if he did not indulge in it. he made no pretence even to himself of seeking therein the furtherance of knowledge; he wanted solely to find how this or that, thus or thus modified or combined, would contribute to his living a life such as he would have it, and other quite than that ordered for him by a power which least of all powers he chose to acknowledge. the power of certain drugs he was eager to understand: the living source of him and them and their correlations, he scarcely recognized. this came of no hostility to religion other than the worst hostility of all--that of a life irresponsive to its claims. he believed neither like saint nor devil; he believed and did not obey, he believed and did not yet tremble. the one day he was better, the other worse, according, as i say, to the character and degree of his indulgence. at one time it much affected his temper, taking from him all mastery of himself; at another made him so dull and stupid, that he resented nothing except any attempt to rouse him from his hebetude. of these differences he took unfailing note; but the worst influence of all was a constant one, and of it he made no account: however the drugs might vary in their operations upon him, to one thing they all tended--the destruction of his moral nature. urged more or less all his life by a sort of innate rebellion against social law, he had done great wrongs--whether also committed what are called crimes, i cannot tell: no repentance had followed the remorse their consequences had sometimes occasioned. and now the possibility of remorse even was gradually forsaking him. such a man belongs rather to the kind demoniacal than the kind human; yet so long as nothing occurs giving to his possible an occasion to embody itself in the actual, he may live honoured, and die respected. there is always, not the less, the danger of his real nature, or rather unnature, breaking out in this way or that diabolical. although he went so little out of the house, and apparently never beyond the grounds, he yet learned a good deal at times of things going on in the neighbourhood: davie brought him news; so did simmons; and now and then he would have an interview with his half acknowledged relative, the factor. one morning before he was up, he sent for donal, and requested him to give davie a half-holiday, and do something for him instead. "you know, or perhaps you don't know, that i have a house in the town," he said, "--the only house, indeed, now belonging to the earldom--a not very attractive house which you must have seen--on the main street, a little before you come to the morven arms." "i believe i know the house, my lord," answered donal, "with strong iron stanchions to the lower windows, and--?" "yes, that is the house; and i daresay you have heard the story of it--i mean how it fell into its present disgrace! the thing happened more than a hundred years ago. but i have spent some nights in it myself notwithstanding." "i should like to hear it, my lord," said donal. "you may as well have it from myself as from another! it does not touch any of us, for the family was not then represented by the same branch as now; i might else be thin-skinned about it. no mere legend, mind you, but a very dreadful fact, which resulted in the abandonment of the house! i think it time, for my part, that it should be forgotten and the house let. it was before the castle and the title parted company: that is a tale worth telling too! there was little fair play in either! but i will not trouble you with it now. "into the generation then above ground," the earl began, assuming a book-tone the instant he began to narrate, "by one of those freaks of nature specially strange and more inexplicable than the rest, had been born an original savage. you know that the old type, after so many modifications have been wrought upon it, will sometimes reappear in its ancient crudity amidst the latest development of the race, animal and vegetable too, i suppose!--well, so it was now: i use no figure of speech when i say that the apparition, the phenomenon, was a savage. i do not mean that he was an exceptionally rough man for his position, but for any position in the scotland of that age. no doubt he was regarded as a madman, and used as a madman; but my opinion is the more philosophical--that, by an arrest of development, into the middle of the ladies and gentlemen of the family came a veritable savage, and one out of no darkest age of history, but from beyond all record--out of the awful prehistoric times." his lordship visibly and involuntarily shuddered, as at the memory of something he had seen: into that region he had probably wandered in his visions. "he was a fierce and furious savage--worse than anything you can imagine. the only sign of any influence of civilization upon him was that he was cowed by the eye of his keeper. never, except by rarest chance, was he left alone and awake: no one could tell what he might not do! "he was of gigantic size, with coarse black hair--the brawniest fellow and the ugliest, they say--for you may suppose my description is but legendary: there is no portrait of him on our walls!--with a huge, shapeless, cruel, greedy mouth,"-- as his lordship said the words, donal, with involuntary insight, saw both cruelty and greed in the mouth that spoke, though it was neither huge nor shapeless. --"lips hideously red and large, with the whitest teeth inside them.--i give you the description," said his lordship, who evidently lingered not without pleasure on the details of his recital, "just as i used to hear it from my old nurse, who had been all her life in the family, and had it from her mother who was in it at the time.--his great passion, his keenest delight, was animal food. he ate enormously--more, it was said, than three hearty men. an hour after he had gorged himself, he was ready to gorge again. roast meat was his main delight, but he was fond of broth also.--he must have been more like mrs. shelley's creation in frankenstein than any other. all the time i read that story, i had the vision of my far-off cousin constantly before me, as i saw him in my mind's eye when my nurse described him; and often i wondered whether mrs. shelley could have heard of him.--in an earlier age and more practical, they would have got rid of him by readier and more thorough means, if only for shame of having brought such a being into the world, but they sent him with his keeper, a little man with a powerful eye, to that same house down in the town there: in an altogether solitary place they could persuade no man to live with him. at night he was always secured to his bed, otherwise his keeper would not have had courage to sleep, for he was as cunning as he was hideous. when he slept during the day, which he did frequently after a meal, his attendant contented himself with locking his door, and keeping his ears awake. at such times only did he venture to look on the world: he would step just outside the street-door, but would neither leave it, nor shut it behind him, lest the savage should perhaps escape from his room, bar it, and set the house on fire. "one beautiful sunday morning, the brute, after a good breakfast, had fallen asleep on his bed, and the keeper had gone down stairs, and was standing in the street with the door open behind him. all the people were at church, and the street was empty as a desert. he stood there for some time, enjoying the sweet air and the scent of the flowers, went in and got a light to his pipe, put coals on the fire, saw that the hugh cauldron of broth which the cook had left in his charge when he went to church--it was to serve for dinner and supper both--was boiling beautifully, went back, and again took his station in front of the open door. presently came a neighbour woman from her house, leading by the hand a little girl too young to go to church. she stood talking with him for some time. "suddenly she cried, 'good lord! what's come o' the bairn?' the same instant came one piercing shriek--from some distance it seemed. the mother darted down the neighbouring close. but the keeper saw that the door behind him was shut, and was filled with horrible dismay. he darted to an entrance in the close, of which he always kept the key about him, and went straight to the kitchen. there by the fire stood the savage, gazing with a fixed fishy eye of rapture at the cauldron, which the steam, issuing in little sharp jets from under the lid, showed to be boiling furiously, with grand prophecy of broth. ghastly horror in his very bones, the keeper lifted the lid--and there, beside the beef, with the broth bubbling in waves over her, lay the child! the demon had torn off her frock, and thrust her into the boiling liquid! "there rose such an outcry that they were compelled to put him in chains and carry him no one knew whither; but nurse said he lived to old age. ever since, the house has been uninhabited, with, of course, the reputation of being haunted. if you happen to be in its neighbourhood when it begins to grow dark, you may see the children hurry past it in silence, now and then glancing back in dread, lest something should have opened the never-opened door, and be stealing after them. they call that something the red etin,--only this ogre was black, i am sorry to say; red was the proper colour for him." "it is a horrible story!" said donal. "i want you to go to the house for me: you do not mind going, do you?" "not in the least," answered donal. "i want you to search a certain bureau there for some papers.--by the way, have you any news to give me about forgue?" "no, my lord," answered donal. "i do not even know whether or not they meet, but i am afraid." "oh, i daresay," rejoined his lordship, "the whim is wearing off! one pellet drives out another. behind the love in the popgun came the conviction that it would be simple ruin! but we graemes are stiff-necked both to god and man, and i don't trust him much." "he gave you no promise, if you remember, my lord." "i remember very well; why the deuce should i not remember? i am not in the way of forgetting things! no, by god! nor forgiving them either! where there's anything to forgive there's no fear of my forgetting!" he followed the utterance with a laugh, as if he would have it pass for a joke, but there was no ring in the laugh. he then gave donal detailed instructions as to where the bureau stood, how he was to open it with a curious key which he told him where to find in the room, how also to open the secret part of the bureau in which the papers lay. "forget!" he echoed, turning and sweeping back on his trail; "i have not been in that house for twenty years: you can judge whether i forget!--no!" he added with an oath, "if i found myself forgetting i should think it time to look out; but there is no sign of that yet, thank god! there! take the keys, and be off! simmons will give you the key of the house. you had better take that of the door in the close: it is easier to open." donal went away wondering at the pleasure his frightful tale afforded the earl: he had seemed positively to gloat over the details of it! these were much worse than i have recorded: he showed special delight in narrating how the mother took the body of her child out of the pot! he sought simmons and asked him for the key. the butler went to find it, but returned saying he could not lay his hands upon it; there was, however, the key of the front door: it might prove stiff! donal took it, and having oiled it well, set out for morven house. but on his way he turned aside to see the comins. andrew looked worse, and he thought he must be sinking. the moment he saw donal he requested they might be left alone for a few minutes. "my yoong freen'," he said, "the lord has fauvoured me greatly in grantin' my last days the licht o' your coontenance. i hae learnt a heap frae ye 'at i kenna hoo i could hae come at wantin' ye." "eh, an'rew!" interrupted donal, "i dinna weel ken hoo that can be, for it aye seemt to me ye had a' the knowledge 'at was gaein'!" "the man can ill taich wha's no gaein' on learnin'; an' maybe whiles he learns mair frae his scholar nor the scholar learns frae him. but it's a' frae the lord; the lord is that speerit--an' first o' a' the speerit o' obeddience, wi'oot which there's no learnin'. still, my son, it may comfort ye a wee i' the time to come, to think the auld cobbler anerew comin gaed intil the new warl' fitter company for the help ye gied him afore he gaed. may the lord mak a sicht o' use o' ye! fowk say a heap aboot savin' sowls, but ower aften, i doobt, they help to tak frae them the sense o' hoo sair they're in want o' savin'. surely a man sud ken in himsel' mair an' mair the need o' bein' saved, till he cries oot an' shoots, 'i am saved, for there's nane in h'aven but thee, an' there's nane upo' the earth i desire besides thee! man, wuman, child, an' live cratur, is but a portion o' thee, whauron to lat the love o' thee rin ower!' whan a man can say that, he's saved; an' no till than, though for lang years he may hae been aye comin' nearer to that goal o' a' houp, the hert o' the father o' me, an' you, an' doory, an' eppy, an' a' the nations o' the earth!" he stopped weary, but his eyes, fixed on donal, went on where his voice had ended, and for a time donal seemed to hear what his soul was saying, and to hearken with content. but suddenly their light went out, the old man gave a sigh, and said:-- "it's ower for this warl', my freen'. it's comin'--the hoor o' darkness. but the thing 'at's true whan the licht shines, is as true i' the dark: ye canna work, that's a'. god 'ill gie me grace to lie still. it's a' ane. i wud lie jist as i used to sit, i' the days whan i men'it fowk's shune, an' doory happent to tak awa' the licht for a moment;--i wud sit aye luikin' doon throuw the mirk at my wark, though i couldna see a stime o' 't, the alison (awl) i' my han' ready to put in the neist steek the moment the licht fell upo' the spot whaur it was to gang. that's hoo i wud lie whan i'm deein', jist waitin' for the licht, no for the dark, an' makin' an incense-offerin' o' my patience whan i hae naething ither to offer, naither thoucht nor glaidness nor sorrow, naething but patience burnin' in pain. he'll accep' that; for, my son, the maister's jist as easy to please as he's ill to saitisfee. ye hae seen a mither ower her wee lassie's sampler? she'll praise an' praise 't, an' be richt pleast wi' 't; but wow gien she was to be content wi' the thing in her han'! the lassie's man, whan she cam to hae ane, wud hae an ill time o' 't wi' his hose an' his sarks! but noo i hae a fauvour to beg o' ye--no for my sake but for hers: gien ye hae the warnin', ye'll be wi' me whan i gang? it may be a comfort to mysel'--i dinna ken--nane can tell 'at hasna dee'd afore--nor even than, for deiths are sae different!--doobtless lazarus's twa deiths war far frae alike!--but it'll be a great comfort to doory--i'm clear upo' that. she winna fin' hersel' sae lanesome like, losin' sicht o' her auld man, gien the freen' o' his hert be aside her whan he gangs." "please god, i'll be at yer comman'," said donal. "noo cry upo' doory, for i wudna see less o' her nor i may. it may be years 'afore i get a sicht o' her lo'in' face again! but the same lord 's in her an' i' me, an' we canna far be sun'ert, hooever lang the time 'afore we meet again." donal called doory, and took his leave. chapter xlvii. morven house opposite morven house was a building which had at one time been the stables to it, but was now part of a brewery; a high wall shut it off from the street; it was dinner-time with the humbler people of the town, and there was not a soul visible, when donal put the key in the lock of the front door, opened it, and went in: he had timed his entrance so, desiring to avoid idle curiosity, and bring no gathering feet about the house. almost on tiptoe he entered the lofty hall, high above the first story. the dust lay thick on a large marble table--but what was that?--a streak across it, brushed sharply through the middle of the dust! it was strange! but he would not wait to speculate on the agent! the room to which the earl had directed him was on the first floor, and he ascended to it at once--by the great oak staircase which went up the sides of the hall. the house had not been dismantled, although things had at different times been taken from it, and when donal opened a leaf of shutter, he saw tables and chairs and cabinets inlaid with silver and ivory. the room looked stately, but everything was deep in dust; carpets and curtains were thick with the deserted sepulchres of moths; and the air somehow suggested a tomb: donal thought of the tombs of the kings of egypt before ravaging conquerors broke into them, when they were yet full of all such gorgeous furniture as great kings desired, against the time when the souls should return to reanimate the bodies so carefully spiced and stored to welcome them, and the great kings would be themselves again, with the added wisdom of the dead and judged. conscious of a curious timidity, feeling a kind of awesomeness about every form in the room, he stepped softly to the bureau, applied its key, and following carefully the directions the earl had given him, for the lock was italian, with more than one quip and crank and wanton wile about it, succeeded in opening it. he had no difficulty in finding its secret place, nor the packet concealed in it; but just as he laid his hands on it, he was aware of a swift passage along the floor without, past the door of the room, and apparently up the next stair. there was nothing he could distinguish as footsteps, or as the rustle of a dress; it seemed as if he had heard but a disembodied motion! he darted to the door, which he had by habit closed behind him, and opened it noiselessly. the stairs above as below were covered with thick carpet: any light human foot might pass without a sound; only haste would murmur the secret to the troubled air. he turned, replaced the packet, and closed the bureau. if there was any one in the house, he must know it, and who could tell what might follow! it was the merest ghost of a sound he had heard, but he must go after it! some intruder might be using the earl's house for his own purposes! going softly up, he paused at the top of the second stair, and looked around him. an iron-clenched door stood nearly opposite the head of it; and at the farther end of a long passage, on whose sides were several closed doors, was one partly open. from that direction came the sound of a little movement, and then of low voices--one surely that of a woman! it flashed upon him that this must be the trysting-place of eppy and forgue. fearing discovery before he should have gathered his wits, he stepped quietly across the passage to the door opposite, opened it, not without a little noise, and went in. it was a strange-looking chamber he had entered--that, doubtless, once occupied by the ogre--the reid etin. even in the bewilderment of the moment, the tale he had just heard was so present to him that he cast his eyes around, and noted several things to confirm the conclusion. but the next instant came from below what sounded like a thundering knock at the street door--a single knock, loud and fierce--possibly a mere runaway's knock. the start it gave donal set his heart shaking in his bosom. almost with it came a little cry, and the sound of a door pulled open. then he heard a hurried, yet carefully soft step, which went down the stair. "now is my time!" said donal to himself. "she is alone!" he came out, and went along the passage. the door at the end of it was open, and eppy stood in it. she saw him coming, and gazed with widespread eyes of terror, as if it were the reid etin himself--waked, and coming to devour her. as he came, her blue eyes opened wider, and seemed to fix in their orbits; just as her name was on his lips, she dropped with a sharp moan. he caught her up, and hurried with her down the stair. as he reached the first floor, he heard the sound of swift ascending steps, and the next moment was face to face with forgue. the youth started back, and for a moment stood staring. his enemy had found him! but rage restored to him his self-possession. "put her down, you scoundrel!" he said. "she can't stand," donal answered. "you've killed her, you damned spy!" "then i have been more kind than you!" "what are you going to do with her?" "take her home to her dying grandfather." "you've hurt her, you devil! i know you have!" "she is only frightened. she is coming to herself. i feel her waking!" "you shall feel me presently!" cried forgue. "put her down, i say." neither of them spoke loud, for dread of neighbours. eppy began to writhe in donal's arms. forgue laid hold of her, and donal was compelled to put her down. she threw herself into the arms of her lover, and was on the point of fainting again. "get out of the house!" said forgue to donal. "i am here on your father's business!" returned donal. "a spy and informer!" "he sent me to fetch him some papers." "it is a lie!" said forgue; "i see it in your face!" "so long as i speak the truth," rejoined donal, "it matters little that you should think me a liar. but, my lord, you must allow me to take eppy home." "a likely thing!" answered forgue, drawing eppy closer, and looking at him with contempt. "give up the girl," said donal sternly, "or i will raise the town, and have a crowd about the house in three minutes." "you are the devil!" cried forgue. "there! take her--with the consequences! if you had let us alone, i would have done my part.--leave us now, and i'll promise to marry her. if you don't, you will have the blame of what may happen--not i." "but you will, dearest?" said eppy in a tone terrified and beseeching. gladly she would have had donal hear him say he would. forgue pushed her from him. she burst into tears. he took her in his arms again, and soothed her like a child, assuring her he meant nothing by what he had said. "you are my own!" he went on; "you know you are, whatever our enemies may drive us to! nothing can part us. go with him, my darling, for the present. the time will come when we shall laugh at them all. if it were not for your sake, and the scandal of the thing, i would send the rascal to the bottom of the stair. but it is better to be patient." sobbing bitterly, eppy went with donal. forgue stood shaking with impotent rage. when they reached the street, donal turned to lock the door. eppy darted from him, and ran down the close, thinking to go in again by the side door. but it was locked, and donal was with her in a moment. "you go home alone, eppy," he said; "it will be just as well i should not go with you. i must see lord forgue out of the house." "eh, ye winna hurt him!" pleaded eppy. "not if i can help it. i don't want to hurt him. you go home. it will be better for him as well as you." she went slowly away, weeping, but trying to keep what show of calm she could. donal waited a minute or two, went back to the front door, entered, and hastening to the side door took the key from the lock. then returning to the hall, he cried from the bottom of the stair, "my lord, i have both the keys; the side door is locked; i am about to lock the front door, and i do not want to shut you in. pray, come down." forgue came leaping down the stair, and threw himself upon donal in a fierce attempt after the key in his hand. the sudden assault staggered him, and he fell on the floor with forgue above him, who sought to wrest the key from him. but donal was much the stronger; he threw his assailant off him; and for a moment was tempted to give him a good thrashing. from this the thought of eppy helped to restrain him, and he contented himself with holding him down till he yielded. when at last he lay quiet, "will you promise to walk out if i let you up?" said donal. "if you will not, i will drag you into the street by the legs." "i will," said forgue; and getting up, he walked out and away without a word. donal locked the door, forgetting all about the papers, and went back to andrew's. there was eppy, safe for the moment! she was busy in the outer room, and kept her back to him. with a word or two to the grandmother, he left them, and went home, revolving all the way what he ought to do. should he tell the earl, or should he not? had he been a man of rectitude, he would not have hesitated a moment; but knowing he did not care what became of eppy, so long as his son did not marry her, he felt under no obligation to carry him the evil report. the father might have a right to know, but had he a right to know from him? a noble nature finds it almost impossible to deal with questions on other than the highest grounds: where those grounds are unrecognized, the relations of responsibility may be difficult indeed to determine. all donal was able to conclude on his way home, and he did not hurry, was, that, if he were asked any questions, he would speak out what he knew--be absolutely open. if that should put a weapon in the hand of the enemy, a weapon was not the victory. chapter xlviii. paternal revenge. no sooner had he entered the castle, where his return had been watched for, than simmons came to him with the message that his lordship wanted to see him. then first donal remembered that he had not brought the papers! had he not been sent for, he would have gone back at once to fetch them. as it was, he must see the earl first. he found him in a worse condition than usual. his last drug or combination of drugs had not agreed with him; or he had taken too much, with correspondent reaction: he was in a vile temper. donal told him he had been to the house, and had found the papers, but had not brought them--had, in fact, forgotten them. "a pretty fellow you are!" cried the earl. "what, you left those papers lying about where any rascal may find them and play the deuce with them!" donal assured him they were perfectly safe, under the same locks and keys as before. "you are always going about the bush!" cried the earl. "you never come to the point! how the devil was it you locked them up again?--to go prying all over the house, i suppose!" donal told him as much of the story as he would hear. almost immediately he saw whither it tended, he began to abuse him for meddling with things he had nothing to do with. what right had he to interfere with lord forgue's pleasures! things of the sort were to be regarded as non-existent! the linen had to be washed, but it was not done in the great court! lord forgue was a youth of position: why should he be balked of his fancy! it might be at the expense of society! donal took advantage of the first pause to ask whether he should not go back and bring the papers: he would run all the way, he said. "no, damn you!" answered the earl. "give me the keys--all the keys--house-keys and all. i should be a fool myself to trust such a fool again!" as donal was laying the last key on the table by his lordship's bedside, simmons appeared, saying lord forgue desired to know if his father would see him. "oh, yes! send him up!" cried the earl in a fury. "all the devils in hell at once!" his lordship's rages came up from abysses of misery no man knew but himself. "you go into the next room, grant," he said, "and wait there till i call you." donal obeyed, took a book from the table, and tried to read. he heard the door to the passage open and close again, and then the sounds of voices. by degrees they grew louder, and at length the earl roared out, so that donal could not help hearing: "i'll be damned soul and body in hell, but i'll put a stop to this! why, you son of a snake! i have but to speak the word, and you are--well, what--. yes, i will hold my tongue, but not if he crosses me!--by god! i have held it too long already!--letting you grow up the damnablest ungrateful dog that ever snuffed carrion!--and your poor father periling his soul for you, by god, you rascal!" "thank heaven, you cannot take the title from me, my lord!" said forgue coolly. "the rest you are welcome to give to davie! it won't be too much, by all accounts!" "damn you and your title! a pretty title, ha, ha, ha!--why, you infernal fool, you have no more right to the title than the beggarly kitchen-maid you would marry! if you but knew yourself, you would crow in another fashion! ha, ha, ha!" at this donal opened the door. "i must warn your lordship," he said, "that if you speak so loud, i shall hear every word." "hear and be damned to you!--that fellow there--you see him standing there--the mushroom that he is! good god! how i loved his mother! and this is the way he serves me! but there was a providence in the whole affair! never will i disbelieve in a providence again! it all comes out right, perfectly right! small occasion had i to be breaking heart and conscience over it ever since she left me! hang the pinchbeck rascal! he's no more forgue than you are, grant, and never will be morven if he live a hundred years! he's not a short straw better than any bastard in the street! his mother was the loveliest woman ever breathed!--and loved me--ah, god! it is something after all to have been loved so--and by such a woman!--a woman, by god! ready and willing and happy to give up everything for me! everything, do you hear, you damned rascal! i never married her! do you hear, grant? i take you to witness; mark my words: we, that fellow's mother and i, were never married--by no law, scotch, or french, or dutch, or what you will! he's a damned bastard, and may go about his business when he pleases. oh, yes! pray do! marry your scullion when you please! you are your own master--entirely your own master!--free as the wind that blows to go where you will and do what you please! i wash my hands of you. you'll do as you please--will you? then do, and please me: i desire no better revenge! i only tell you once for all, the moment i know for certain you've married the wench, that moment i publish to the world--that is, i acquaint certain gossips with the fact, that the next lord morven will have to be hunted for like a truffle--ha! ha! ha!" he burst into a fiendish fit of laughter, and fell back on his pillow, dark with rage and the unutterable fury that made of his being a volcano. the two men had been standing dumb before him, donal pained for the man on whom this phial of devilish wrath had been emptied, he white and trembling with dismay--an abject creature, crushed by a cruel parent. when his father ceased, he still stood, still said nothing: power was gone from him. he grew ghastly, uttered a groan, and wavered. donal supported him to a chair; he dropped into it, and leaned back, with streaming face. it was miserable to think that one capable of such emotion concerning the world's regard, should be so indifferent to what alone can affect a man--the nature of his actions--so indifferent to the agony of another as to please himself at all risk to her, although he believed he loved her, and perhaps did love her better than any one else in the world. for donal did not at all trust him regarding eppy--less now than ever. but these thoughts went on in him almost without his thinking them; his attention was engrossed with the passionate creatures before him. the father too seemed to have lost the power of motion, and lay with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. but by and by he made what donal took for a sign to ring the bell. he did so, and simmons came. the moment he entered, and saw the state his master was in, he hastened to a cupboard, took thence a bottle, poured from it something colourless, and gave it to him in water. it brought him to himself. he sat up again, and in a voice hoarse and terrible said:-- "think of what i have told you, forgue. do as i would have you, and the truth is safe; take your way without me, and i will take mine without you. go." donal went. forgue did not move. what was donal to do or think now? perplexities gathered upon him. happily there was time for thought, and for prayer, which is the highest thinking. here was a secret affecting the youth his enemy, and the boy his friend! affecting society itself--that society which, largely capable and largely guilty of like sins, yet visits with such unmercy the sins of the fathers upon the children, the sins of the offender upon the offended! but there is another who visits them, and in another fashion! what was he to do? was he to hold his tongue and leave the thing as not his, or to speak out as he would have done had the case been his own? ought the chance to be allowed the nameless youth of marrying his cousin? ought the next heir to the lordship to go without his title? had they not both a claim upon donal for the truth? donal thought little of such things himself, but did that affect his duty in the matter? he might think little of money, but would he therefore look on while a pocket was picked? on reflection he saw, however, that there was no certainty the earl was speaking the truth; for anything he knew of him, he might be inventing the statement in order to have his way with his son! for in either case he was a double-dyed villian; and if he spoke the truth was none the less capable of lying. chapter xlix. filial response. one thing then was clear to donal, that for the present he had nothing to do with the affair. supposing the earl's assertion true, there was at present no question as to the succession; before such question could arise, forgue might be dead; before that, his father might himself have disclosed the secret; while, the longer donal thought about it, the greater was his doubt whether he had spoken the truth. the man who could so make such a statement to his son concerning his mother, must indeed have been capable of the wickedness assumed! but also the man who could make such a statement was surely vile enough to lie! the thing remained uncertain, and he was assuredly not called upon to act! but how would forgue carry himself? his behaviour now would decide or at least determine his character. if he were indeed as honourable as he wished to be thought, he would tell eppy what had occurred, and set himself at once to find some way of earning his and her bread, or at least to become capable of earning it. he did not seem to cherish any doubt of the truth of what had fallen in rage from his father's lips, for, to judge by his appearance, to the few and brief glances donal had of him during the next week or so, the iron had sunk into his soul: he looked more wretched than donal could have believed it possible for man to be--abject quite. it manifested very plainly what a miserable thing, how weak and weakening, is the pride of this world. one who could be so cast down, was hardly one, alas, of whom to expect any greatness of action! he was not likely to have honesty or courage enough to decline a succession that was not his--even though it would leave his way clear to marry eppy. whether any of forgue's misery arose from the fact that donal had been present at the exposure of his position, donal could not tell; but he could hardly fail to regard him as a dangerous holder of his secret--one who would be more than ready to take hostile action in the matter! at the same time, such had seemed the paralysing influence of the shock upon him, that donal doubted if he had been, at any time during the interview, so much aware of his presence as not to have forgotten it entirely before he came to himself. had he remembered the fact, would he not have come to him to attempt securing his complicity? if he meant to do right, why did he hesitate?--there was but one way, and that plain before him! but presently donal began to see many things an equivocating demon might urge: the claims of his mother; the fact that there was no near heir--he did not even know who would come in his place; that he would do as well with the property as another; that he had been already grievously wronged; that his mother's memory would be yet more grievously wronged; that the marriage had been a marriage in the sight of god, and as such he surely of all men was in heaven's right to regard it! and his mother had been the truest of wives to his father! these things and more donal saw he might plead with himself; and if he was the man he had given him no small ground to think, he would in all probability listen to them. he would recall or assume the existence of many precedents in the history of noble families; he would say that, knowing the general character of their heads, no one would believe a single noble family without at least one unrecorded, undiscovered, or well concealed irregularity in its descent; and he would judge it the cruellest thing to have let him know the blighting fact, seeing that in ignorance he might have succeeded with a good conscience. but what kind of a father was this, thought donal, who would thus defile his son's conscience! he had not done it in mere revenge, but to gain his son's submission as well! whether the poor fellow leaned to the noble or ignoble, it was no marvel he should wander about looking scarce worthy the name of man! if he would but come to him that he might help him! he could at least encourage him to refuse the evil and choose the good! but even if he would receive such help, the foregone passages between them rendered it sorely improbable it would ever fall to him to afford it! that his visits to eppy were intermitted, donal judged from her countenance and bearing; and if he hesitated to sacrifice his own pride to the truth, it could not be without contemplating as possible the sacrifice of her happiness to a lie. in such delay he could hardly be praying "lead me not into temptation:" if not actively tempting himself, he was submitting to be tempted; he was lingering on the evil shore. andrew comin staid yet a week--slowly, gently fading out into life--darkening into eternal day--forgetting into knowledge itself. donal was by his side when he went, but little was done or said; he crept into the open air in his sleep, to wake from the dreams of life and the dreams of death and the dreams of sleep all at once, and see them mingling together behind him like a broken wave--blending into one vanishing dream of a troubled, yet, oh, how precious night past and gone! once, about an hour before he went, donal heard him murmur, "when i wake i am still with thee!" doory was perfectly calm. when he gave his last sigh, she sighed too, said, "i winna be lang, anerew!" and said no more. eppy wept bitterly. donal went every day to see them till the funeral was over. it was surprising how many of the town's folk attended it. most of them had regarded the cobbler as a poor talkative enthusiast with far more tongue than brains! because they were so far behind and beneath him, they saw him very small! one cannot help reflecting what an indifferent trifle the funeral, whether plain to bareness, as in scotland, or lovely with meaning as often in england, is to the spirit who has but dropt his hurting shoes on the weary road, dropt all the dust and heat, dropt the road itself, yea the world of his pilgrimage--which never was, never could be, never was meant to be his country, only the place of his sojourning--in which the stateliest house of marble can be but a tent--cannot be a house, yet less a home. man could never be made at home here, save by a mutilation, a depression, a lessening of his being; those who fancy it their home, will come, by growth, one day to feel that it is no more their home than its mother's egg is the home of the lark. for some time donal's savings continued to support the old woman and her grand-daughter. but ere long doory got so much to do in the way of knitting stockings and other things, and was set to so many light jobs by kindly people who respected her more than her husband because they saw her less extraordinary, that she seldom troubled him. miss carmichael offered to do what she could to get eppy a place, if she answered certain questions to her satisfaction. how she liked her catechizing i do not know, but she so far satisfied her interrogator that she did find her a place in edinburgh. she wept sore at leaving auchars, but there was no help: rumour had been more cruel than untrue, and besides there was no peace for her near the castle. not once had lord forgue sought her since he gave her up to donal, and she thought he had then given her up altogether. notwithstanding his kindness to her house, she all but hated donal--perhaps the more nearly that her conscience told he had done nothing but what was right. things returned into the old grooves at the castle, but the happy thought of his friend the cobbler, hammering and stitching in the town below, was gone from donal. true, the craftsman was a nobleman now, but such he had always been! forgue mooned about, doing nothing, and recognizing no possible help save in what was utter defeat. if he had had any faith in donal, he might have had help fit to make a man of him, which he would have found something more than an earl. donal would have taught him to look things in the face, and call them by their own names. it would have been the redemption of his being. to let things be as they truly are, and act with truth in respect of them, is to be a man. but forgue showed little sign of manhood, present or to come. he was much on horseback, now riding furiously over everything, as if driven by the very fiend, now dawdling along with the reins on the neck of his weary animal. donal once met him thus in a narrow lane. the moment forgue saw him, he pulled up his horse's head, spurred him hard, and came on as if he did not see him. donal shoved himself into the hedge, and escaped with a little mud. chapter l. a south-easterly wind. one morning, donal in the schoolroom with davie, a knock came to the door, and lady arctura entered. "the wind is blowing from the south-east," she said. "listen then, my lady, whether you can hear anything," said donal. "i fancy it is a very precise wind that is wanted." "i will listen," she answered, and went. the day passed, and he heard nothing more. he was at work in his room in the warm evening twilight, when davie came running to his door, and said arkie was coming up after him. he rose and stood at the top of the stair to receive her. she had heard the music, she said--very soft: would he go on the roof? "where were you, my lady," asked donal, "when you heard it? i have heard nothing up here!" "in my own little parlour," she replied. "it was very faint, but i could not mistake it." they went upon the roof. the wind was soft and low, an excellent thing in winds. they knew the paths of the roof better now, and had plenty of light, although the moon, rising large and round, gave them little of hers yet, and were soon at the foot of the great chimney-stack, which grew like a tree out of the house. there they sat down to wait and hearken. "i am almost sorry to have made this discovery!" said donal. "why?" asked lady arctura. "should not the truth be found, whatever it may be? you at least think so!" "most certainly," answered donal. "and if this be the truth, as i fully expect it will prove, then it is well it should be found to be. but i should have liked better it had been something we could not explain." "i doubt if i understand you." "things that cannot be explained so widen the horizon around us! open to us fresh regions for question and answer, for possibility and delight! they are so many kernels of knowledge closed in the hard nuts of seeming contradiction.--you know, my lady, there are stories of certain houses being haunted by a mysterious music presaging evil to the family?" "i have heard of such music. but what can be the use of it?" "i do not know. i see not the smallest use in it. if it were of use it would surely be more common! if it were of use, why should those who have it be of the class less favoured, so to speak, of the lord of the universe, and the families of his poor never have it?" "perhaps for the same reason that they have their other good things in this life!" said arctura. "i am answered," confessed donal, "and have no more to say. these tales, if they require of us a belief in any special care over such houses, as if they were more precious in the eyes of god than the poorest cottage in the land, i cast them from me." "but," said arctura, in a deprecating tone, "are not those houses which have more influence more important than the others?" "surely--those which have more good influence. but such are rarely the great houses of a country. our lord was not an asmonaean prince, but the son of a humble maiden, his reputed father a working man." "i do not see--i should like to understand how that has to do with it." "you may be sure the lord took the position in life in which it was most possible to do the highest good; and without driving the argument--for every work has its own specialty--it seems probable that the true ends of his coming will still be better furthered from the standpoint of humble circumstances, than from that of rank and position." "you always speak," said arctura, "as if there were only the things jesus christ came for to be cared about:--is there nothing but salvation worthy a human being's regard?" "if you give a true and large enough meaning to the word salvation, i answer you at once, nothing. only in proportion as a man is saved, will he do the work of the world aright--the whole design of which is to rear a beautiful blessed family. the world is god's nursery for his upper rooms. oneness with god is the end of the order of things. when that is attained, we shall do greater things than the lord himself did on the earth!--but was not that Æolus?--listen!" there came a low prolonged wail. the ladder was in readiness; donal set it up in haste, climbed to the cleft, and with a sheet of brown paper in his hands, waited the next cry of the prisoned chords. he was beginning to get tired of his position, when suddenly came a stronger puff, and he heard the music distinctly in the shaft beside him. it swelled and grew. he spread the sheet of paper over the opening, the wind blew it flat against the chimney, and the sound instantly ceased. he removed it, and again came the sound. the wind continued, and grew stronger, so that they were able to make the simple experiment until no shadow of a doubt was left: they had discovered the source of the music! by certain dispositions of the paper they were even able to modify it. donal descended, and said to davie, "i wish you not to say a word about this to any one, davie, before lady arctura or i give you leave. you have a secret with us now. the castle belongs to lady arctura, and she has a right to ask you not to speak of it to any one without her permission.--i have a reason, my lady," he went on, turning to arctura: "will you, please, desire davie to attend to what i say. i will immediately explain to you, but i do not want davie to know my reason until you do. you can on the instant withdraw your prohibition, should you not think my reason a good one." "davie," said arctura, "i too have faith in mr. grant: i beg you will keep all this a secret for the present." "oh surely, cousin arkie!" said davie. "--but, mr. grant, why should you make arkie speak to me too?" "because the thing is her business, not mine. run down and wait for me in my room. go steadily over the bartizan, mind." donal turned again to arctura. "you know they say there is a hidden room in the castle, my lady?" "do you believe it?" she returned. "i think there may be such a place." "surely if there had been, it would have been found long ago." "they might have said that on the first report of the discovery of america!" "that was far off, and across a great ocean!" "and here are thick walls, and hearts careless an timid!--has any one ever set in earnest about finding it?" "not that i know of." "then your objection falls to the ground. if you could have told me that one had tried to find the place, but without success, i would have admitted some force in it, though it would not have satisfied me without knowing the plans he had taken, and how they were carried out. on the other hand it may have been known to many who held their peace about it.--would you not like to know the truth concerning that too?" "i should indeed. but would not you be sorry to lose another mystery?" "on the contrary, there is only the rumour of a mystery now, and we do not quite believe it. we are not at liberty, in the name of good sense, to believe it yet. but if we find the room, or the space even where it may be, we shall probably find also a mystery--something never in this world to be accounted for, but suggesting a hundred unsatisfactory explanations. but, pardon me, i do not in the least presume to press it." lady arctura smiled. "you may do what you please," she said. "if i seemed for a moment to hesitate, it was only that i wondered what my uncle would say to it. i should not like to vex him." "certainly not; but would he not be pleased?" "i will speak to him, and find out. he hates what he calls superstition, and i fancy has curiosity enough not to object to a search. i do not think he would consent to pulling down, but short of that, i don't think he will mind. i should not wonder if he even joined in the search." donal thought with himself it was strange then he had never undertaken one. something told him the earl would not like the proposal. "but tell me, mr. grant--how would you set about it?" said arctura, as they went towards the tower. "if the question were merely whether or not there was such a room, and not the finding of it,--" "excuse me--but how could you tell whether there was or was not such a room except by searching for it?" "by determining whether there was or was not some space in the castle unaccounted for." "i do not see." "would you mind coming to my room? it will be a lesson for davie too!" she assented, and donal gave them a lesson in cubic measure and content. he showed them how to reckon the space that must lie within given boundaries: if then within those boundaries they could not find so much, part of it must be hidden. if they measured the walls of the castle, allowing of course for their thickness and every irregularity, and from that calculated the space they must hold; then measured all the rooms and open places within the walls, allowing for all partitions; and having again calculated, found the space fall short of what they had from the outside measurements to expect; they must conclude either that they had measured or calculated wrong, or that there was space in the castle to which they had no access. "but," continued donal, when they had in a degree mastered the idea, "if the thing was, to discover the room itself, i should set about it in a different way; i should not care about the measuring. i would begin and go all over the castle, first getting the outside shape right in my head, and then fitting everything inside it into that shape of it in my brain. if i came to a part i could not so fit at once, i would examine that according to the rules i have given you, take exact measurements of the angles and sides of the different rooms and passages, and find whether these enclosed more space than i could at once discover inside them.--but i need not follow the process farther: pulling down might be the next thing, and we must not talk of that!" "but the thing is worth doing, is it not, even if we do not go so far as to pull down?" "i think so." "and i think my uncle will not object.--say nothing about it though, davie, till we give you leave." that we was pleasant in donal's ears. lady arctura rose, and they all went down together. when they reached the hall, davie ran to get his kite. "but you have not told me why you would not have him speak of the music," said arctura, stopping at the foot of the great stair. "partly because, if we were to go on to make search for the room, it ought to be kept as quiet as possible, and the talk about the one would draw notice to the other; and partly because i have a hope that the one may even guide us to the other." "you will tell me about that afterwards," said arctura, and went up the stair. that night the earl had another of his wandering fits; also all night the wind blew from the south-east. in the morning arctura went to him with her proposal. the instant he understood what she wished, his countenance grew black as thunder. "what!" he cried, "you would go pulling the grand old bulk to pieces for the sake of a foolish tale about the devil and a set of cardplayers! by my soul, i'll be damned if you do!--not while i'm above ground at least! that's what comes of putting such a place in the power of a woman! it's sacrilege! by heaven, i'll throw my brother's will into chancery rather!" his rage was such as to compel her to think there must be more in it than appeared. the wilderness of the temper she had roused made her tremble, but it also woke the spirit of her race, and she repented of the courtesy she had shown him: she had the right to make what investigations she pleased! her father would not have left her the property without good reasons for doing so; and of those reasons some might well have lain in the character of the man before her! through all this rage the earl read something of what had sent the blood of the graemes to her cheek and brow. "i beg your pardon, my love," he said, "but if he was your father, he was my brother!" "he is my father!" said arctura coldly. "dead and gone and all but forgotten!" "no, my lord; not for one day forgotten! not for one moment unloved!" "ah, well, as you please! but because you love his memory must i regard him as a solon? 't is surely no great treason to reflect upon the wisdom of a dead man!" "i wish you good day, my lord!" said arctura, very angry, and left him. but when presently she found that she could not lift up her heart to her father in heaven, gladly would she have sent her anger from her. was it not plainly other than good, when it came thus between her and the living god! all day at intervals she had to struggle and pray against it; a great part of the night she lay awake because of it; but at length she pitied her uncle too much to be very angry with him any more, and so fell asleep. in the morning she found that all sense of his having authority over her had vanished, and with it her anger. she saw also that it was quite time she took upon herself the duties of a landowner. what could mr. grant think of her--doing nothing for her people! but she could do little while her uncle received the rents and gave orders to mr. graeme! she would take the thing into her own hands! in the meantime, mr. grant should, if he pleased, go on quietly with his examination of the house. but she could not get her interview with her uncle out of her head, and was haunted with vague suspicions of some dreadful secret about the house belonging to the present as well as the past. her uncle seemed to have receded to a distance incalculable, and to have grown awful as he receded. she was of a nature almost too delicately impressionable; she not only felt things keenly, but retained the sting of them after the things were nearly forgotten. but then the swift and rare response of her faculties arose in no small measure from this impressionableness. at the same time, but for instincts and impulses derived from her race, her sensitiveness might have degenerated into weakness. chapter li. a dream. one evening, as donal was walking in the little avenue below the terraces, davie, who was now advanced to doing a little work without his master's immediate supervision, came running to him to say that arkie was in the schoolroom and wanted to see him. he hastened to her. "a word with you, please, mr. grant," she said. donal sent the boy away. "i have debated with myself all day whether i should tell you," she began--and her voice trembled not a little; "but i think i shall not be so much afraid to go to bed if i do tell you what i dreamt last night." her face was very pale, and there was a quiver about her mouth: she seemed ready to burst into tears. "do tell me," said donal sympathetically. "do you think it very silly to mind one's dreams?" she asked. "silly or not," answered donal, "as regards the general run of dreams, it is plain you have had one that must be minded. what we must mind, it cannot be silly to mind." "i am in no mood, i fear, for philosophy," she rejoined, trying to smile. "it has taken such a hold of me that i cannot get rid of it, and there is no one i could tell it to but you; any one else would laugh at me; but you never laugh at anybody! "i went to bed as well as usual, only a little troubled about my uncle's strangeness, and soon fell asleep, to find myself presently in a most miserable place. it was like a brick-field--but a deserted brick-field. heaps of broken and half-burnt bricks were all about. for miles and miles they stretched around me. i walked fast to get out of it. nobody was near or in sight; there was not a sign of human habitation from horizon to horizon. "all at once i saw before me a dreary church. it was old, tumble-down, and dirty--not in the least venerable--very ugly--a huge building without shape, like most of our churches. i shrank from the look of it: it was more horrible to me than i could account for; i feared it. but i must go in--why, i did not know, but i must: the dream itself compelled me. "i went in. it looked as if nobody had crossed its threshold for a hundred years. the pews were mouldering away; the canopy over the pulpit had half fallen, and rested its edge on the book-board; the great galleries had in parts tumbled into the body of the church, in other parts they hung sloping from the walls. the centre of the floor had fallen in, and there was a great, descending slope of earth, soft-looking, mixed with bits of broken and decayed wood, from the pews above and the coffins below. i stood gazing down in horror unutterable. how far the gulf went i could not see. i was fascinated by its slow depth, and the thought of its possible contents--when suddenly i knew rather than perceived that something was moving in its darkness: it was something dead--something yellow-white. it came nearer; it was slowly climbing; like one dead and stiff it was labouring up the slope. i could neither cry out nor move. it was about three yards below me, when it raised its head: it was my uncle, dead, and dressed for the grave. he beckoned me--and i knew i must go; i had to go, nor once thought of resisting. my heart became like lead, but immediately i began the descent. my feet sank in the mould of the ancient dead, soft as if thousands of graveyard moles were for ever burrowing in it, as down and down i went, settling and sliding with the black plane. then i began to see the sides and ends of coffins in the walls of the gulf; and the walls came closer and closer as i descended, until they scarcely left me room to get through. i comforted myself with the thought that those in these coffins had long been dead, and must by this time be at rest, nor was there any danger of seeing mouldy hands come out to seize me. at last i saw that my uncle had stopped, and i stood still, a few yards above him, more composed than i can understand." "the wonder is we are so believing, yet not more terrified, in our dreams," said donal. "he began to heave and pull at a coffin that seemed to stop the way. just as he got it dragged on one side, i saw on the bright silver handle of it the morven crest. the same instant the lid rose, and my father came out of the coffin, looking alive and bright; my uncle stood beside him like a corpse beside a soul. 'what do you want with my child?' he said; and my uncle cowered before him. he took my hand and said, 'come with me, my child.' and i went with him--oh, so gladly! my fear was gone, and so was my uncle. he led me up the way we had come down, but when we came out of the hole, instead of finding myself in the horrible church, i was in my own room. i looked round--no one was near! i was sorry my father was gone, but glad to be in my own room. then i woke--and here was the terrible thing--not in my bed--but standing in the middle of the floor, just where my dream had left me! i cannot get rid of the thought that i really went somewhere. i have been haunted with it the whole day. it is a terror to me--for if i did, where is my help against going again!" "in god our saviour," said donal. "--but had your uncle given you anything?" "i wish i could think so; but i do not see how he could." "you must change your room, and get mistress brookes to sleep near you." "i will." gladly would donal have offered to sleep, like one of his colleys, outside her door, but mrs. brookes was the only one to help her. he began at once to make observations towards determining the existence or non-existence of a hidden room, but in the quietest way, so as to attract no attention, and had soon satisfied himself concerning some parts that it could not be there. without free scope and some one to help him, the thing was difficult. to gauge a building which had grown through centuries, to fit the varying tastes and changing needs of the generations, was in itself not easy, and he judged it all but impossible without drawing observation and rousing speculation. great was the chaotic element in the congeries of erections and additions, brought together by various contrivances, and with daringly enforced communication. open spaces within the walls, different heights in the stories of contiguous buildings, breaks in the continuity of floors, and various other irregularities, he found confusingly obstructive. chapter lii. investigation. the autumn brought terrible storms. many fishing boats came to grief. of some, the crews lost everything: of others, the loss of their lives delivered their crews from smaller losses. there were many bereaved in the village, and donal went about among them, doing what he could, and getting help for them where his own ability would not reach their necessity. lady arctura wanted no persuasion to go with him in some of his visits; and the intercourse she thus gained with humanity in its simpler forms, of which she had not had enough for the health of her own nature, was of high service to her. perhaps nothing helps so much to believe in the father, as the active practical love of the brother. if he who loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, can ill love god whom he hath not seen, then he who loves his brother must surely find it the easier to love god! arctura found that to visit the widow and the fatherless in their afflictions; to look on and know them as her kind; to enter into their sorrows, and share the elevating influence of grief genuine and simple, the same in every human soul, was to draw near to god. she met him in his children. for to honour, love, and be just to our neighbour, is religion; and he who does these things will soon find that he cannot live without the higher part of religion, the love of god. if that do not follow, the other will sooner or later die away, leaving the man the worse for having had it. she found her way to god easier through the crowd of her fellows; while their troubles took her off her own, set them at a little distance from her, and so put it in her power to understand them better. one day after the fishing boats had gone out, rose a terrible storm. some of them made for the harbour again--such as it was; others kept out to sea; stephen kennedy's boat came ashore bottom upward. his body was cast on the sands close to the spot where donal dragged the net from the waves. there was sorrow afresh through the village: kennedy was a favourite; and his mother was left childless. no son would any more come sauntering in with his long slouch in the gloamin'; and whether she would ever see him again--to know him--who could tell! for the common belief does not go much farther than paganism in yielding comfort to those whose living loves have disappeared--the fault not of christianity, but of christians. the effect of the news upon forgue i have some around for conjecturing: i believe it made him care a little less about marrying the girl, now that he knew no rival ready to take her; and feel also that he had one enemy the less, one danger the less, in the path he would like to take. within a week after, he left the castle, and if his father knew where he went, he was the only one who did. he had been pressing him to show some appearance of interest in his cousin; forgue had professed himself unequal to the task at present: if he might go away for a while, he said, he would doubtless find it easier when he returned. the storms were over, the edges and hidden roots had begun to dream of spring, and arctura had returned to her own room to sleep, when one afternoon she came to the schoolroom and told donal she had had the terrible dream again. "this time," she said, "i came out, in my dream, on the great stair, and went up to my room, and into bed, before i waked. but i dare not ask mistress brookes whether she saw me--" "you do not imagine you were out of the room?" said donal. "i cannot tell. i hope not. if i were to find i had been, it would drive me out of my senses! i was thinking all day about the lost room: i fancy it had something to do with that." "we must find the room, and have done with it!" said donal. "are you so sure we can?" she asked, her face brightening. "if there be one, and you will help me, i think we can," he answered. "i will help you." "then first we will try the shaft of the music-chimney. that it has never smoked, at least since those wires were put there, makes it something to question--though the draught across it might doubtless have prevented it from being used. it may be the chimney to the very room. but we will first try to find out whether it belongs to any room we know. i will get a weight and a cord: the wires will be a plague, but i think we can pass them. then we shall see how far the weight goes down, and shall know on what floor it is arrested. that will be something gained: the plane of inquiry will be determined. only there may be a turn in the chimney, preventing the weight from going to the bottom." "when shall we set about it?" said arctura, almost eagerly. "at once," replied donal. she went to get a shawl. donal went to the gardener's tool-house, and found a suitable cord. there was a seven-pound weight, but that would not pass the wires! he remembered an old eight-day clock on a back stair, which was never going. he got out its heavier weight, and carried it, with the cord and the ladder, to his own stair--at the foot of which was lady arctura--waiting for him. there was that in being thus associated with the lovely lady; in knowing that peace had began to visit her through him, that she trusted him implicitly, looking to him for help and even protection; in knowing that nothing but wrong to her could be looked for from uncle or cousin, and that he held what might be a means of protecting her, should undue influence be brought to bear upon her--there was that in all this, i say, that stirred to its depth the devotion of donal's nature. with the help of god he would foil her enemies, and leave her a free woman--a thing well worth a man's life! many an angel has been sent on a smaller errand! such were his thoughts as he followed arctura up the stair, she carrying the weight and the cord, he the ladder, which it was not easy to get round the screw of the stair. arctura trembled with excitement as she ascended, grew frightened as often as she found she had outstripped him, waited till the end of the ladder came poking round, and started again before the bearer appeared. her dreams had disquieted her more than she had yet confessed: had she been taking a way of her own, and choosing a guide instead of receiving instruction in the way of understanding? were these things sent for her warning, to show her into what an abyss of death her conduct was leading her?--but the moment she found herself in the open air of donal's company, her doubts and fears vanished for the time. such a one as he must surely know better than those others the way of the spirit! was he not more childlike, more straightforward, more simple, and, she could not but think, more obedient than those? mr. carmichael was older, and might be more experienced; but did his light shine clearer than donal's? he might be a priest in the temple; but was there not a samuel in the temple as well as an eli? it the young, strong, ruddy shepherd, the defender of his flock, who was sent by god to kill the giant! he was too little to wear saul's armour; but he could kill a man too big to wear it! thus meditated arctura as she climbed the stair, and her hope and courage grew. a delicate conscience, sensitive feelings, and keen faculties, subjected to the rough rasping of coarse, self-satisfied, unspiritual natures, had almost lost their equilibrium. as to natural condition no one was sounder than she; yet even now when she had more than begun to see its falsehood, a headache would suffice to bring her afresh under the influence of the hideous system she had been taught, and wake in her all kinds of deranging doubts and consciousnesses. subjugated so long to the untrue, she required to be for a time, until her spiritual being should be somewhat individualized, under the genial influences of one who was not afraid to believe, one who knew the master. nor was there danger to either so long as he sought no end of his own, so long as he desired only his will, so long as he could say, "whom is there in heaven but thee! and there is none upon earth that i desire besides thee!" by the time she reached the top she was radiantly joyous in the prospect of a quiet hour with him whose presence and words always gave her strength, who made the world look less mournful, and the will of god altogether beautiful; who taught her that the glory of the father's love lay in the inexorability of its demands, that it is of his deep mercy that no one can get out until he has paid the uttermost farthing. they stepped upon the roof and into the gorgeous afterglow of an autumn sunset. the whole country, like another sea, was flowing from that that well of colour, in tidal waves of an ever advancing creation. its more etherial part, rushing on above, broke on the old roofs and chimneys and splashed its many tinted foam all over them; while through it and folded in it came a cold thin wind that told of coming death. arctura breathed a deep breath, and her joy grew. it is wonderful how small a physical elevation, lifting us into a slightly thinner air, serves to raise the human spirits! we are like barometers, only work the other way; the higher we go, the higher goes our mercury. they stood for a moment in deep enjoyment, then simultaneously turned to each other. "my lady," said donal, "with such a sky as that out there, it hardly seems as if there could be such a thing as our search to-night! hollow places, hidden away for evil cause, do not go with it at all! there is the story of gracious invention and glorious gift; here the story of greedy gathering and self-seeking, which all concealment involves!" "but there may be nothing, you know, mr. grant!" said arctura, troubled for the house. "there may be nothing. but if there is such a room, you may be sure it has some relation with terrible wrong--what, we may never find out, or even the traces of it." "i shall not be afraid," she said, as if speaking with herself. "it is the terrible dreaming that makes me weak. in the morning i tremble as if i had been in the hands of some evil power." donal turned his eyes upon her. how thin she looked in the last of the sunlight! a pang went through him at the thought that one day he might be alone with davie in the huge castle, untended by the consciousness that a living light and loveliness flitted somewhere about its gloomy and ungenial walls. but he would not think the thought! how that dismal miss carmichael must have worried her! when the very hope of the creature in his creator is attacked in the name of religion; when his longing after a living god is met with the offer of a paltry escape from hell, how is the creature to live! it is god we want, not heaven; his righteousness, not an imputed one, for our own possession; remission, not letting off; love, not endurance for the sake of another, even if that other be the one loveliest of all. they turned from the sunset and made their way to the chimney-stack. there once more donal set up his ladder. he tied the clock-weight to the end of his cord, dropped it in, and with a little management got it through the wires. it went down and down, gently lowered, till the cord was all out, and still it would go. "do run and get some more," said arctura. "you do not mind being left alone?" "no--if you will not be long." "i will run," he said--and run he did, for she had scarcely begun to feel the loneliness when he returned panting. he took the end she had been holding, tied on the fresh cord he had brought, and again lowered away. as he was beginning to fear that after all he had not brought enough, the weight stopped, resting, and drew no more. "if only we had eyes in that weight," said arctura, "like the snails at the end of their horns!" "we might have greased the bottom of the weight," said donal, "as they do the lead when they want to know what kind of bottom there is to the sea: it might have brought up ashes. if it will not go any farther, i will mark the string at the mouth, and draw it up." he moved the weight up and down a little; it rested still, and he drew it up. "now we must mark off it the height of the chimney above the parapet wall," he said; "and then i will lower the weight towards the court below, until this last knot comes to the wall: the weight will then show us on the outside how far down the house it went inside.--ah, i thought so!" he went on, looking over after the weight; "--only to the first floor, or thereabouts!--no, i think it is lower!--but anyhow, my lady, as you can see, the place with which the chimney, if chimney it be, communicates, must be somewhere about the middle of the house, and perhaps is on the first floor; we can't judge very well looking down from here, and against a spot where are no windows. can you imagine what place it might be?" "i cannot," answered arctura; "but i could go into every room on that floor without anyone seeing me." "then i will let the weight down the chimney again, and leave it for you to see, if you can, below. if you find it, we must do something else." it was done, and they descended together. donal went back to the schoolroom, not expecting to see her again till the next day. but in half an hour she came to him, saying she had been into every room on that floor, both where she thought it might be, and where she knew it could not be, and had not seen the weight. "the probability then is," replied donal, "that thereabout somewhere--there, or farther down in that neighbourhood--lies the secret; but we cannot be sure, for the weight may not have reached the bottom of the shaft. let us think what we shall do next. he placed a chair for her by the fire. they had the room to themselves. chapter liii. mistress brookes upon the earl. they were hardly seated when simmons appeared, saying he had been looking everywhere for her ladyship, for his lordship was taken as he had never seen him before: he had fainted right out in the half-way room, and he could not get him to. having given orders to send at once to auchars for the doctor, lady arctura hastened with donal to the room on the stair. the earl was stretched motionless and pale on the floor. but for a slight twitching in one muscle of the face, they might have concluded him dead. they tried to get something down his throat, but without success. the men carried him up to his chamber. he began to come to himself, and lady arctura left him, telling simmons to come to the library when he could, and let them know how he was. in about an hour he came: the doctor had been, and his master was better. "do you know any cause for the attack?" asked her ladyship. "i'll tell you all about it, my lady, so far as i know," answered the butler. "--i was there in that room with him--i had taken him some accounts, and was answering some questions about them, when all at once there came a curious noise in the wall. i can't think what it was--an inward rumbling it was, that seemed to go up and down the wall with a sort of groaning, then stopped a while, and came again. it sounded nothing very dreadful to me; perhaps if it had been in the middle of the night, i mightn't have liked it. his lordship started at the first sound of it, turned pale and gasped, then cried out, laid his hand on his heart, and rolled off his chair. i did what i could for him, but it wasn't like one of his ordinary attacks, and so i came to your ladyship. he's such a ticklish subject, you see, my lady! it's quite alarming to be left alone with him. it's his heart; and you know, my lady--i should be sorry to frighten you, but you know, mr. grant, a gentleman with that complaint may go off any moment. i must go back to him now, my lady, if you please." arctura turned and looked at donal. "we must be careful," he said. "we must," she answered. "just thereabout is one of the few places in the house where you hear the music." "and thereabout the music-chimney goes down! that is settled! but why should my lord be frightened so?" "i cannot tell. he is not like other people, you know." "where else is the music heard? you and your uncle seem to hear it oftener than anyone else." "in my own room. but we will talk to-morrow. good night." "i will remain here the rest of the evening," said donal, "in case simmons might want me to help with his lordship." it was well into the night, and he still sat reading in the library, when mrs. brookes came to him. she had had to get his lordship "what he ca'd a cat--something or ither, but was naething but mustard to the soles o' 's feet to draw awa' the bluid." "he's better the noo," she said. "he's taen a doze o' ane o' thae drogues he's aye potterin' wi'--fain to learn the trade o' livin' for ever, i reckon! but that's a thing the lord has keepit in 's ain han's. the tree o' life was never aten o', an' never wull be noo i' this warl'; it's lang transplantit. but eh, as to livin' for ever, or i wud be his lordship, i wud gie up the ghost at ance!" "what makes you say that, mistress brookes?" asked donal. "it's no ilk ane i wud answer sic a queston til," she replied; "but i'm weel assured ye hae sense an' hert eneuch baith, no to hurt a cratur'; an' i'll jist gang sae far as say to yersel', an' 'atween the twa o' 's, 'at i hae h'ard frae them 'at's awa'--them 'at weel kent, bein' aboot the place an' trustit--that whan the fit was upon him, he was fell cruel to the bonnie wife he merriet abro'd an' broucht hame wi' him--til a cauld-hertit country, puir thing, she maun hae thoucht it!" "how could he have been cruel to her in the house of his brother? even if he was the wretch to be guilty of it, his brother would never have connived at the ill-treatment of any woman under his roof!" "hoo ken ye the auld yerl sae weel?" asked mrs. brookes, with a sly glance. "i ken," answered donal, direct as was his wont, but finding somehow a little shelter in the dialect, "'at sic a dauchter could ill hae been born to ony but a man 'at--weel, 'at wad at least behave til a wuman like a man." "ye're i' the richt! he was the ten'erest-heartit man! but he was far frae stoot, an' was a heap by himsel', nearhan' as mickle as his lordship the present yerl. an' the lady was that prood, an' that dewotit to the man she ca'd her ain, that never a word o' what gaed on cam to the ears o' his brither, i daur to say, or i s' warran' ye there wud hae been a fine steer! it cam, she said--my auld auntie said--o' some kin' o' madness they haena a name for yet. i think mysel' there's a madness o' the hert as weel 's o' the heid; an' i' that madness men tak their women for a property o' their ain, to be han'led ony gait the deevil puts intil them. cries i' the deid o' the nicht, an' never a shaw i' the mornin' but white cheeks an' reid een, tells its ain tale. i' the en', the puir leddy dee'd, 'at micht hae lived but for him; an' her bairnie dee'd afore her; an' the wrangs o' bairns an' women stick lang to the wa's o' the universe! it was said she cam efter him again;--i kenna; but i hae seen an' h'ard i' this hoose what--i s' haud my tongue aboot!--sure i am he wasna a guid man to the puir wuman!--whan it comes to that, maister grant, it's no my leddy an' mem, but we're a' women thegither! she dee'dna i' this hoose, i un'erstan'; but i' the hoose doon i' the toon--though that's neither here nor there. i wadna won'er but the conscience micht be waukin' up intil him! some day it maun wauk up. he'll be sorry, maybe, whan he kens himsel' upo' the border whaur respec' o' persons is ower, an' a woman s' a guid 's a man--maybe a wheen better! the lord 'll set a' thing richt, or han' 't ower til anither!" chapter liv. lady arctura's room. the next day, when he saw lady arctura, donal was glad to learn that, for all the excitement of the day before, she had passed a good night, and never dreamed at all. "i've been thinking it all over, my lady," he said, "and it seems to me that, if your uncle heard the noise of our plummet so near, the chimney can hardly rise from the floor you searched; for that room, you know, is half-way between the ground-floor and first floor. still, sound does travel so! we must betake ourselves to measurement, i fear.--but another thing came into my head last night which may serve to give us a sort of parallax. you said you heard the music in your own room: would you let me look about in it a little? something might suggest itself!--is it the room i saw you in once?" "not that," answered arctura, "but the bedroom beyond it. i hear it sometimes in either room, but louder in the bedroom. you can examine it when you please.--if only you could find my bad dream, and drive it out!--will you come now?" "it is near the earl's room: is there no danger of his hearing anything?" "not the least. the room is not far from his, it is true, but it is not in the same block; there are thick walls between. besides he is too ill to be up." she led the way, and donal followed her up the main staircase to the second floor, and into the small, curious, ancient room, evidently one of the oldest in the castle, which she had chosen for her sitting-room. perhaps if she had lived less in the shadow, she might have chosen a less gloomy one: the sky was visible only through a little lane of walls and gables and battlements. but it was very charming, with its odd nooks and corners, recesses and projections. it looked an afterthought, the utilization of a space accidentally defined by rejection, as if every one of its sides were the wall of a distinct building. "i do wish, my lady," said donal, "you would not sit so much where is so little sunlight! outer and inner things are in their origin one; the light of the sun is the natural world-clothing of the truth, and whoever sits much in the physical dark misses a great help to understanding the things of the light. if i were your director," he went on, "i would counsel you to change this room for one with a broad, fair outlook; so that, when gloomy thoughts hid god from you, they might have his eternal contradiction in the face of his heaven and earth." "it is but fair to tell you," replied arctura, "that sophia would have had me do so; but while i felt about god as she taught me, what could the fairest sunlight be to me?" "yes, what indeed!" returned donal. "do you know," he added presently, his eyes straying about the room, "i feel almost as if i were trying to understand a human creature. a house is so like a human mind, which gradually disentangles and explains itself as you go on to know it! it is no accidental resemblance, for, as an unavoidable necessity, every house must be like those that built it." "but in a very old house," said arctura, "so many hands of so many generations have been employed in the building, and so many fancied as well as real necessities have been at work, that it must be a conflict of many natures." "but where the house continues in the same family, the builders have more or less transmitted their nature, as well as their house, to those who come after them." "do you think then," said arctura, almost with a shudder, "that i inherit a nature like the house left me--that the house is an outside to me--fits my very self as the shell fits the snail?" "the relation of outer and inner is there, but there is given with it an infinite power to modify. everyone is born nearer to god than to any ancestor, and it rests with him to cultivate either the godness or the selfness in him, his original or his mere ancestral nature. the fight between the natural and the spiritual man is the history of the world. the man who sets his faults inherited, makes atonement for the sins of those who went before him; he is baptized for the dead, not with water but with fire." "that seems to me strange doctrine," said arctura, with tremulous objection. "if you do not like it, do not believe it. we inherit from our ancestors vices no more than virtues, but tendencies to both. vice in my great-great-grandfather may in me be an impulse." "how horrible!" cried arctura. "to say that we inherit sin from adam, horrifies nobody: the source is so far back from us, that we let the stream fill our cisterns unheeded; but to say we inherit it from this or that nearer ancestor, causes the fact to assume its definite and individual reality, and make a correspondent impression." "then you allow that it is horrible to think oneself under the influence of the vices of certain wicked people, through whom we come where we are?" "i would allow it, were it not that god is nearer to us than any vices, even were they our own; he is between us and those vices. but in us they are not vices--only possibilities, which become vices when they are yielded to. then there are at the same time all sorts of counteracting and redeeming influences. it may be that wherein a certain ancestor was most wicked, his wife was especially lovely. he may have been cruel, and she tender as the hen that gathers her chickens under her wing. the main danger is perhaps, of being caught in some sudden gust of unsuspected impulse, and carried away of the one tendency before the other has time to assert and the will to rouse itself. but those who doubt themselves and try to do right may hope for warning. such will not, i think, be allowed to go far out of the way for want of that. self-confidence is the worst traitor." "you comfort me a little." "and then you must remember," continued donal, "that nothing in its immediate root is evil; that from best human roots worst things spring. no one, for instance, will be so full of indignation, of fierceness, of revenge, as the selfish man born with a strong sense of justice.--but you say this is not the room in which you hear the music best?" "no, it is here." chapter lv. her bed-chamber. lady arctura opened the door of her bedroom. donal glanced round it. it was as old-fashioned as the other. "what is behind that press there--wardrobe, i think you call it?" he asked. "only a recess," answered lady arctura. "the press, i am sorry to say, is too high to get into it." possibly had the press stood in the recess, the latter would have suggested nothing; but having caught sight of the opening behind the press, donal was attracted by it. it was in the same wall with the fireplace, but did not seem formed by the projection of the chimney, for it did not go to the ceiling. "would you mind if i moved the wardrobe a little on one side?" he asked. "do what you like," she answered. donal moved it, and found the recess rather deep for its size. the walls of the room were wainscotted to the height of four feet or so, but the recess was bare. there were signs of hinges on one, and of a bolt on the other of the front edges: it had seemingly been once a closet, whose door continued the wainscot. there were no signs of shelves in it; the plaster was smooth. but donal was not satisfied. he took a big knife from his pocket, and began tapping all round. the moment he came to the right-hand side, there was a change in the sound. "you don't mind if i make a little dust, my lady?" he said. "do anything you please," answered arctura. he sought in several places to drive the point of his knife into the plaster; it would nowhere enter it more than a quarter of an inch: here was no built wall, he believed, but one smooth stone. he found nothing like a joint till he came near the edge of the recess: there was a limit of the stone, and he began at once to clear it. it gave him a straight line from the bottom to the top of the recess, where it met another at right angles. "there does seem, my lady," he said, "to be some kind of closing up here, though it may of course turn out of no interest to us! shall i go on, and see what it is?" "by all means," she answered, but turned pale as she spoke. donal looked at her anxiously. she understood his look. "you must not mind my feeling a little silly," she said. "i am not silly enough to give way to it." he went on again with his knife, and had presently cleared the outlines of a stone that filled nearly all the side of the recess. he paused. "go on! go on!" said arctura. "i must first get a better tool or two," answered donal. "will you mind being left?" "i can bear it. but do not be long. a few minutes may evaporate my courage." donal hurried away to get a hammer and chisel, and a pail to put the broken plaster in. lady arctura stood and waited. the silence closed in upon her. she began to feel eerie. she felt as if she had but to will and see through the wall to what lay beyond it. to keep herself from so willing, she had all but reduced herself to mental inaction, when she started to her feet with a smothered cry: a knock not over gentle sounded on the door of the outer room. she darted to the bedroom-door and flung it to--next to the press, and with one push had it nearly in its place. then she opened again the door, thinking to wait for a second knock on the other before she answered. but as she opened the inner, the outer door also opened--slowly--and a face looked in. she would rather have had a visitor from behind the press! it was her uncle; his face cadaverous; his eyes dull, but with a kind of glitter in them; his look like that of a housebreaker. in terror of himself, in terror lest he should discover what they had been about, in terror lest donal should appear, wishing to warn the latter, and certain that, early as it was, her uncle was not himself, with intuitive impulse, the moment she saw him, she cried out, "uncle! what is that behind you?" she felt afterwards, and was very sorry, that it was both a deceitful and cruel thing to do; but she did it, as i have said, by a swift, unreflecting instinct--which she concluded, in thinking about it, came from the ready craft of some ancestor, and illustrated what donal had been saying. the earl turned like one struck on the back, imagined something of which arctura knew nothing, cowered to two-thirds of his height, and crept away. though herself trembling from head to foot, arctura was seized with such a pity, that she followed him to his room; but she dared not go in. she stood a moment in the passage within sight of his door, and thought she heard his bell ring. now simmons might meet donal! in a moment or two, however, she was relieved. donal came round a turn, carrying his implements. she signed to him to make haste, and he was just safe inside her room when simmons came along on his way to his master's. she drew the door to, as if she had been just coming out, and said, "knock at my door as you return, and tell me how your master is: i heard his bell." she then begged donal to go on with his work, but stop it the moment she made a noise with the handle of the door, and resumed her place outside till simmons should re-appear. full ten minutes she stood waiting: it seemed an hour. though she heard donal at work within, and knew simmons must soon come, though the room behind her was her own, and familiar to her from childhood, the long empty passage in front of her appeared frightful. what might not come pacing along towards her! at last she heard her uncle's door--steps--and the butler approached. she shook the handle of the door, and donal's blows ceased. "i can't make him out, my lady!" said simmons. "it is nothing very bad, i think, this time; but he gets worse and worse--always taking more and more o' them horrid drugs. it's no use trying to hide it: he'll drop off sudden one o' these days! i've heard say laudanum don't shorten life; but it's not one nor two, nor half a dozen sorts o' laudanums he keeps mixing in that poor inside o' his! the end must come, and what will it be? it's better you should be prepared for it when it do come, my lady. i've just been a giving of him some into his skin--with a little sharp-pointed thing, a syringe, you know, my lady: he says it's the only way to take some medicines. he's just a slave to his medicines, my lady!" as soon as he was gone, arctura returned to donal. he had knocked the plaster away, and uncovered a slab, very like one of the great stones on some of the roofs. the next thing was to prize it from the mortar, and that was not difficult. the instant he drew the stone away, a dank chill assailed them, accompanied by a humid smell, as from a long-closed cellar. they stood and looked, now at each other, now at the opening in the wall, where was nothing but darkness. the room grew cold and colder. donal was anxious as to how arctura might stand what discovery lay before them, and she was anxious to read his sensations. for her sake he tried to hide all expression of the awe that was creeping over him, and it gave him enough to do. "we are not far from something, my lady!" he said. "it makes one think of what he said who carries the light everywhere--that there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed, neither hid that shall not be known. shall we leave it for the present?" "anything but that!" said arctura with a shiver; "--anything but an unknown terrible something!" "but what can you do with it?" "let the daylight in upon it." her colour returned as she spoke, and a look of determination came into her eyes. "you will not be afraid to be left then when i go down?" "i am cowardly enough to be afraid, but not cowardly enough to let you go alone. i will share with you. i shall not be afraid--not much--not too much, i mean--if i am with you." donal hesitated. "see!" she went on, "i am going to light a candle, and ask you to come down with me--if down it be: it may be up!" "i am ready, my lady," said donal. she lighted the candle. "had we not better lock the door, my lady?" "that might set them wondering," she answered. "we should have to lock both the doors of this room, or else both the passage-doors! the better way will be to pull the press after us when we are behind it." "you are right, my lady. please take some matches with you." "to be sure." "you will carry the candle, please. i must have my hands free. try to let the light shine past me as much as you can, that i may see where i am going. but i shall depend most on my hands and feet." chapter lvi. the lost room. donal then took the light from her hand, and looked in. the opening went into the further wall and turned immediately to the left. he gave her back the candle, and went in. arctura followed close. there was a stair in the thickness of the wall, going down steep and straight. it was not wide enough to let them go abreast. "put your hand on my shoulder, my lady," said donal. "that will keep us together. if i fall, you must stand stock-still." she put her hand on his shoulder, and they began their descent. the steps were narrow and high, therefore the stair was steep they had gone down from thirty to thirty-five steps, when they came to a level passage, turning again at right angles to the left. it was twice the width of the stair. its sides, like those of the stair, were of roughly dressed stones, and unplastered. it led them straight to a strong door. it was locked, and in the rusty lock they could see the key from within. to the right was another door, a smaller one, which stood wide open. they went through, and by a short passage entered an opener space. here on one side there seemed to be no wall, and they stood for a moment afraid to move lest they should tumble into darkness. but sending the light about, and feeling with hands and feet, they soon came to an idea of the place they were in. it was a little gallery, with arches on one side opening into a larger place, the character of which they could only conjecture, for nearly all they could determine was, that it went below and rose above where they stood. on the other side was a plain wall, such as they had had on both sides of them. they had been speaking in awe-filled whispers, and were now in silence endeavouring to send their sight through the darkness beyond the arches. "listen, my lady," said donal. >from above their heads came a chord of the aerial music, soft and faint and wild! a strange effect it had! it was like news of the still airy night and the keen stars, come down through secret ways into the dark places of the earth, from spaces so wide that they seem the most awful of prisons! it sweetly fostered arctura's courage. "that must be how the songs of angels sounded, with news of high heaven, to the people of old!" she said. donal was not in so high a mood. he was occupied at the moment with the material side of things. "we can't be far," he said, "from the place where our plummet came down! but let us try a little further." the next moment they came against a cord, and at their feet was the weight of the clock. at the other end of the little gallery they came again to a door and again to a stair, turning to the right; and again they went down. arctura kept up bravely. the air was not so bad as might have been feared, though it was cold and damp. this time they descended but a little way, and came to a landing place, on the right of which was a door. donal raised a rusty latch and pushed; the door swung open against the wall, dropping from one hinge with the slight shock. two steps more they descended, and stood on a stone floor. donal thought at first they must be in one of the dungeons, but soon bethought himself that they had not descended far enough for that. a halo of damp surrounded their candle; its weak light seemed scarcely to spread beyond it; for some moments they took in nothing of what was around them. the floor first began to reveal itself to donal's eye: in the circle of the light he saw, covered with dust as it was, its squares of black and white marble. then came to him a gleam of white from the wall; it was a tablet; and at the other end was something like an altar, or a tomb. "we are in the old chapel of the castle!" he said. "--but what is that?" he added instantly with an involuntary change of voice, and a shudder through his whole nervous being. arctura turned; her hand sought his and clasped it convulsively. they stood close to something which the light itself had concealed from them. ere they were conscious of an idea concerning it, each felt the muscles of neck and face drawn, as if another power than their own invaded their persons. but they were live wills, and would not be overcome. they forced their gaze; perception cleared itself; and slowly they saw and understood. with strangest dream-like incongruity and unfitness, the thing beside them was a dark bedstead, with carved posts and low wooden tester, richly carved!--this in the middle of a chapel!--but there was no speculation in them; they could only see, not think. donal took the candle. from the tester hung large pieces of stuff that had once made heavy curtains, but seemed hardly now to have as much cohesion as the dust on a cobweb; it held together only in virtue of the lightness to which decay had reduced it. on the bed lay a dark mass, like bed clothes and bedding not quite turned to dust--they could yet see something like embroidery in one or two places--dark like burnt paper or half-burnt flaky rags, horrid as a dream of dead love! heavens! what was that shape in the middle?--what was that on the black pillow?--what was that thick line stretching towards one of the head-posts? they stared speechless. arctura pressed close to donal. his arm went round her to protect her from what threatened almost to overwhelm himself--the inroad of an unearthly horror. plain to the eyes of both, the form in the middle of the bed was that of a human body, slowly crumbling where it lay. bed and blankets and quilt, sheets and pillows had crumbled with it through the long wasting years, but something of its old shape yet lingered with the dust: that was a head that lay on the pillow; that was the line of a long arm that pointed across the pillow to the post.--what was that hanging from the bedpost and meeting the arm? god in heaven! there was a staple in the post, and from the staple came a chain!--and there at its other end a ring, lying on the pillow!--and through it--yes through it, the dust-arm passed!--this was no mere death-bed; it was a torture bed--most likely a murder-bed; and on it yet lay the body that died on it--had lain for hundreds of years, unlifted for kindly burial: the place of its decease had been made its tomb--closed up and hidden away! a bed in a chapel, and one dead thereon!--how could it be? had the woman--for donal imagined the form yet showed it the body of a woman--been carried thither of her own desire, to die in a holy place? that could not be: there was the chain! had she sought refuge there from some persecutor? if so, he has found her! she was a captive--mad perhaps, more likely hated and the victim of a terrible revenge; left, probably enough, to die of hunger, or disease--neglected or tended, who could tell? one thing, only was clear--that there she died, and there she was buried! arctura was trembling. donal drew her closer, and would have taken her away. but she said in his ear, as if in dread of disturbing the dust, "i am not frightened--not very. it is only the cold, i think." they went softly to the other end of the chapel, almost clinging together as they went. they saw three narrow lancet windows on their right, but no glimmer came through them. they came to what had seemed an altar, and such it still seemed. but on its marble-top lay the dust plainly of an infant--sight sad as fearful, and full of agonizing suggestion! they turned away, nor either looked at the other. the awful silence of the place seemed settling on them like a weight. donal made haste, nor did arctura seem less anxious to leave it. when they reached the stair, he made her go first: he must be between her and the terror! as they passed the door on the other side of the little gallery--down whose spiracle had come no second breath--donal said to himself he must question that door, but to arctura he said nothing: she had had enough of inquiry for the moment! slowly they ascended to arctura's chamber. donal replaced the slab, and propped it in its position; gathered the plaster into the pail; replaced the press, and put a screw through the bottom of it into the floor. arctura stood and watched him all the time. "you must leave your room again, my lady!" said donal. "i will. i shall speak to mistress brookes at once." "will you tell her all about it?" "we must talk about that!" "how will she bear it," thought donal; "how after such an experience, can she spend the rest of the day alone? there is all the long afternoon and evening to be met!" he gave the last turn to the screw in the floor, and rose. then first he saw that arctura had turned very white. "do sit down, my lady!" he said. "i would run for mistress brookes, but i dare not leave you." "no, no; we will go down together! give me that bottle of eau de cologne, please." donal did not know either eau de cologne or its bottle, but he darted to the dressing-table and guessed correctly. it revived her, and she began to take deep breaths. then with a strong effort she rose to go down. the time for speech concerning what they had seen, was not come! "would you not like, my lady," said donal, "to come to the schoolroom this afternoon? you could sit beside while i give davie his lessons!" "yes," she answered at once; "i should like it much!--is there not something you could give me to do?--will you not teach me something?" "i should like to begin you with greek, and teach you a little mathematics--geometry first of all." "you frighten me!" "your fright wouldn't outlast the beginning," said donal. "anyhow, you will have davie and me for company! you must be lonely sometimes! you see little of miss carmichael now, i fancy." "she has not been near me since that day in the avenue! we salute now and then coming out of church. she will not come again except i ask her; and i shall be in no haste: she would only assume i was sorry, and could not do without her!" "i should let her wait, my lady!" said donal. "she sorely wants humbling!" "you do not know her, mr. grant, if you think anything i could do would have that effect on her." "pardon me, my lady; i did not imagine it your task to humble her! but you need not let her ride over you as she used to do; she knows nothing really, and a great many things unreally. unreal knowledge is worse than ignorance.--would not miss graeme be a better friend?" "she is much more lovable; but she does not trouble her head about the things i care for.--i mean religion," she added hesitatingly. "so much the better,--" "mr. grant!" "you did not let me finish, my lady!--so much the better, i was going to say, till she begins to trouble her heart about it--or rather to untrouble her heart with it! the pharisee troubled his head, and no doubt his conscience too, and did not go away justified; but the poor publican, as we with our stupid pity would call him, troubled his heart about it; and that trouble once set a going, there is no fear. head and all must soon follow.--but how am i to get rid of this plaster without being seen?" "i will show you the way to your own stair without going down--the way we came once, you may remember. you can take it to the top of the house till it is dark.--but i do not feel comfortable about my uncle's visit. can it be that he suspects something? perhaps he knows all about the chapel--and that stair too!" "he is a man to enjoy having a secret!--but our discovery bears out what we were saying as to the likeness of house and man--does it not?" "you don't mean there is anything like that in me?" rejoined arctura, looking frightened. "you!" he exclaimed. "--but i mean no individual application," he added, "except as reflected from the general truth. this house is like every human soul, and so, like me and you and all of us. we have found the chapel of the house, the place they used to pray to god in, built up, lost, forgotten, filled with dust and damp--and the mouldering dead lying there before the lord, waiting to be made live again and praise him!" "i said you meant me!" murmured arctura, with a faint, sad smile. "no; the time is past for that. it is long since first you were aware of the dead self in the lost chapel; a hungry soul soon misses both, and knows, without being sure of it, that they are somewhere. you have kept searching for them in spite of all persuasion that the quest was foolish." arctura's eyes shone in her pale face; but they shone with gathering tears. donal turned away, and took up the pail. she rose, and guided him to his tower-stair, where he went up and she went down. chapter lvii. the housekeeper's room. as the clock upon the schoolroom chimney-piece struck the hour, arctura entered, and at once took her seat at the table with davie--much to the boy's wonder and pleasure. donal gave her a euclid, and set her a task: she began at once to learn it--and after a while so brief that davie stared incredulous, said, "if you please, mr. grant, i think i could be questioned upon it now." less than a minute sufficed to show donal that she thoroughly understood what she had been learning, and he set her then a little more. by the time their work was over he had not a doubt left that suchlike intellectual occupation would greatly subserve all phases of her health. with entireness she gave herself to the thing she had to do; and donal thought how strong must be her nature, to work so calmly, and think so clearly, after what she had gone through that morning. school over, and davie gone to his rabbits. "mistress brookes invites us to supper with her," said lady arctura. "i asked her to ask us. i don't want to go to bed till i am quite sleepy. you don't mind, do you?" "i am very glad, my lady," responded donal. "don't you think we had better tell her all about it?" "as you think fit. the secret is in no sense mine; it is only yours; and the sooner it ceases to be a secret the better for all of us!" "i have but one reason for keeping it," she returned. "your uncle?" "yes; i know he will be annoyed. but there may be other reasons why i should reveal the thing." "there may indeed!" said donal. "still, i should be sorry to offend him more than i cannot help. if he were a man like my father, i should never dream of going against him; i should in fact leave everything to him he cared to attend to. but seeing he is the man he is, it would be absurd. i dare not let him manage my affairs for me much longer. i must understand for myself how things are going." "you will not, i hope, arrange anything without the presence of a lawyer! i fear i have less confidence in your uncle than you have!" arctura made no reply, and donal was afraid he had hurt her; but the next moment she looked up with a sad smile, and said, "well, poor man! we will not compare our opinions of him: he is my father's brother, and i shall be glad not to offend him. but my father would have reason to be dissatisfied if i left everything to my uncle as if he had not left everything to me. if he had been another sort of man, my father would surely have left the estate to him!" at nine o'clock they met in the housekeeper's room--low-ceiled, large, lined almost round with oak presses, which were mistress brookes's delight. she welcomed them as to her own house, and made an excellent hostess. but donal would not mix the tumbler of toddy she would have had him take. for one thing he did not like his higher to be operated upon from his lower: it made him feel as if possessed by a not altogether real self. but the root of his objection lay in the teaching of his mother. the things he had learned of his parents were to him his patent of nobility, vouchers that he was honourably descended: of his birth he was as proud as any man. and hence this night he was led to talk of his father and mother, and the things of his childhood. he told arctura all about the life he had led; how at one time he kept cattle in the fields, at another sheep on the mountains; how it came that he was sent to college, and all the story of sir gibbie. the night wore on. arctura listened--did nothing but listen; she was enchanted. and it surprised donal himself to find how calmly he could now look back upon what had seemed to threaten an everlasting winter of the soul. it was indeed the better thing that ginevra should be gibbie's wife! a pause had come, and he had fallen into a brooding memory of things gone by, when a sudden succession of quick knocks fell on his ear. he started--strangely affected. neither of his companions took notice of it, though it was now past one o'clock. it was like a knocking with knuckles against the other side of the wall of the room. "what can that be?" he said, listening for more. "h'ard ye never that 'afore, maister grant?" said the housekeeper. "i hae grown sae used til't my ears hardly tak notice o' 't!" "what is it?" asked donal. "ay, what is't? tell ye me that gien ye can!" she returned "it's jist a chappin', an' god's trowth it's a' i ken aboot the same! it comes, i believe i'm safe to say, ilka nicht; but i couldna tak my aith upo' 't, i hae sae entirely drappit peyin' ony attention til't. there's things aboot mony an auld hoose, maister grant, 'at'll tak the day o' judgment to explain them. but sae lang as they keep to their ain side o' the wa', i dinna see i need trible my heid aboot them. efter the experrience i had as a yoong lass, awa' doon in englan' yon'er, at a place my auntie got me intil--for she kenned a heap o' gran' fowk throuw bein' hersel' sae near conneckit wi' them as hoosekeeper i' the castel here--efter that, i'm sayin,' i wadna need to be that easy scaret?" "what was it?" said lady arctura. "i don't think you ever told me." "no, my dear lady; i wud never hae thocht o' tellin' ye ony sic story sae lang as ye was ower yoong no to be frichtit at it; for 'deed i think they're muckle to blame 'at tells bairns the varra things they're no fit to hear, an' fix the dreid 'afore the sense. but i s' tell ye the noo, gien ye care to hear. it's a some awsome story, but there's something unco fulish-like intil't as weel. i canna say i think muckle 'o craturs 'at trible their heids aboot their heids!--but that's tellin' 'aforehan'!" here the good woman paused thoughtful. "i am longing to hear your story, mistress brookes," said donal, supposing she needed encouragement. "i'm but thinkin' hoo to begin," she returned, "sae as to gie ye a richt haud o' the thing.--i'm thinkin' i canna do better nor jist tell 't as it cam to mysel'!--weel, ye see, i was but a yoong lass, aboot--weel, i micht be twenty, mair or less, whan i gaed til the place i speak o'. it was awa' upo' the borders o' wales, like as gien folk ower there i' perth war doobtfu' whether sic or sic a place was i' the hielan's or the lowlan's. the maister o' the hoose was a yoong man awa' upo' 's traivels, i kenna whaur--somewhaur upo' the continent, but that's a mickle word; an' as he had the intention o' bein' awa' for some time to come, no carin' to settle doon aff han' an' luik efter his ain, there was but ane gey auld wuman to hoosekeep, an' me to help her, an' a man or twa aboot the place to luik efter the gairden--an' that was a'. hoose an' gairden was to let, an' was intil the han's o' ane o' thae agents, as they ca' them, for that same purpose--to let, that is, for a term o' years. weel, ae day there cam a gentleman to luik at the place, an' he was sae weel pleased wi' 't--as weel he micht, for eh, it was a bonny place!--aye lauchin' like, whaur this place is aye i' the sulks!--na, no aye! i dinna mean that, my lady, forgettin' at it's yours!--but ye maun own it taks a heap o' sun to gar this auld hoose here luik onything but some dour--an' i beg yer pardon, my lady!" "you are quite right, mistress brookes!" said arctura with a smile. "if it were not for you it would be dour dour.--you do not know, mr. grant--mistress brookes herself does not know how much i owe her! i should have gone out of my mind for very dreariness a hundred times but for her." "the short an' the lang o' 't was," resumed mistress brookes, "that the place was let an' the place was ta'en, mickle to the satisfaction o' a' pairties concernt. the auld hoosekeeper, she bein' a fixtur like, was to bide, an' i was to bide as weel, under the hoosekeeper, an' haein' nothing to do wi' the stranger servan's. "they cam. there was a gentleman o' a middle age, an' his leddy some yoonger nor himsel', han'some but no bonnie--but that has naething to do wi' my tale 'at i should tak up yer time wi' 't, an' it growin' some late." "never mind the time, mistress brookes," said arctura; we can do just as we please about that! one time is as good as another--isn't it, mr. grant?" "i sometimes sit up half the night myself," said donal. "i like to know god's night. only it won't do often, lest we make the brain, which is god's too, like a watch that won't go." "it's sair upsettin' to the wark!" said the housekeeper. "what would the house be like if i was to do that!" "do go on, please, mistress brookes," said arctura. "please do," echoed donal. "sir, an' my lady, i'm ready to sit till the cock's be dune crawin', an' the day dune dawin', to pleasur the ane or the twa o' ye!--an' sae for my true tale!--they war varra dacent, weel-behavet fowk, wi' a fine faimly, some grown an' some growin'. it was jist a fawvour to see sic a halesome clan--frae auchteen or thereawa' doon tu the wee toddlin' lassie was the varra aipple o' the e'e to a' the e'en aboot the place! but that's naither here nor yet there! a' gaed on as a' should gang on whaur the servan's are no ower gran' for their ain wark, nor ower meddlesome wi' the wark o' their neebours; naething was negleckit, nor onything girned aboot; but a' was peace an' hermony, as quo' the auld sang about out bonny kilmeny--that is, till ae nicht.--you see i'm tellin' ye as it cam' to mysel' an' no til anither! "as i lay i' my bed that nicht--an' ye may be sure at my age i lay nae langer nor jist to turn me ower ance, an' in general no that ance--jist as i was fa'in' asleep, up gat sic a romage i' the servan' ha', straucht 'aneth whaur i was lyin', that i thoucht to mysel', what upo' earth's come to the place!--'gien it bena the day o' judgment, troth it's no the day o' sma' things!' i said. it was as gien a' the cheirs an' tables thegither war bein' routit oot o' their places, an' syne set back again, an' the tables turnt heels ower heid, an' a' the glaiss an' a' the plate for the denner knockit aboot as gien they had been sae mony hailstanes that warna wantit ony mair, but micht jist lie whaur they fell. i couldna for the life o' me think what it micht betoken, save an' excep' a general frenzy had seized upo' man an' wuman i' the hoose! i got up in a hurry: whatever was gaein' on, i wudna wullin'ly gang wantin' my share o' the sicht! an' jist as i opened my door, wha should i hear but the maister cryin' at the heid o' the stair,--'what, i' the name o' a' that's holy,' says he, 'is the meanin' o' this?' an' i ran til him, oot o' the passage, an' through the swing-door, into the great corridor; an' says i,--''deed, sir, i was won'erin'! an' wi' yer leave, sir, i'll gang an' see,' i said, gaitherin' my shawl aboot me as weel as i could to hide what was 'aneth it, or raither what wasna 'aneth it, for i hadna that mickle on. but says he, 'no, no, you must not go; who knows what it may be? i'll go myself. they may be robbers, and the men fighting them. you stop where you are.' sayin' that, he was half-ways doon the stair. i stood whaur i was, lookin' doon an' hearkenin', an' the noise still goin' on. but he could but hae won the len'th o' the hall, whan it stoppit a' at ance an' a'thegither. ye may think what a din it maun hae been, whan i tell ye the quaiet that cam upo' the heels o' 't jist seemed to sting my twa lugs. the same moment i h'ard the maister cryin' til me to come doon. i ran, an' whan i reached the servan's ha', whaur he stood jist inside the door, i stood aside him an' glowered. for, wad ye believe me! the place was as dacent an' still as ony kirkyard i' the munelicht! there wasna a thing oot o' it's place, nor an air o' dist, nor the sma'est disorder to be seen! a' the things luikit as gien they had sattlet themsel's to sleep as usual, an' had sleepit till we cam an' waukit them. the maister glowert at me, an' i glowert at the maister. but a' he said was,--'a false alarm, ye see, rose!' what he thoucht i canna tell, but withoot anither word we turnt, an' gaed up the stair again thegither. "at the tap o' the stair, the lang corridor ran awa' intil the dark afore 's, for the can'le the maister carried flangna licht half to the en' o' 't; an' frae oot o' the mirk on a suddent cam to meet 's a rampaugin' an' a rattlin' like o' a score o' nowt rinnin' awa' wi' their iron tethers aboot their necks--sic a rattlin' o' iron chains as ye never h'ard! an' a groanin' an' a gruntin' jist fearsome. again we stood an' luikit at ane anither; an' my word! but the maister's face was eneuch to fricht a body o' 'tsel', lat alane the thing we h'ard an' saw naething til accoont for! 'gang awa' back to yer bed, rose,' he said; 'this'll never do!' 'an' hoo are ye to help it, sir?' said i. 'that i cannot tell,' answered he; but i wouldn't for the world your mistress heard it! i left her fast asleep, and i hope she'll sleep through it.--did you ever hear anything strange about the house before we came?' 'never, sir,' said i, 'as sure as i stan' here shiverin'!'--for the nicht was i' the simmer, an' warm to that degree! an' yet i was shiverin' as i' the cauld fit o' a fivver; an' my moo' wud hardly consent to mak the words i soucht to frame! "we stood like mice 'afore the cat for a minute or twa, but there cam naething mair; an' by degrees we grew a kin' o' ashamet, like as gien we had been doobtfu' as to whether we had h'ard onything; an' whan again he said to me gang to my bed, i gaed to my bed, an' wasna lang upo' the ro'd, for fear i wud hear onything mair--an' intil my bed, an' my heid 'aneth the claes, an' lay trim'lin'. but there was nane mair o' 't that nicht, an' i wasna ower sair owercome to fa' asleep. "i' the mornin' i tellt the hoosekeeper a' aboot it; but she held her tongue in a mainner that was, to say the least o' 't, varra strange. she didna lauch, nor she didna grue nor yet glower, nor yet she didna say the thing was nonsense, but she jist h'ard an' h'ard an' saidna a word. i thoucht wi' mysel', is't possible she disna believe me? but i couldna mak that oot aither. sae as she heild her tongue, i jist pu'd the bridle o' mine, an' vooed there should be never anither word said by me till ance she spak hersel'. an' i wud sune hae had eneuch o' haudin' my tongue, but i hadna to haud it to onybody but her; an' i cam to the conclusion that she was feart o' bein' speirt questons by them 'at had a richt to speir them, for that she had h'ard o' something 'afore, an' kenned mair nor she was at leeberty to speak aboot. "but that was only the beginnin', an' little to what followed! for frae that nicht there was na ae nicht passed but some ane or twa disturbit, an' whiles it was past a' bidin.' the noises, an' the rum'lin's, an' abune a' the clankin' o' chains, that gaed on i' that hoose, an' the groans, an' the cries, an' whiles the whustlin', an' what was 'maist waur nor a', the lauchin', was something dreidfu', an' 'ayont believin' to ony but them 'at was intil't. i sometimes think maybe the terror o' 't maks it luik waur i' the recollection nor it was; but i canna keep my senses an' no believe there was something a'thegither by ord'nar i' the affair. an' whan, or lang, it cam to the knowledge o' the lady, an' she was waukit up at nicht, an' h'ard the thing, whatever it was, an' syne whan the bairns war waukit up, an' aye the romage, noo i' this room, noo i' that, sae that the leevin' wud be cryin' as lood as the deid, though they could ill mak sic a din, it was beyond a' beirin', an' the maister made up his min' to flit at ance, come o' 't what micht! "for, as i oucht to hae tellt ye, he had written to the owner o' the hoose, that was my ain maister--for it wasna a hair o' use sayin' onything further to the agent; he only leuch, an' declaret it maun be some o' his ain folk was playin' tricks upon him--which it angert him to hear, bein' as impossible as it was fause; sae straucht awa' to his lan'lord he wrote, as i say; but as he was travellin' aboot on the continent, he supposed either the letter had not reached him, an' never wud reach him or he was shelterin' himsel' under the idea they wud think he had never had it, no wantin' to move in the matter. but the varra day he had made up his min' that nothing should make him spend another week in the house, for monday nights were always the worst, there cam a letter from the gentleman, sayin' that only that same hoor that he was writin' had he received the maister's letter; an' he was sorry he had not had it before, but prayed him to put up with things till he got to him, and he would start at the farthest in two days more, and would set the thing right in less time than it would take to tell him what was amiss.--a strange enough letter to be sure! mr. harper, that was their butler, told me he had read every word of it! and so, as, not to mention the terrors of the nicht, the want of rest was like to ruin us altogether, we were all on the outlook for the appearance of oor promised deliverer, sae cock-sure o' settin' things straucht again! "weel, at last, an' that was in a varra feow days, though they luikit lang to some i' that hoose, he appearit--a nice luikin' gentleman, wi' sae sweet a smile it wasna hard to believe whate'er he tellt ye. an' he had a licht airy w'y wi' him, that was to us oppresst craturs strangely comfortin', ill as it was to believe he could ken what had been goin' on, an' treat it i' that fashion! hooever,--an' noo, my lady, an' mr. grant, i hae to tell ye what the butler told me, for i wasna present to hear for mysel'. maybe he wouldn't have told me, but that he wasn't an old man, though twice my age, an' seemt to have taken a likin' to me, though it never came to anything; an' as i was always ceevil to any person that was ceevil to me, an' never went farther than was becomin', he made me the return o' talkin' to me at times, an' tellin' me what he knew. "the young gentleman was to stop an' lunch with the master, an' i' the meantime would have a glass o' wine an' a biscuit; an' pullin' a bunch o' keys from his pocket, he desired mr. harper to take a certain one and go to the door that was locked inside the wine-cellar, and bring a bottle from a certain bin. harper took the key, an' was just goin' from the room, when he h'ard the visitor--though in truth he was more at hame there than any of us--h'ard him say, 'i'll tell you what you've been doing, sir, and you'll tell me whether i'm not right!' hearin' that, the butler drew the door to, but not that close, and made no haste to leave it, and so h'ard what followed. "'i'll tell you what you've been doin',' says he. 'didn't you find a man's head--a skull, i mean, upon the premises?' 'well, yes, i believe we did, when i think of it!' says the master; 'for my butler'--an' there was the butler outside a listenin' to the whole tale!--'my butler came to me one mornin', sayin', "look here, sir! that is what i found in a little box, close by the door of the wine-cellar! it's a skull!" "oh," said i '--it was the master that was speakin'--'"it'll be some medical student has brought it home to the house!" so he asked me what he had better do with it.' 'and you told him,' interrupted the gentleman, 'to bury it!' 'i did; it seemed the proper thing to do.' 'i hadn't a doubt of it!' said the gentleman: 'that is the cause of all the disturbance.' 'that?' says the master. 'that, and nothing else!' answers the gentleman. and with that, as harper confessed when he told me, there cam ower him such a horror, that he daured nae longer stan' at the door; but for goin' doon to the cellar to fetch the bottle o' wine, that was merely beyond his human faculty. as it happed, i met him on the stair, as white as a sheet, an' ready to drop. 'what's the matter, mr. harper?' said i; and he told me all about it. 'come along,' i said; 'we'll go to the cellar together! it's broad daylight, an' there's nothing to hurt us!' so he went down. "'there, that's the box the thing was lyin' in!' said he, as we cam oot o' the wine-cellar. an' wi' that cam a groan oot o' the varra ground at oor feet! we both h'ard it, an' stood shakin' an' dumb, grippin' ane anither. 'i'm sure i don't know what in the name o' heaven it can all mean!' said he--but that was when we were on the way up again. 'did ye show 't ony disrespec'?' said i. 'no,' said he; 'i but buried it, as i would anything else that had to be putten out o' sight,' an' as we wur talkin' together--that was at the top o' the cellar-stair--there cam a great ringin' at the bell, an' said he, 'they're won'erin' what's come o' me an' their wine, an' weel they may! i maun rin.' as soon as he entered the room--an' this again, ye may see, my leddy an' maister grant, he tellt me efterwards--'whaur did ye bury the heid ye tuik frae the cellar?' said his master til him, an' speiredna a word as to hoo he had been sae lang gane for the wine. 'i buried it i' the garden,' answered he. 'i hope you know the spot!' said the strange gentleman. 'yes, sir, i do,' said harper. 'then come and show me,' said he. "so the three of them went oot thegither, an' got a spade; an' luckily the butler was able to show them at once the varra spot. an' the gentleman he howkit up the skull wi' his ain han's, carefu' not to touch it with the spade, an' broucht it back in his han' to the hoose, knockin' the earth aff it with his rouch traivellin' gluves. but whan harper lookit to be told to take it back to the place where he found it, an' trembled at the thoucht, wonderin' hoo he was to get haud o' me an' naebody the wiser, for he didna want to show fricht i' the day-time, to his grit surprise an' no sma' pleesur, the gentleman set the skull on the chimley-piece. an' as lunch had been laid i' the meantime, for mr. heywood--i hae jist gotten a grup o' his name--had to be awa' again direckly, he h'ard the whole story as he waitit upo' them. i suppose they thoucht it better he should hear an' tell the rest, the sooner to gar them forget the terrors we had come throuw. "said the gentleman, 'now you'll have no more trouble. if you do, write to me, to the care o'--so an' so--an' i'll release you from your agreement. but please to remember that you brought it on yourself by interfering, i can't exackly say with my property, but with the property of one who knows how to defend it without calling in the aid of the law--which indeed would probably give him little satisfaction.--it was the burying of that skull that brought on you all the annoyance.' 'i always thought,' said the master, 'the dead preferred having their bones buried. their ghosts indeed, according to cocker, either wouldna or couldna lie quiet until their bodies were properly buried: where then could be our offence?' 'you may say what you will,' answered mr. heywood, 'and i cannot answer you, or preten' to explain the thing; i only know that when that head is buried, these same disagreeables always begin.' 'then is the head in the way of being buried and dug up again?' asked the master. 'i will tell you the whole story, if you like,' answered his landlord. 'i would gladly hear it,' says he, 'for i would fain see daylight on the affair!' 'that i cannot promise you,' he said; 'but the story, as it is handed down in the family, you shall hear.' "you may be sure, my leddy, harper was wide awake to hearken, an' the more that he might tell it again in the hall! "'somewhere about a hundred and fifty years ago,' mr. heywood began, 'on a cold, stormy night, there came to the hall-door a poor pedlar,'--a travelling merchant, you know, my leddy--'with his pack on his back, and would fain have parted with some of his goods to the folk of the hall. the butler, who must have been a rough sort of man--they were rough times those--told him they wanted nothing he could give them, and to go about his business. but the man, who was something obstinate, i dare say, and, it may weel be, anxious to get shelter, as much for the nicht bein' gurly as to sell his goods, keepit on beggin' an' implorin' to lat the women-folk at the least luik at what he had broucht. at last the butler, oot o' a' patience wi' the man, ga'e him a great shove awa' frae the door, sae that the poor man fell doon the steps, an' bangt the door to, nor ever lookit to see whether the man gat up again or no. "'i' the mornin' the pedlar they faund him lyin' deid in a little wud or shaw, no far frae the hoose. an' wi' that up got the cry, an' what said they but that the butler had murdert him! sae up he was ta'en an' put upo' 's trial for't. an' whether the man was not likit i' the country-side, i cannot tell,' said the gentleman, 'but the cry was against him, and things went the wrong way for him--and that though no one aboot the hoose believed he had done the deed, more than he micht hae caused his death by pushin' him doon the steps. an' even that he could hardly have intendit, but only to get quit o' him; an' likely enough the man was weak, perhaps ill, an' the weicht o' his pack on his back pulled him as he pushed.' still, efter an' a'--an' its mysel' 'at's sayin' this, no the gentleman, my lady--in a pairt o' the country like that, gey an' lanely, it was not the nicht to turn a fallow cratur oot in! 'the butler was, at the same time, an old and trusty servan',' said mr. heywood, 'an' his master was greatly concernt aboot the thing. it is impossible at this time o' day,' he said, 'to un'erstan' hoo such a thing could be--i' the total absence o' direc' evidence, but the short an' the weary lang o' 't was, that the man was hangt, an' hung in irons for the deed. "'an' noo ye may be thinkin' the ghaist o' the puir pedlar began to haunt the hoose; but naething o' the kin'! there was nae disturbance o' that, or ony ither sort. the man was deid an' buried, whaever did or didna kill him, an' the body o' him that was said to hae killed him, hung danglin' i' the win', an' naither o' them said a word for or again the thing. "'but the hert o' the man's maister was sair. he couldna help aye thinkin' that maybe he was to blame, an' micht hae done something mair nor he thoucht o' at the time to get the puir man aff; for he was absolutely certain that, hooever rouch he micht hae been; an' hooever he micht hae been the cause o' deith to the troublesome pedlar, he hadna meant to kill him; it was, in pairt at least, an accident, an' he thoucht the hangin' o' 'im for 't was hard lines. the maister was an auld man, nearhan' auchty, an' tuik things the mair seriously, i daursay, that he wasna that far frae the grave they had sent the puir butler til afore his time--gien that could be said o' ane whause grave was wi' the weather-cock! an' aye he tuik himsel' to task as to whether he ouchtna to hae dune something mair--gane to the king maybe--for he couldna bide the thoucht o' the puir man that had waitit upon him sae lang an' faithfu', hingin' an' swingin' up there, an' the flesh drappin' aff the banes o' 'im, an' still the banes hingin' there, an' swingin' an' creakin' an' cryin'! the thoucht, i say, was sair upo' the auld man. but the time passed, an' i kenna hoo lang or hoo short it may tak for a body in sic a position to come asun'er, but at last the banes began to drap, an' as they drappit, there they lay--at the fut o' the gallows, for naebody caret to meddle wi' them. an' whan that cam to the knowledge o' the auld gentleman, he sent his fowk to gether them up an' bury them oot o' sicht. an' what was left o' the body, the upper pairt, hauden thegither wi' the irons, maybe--i kenna weel hoo, hung an' swung there still, in ilk win' that blew. but at the last, oot o' sorrow, an' respec' for the deid, hooever he dee'd, his auld maister sent quaietly ae mirk nicht, an' had the lave o' the banes taen doon an' laid i' the earth. "'but frae that moment, think ye there was ony peace i' the hoose? a clankin' o' chains got up, an' a howlin', an' a compleenin' an' a creakin' like i' the win'--sic a stramash a'thegither, that the hoose was no fit to be leevit in whiles, though it was sometimes waur nor ither times, an' some thoucht it had to do wi' the airt the win' blew: aboot that i ken naething. but it gaed on like that for months, maybe years,'--mr. harper wasna sure hoo lang the gentleman said--'till the auld man 'maist wished himsel' in o' the grave an' oot o' the trouble. "'at last ae day cam an auld man to see him--no sae auld as himsel', but ane he had kenned whan they wur at the college thegither. an' this was a man that had travelled greatly, an' was weel learnt in a heap o' things ordinar' fowk, that gies themsel's to the lan', an' the growin' o' corn, an' beasts, ir no likely to ken mickle aboot. he saw his auld freen' was in trouble, an' didna carry his age calm-like as was nat'ral, an' sae speirt him what was the matter. an' he told him the whole story, frae the hangin' to the bangin'. "weel," said the learnit man, whan he had h'ard a', "gien ye'll tak my advice, ye'll jist sen' an' howk up the heid, an' tak it intil the hoose wi' ye, an' lat it bide there whaur it was used sae lang to be;--do that, an' it's my opinion ye'll hear nae mair o' sic unruly gangin's on." the auld gentleman tuik the advice, kennin' no better. but it was the richt advice, for frae that moment the romour was ower, they had nae mair o' 't. they laid the heid in a decent bit box i' the cellar, an' there it remaint, weel content there to abide the day o' that jeedgment that'll set mony anither jeedgment to the richt-aboot; though what pleesur could be intil that cellar mair nor intil a hole i' the earth, is a thing no for me to say! so wi' that generation there was nae mair trouble. "'but i' the coorse o' time cam first ane an' syne anither, wha forgot, maybe leuch at, the haill affair, an' didna believe a word o' the same. but they're but fules that gang again the experrience o' their forbeirs!--what wud ye hae but they wud beery the heid! an' what wud come o' that but an auld dismay het up again! up gat the din, the rampaugin', the clankin', an' a', jist the same as 'afore! but the minute that, frichtit at the consequences o' their folly, they acknowledged the property o' the ghaist in his ain heid, an' tuik it oot o' the earth an' intil the hoose again, a' was quaiet direc'ly--quaiet as hert could desire.' "sae that was the story! "an' whan the lunch was ower, an' mr. harper was thinkin' the moment come whan they would order him to tak the heid, an' him trimlin' at the thoucht o' touchin' 't, an' lay't whaur it was--an' whaur it had sae aften been whan it had a sowl intil 't, the gentleman got up, an' says he til him, 'be so good,' says he, 'as fetch me my hat-box from the hall.' harper went an' got it as desired, an' the gentleman took an' unlockit it, an' roon' he turnt whaur he stood, an' up he tuik the skull frae the chimley-piece, neither as gien he lo'ed it nor feared it--as what reason had he to do either?--an' han'let it neither rouchly, nor wi' ony show o' mickle care, but intil the hat-box it gaed, willy, nilly, an' the lid shutten doon upo' 't, an' the key turnt i' the lock o' 't; an' as gien he wad mak the thing richt sure o' no bein' putten again whaur it had sic an objection to gang, up he tuik in his han' the hat-box, an' the contrairy heid i' the inside o' 't, an' awa' wi' him on his traivels, here awa' an' there awa' ower the face o' the globe: he was on his w'y to spain, he said, at the moment; an' we saw nae mair o' him nor the heid, nor h'ard ever a soon' mair o' clankin', nor girnin', nor ony ither oonholy din. "an' that's the trowth, mak o' 't what ye like, my leddy an' maister grant!" mistress brookes was silent, and for some time not a syllable was uttered by either listener. at last donal spoke. "it is a strange story, mistress brookes," he said; "and the stranger that it would show some of the inhabitants of the other world apparently as silly after a hundred and fifty years as when first they arrived there." "i can say naething anent that, sir," answered mistress brookes; "i'm no accoontable for ony inference 'at's to be drawn frae my ower true tale; an' doobtless, sir, ye ken far better nor me;--but whaur ye see sae mony folk draw oot the threid o' a lang life, an' never ae sensible thing, that they could help, done or said, what for should ye won'er gien noo an' than ane i' the ither warl' shaw himsel' siclike. whan ye consider the heap o' folk that dees, an' hoo there maun be sae mony mair i' the ither warl' nor i' this, i confess for my pairt i won'er mair 'at we're left at peace at a', an' that they comena swarmin' aboot 's i' the nicht, like black doos. ye'll maybe say they canna, an' ye'll maybe say they come; but sae lang as they plague me nae waur nor oor freen' upo' the tither side o' the wa', i canna say i care that mickle. but i think whiles hoo thae ghaists maun lauch at them that lauchs as gien there was nae sic craturs i' the warl'! for my pairt i naither fear them nor seek til them: i'll be ane wi' them mysel' afore lang!--only i wad sair wuss an' houp to gang in amo' better behavet anes nor them 'at gangs aboot plaguin' folk." "you speak the best of sense, mistress brookes," said donal; "but i should like to understand why the poor hanged fellow should have such an objection to having his skull laid in the ground! why had he such a fancy for his old bones? could he be so closely associated with them that he could not get on without the plenty of fresh air they got him used to when they hung on the gallows? and why did it content him to have only his head above ground? it is bewildering! we couldn't believe our bones rise again, even if paul hadn't as good as told us they don't! why should the dead haunt their bones as if to make sure of having their own again?" "but," said mistress brookes, "beggin' yer pardon, sir, what ken ye as to what they think? ye may ken better, but maybe they dinna; for haena ye jist allooed that sic conduc' as i hae describit is no fit, whaever be guilty o' the same, whether rowdy laddies i' the streets, or craturs ye canna see i' the hoose? they may think they'll want their banes by an' by though ye ken better; an' whatever you wise folk may think the noo, ye ken it's no that lang sin' a' body, ay, the best o' folk, thoucht the same; an' there's no a doobt they a' did at the time that man was hangt. an' ye maun min' 'at i' the hoose the heid o' 'im wudna waste as it wud i' the yerd!" "but why bother about his heid more than the rest of his bones?" "weel, sir, i'm thinking a ghaist, ghaist though he be, canna surely be i' twa places at ance. he could never think to plague til ilk bane o' finger an' tae was gethert i' the cellar! that wud be houpless! an' thinkin' onything o' his banes, he micht weel think maist o' 's heid, an' keep an e'e upo' that. nae mony ghaists hae the chance o' seein' sae muckle o' their banes as this ane, or sayin' to themsel's, 'yon's mine, whaur it swings!' some ghaists hae a cat-like natur for places, an' what for no for banes? mony's the story that hoosekeeper, honest wuman, telled me: whan what had come was gane, it set her openin' oot her pack! i could haud ye there a' nicht tellin' ye ane efter anither o' them. but it's time to gang to oor beds." "it is our turn to tell you something," said lady arctura; "--only you must not mention it just yet: mr. grant has found the lost room!" for a moment mrs. brookes said nothing, but neither paled nor looked incredulous; her face was only fixed and still, as if she were finding explanation in the discovery. "i was aye o' the min' it was," she said, "an' mony's the time i thoucht i wud luik for't to please mysel'! it's sma' won'er--the soon's, an' the raps, an' siclike!" "you will not change your mind when you hear all," said arctura. "i asked you to give us our supper because i was afraid to go to bed." "you shouldn't have told her, sir!" "i've seen it with my own eyes!" "you've been into it, my lady?--what--what--?" "it is a chapel--the old castle-chapel--mentioned, i know, somewhere in the history of the place, though no one, i suppose, ever dreamed the missing room could be that!--and in the chapel," continued arctura, hardly able to bring out the words, for a kind of cramping of the muscles of speech, "there was a bed! and in the bed the crumbling dust of a woman! and on the altar what was hardly more than the dusty shadow of a baby?" "the lord be aboot us!" cried the housekeeper, her well-seasoned composure giving way; "ye saw that wi' yer ain e'en, my lady!--mr. grant! hoo could ye lat her leddyship luik upo' sic things!" "i am her ladyship's servant," answered donal. "that's varra true! but eh, my bonny bairn, sic sichts is no for you!" "i ought to know what is in the house!" said arctura, with a shudder. "but already i feel more comfortable that you know too. mr. grant would like to have your advice as to what--.--you'll come and see them, won't you?" "when you please, my lady.--to-night?" "no, no! not to-night.--was that the knocking again?--some ghosts want their bodies to be buried, though your butler--" "i wouldna wonder!" responded mistress brookes, thoughtfully. "where shall we bury them?" asked donal. "in englan'," said the housekeeper, "i used to hear a heap aboot consecrated ground; but to my min' it was the bodies o' god's handiwark, no the bishop, that consecrated the ground. whaur the lord lays doon what he has done wi', wad aye be a sacred place to me. i daursay moses, whan he cam upo' 't again i' the desert, luikit upo' the ground whaur stood the buss that had burned, as a sacred place though the fire was lang oot!--thinkna ye, mr. grant?" "i do," answered donal. "but i do not believe the lord jesus thought one spot on the face of the earth more holy than another: every dust of it was his father's, neither more nor less, existing only by the thought of that father! and i think that is what we must come to.--but where shall we bury them?--where they lie, or in the garden?" "some wud doobtless hae dist laid to dist i' the kirkyard; but i wudna wullin'ly raise a clash i' the country-side. them that did it was yer ain forbeirs, my leddy; an' sic things are weel forgotten. an' syne what wud the earl say? it micht upset him mair nor a bit! i'll consider o' 't." donal accompanied them to the door of the chamber which again they shared, and then betook himself to his own high nest. there more than once in what remained of the night, he woke, fancying he heard the ghost-music sounding its coronach over the dead below. chapter lviii. a soul diseased. "papa is very ill to-day, simmons tells me," said davie, as donal entered the schoolroom. "he says he has never seen him so ill. oh, mr. grant, i hope he is not going to die!" "i hope not," returned donal--not very sure, he saw when he thought about it, what he meant; for if there was so little hope of his becoming a true man on this side of some awful doom, why should he hope for his life here? "i wish you would talk to him as you do to me, mr. grant!" resumed davie, who thought what had been good for himself must be good for everybody. of late the boy had been more than usual with his father, and he may have dropped some word that turned his father's thoughts toward donal and his ways of thinking: however weak the earl's will, and however dull his conscience, his mind was far from being inactive. in the afternoon the butler brought a message that his lordship would be glad to see mr. grant when school was over. donal found the earl very weak, but more like a live man, he thought, than he had yet seen him. he pointed to a seat, and began to talk in a way that considerably astonished the tutor. "mr. grant," he began, with not a little formality, "i have known you long enough to believe i know you really. now i find myself, partly from the peculiarity of my constitution, partly from the state of my health, partly from the fact that my views do not coincide with those of the church of scotland, and there is no episcopal clergyman within reach of the castle--i find myself, i say, for these reasons, desirous of some conversation with you, more for the sake of identifying my own opinions, than in the hope of receiving from you what it would be unreasonable to expect from one of your years." donal held his peace; the very power of speech seemed taken from him: he had no confidence in the man, and nothing so quenches speech as lack of faith. but the earl had no idea of this distrust, never a doubt of his listener's readiness to take any position he required him to take. experience had taught him as little about donal as about his own real self. "i have long been troubled," continued his lordship after a momentary pause, "with a question of which one might think the world must by this time be weary--which yet has, and always will have, extraordinary fascination for minds of a certain sort--of which my own is one: it is the question of the freedom of the will:--how far is the will free? or how far can it be called free, consistently with the notion of a god over all?" he paused, and donal sat silent--so long that his lordship opened the eyes which, the better to enjoy the process of sentence-making, he had kept shut, and half turned his head towards him: he had begun to doubt whether he was really by his bedside, or but one of his many visions undistinguishable by him from realities. re-assured by the glance, he resumed. "i cannot, of course, expect from you such an exhaustive and formed opinion as from an older man who had made metaphysics his business, and acquainted himself with all that had been said upon the subject; at the same time you must have expended a considerable amount of thought on these matters!" he talked in a quiet, level manner, almost without inflection, and with his eyes again closed--very much as if he were reading a book inside him. "i have had a good deal," he went on, "to shake my belief in the common ideas on such points.--do you believe there is such a thing as free will?" he ceased, awaiting the answer which donal felt far from prepared to give him. "my lord," he said at length, "what i believe, i do not feel capable, at a moment's notice, of setting forth; neither do i think, however unavoidable such discussions may be in the forum of one's own thoughts, that they are profitable between men. i think such questions, if they are to be treated at all between man and man, and not between god and man only, had better be discussed in print, where what is said is in some measure fixed, and can with a glance be considered afresh. but not so either do i think they can be discussed to any profit." "what do you mean? surely this question is of the first importance to humanity!" "i grant it, my lord, if by humanity you mean the human individual. but my meaning is, that there are many questions, and this one, that can be tested better than argued." "you seem fond of paradox!" "i will speak as directly as i can: such questions are to be answered only by the moral nature, which first and almost only they concern; and the moral nature operates in action, not discussion." "do i not then," said his lordship, the faintest shadow of indignation in his tone, "bring my moral nature to bear on a question which i consider from the ground of duty?" "no, my lord," answered donal, with decision; "you bring nothing but your intellectual nature to bear on it so; the moral nature, i repeat, operates only in action. to come to the point in hand: the sole way for a man to know he has freedom is to do something he ought to do, which he would rather not do. he may strive to acquaint himself with the facts concerning will, and spend himself imagining its mode of working, yet all the time not know whether he has any will." "but how am i to put a force in operation, while i do not know whether i possess it or not?" "by putting it in operation--that alone; by being alive; by doing the next thing you ought to do, or abstaining from the next thing you are tempted to, knowing you ought not to do it. it sounds childish; and most people set action aside as what will do any time, and try first to settle questions which never can be settled but in just this divinely childish way. for not merely is it the only way in which a man can know whether he has a free will, but the man has in fact no will at all unless it comes into being in such action." "suppose he found he had no will, for he could not do what he wished?" "what he ought, i said, my lord." "well, what he ought," yielded the earl almost angrily. "he could not find it proved that he had no faculty for generating a free will. he might indeed doubt it the more; but the positive only, not the negative, can be proved." "where would be the satisfaction if he could only prove the one thing and not the other." "the truth alone can be proved, my lord; how should a lie be proved? the man that wanted to prove he had no freedom of will, would find no satisfaction from his test--and the less the more honest he was; but the man anxious about the dignity of the nature given him, would find every needful satisfaction in the progress of his obedience." "how can there be free will where the first thing demanded for its existence or knowledge of itself is obedience?" "there is no free will save in resisting what one would like, and doing what the truth would have him do. it is true the man's liking and the truth may coincide, but therein he will not learn his freedom, though in such coincidence he will always thereafter find it, and in such coincidence alone, for freedom is harmony with the originating law of one's existence." "that's dreary doctrine." "my lord, i have spent no little time and thought on the subject, and the result is some sort of practical clearness to myself; but, were it possible, i should not care to make it clear to another save by persuading him to arrive at the same conviction by the same path--that, namely, of doing the thing required of him." "required of him by what?" "by any one, any thing, any thought, with which can go the word required by--anything that carries right in its demand. if a man does not do the thing which the very notion of a free will requires, what in earth, heaven, or hell, would be the use of his knowing all about the will? but it is impossible he should know anything." "you are a bold preacher!" said the earl. "--suppose now a man was unconscious of any ability to do the thing required of him?" "i should say there was the more need he should do the thing." "that is nonsense." "if it be nonsense, the nonsense lies in the supposition that a man can be conscious of not possessing a power; he can only be not conscious of possessing it, and that is a very different thing. how is a power to be known but by being a power, and how is it to be a power but in its own exercise of itself? there is more in man than he can at any given moment be conscious of; there is life, the power of the eternal behind his consciousness, which only in action can he make his own; of which, therefore, only in action, that is obedience, can he become conscious, for then only is it his." "you are splitting a hair!" "if the only way to life lay through a hair, what must you do but split it? the fact, however, is, that he who takes the live sphere of truth for a flat intellectual disc, may well take the disc's edge for a hair." "come, come! how does all this apply to me--a man who would really like to make up his mind about the thing, and is not at the moment aware of any very pressing duty that he is neglecting to do?" "is your lordship not aware of some not very pressing duty that you are neglecting to do? some duties need but to be acknowledged by the smallest amount of action, to become paramount in their demands upon us." "that is the worst of it!" murmured the earl. "i refuse, i avoid such acknowledgment! who knows whither it might carry me, or what it might not go on to demand of me!" he spoke like one unaware that he spoke. "yes, my lord," said donal, "that is how most men treat the greatest things! the devil blinds us that he may guide us!" "the devil!--bah!" cried his lordship, glad to turn at right angles from the path of the conversation; "you don't surely believe in that legendary personage?" "he who does what the devil would have him do, is the man who believes in him, not he who does not care whether he is or not, so long as he avoids doing his works. if there be such a one, his last thought must be to persuade men of his existence! he is a subject i do not care to discuss; he is not very interesting to me. but if your lordship now would but overcome the habit of depending on medicine, you would soon find out that you had a free will." his lordship scowled like a thunder-cloud. "i am certain, my lord," added donal, "that the least question asked by the will itself, will bring an answer; a thousand asked by the intellect, will bring nothing." "i did not send for you to act the part of father confessor, mr. grant," said his lordship, in a tone which rather perplexed donal; "but as you have taken upon you the office, i may as well allow you keep it; the matter to which you refer, that of my medical treatment of myself, is precisely what has brought me into my present difficulty. it would be too long a story to tell you how, like poor coleridge, i was first decoyed, then enticed from one stage to another; the desire to escape from pain is a natural instinct; and that, and the necessity also for escaping my past self, especially in its relations to certain others, have brought me by degrees into far too great a dependence on the use of drugs. and now that, from certain symptoms, i have ground to fear a change of some kind not so far off--i do not of course mean to-morrow, or next year, but somewhere nearer than it was this time, i won't say last year, but say ten years ago--why, then, one begins to think about things one has been too ready to forget. i suppose, however, if the will be a natural possession of the human being, and if a man should, through actions on the tissue of his brain, have ceased to be conscious of any will, it must return to him the moment he is free from the body, that is from the dilapidated brain!" "my lord, i would not have you count too much upon that. we know very little about these things; but what if the brain give the opportunity for the action which is to result in freedom? what if there should, without the brain, be no means of working our liberty? what if we are here like birds in a cage, with wings, able to fly but not flying about the cage; and what if, when we are dead, we shall indeed be out of the cage, but without wings, having never made use of such as we had while we had them? think for a moment what we should be without the senses!" "we shall be able at least to see and hear, else where were the use of believing in another world?" "i suspect, my lord, the other world does not need our believing in it to make a fact of it. but if a man were never to teach his soul to see, if he were obstinately to close his eyes upon this world, and look at nothing all the time he was in it, i should be very doubtful whether the mere fact of going a little more dead, would make him see. the soul never having learned to see, its sense of seeing, correspondent to and higher than that of the body, never having been developed, how should it expand and impower itself by mere deliverance from the one best schoolmaster to whom it would give no heed? the senses are, i suspect, only the husks under which are ripening the deeper, keener, better senses belonging to the next stage of our life; and so, my lord, i cannot think that, if the will has not been developed through the means and occasions given in, the mere passing into another condition will set it free. for freedom is the unclosing of the idea which lies at our root, and is the vital power of our existence. the rose is the freedom of the rose tree. i should think, having lost his brain, and got nothing instead, a man would find himself a mere centre of unanswerable questions." "you go too far for me," said his lordship, looking a little uncomfortable, "but i think it is time to try and break myself a little of the habit--or almost time. by degrees one might, you know,--eh?" "i have little faith in doing things by degrees, my lord--except such indeed as by their very nature cannot be done at once. it is true a bad habit can only be contracted by degrees; and i will not say, because i do not know, whether anyone has ever cured himself of one by degrees; but it cannot be the best way. what is bad ought to be got rid of at once." "ah, but, don't you know? that might cost you your life!" "what of that, my lord! life, the life you mean, is not the first thing." "not the first thing! why, the bible says, 'all that a man hath will he give for his life'!" "that is in the bible; but whether the bible says it, is another thing." "i do not understand silly distinctions." "why, my lord, who said that?" "what does it matter who said it?" "much always; everything sometimes." "who said it then?" "the devil." "the devil he did! and who ought to know better, i should like to ask!" "every man ought to know better. and besides, it is not what a man will or will not do, but what a man ought or ought not to do!" "ah, there you have me, i suppose! but there are some things so damned difficult, that a man must be very sure of his danger before he can bring himself to do them!" "that may be, my lord: in the present case, however, you must be aware that the danger is not to the bodily health alone; these drugs undermine the moral nature as well!" "i know it: i cannot be counted guilty of many things; they were done under the influence of hellish concoctions. it was not i, but these things working in me--on my brain, making me see things in a false light! this will be taken into account when i come to be judged--if there be such a thing as a day of judgment." "one thing i am sure of," said donal, "that your lordship will have fair play. at first, not quite knowing what you were about, you may not have been much to blame; but afterwards, when you knew that you were putting yourself in danger of doing you did not know what, you were as much to blame as if you made a frankenstein-demon, and turned him loose on the earth, knowing yourself utterly unable to control him." "and is not that what the god you believe in does every day?" "my lord, the god i believe in has not lost his control over either of us." "then let him set the thing right! why should we draw his plough?" "he will set it right, my lord,--but probably in a way your lordship will not like. he is compelled to do terrible things sometimes." "compelled!--what should compel him?" "the love that is in him, the love that he is. he cannot let us have our own way to the ruin of everything in us he cares for!" then the spirit awoke in donal--or came upon him--and he spoke. "my lord," he said, "if you would ever again be able to thank god; if there be one in the other world to whom you would go; if you would make up for any wrong you have ever done; if you would ever feel in your soul once more the innocence of a child; if you care to call god your father; if you would fall asleep in peace and wake to a new life; i conjure you to resist the devil, to give up the evil habit that is dragging you lower and lower every hour. it will be very hard, i know! anything i can do, watching with you night and day, giving myself to help you, i am ready for. i will do all that lies in me to deliver you from the weariness and sickness of the endeavour. i will give my life to strengthen yours, and count it well spent and myself honoured: i shall then have lived a life worth living! resolve, my lord--in god's name resolve at once to be free. then you shall know you have a free will, for your will will have made itself free by doing the will of god against all disinclination of your own. it will be a glorious victory, and will set you high on the hill whose peak is the throne of god." "i will begin to-morrow," said the earl feebly, and with a strange look in his eyes. "--but now you must leave me. i need solitude to strengthen my resolve. come to me again to-morrow. i am weary, and must rest awhile. send simmons." donal was nowise misled by the easy, postponed consent, but he could not prolong the interview. he rose and went. in the act of shutting the door behind him, something, he did not know what, made him turn his head: the earl was leaning over the little table by his bedside, and pouring something from a bottle into a glass. donal stood transfixed. the earl turned and saw him, cast on him a look of almost demoniacal hate, put the glass to his lips and drank off its contents, then threw himself back on his pillows. donal shut the door--not so softly as he intended, for he was agitated; a loud curse at the noise came after him. he went down the stair not only with a sense of failure, but with an exhaustion such as he had never before felt. there are men of natures so inactive that they cannot even enjoy the sight of activity around them: men with schemes and desires are in their presence intrusive. their existence is a sleepy lake, which would not be troubled even with the wind of far-off labour. such lord morven was not by nature; up to manhood he had led even a stormy life. but when his passions began to yield, his self-indulgence began to take the form of laziness; and it was not many years before he lay with never a struggle in the chains of the evil power which had now reduced him to moral poltroonery. the tyranny of this last wickedness grew worse after the death of his wife. the one object of his life, if life it could be called, was only and ever to make it a life of his own, not the life which god had meant it to be, and had made possible to him. on first acquaintance with the moral phenomenon, it had seemed to donal an inhuman and strangely exceptional one; but reflecting, he came presently to see that it was only a more pronounced form of the universal human disease--a disease so deep-seated that he who has it worst, least knows or can believe that he has any disease, attributing all his discomfort to the condition of things outside him; whereas his refusal to accept them as they are, is one most prominent symptom of the disease. whether by stimulants or narcotics, whether by company or ambition, whether by grasping or study, whether by self-indulgence, by art, by books, by religion, by love, by benevolence, we endeavour after another life than that which god means for us--a life of truth, namely, of obedience, humility, and self-forgetfulness, we walk equally in a vain show. for god alone is, and without him we are not. this is not the mere clang of a tinkling metaphysical cymbal; he that endeavours to live apart from god must at length find--not merely that he has been walking in a vain show, but that he has been himself but the phantom of a dream. but for the life of the living god, making him be, and keeping him being, he must fade even out of the limbo of vanities! he more and more seldom went out of the house, more and more seldom left his apartment. at times he would read a great deal, then for days would not open a book, but seem absorbed in meditation--a meditation which had nothing in it worthy of the name. in his communications with donal, he did not seem in the least aware that he had made him the holder of a secret by which he could frustrate his plans for his family. these plans he clung to, partly from paternity, partly from contempt for society, and partly in the fancy of repairing the wrong he had done his children's mother. the morally diseased will atone for wrong by fresh wrong--in its turn to demand like reparation! he would do anything now to secure his sons in the position of which in law he had deprived them by the wrong he had done the woman whom all had believed his wife. through the marriage of the eldest with the heiress, he would make him the head of the house in power as in dignity, and this was now almost the only tie that bound him to the reality of things. he cared little enough about forgue, but his conscience was haunted with his cruelties to the youth's mother. these were often such as i dare not put on record: they came all of the pride of self-love and self-worship--as evil demons as ever raged in the fiercest fire of moloch. in the madness with which they possessed him, he had inflicted upon her not only sorest humiliations, but bodily tortures: he would see, he said, what she would bear for his sake! in the horrible presentments of his drug-procured dreams they returned upon him in terrible forms of righteous retaliation. and now, though to himself he was constantly denying a life beyond, the conviction had begun to visit and overwhelm him that he must one day meet her again: fain then would he be armed with something which for her sake he had done for her children! one of the horrible laws of the false existence he led was that, for the deadening of the mind to any evil, there was no necessity it should be done and done again; it had but to be presented in the form of a thing done, or a thing going to be done, to seem a thing reasonable and doable. in his being, a world of false appearances had taken the place of reality; a creation of his own had displaced the creation of the essential life, by whose power alone he himself falsely created; and in this world he was the dupe of his own home-born phantoms. out of this conspiracy of marsh and mirage, what vile things might not issue! over such a chaos the devil has power all but creative. he cannot in truth create, but he can with the degenerate created work moral horrors too hideous to be analogized by any of the horrors of the unperfected animal world. such are being constantly produced in human society; many of them die in the darkness in which they are generated; now and then one issues, blasting the public day with its hideous glare. because they are seldom seen, many deny they exist, or need be spoken of if they do. but to terrify a man at the possibilities of his neglected nature, is to do something towards the redemption of that nature. school-hours were over, but davie was seated where he had left him, still working. at sight of him donal, feeling as if he had just come from the presence of the damned, almost burst into tears. a moment more and arctura entered: it was as if the roof of hell gave way, and the blue sky of the eternal came pouring in heavenly deluge through the ruined vault. "i have been to call upon sophia," she said. "i am glad to hear it," answered donal: any news from an outer world of yet salvable humanity was welcome as summer to a land of ice. "yes," she said; "i am able to go and see her now, because i am no longer afraid of her--partly, i think, because i no longer care what she thinks of me. her power over me is gone." "and will never return," said donal, "while you keep close to the master. with him you need no human being to set you right, and will allow no human being to set you wrong; you will need neither friend nor minister nor church, though all will help you. i am very glad, for something seems to tell me i shall not be long here." arctura dropped on a chair--pale as rosy before. "has anything fresh happened?" she asked, in a low voice that did not sound like hers. "surely you will not leave me while--.--i thought--i thought--.--what is it?" "it is only a feeling i have," he answered. "i believe i am out of spirits." "i never saw you so before!" said arctura. "i hope you are not going to be ill." "oh, no; it is not that! i will tell you some day, but i cannot now. all is in god's hands!" she looked anxiously at him, but did not ask him any question more. she proposed they should take a turn in the park, and his gloom wore gradually off. chapter lix. dust to dust. the next night, as if by a common understanding, for it was without word spoken, the three met again in the housekeeper's room, where she had supper waiting. of business nothing was said until that was over. mistress brookes told them two or three of the stories of which she had so many, and donal recounted one or two of those that floated about his country-side. "i've been thinkin'," said mistress brookes at length, "seein' it's a bonny starry nicht, we couldna do better than lift an' lay doon this varra nicht. the hoose is asleep." "what do you say to that place in the park where was once a mausoleum?" said donal. "it's the varra place!--an' the sooner the better--dinna ye think, my lady?" arctura with a look referred the question to donal. "surely," he answered. "but will there not be some preparations to make?" "there's no need o' mony!" returned the housekeeper. "i'll get a fine auld sheet, an' intil 't we'll put the remains, an' row them up, an' carry them to their hame. i'll go an' get it, my lady.--but wouldna 't be better for you and me, sir, to get a' that dune by oorsel's? my leddy could j'in us whan we cam up." "she wouldn't like to be left here alone. there is nothing to be called fearsome!" "nothing at all," said arctura. "the forces of nature," said donal, "are constantly at work to destroy the dreadful, and restore the wholesome. it is but a few handfuls of clean dust." the housekeeper went to one of her presses, and brought out a sheet. donal put a plaid round lady arctura. they went up to her room, and so down to the chapel. half-way down the narrow descent mistress brookes murmured, "eh, sirs!" and said no more. each carried a light, and the two could see the chapel better. a stately little place it was: when the windows were unmasked, it would be beautiful! they stood for some moments by the side of the bed, regarding in silence. seldom sure had bed borne one who slept so long!--one who, never waking might lie there still! when they spoke it was in whispers. "how are we to manage it, mistress brookes?" said donal. "lay the sheet handy, alang the side o' the bed, maister grant, an' i s' lay in the dist, han'fu' by han'fu'. i hae that respec' for the deid, i hae no difficlety aboot han'lin' onything belongin' to them." "gien it hadna been that he tuik it again," said donal, "the lord's ain body wad hae come to this." as he spoke he laid the sheet on the bed, and began to lay in it the dry dust and air-wasted bones, handling them as reverently as if the spirit had but just departed. mistress brookes would have prevented arctura, but she insisted on having her share in the burying of her own: who they were god knew, but they should be hers anyhow, and one day she would know! for to fancy we go into the other world a set of spiritual moles burrowing in the dark of a new and unknown existence, is worthy only of such as have a lifeless law to their sire. we shall enter it as children with a history, as children going home to a long line of living ancestors, to develop closest relations with them. she would yet talk, live face to face, with those whose dust she was now lifting in her two hands to restore it to its dust. then they carried the sheet to the altar, and thence swept into it every little particle, back to its mother dust. that done, donal knotted the sheet together, and they began to look around them. desirous of discovering where the main entrance to the chapel had been, donal spied under the windows a second door, and opened it with difficulty. it disclosed a passage below the stair, three steps lower than the floor of the chapel, parallel with the wall, and turning, at right angles under the gallery. here he saw signs of an obliterated door in the outer wall, but could examine no farther for the present. in the meantime his companions had made another sort of discovery: near the foot of the bed was a little table, on which were two drinking vessels, apparently of pewter, and a mouldering pack of cards! card-playing and the hidden room did hold some relation with each other! the cards and the devil were real! donal took up the sheet--a light burden, and arctura led the way. arrived at her room, they went softly across to the door opening on donal's stair--not without fear of the earl, whom indeed they might meet anywhere--and by that descending, reached the open air, and took their way down the terraces and through the park to the place of burial. it was a frosty night, with the waning sickle of a moon low in the heaven, and many brilliant stars above it. followed by faint ethereal shadows, they passed over the grass, through the ghostly luminous dusk--of funereal processions one of the strangest that ever sought a tomb. the ruin was in a hollow, surrounded by trees. donal removed a number of fallen stones and dug a grave. they lowered into it the knotted sheet, threw in the earth again, heaped the stones above, and left the dust with its dust. then silent they went back, straight along the green, moon-regarded rather than moon-lit grass: if any one had seen them through the pale starry night, he would surely have taken them for a procession of the dead themselves! no dream of death sought arctura that night, but in the morning she woke suddenly from one of disembodied delight. chapter lx. a lesson about death. whatever lady arctura might decide concerning the restoration of the chapel to the light of day, donal thought it would not be amiss to find, without troubling her, what he could of its relation to the rest of the house: and it favoured his wish that arctura was prevailed upon by the housekeeper to remain in bed the next day. her strong will, good courage, and trusting heart, had made severe demands upon an organization as delicate as responsive. it was now saturday: he resolved to go alone in the afternoon to explore--and first of all would try the door beside the little gallery. as soon as he was free, he got the tools he judged necessary, and went down. the door was of strong sound oak, with ornate iron hinges right across it. he was on the better side for opening it, that is, the inside, but though the ends of the hinges were exposed, the door was so well within the frame that it was useless to think of heaving them off the bearing-pins. the huge lock and its bolt were likewise before him, but the key was in the lock from the other side, so that it could not be picked; while the nails that fastened it to the door were probably riveted through a plate. but there was the socket into which the bolt shot! that was merely an iron staple! he might either force it out with a lever, or file it through! having removed the roughest of the rust with which it was caked, and so reduced its thickness considerably, he set himself to the task of filing it through, first at the top then at the bottom. it was a slow but a sure process, and would make no great noise. although it was broad daylight outside, so like midnight was it here and the season that belongs to the dead, that he was haunted with the idea of a presence behind him. but not once did he turn his head to see, for he knew that if he yielded to the inclination, it would but return the stronger. old experience had taught him that the way to meet the horrors of the fancy is to refuse them a single hair's-breadth of obedience. and as he worked the conviction grew that the only protection against the terrors of alien presence is the consciousness of the home presence of the eternal: if a man felt that presence, how could he fear any other? but for those who are not one with the source of being, every manifestation of that being in a life other than their own, must be more or less a terror to them; it is alien, antipathous, other,--it may be unappeasable, implacable. the time must even come when to such their own being will be a horror of repugnant consciousness; for god not self is ours--his being, not our own, is our home; he is our kind. the work was slow--the impression on the hard iron of the worn file so weak that he was often on the point of giving up the attempt. fatigue at length began to invade him, and therewith the sense of his situation grew more keen: great weariness overcomes terror; the beginnings of weariness enhance it. every now and then he would stop, thinking he heard the cry of a child, only to recognize it as the noise of his file. he resolved at last to stop for the night, and after tea go to the town to buy a new and fitter file. the next day was sunday, and in the afternoon donal and davie were walking in the old avenue together. they had been to church, and had heard a dull sermon on the most stirring fact next to the resurrection of the lord himself--his raising of lazarus. the whole aspect of the thing, as presented by the preaching man, was so dull and unreal, that not a word on the subject had passed between them on the way home. "mr. grant, how could anybody make a dead man live again?" said davie suddenly. "i don't know, davie," answered donal. "if i could know how, i should probably be able to do it myself." "it is very hard to believe." "yes, very hard--that is, if you do not know anything about the person said to have done it, to account for his being able to do it though another could not. but just think of this: if one had never seen or heard about death, it would be as hard, perhaps harder, to believe that anything could bring about that change. the one seems to us easy to understand, because we are familiar with it; if we had seen the other take place a few times, we should see in it nothing too strange, nothing indeed but what was to be expected in certain circumstances." "but that is not enough to prove it ever did take place." "assuredly not. it cannot even make it look in the least probable." "tell me, please, anything that would make it look probable." "i will not answer your question directly, but i will answer it. listen, davie. "in all ages men have longed to see god--some men in a grand way. at last, according to the story of the gospel, the time came when it was fit that the father of men should show himself to them in his son, the one perfect man, who was his very image. so jesus came to them. but many would not believe he was the son of god, for they knew god so little that they did not see how like he was to his father. others, who were more like god themselves, and so knew god better, did think him the son of god, though they were not pleased that he did not make more show. his object was, not to rule over them, but to make them know, and trust, and obey his father, who was everything to him. now when anyone died, his friends were so miserable over him that they hardly thought about god, and took no comfort from him. they said the dead man would rise again at the last day, but that was so far off, the dead was gone to such a distance, that they did not care for that. jesus wanted to make them know and feel that the dead were alive all the time, and could not be far away, seeing they were all with god in whom we live; that they had not lost them though they could not see them, for they were quite within his reach--as much so as ever; that they were just as safe with, and as well looked after by his father and their father, as they had ever been in all their lives. it was no doubt a dreadful-looking thing to have them put in a hole, and waste away to dust, but they were not therefore gone out--they were only gone in! to teach them all this he did not say much, but just called one or two of them back for a while. of course lazarus was going to die again, but can you think his two sisters either loved him less, or wept as much over him the next time he died?" "no; it would have been foolish." "well, if you think about it, you will see that no one who believes that story, and weeps as they did the first time, can escape reproof. where jesus called lazarus from, there are his friends, and there are they waiting for him! now, i ask you, davie, was it worth while for jesus to do this for us? is not the great misery of our life, that those dear to us die? was it, i say, a thing worth doing, to let us see that they are alive with god all the time, and can be produced any moment he pleases?" "surely it was, sir! it ought to take away all the misery!" "then it was a natural thing to do; and it is a reasonable thing to think that it was done. it was natural that god should want to let his children see him; and natural he should let them know that he still saw and cared for those they had lost sight of. the whole thing seems to me reasonable; i can believe it. it implies indeed a world of things of which we know nothing; but that is for, not against it, seeing such a world we need; and if anyone insists on believing nothing but what he has seen something like, i leave him to his misery and the mercy of god." if the world had been so made that men could easily believe in the maker of it, it would not have been a world worth any man's living in, neither would the god that made such a world, and so revealed himself to such people, be worth believing in. god alone knows what life is enough for us to live--what life is worth his and our while; we may be sure he is labouring to make it ours. he would have it as full, as lovely, as grand, as the sparing of nothing, not even his own son, can render it. if we would only let him have his own way with us! if we do not trust him, will not work with him, are always thwarting his endeavours to make us alive, then we must be miserable; there is no help for it. as to death, we know next to nothing about it. "do we not!" say the faithless. "do we not know the darkness, the emptiness, the tears, the sinkings of heart, the desolation!" yes, you know those; but those are your things, not death's. about death you know nothing. god has told us only that the dead are alive to him, and that one day they will be alive again to us. the world beyond the gates of death is, i suspect, a far more homelike place to those that enter it, than this world is to us. "i don't like death," said davie, after a silence. "i don't want you to like, what you call death, for that is not the thing itself--it is only your fancy about it. you need not think about it at all. the way to get ready for it is to live, that is, to do what you have to do." "but i do not want to get ready for it. i don't want to go to it; and to prepare for it is like going straight into it!" "you have to go to it whether you prepare for it or not. you cannot help going to it. but it must be like this world, seeing the only way to prepare for it is to do the thing god gives us to do." "aren't you afraid of death, mr. grant?" "no, i am not. why should i fear the best thing that, in its time, can come to me? neither will you be afraid when it comes. it is not the dreadful thing it looks." "why should it look dreadful if it is not dreadful?" "that is a very proper question. it looks dreadful, and must look dreadful, to everyone who cannot see in it that which alone makes life not dreadful. if you saw a great dark cloak coming along the road as if it were round somebody, but nobody inside it, you would be frightened--would you not?" "indeed i should. it would be awful!" "it would. but if you spied inside the cloak, and making it come towards you, the most beautiful loving face you ever saw--of a man carrying in his arms a little child--and saw the child clinging to him, and looking in his face with a blessed smile, would you be frightened at the black cloak?" "no; that would be silly." "you have your answer! the thing that makes death look so fearful is that we do not see inside it. those who see only the black cloak, and think it is moving along of itself, may well be frightened; but those who see the face inside the cloak, would be fools indeed to be frightened! before jesus came, people lived in great misery about death; but after he rose again, those who believed in him always talked of dying as falling asleep; and i daresay the story of lazarus, though it was not such a great thing after the rising of the lord himself, had a large share in enabling them to think that way about it." when they went home, davie, running up to lady arctura's room, recounted to her as well as he could the conversation he had just had with mr. grant. "oh, arkie!" he said, "to hear him talk, you would think death hadn't a leg to stand upon!" arctura smiled; but it was a smile through a cloud of unshed tears. lovely as death might be, she would like to get the good of this world before going to the next!--as if god would deny us any good!--at one time she had been willing to go, she thought, but she was not now!--the world had of late grown very beautiful to her! chapter lxi. the bureau. on the monday night donal again went down into the hidden parts of the castle. arctura had come to the schoolroom, but seemed ill able for her work, and he did not tell her what he was doing farther. they were rather the ghosts of fears than fears themselves that had assailed him, and this time they hardly came near him as he wrought. with his new file he made better work than before, and soon finished cutting through the top of the staple. trying it then with a poker as a lever, he broke the bottom part across; so there was nothing to hold the bolt, and with a creaking noise of rusty hinges the door slowly opened to his steady pull. nothing appeared but a wall of plank! he gave it a push; it yielded: another door, close-fitting, and without any fastening, flew open, revealing a small closet or press, and on the opposite side of it a third door. this he could not at once open. it was secured, however, with a common lock, which cost him scarcely any trouble. it opened on a little room, of about nine feet by seven. he went in. it contained nothing but an old-fashioned secretary or bureau, and a seat like a low music-stool. "it may have been a vestry for the priest!" thought donal; "but it must have been used later than the chapel, for this desk is not older than the one at the mains, which mistress jean said was made for her grandmother!" then how did it get into the place? there was no other door! above the bureau was a small window, or what seemed a window doubtful with dirt; but door there was not! it was not too large to enter by the oak door, but it could not have got to it along any of the passages he had come through! it followed that there must, and that not so very long ago, have been another entrance to the place in which he stood! he turned to look at the way he had himself come: it was through a common press of painted deal, filling the end of the little room, there narrowed to about five feet. when the door in the back of it was shut, it looked merely a part of the back of the press. he turned again to the bureau, with a strange feeling at his heart. the cover was down, and on it lay some sheets of paper, discoloured with dust and age. a pen lay with them, and beside was an ink-bottle of the commonest type, the ink in powder and flakes. he took up one of the sheets. it had a great stain on it. the bottle must have been overturned! but was it ink? no; it stood too thick on the paper. with a gruesome shiver donal wetted his finger and tried the surface of it: a little came off, a tinge of suspicious brown. there was writing on the paper! what was it? he held the faded lines close to the candle. they were not difficult to decipher. he sat down on the stool, and read thus--his reading broken by the stain: there was no date:-- "my husband for such i will--blot--are in the sight of god--blot--men why are you so cruel what--blot--deserve these terrors--blot--in thought have i--blot--hard upon me to think of another." here the writing came below the blot, and went on unbroken. "my little one is gone and i am left lonely oh so lonely. i cannot but think that if you had loved me as you once did i should yet be clasping my little one to my bosom and you would have a daughter to comfort you after i am gone. i feel sure i cannot long survive this--ah there my hand has burst out bleeding again, but do not think i mind it, i know it was only an accident, you never meant to do it, though you teased me by refusing to say so--besides it is nothing. you might draw ever drop of blood from my body and i would not care if only you would not make my heart bleed so. oh, it is gone all over my paper and you will think i have done it to let you see how it bleeds--but i cannot write it all over again it is too great a labour and too painful to write, so you must see it just as it is. i dare not think where my baby is, for if i should be doomed never to see her because of the love i have borne to you and consented to be as you wished if i am cast out from god because i loved you more than him i shall never see you again--for to be where i could see you would never be punishment enough for my sins." here the writing stopped: the bleeding of the hand had probably brought it to a close. the letter had never been folded, but lying there, had lain there. he looked if he could find a date; there was none. he held the sheet up to the light, and saw a paper mark; while close by lay another sheet with merely a date--in the same hand, as if the writer had been about to commence another in lieu of the letter spoiled. "strange!" thought donal with himself; "an old withered grief looks almost as pitiful as an old withered joy!--but who is to say either is withered? those who look upon death as an evil, yet regard it as the healer of sorrows! is it such? no one can tell how long a grief may last unwithered! surely till the life heals it! he is a coward who would be cured of his sorrow by mere lapse of time, by the mere forgetting of a brain that grows musty with age. it is god alone who can heal--the god of the dead and of the living! and the dead must find him, or be miserable for evermore!" he had not a doubt that the letter he had read was in the writing of the mother of the present earl's children. what was he to do? he had thought he was looking into matters much older--things over which the permission of lady arctura extended; and in truth what he had discovered, or seen corroborated, was a thing she had a right to know! but whether he ought to tell her at once he did not yet see. he took up his candle, and with a feeling of helpless dismay, withdrew to his chamber. but when he reached the door of it, yielding to a sudden impulse, he turned away, and went farther up the stair, and out upon the bartizan. it was a frosty night, and the stars were brilliant. he looked up and said, "oh saviour of men, thy house is vaulted with light; thy secret places are secret from excess of light; in thee is no darkness at all; thou hast no terrible crypts and built-up places; thy light is the terror of those who love the darkness! fill my heart with thy light; let me never hunger or thirst after anything but thy will--that i may walk in the light, and light not darkness may go forth from me." as he turned to go in, came a faint chord from the aeolian harp. "it sings, brooding over the very nest of evil deeds!" he thought. "the light eternal, with keen arrows of radiant victory, will yet at last rout from the souls of his creatures the demons that haunt them! "but if there be creatures of god that have turned to demons, may not human souls themselves turn to demons? would they then be victorious over god, too strong for him to overcome--beyond the reach of repentance? "how would they live? by their own power? then were they gods!--but they did not make themselves, and could not live of themselves. if not, then they must live by god's power. how then should they be beyond his reach? "if the demons can never be brought back, then the life of god, the all-pure, goes out to keep alive, in and for evil, that which is essentially bad; for that which is irredeemable is essentially bad." thus reasoned donal with himself, and his reasoning, instead of troubling his faith, caused him to cling the more to the only one, the sole hope and saviour of the hearts of his men and women, without whom the whole universe were but a charnel house in which the ghosts of the dead went about crying, not over the life that was gone from them, but its sorrows. he stood and gazed out over the cold sea. and as he gazed, a shivering surge of doubt, a chill wave of negation, came rolling over him. he knew that in a moment he would strike out with the energy of a strong swimmer, and rise to the top of it; but now it was tumbling him about at its evil will. he stood and gazed--with a dull sense that he was waiting for his will. suddenly came the consciousness that he and his will were one; that he had not to wait for his will, but had to wake--to will, that is, and do, and so be. and therewith he said to himself:-- "it is neither time, nor eternity, nor human consolation, nor everlasting sleep, nor the satisfied judgment, nor attained ambition, even in love itself, that is the cure for things; it is the heart, the will, the being of the father. while that remains, the irremediable, the irredeemable cannot be. if there arose a grief in the heart of one of his creatures not otherwise to be destroyed, he would take it into himself, there consume it in his own creative fire--himself bearing the grief, carrying the sorrow. christ died--and would die again rather than leave one heart-ache in the realms of his love--that is, of his creation. 'blessed are they who have not seen and yet have believed!'" over his head the sky was full of shining worlds--mansions in the father's house, built or building. "we are not at the end of things," he thought, "but in the beginnings and on the threshold of creation! the father is as young as when first the stars of the morning sang--the ancient of days who can never grow old! he who has ever filled the dull unbelieving nations with food and gladness, has a splendour of delight for the souls that believe, ever as by their obedience they become capable of receiving it." chapter lxii. the crypt. "when are you going down again to the chapel, mr. grant?" said lady arctura: she was better now, and able to work. "i was down last night, and want to go again this evening by myself--if you don't mind, my lady," he answered. "i am sure it will be better for you not to go down till you are ready to give your orders to have everything cleared away for the light and air to enter. the damp and closeness of the place are too much for you." "i think it was rather the want of sleep that made me ill," she answered; "but you can do just as you please." "i thank you for your confidence, my lady," returned donal. "i do not think you will repent it." "i know i shall not." having some things to do first, it was late before donal went down--intent on learning the former main entrance, and verifying the position of the chapel in the castle. he betook himself to the end of the passage under the little gallery, and there examined the signs he had observed: those must be the outer ends of two of the steps of the great staircase! they came through, resting on the wall. that end of the chapel, then, adjoined the main stair. evidently, too, a door had been built up in the process of constructing the stair. the chapel then had not been entered from that level since the building of the stair. originally there had, most likely, been an outside stair to this door, in an open court. after a little more examination, partial of necessity, from lack of light, he was on his way out, and already near the top of the mural stair, thinking of the fresh observations he would take outside in the morning, when behind, overtaking him from the regions he had left, came a blast of air, and blew out his candle. he shivered--not with the cold of it, though it did breathe of underground damps and doubtful growths, but from a feeling of its having been sent after him to make him go down again--for did it not indicate some opening to the outer air? he relighted his candle and descended, carefully guarding it with one hand. the cold sigh seemed to linger about him as he went--gruesome as from a closed depth, the secret bosom of the castle, into which the light never entered. but, wherever it came from last, however earthy and fearful, it came first from the open regions of life, and had but passed through a gloom that life itself must pass! could it have been a draught down the pipe of the music-chords? no, for they would have loosed some light-winged messenger with it! he must search till he found its entrance below! he crossed the little gallery, descended, and went again into the chapel: it lay as still as the tomb which it was no more. he seemed to miss the presence of the dead, and feel the place deserted. all round its walls, as far as he could reach or see, he searched carefully, but could perceive no sign of possible entrance for the messenger blast. it came again!--plainly through the open door under the windows. he went again into the passage outside the wall, and the moment he turned into it, the draught seemed to come from beneath, blowing upwards. he stooped to examine; his candle was again extinguished. once more he relighted it. searching then along the floor and the foot of the walls, he presently found, in the wall of the chapel itself, close to the ground, a narrow horizontal opening: it must pass under the floor of the chapel! all he saw was a mere slit, but the opening might be larger, and partially covered by the flooring-slab, which went all the length of the slit! he would try to raise it! that would want a crowbar! but having got so far, he would not rest till he knew more! it must be very late and the domestics all in bed; but what hour it was he could not tell, for he had left his watch in his room. it might be midnight and he burrowing like a mole about the roots of the old house, or like an evil thing in the heart of a man! no matter! he would follow up his search--after what, he did not know. he crept up, and out of the castle by his own stair, so to the tool-house. it was locked. but lying near was a half-worn shovel: that might do! he would have a try with it! like one in a dream of ancient ruins, creeping through mouldy and low-browed places, he went down once more into the entrails of the house. inserting the sharp edge of the worn shovel in the gap between the stone and that next it, he raised it more readily than he had hoped, and saw below it a small window, whose sill sloped steeply inward. how deep the place might be, and whether it would be possible to get out of it again, he must discover before entering. he took a letter from his pocket, lighted it, and threw it in. it revealed a descent of about seven feet, into what looked like a cellar. he blew his candle out, put it in his pocket, got into the window, slid down the slope, and reached his new level with ease. he then lighted his candle, and looked about him. his eye first fell on a large flat stone in the floor, like a gravestone, but without any ornament or inscription. it was a roughly vaulted place, unpaved, its floor of damp hard-beaten earth. in the wall to the right of that through which he had entered, was another opening, low down, like the crown of an arch the rest of which was beneath the floor. as near as he could judge, it was right under the built-up door in the passage above. he crept through it, and found himself under the spiral of the great stair, in the small space at the bottom of its well. on the floor lay a dust-pan and a house-maid's-brush--and there was the tiny door at which they were shoved in, after their morning's use upon the stair! it was open--inwards; he crept through it: he was in the great hall of the house--and there was one of its windows wide open! afraid of being by any chance discovered, he put out his light, and proceeded up the stair in the dark. he had gone but a few steps when he heard the sound of descending feet. he stopped and listened: they turned into the half-way room. when he reached it, he heard sounds which showed that the earl was in the closet behind it. things rushed together in his mind. he hurried up to lady arctura's room, thence descended, for the third time that night--but no farther than the oak door, passed through it, entered the little chamber, and hastening to the farther end of it, laid his ear against the wall. plainly enough he heard the sounds he had expected--those of the dream-walking rather than sleep-walking earl, moaning, and calling in a low voice of entreaty after some one whose name did not grow audible to the listener. "ah!" thought donal, "who would find it hard to believe in roaming and haunting ghosts, that had once seen this poor man roaming his own house, and haunting that chamber! how easily i could punish him now, with a lightning blast of terror!" it was but a thought; it did not amount to a temptation; donal knew he had no right. vengeance belongs to the lord, for he alone knows how to use it. i do not believe that mere punishment exists anywhere in the economy of the highest; i think mere punishment a human idea, not a divine one. but the consuming fire is more terrible than any punishment invented by riotous and cruel imagination. punishment indeed it is--not mere punishment; a power of god for his creature. love is god's being; love is his creative energy; they are one: god's punishments are for the casting out of the sin that uncreates, for the recreating of the things his love made and sin has unmade. he heard the lean hands of the earl go slowly sweeping, at the ends of his long arms, over the wall: he had seen the thing, else he could hardly have interpreted the sounds; and he heard him muttering on and on, though much too low for his words to be distinguishable. had they been, donal by this time was so convinced that he had to do with an evil and dangerous man, that he would have had little scruple in listening. it is only righteousness that has a right to secrecy, and does not want it; evil has no right to secrecy, alone intensely desires it, and rages at being foiled of it; for when its deeds come to the light, even evil has righteousness enough left to be ashamed of them. but he could remain no longer; his very soul felt sick within him. he turned hastily away to leave the place. but carrying his light too much in front, and forgetting the stool, he came against it and knocked it over, not without noise. a loud cry from the other side of the wall revealed the dismay he had caused. it was followed by a stillness, and then a moaning. he made haste to find simmons, and send him to his master. he heard nothing afterwards of the affair. chapter lxiii. the closet. tender over lady arctura, donal would ask a question or two of the housekeeper before disclosing what further he had found. he sought her room, therefore, while arctura and davie, much together now, were reading in the library. "did you ever hear anything about that little room on the stair, mistress brookes?" he asked. "i canna say," she answered--but thoughtfully, "--bide a wee: auld auntie did mention something ance aboot--bide a wee--i hae a wullin' memory--maybe i'll min' upo' 't i' the noo!--it was something aboot biggin' up an' takin' doon--something he was to do, an' something he never did!--i'm sure i canna tell! but gie me time, an' i'll min' upo' 't! ance is aye wi' me--only i maun hae time!" donal waited, and said not a word. "i min' this much," she said at length, "--that they used to be thegither i' that room. i min' too that there was something aboot buildin' up ae wa', an' pu'in' doon anither.--it's comin'--it's comin' back to me!" she paused again awhile, and then said: "all i can recollec', mr. grant, is this: that efter her death, he biggit up something no far frae that room!--what was't noo?--an' there was something aboot makin' o' the room bigger! hoo that could be by buildin' up, i canna think! yet i feel sure that was what he did!" "would you mind coming to the place?" said donal. "to see it might help you to remember." "i wull, sir. come ye here aboot half efter ten, an' we s' gang thegither." as soon as the house was quiet, they went. but mistress brookes could recall nothing, and donal gazed about him to no purpose. "what's that?" he said at last, pointing to the wall on the other side of which was the little chamber. two arches, in chalk, as it seemed, had attracted his gaze. light surely was about to draw nigh through the darkness! chaos surely was settling a little towards order! the one arch was drawn opposite the hidden chamber; the other against the earl's closet, as it had come to be called in the house--most of the domestics thinking he there said his prayers. it looked as if there had been an intention of piercing the wall with such arches, to throw the two small rooms on the other side as recesses into the larger. but if that had been the intent, what could the building of a wall, vaguely recollected by mistress brookes, have been for? that a wall had been built he did not doubt, for he believed he knew the wall, but why? "what's that?" said donal. "what?" returned mrs. brookes. "those two arches." the housekeeper looked at them thoughtfully for a few moments. "i canna help fancyin'," she said slowly, "--yes, i'm sure that's the varra thing my aunt told me aboot! that's the twa places whaur he was goin' to tak the wall doon, to mak the room lairger. but i'm sure she said something aboot buildin' a wall as weel!" "look here," said donal; "i will measure the distance from the door to the other side of this first arch.--now come into the closet behind. look here! this same measurement takes us right up to the end of the place! so you see if we were to open the other arch, it would be into something behind this wall." "then this may be the varra wa' he biggit?" "i don't doubt it; but what could he have had it built for, if he was going to open the other wall? i must think it all over!--it was after his wife's death, you say?" "yes, i believe so." "one might have thought he would not care about enlarging the room after she was gone!" "but, sir, he wasna jist sic a pattren o' a guidman;" said the housekeeper. "an' what for mak this room less?" "may it not have been for the sake of shutting out, or hiding something?" suggested donal. "i do remember a certain thing!--curious!--but what then as to the openin' o' 't efter?" "he has never done it!" said donal significantly. "the thing takes shape to me in this way:--that he wanted to build something out of sight--to annihilate it; but in order to prevent speculation, he professed the intention of casting the one room into the other; then built the wall across, on the pretence that it was necessary for support when the other was broken through--or perhaps that two recesses with arches would look better; but when he had got the wall built, he put off opening the arches on one pretext or another, till the thing should be forgotten altogether--as you see it is already, almost entirely!--i have been at the back of that wall, and heard the earl moaning and crying on this side of it!" "god bless me!" cried the good woman. "i'm no easy scaret, but that's fearfu' to think o'!" "you would not care to come there with me?" "no the nicht, sir. come to my room again, an' i s' mak ye a cup o' coffee, an' tell ye the story--it's a' come back to me noo--the thing 'at made my aunt tell me aboot the buildin' o' this wa'. 'deed, sir, i hae hardly a doobt the thing was jist as ye say!" they went to her room: there was lady arctura sitting by the fire! "my lady!" cried the housekeeper. "i thoucht i left ye soon' asleep!" "so i was, i daresay," answered arctura; "but i woke again, and finding you had not come up, i thought i would go down to you. i was certain you and mr. grant would be somewhere together! have you been discovering anything more?" mrs. brookes gave donal a look: he left her to tell as much or as little as she pleased. "we hae been prowlin' aboot the hoose, but no doon yon'er, my lady. i think you an' me wad do weel to lea' that to mr. grant!" "when your ladyship is quite ready to have everything set to rights," said donal, "and to have a resurrection of the chapel, then i shall be glad to go with you again. but i would rather not even talk more about it just at present." "as you please, mr. grant," replied lady arctura. "we will say nothing more till i have made up my mind. i don't want to vex my uncle, and i find the question rather a difficult one--and the more difficult that he is worse than usual.--will you not come to bed now, mistress brookes?" chapter lxiv. the garland-room. all through the terrible time, the sense of help and comfort and protection in the presence of the young tutor, went on growing in the mind of arctura. it was nothing to her--what could it be?--that he was the son of a very humble pair; that he had been a shepherd, and a cow-herd, and a farm labourer--less than nothing. she never thought of the facts of his life except sympathetically, seeking to enter into the feelings of his memorial childhood and youth; she would never have known anything of those facts but for their lovely intimacies of all sorts with nature--nature divine, human, animal, cosmical. by sharing with her his emotional history, donal had made its facts precious to her; through them he had gathered his best--by home and by prayer, by mother and father, by sheep and mountains and wind and sky. and now he was to her a tower of strength, a refuge, a strong city, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. she trusted him the more that he never invited her trust--never put himself before her; for always before her he set life, the perfect heart-origin of her and his yet unperfected humanity, teaching her to hunger and thirst after being righteous like god, with the assurance of being filled. she had once trusted in miss carmichael, not with her higher being, only with her judgment, and both her judgment and her friend had misled her. donal had taught her that obedience, not to man but to god, was the only guide to holy liberty, and so had helped her to break the bonds of those traditions which, in the shape of authoritative utterances of this or that church, lay burdens grievous to be borne upon the souls of men. for christ, against all the churches, seemed to her to express donal's mission. an air of peace, an atmosphere of summer twilight after the going down of the sun, seemed to her to precede him and announce his approach with a radiation felt as rest. she questioned herself nowise about him. falling in love was a thing unsuggested to her; if she was in what is called danger, it was of a better thing. the next day she did not appear: mistress brookes had persuaded her to keep her bed again for a day or two. there was nothing really the matter with her, she said herself, but she was so tired she did not care to lift her head from the pillow. she had slept well, and was troubled about nothing. she sent to beg mr. grant to let davie go and read to her, and to give him something to read, good for him as well as for her. donal did not see davie again till the next morning. "oh, mr. grant!" he said, "you never saw anything so pretty as arkie is in bed! she is so white, and so sweet! and she speaks with a voice so gentle and low! she was so kind to me for going to read to her! i never saw anybody like her! she looks as if she had just said her prayers, and god had told her she should have everything she wanted." donal wondered a little, but hoped more. surely she must be finding rest in the consciousness of god! but why was she so white? was she going to die? a pang shot to his heart: if she were to go from the castle, it would be hard to stay in it, even for the sake of davie! donal, no more than arctura, imagined himself fallen in love: he had loved once, and his heart had not yet done aching--though more with the memory than the presence of pain! he was utterly satisfied with what the father of the children had decreed, and would never love again! but he did not seek to hide from himself that the friendship of lady arctura, and the help she sought and he gave, had added a fresh and strong interest to his life. at the first dawn of power in his heart, when he began to make songs in the fields and on the hills, he had felt that to brighten with true light the clouded lives of despondent brothers and sisters was the one thing worthest living for: it was what the lord came into the world for; neither had his trouble made him forget it--for more than one week or so: while the pain was yet gnawing grievously, he woke to it again with self-accusation--almost self-contempt. to have helped this lovely creature, whose life had seemed lapt in an ever closer-clasping shroud of perplexity, was a thing to be glad of--not to the day of his death, but to the never-ending end of his life! was an honour conferred upon him by the father, to last for evermore! for he had helped to open a human door for the lord to enter! she within heard him knock, but, trying, was unable to open! to be god's helper with our fellows is the one high calling; the presence of god in the house the one high condition. at the end of a week arctura was better, and able to see donal. she had had mistress brookes's bed moved into the same room with her own, and had made the dressing-room into a sitting-room. it was sunny and pleasant--the very place, donal thought, he would have chosen for her. the bedroom too, which the housekeeper had persuaded her to take when she left her own, was one of the largest in the castle--the garland-room--old-fashioned, of course, but as cheerful as stateliness would permit, with gorgeous hangings and great pictures--far from homely, but with sun in it half the day. donal congratulated her on the change. she had been prevented from making one sooner, she said, by the dread of owing any comfort to circumstance: it might deceive her as to her real condition! "it could not deceive god, though," answered donal, "who fills with righteousness those who hunger after it. it is pride to refuse anything that might help us to know him; and of all things his sun-lit world speaks of the father of lights! if that makes us happier, it makes us fitter to understand him, and he can easily send what cloud may be needful to temper it. we must not make our own world, inflict our own punishments, or order our own instruction; we must simply obey the voice in our hearts, and take lovingly what he sends." the next day she told him she had had a beautiful night, full of the loveliest dreams. one of them was, that a child came out of a grassy hillock by the wayside, called her mamma, and said she was much obliged to her for taking her off the cold stone, and making her a butterfly; and with that the child spread out gorgeous and great wings and soared up to a white cloud, and there sat laughing merrily to her. every afternoon davie read to her, and thence donal gained a duty--that of finding suitable pabulum for the two. he was not widely read in light literature, and it made necessary not a little exploration in the region of it. chapter lxv. the wall. on the day after the last triad in the housekeeper's parlour, as donal sat in the schoolroom with davie--about noon it was--he became aware that for some time he had been hearing laborious blows apparently at a great distance: now that he attended, they seemed to be in the castle itself, deadened by mass, not distance. with a fear gradually becoming more definite, he sat listening for a few moments. "davie," he said, "run and see what is going on." the boy came rushing back in great excitement. "oh, mr. grant, what do you think!" he cried. "i do believe my father is after the lost room! they are breaking down a wall!" "where?" asked donal, half starting from his seat. "in the little room behind the half-way room--on the stair, you know!" donal was silent: what might not be the consequences! "you may go and see them at work, davie," he said. "we shall have no more lessons this morning.--was your papa with them?" "no, sir--at least, i did not see him. simmons told me he sent for the masons this morning, and set them to take the wall down. oh, thank you, mr. grant! it is such fun! i do wonder what is behind it! it may be a place you know quite well, or a place you never saw before!" davie ran off, and donal instantly sped to a corner where he had hidden some tools, thence to lady arctura's deserted room, and so to the oak door. he remembered seeing another staple in the same post, a little lower down: if he could get that out, he would drive it in beside the remains of the other, so as to hold the bolt of the lock: if the earl knew the way in, as doubtless he did, he must not learn that another had found it--not yet at least! as he went down, every blow of the masons pounding at the wall, seemed in his very ears. he peeped through the press-door: they had not yet got through the wall: no light was visible! he made haste to restore things--only a stool and a few papers--to their exact positions when first he entered. close to him on the other side of the partition, shaking the place, the huge blows were falling like those of a ram on the wall of a besieged city, of which he was the whole garrison. he stepped into the press and drew the door after him: with his last glance behind him he saw, in the faint gleam of light that came with it, a stone fall: he must make haste: the demolition would go on much faster now; but before they had the opening large enough to pass, he would have done what he wanted! with a strong piece of iron for a lever, he drew the staple from the post, then drove it in astride of the bolt, careful to time his blows to those of the masons. that done, he ran down to the chapel, gathered what dust he could sweep up from behind the altar and laid it on its top, restored on the bed, with its own dust, a little of the outline of what had lain there, dropped the slab to its place in the floor of the passage, closed the door of the chapel with some difficulty because of its broken hinge, and ascended. the sounds of battering had ceased, and as he passed the oak door he laid his ear to it: some one was in the place! the lid of the bureau shut with a loud bang, and he heard a lock turned. the wall could not be half down yet: the earl must have entered the moment he could get through! donal hastened up, and out of the dreadful place, put the slab in the opening, secured it with a strut against the opposite side of the recess, and closed the shutters and drew the curtains of the room; if the earl came up the stair in the wall, found the stone immovable, and saw no light through any chink about its edges, he would not suspect it had been displaced! he went then to lady arctura. "i have a great deal to tell you," he said, "but at this moment i cannot: i am afraid of the earl finding me with you!" "why should you mind that?" said arctura. "because i think he is suspicious about the lost room. he has had a wall taken down this morning. please do not let him see you know anything about it. davie thinks he is set on finding the lost room: i think he knew all about it long ago. you can ask him what he has been doing: you must have heard the masons!" "i hope i shall not stumble into anything like a story, for if i do i must out with everything!" in the afternoon, davie was full of the curious little place his father had discovered behind the wall; but, if that was the lost room, he said, it was not at all worth making such a fuss about: it was nothing but a big closet, with an old desk-kind of thing in it! in the afternoon also, the earl went to see his niece. it was the first time they met after his rude behaviour on her proposal to search for the lost room. "what were you doing this morning, uncle?" she said. "there was such a thumping and banging somewhere in the castle! davie said you were determined, he thought, to find the lost room." "nothing of the kind, my love," answered the earl. "--i do hope they will not spoil the stair carrying the stones and mortar down!" "what was it then, uncle?" "simply this, my dear: my late wife, your aunt, and i, had a plan for taking that closet behind my room on the stair into the room itself. in preparation, i had a wall built across the middle of the closet, so as to divide it and make two recesses of it, and act also as a buttress to the weakened wall. then your aunt died, and i hadn't the heart to open the recesses or do anything more in the matter. so one half of the closet was cut off, and remained inaccessible. but there had been left in it an old bureau, containing papers of some consequence, for it was heavy, and intended to occupy the same position after the arches were opened. now, as it happens, i want one of those papers, so the wall has had to come down again." "but, uncle, what a pity!" said arctura. "why did you not open the arches? the recesses would have been so pretty in that room!" "i am sorry i did not think of asking you what you would like done about it, my child! the fact is i never thought of your taking any interest in the matter; i had naturally lost all mine. you will please to observe, however, i have only restored what i had myself disarranged--not meddled with anything belonging to the castle!" "but now you have the masons here, why not go on, and make a little search for the lost room?" said arctura, venturing once more. "we might pull down the castle and be none the wiser! bah! the building up of half the closet may have given rise to the whole story!" "surely, uncle, the legend is older than that!" "it may be; you cannot be sure. once a going, it would immediately cry back to a remote age. prove that any one ever spoke of it before the building of that foolish wall." "surely some remember hearing it long before that!" "nothing is more treacherous than a memory confronted with a general belief," said the earl, and took his leave. the next morning arctura went to see the alteration. she opened the door of the little room: it was twice its former size, and two bureaus were standing against the wall! she peeped into the cupboard at the end of it, but saw nothing there. that same morning she made up her mind that she would go no farther at present in regard to the chapel: it would be to break with her uncle! in the evening, she acquainted donal with her resolve, and he could not say she was wrong. there was no necessity for opposing her uncle--there might soon come one! he told her how he had entered the closet from behind, and of the noise he had made the night before, which had perhaps led to the opening of the place; but he did not tell her of what he had found on the bureau. the time might come when he must do so, but now he dared not render her relations with her uncle yet more uncomfortable; neither was it likely such a woman would consent to marry such a man as her cousin had shown himself; when that danger appeared, it would be time to interpose; for the mere succession to an empty title, he was not sure that he was bound to speak. the branch which could produce such scions, might well be itself a false graft on the true stem of the family!--if not, what was the family worth? he must at all events be sure it was his business before he moved in the matter! chapter lxvi. progress and change. things went on very quietly for a time. arctura grew better, resumed her studies, and made excellent progress. she would have worked harder, but donal would not let her. he hated forcing--even with the good will of the plant itself. he believed in a holy, unhasting growth. god's ways want god's time. long after, people would sometimes say to him-- "that is very well in the abstract; but in these days of hurry a young fellow would that way be left ages behind!" "with god," would donal say. "tut, tut! the thing would never work!" "for your ends," donal would answer, "it certainly would never work; but your ends are not those of the universe!" "i do not pretend they are; but they are the success of the boy." "that is one of the ends of the universe; and your reward will be to thwart it for a season. i decline to make one in a conspiracy against the design of our creator: i would fain die loyal!" he was of course laughed at, and not a little despised, as an extravagant enthusiast. but those who laughed found it hard to say for what he was enthusiastic. it seemed hardly for education, when he would even do what he could sometimes to keep a pupil back! he did not care to make the best of any one! the truth was, donal's best was so many miles a-head of theirs, that it was below their horizon altogether. if there be any relation between time and the human mind, every forcing of human process, whether in spirit or intellect, is hurtful, a retarding of god's plan. lady arctura's old troubles were gradually fading into the limbo of vanities. at times, however, mostly when unwell, they would come in upon her like a flood: what if, after all, god were the self-loving being theology presented--a being from whom no loving human heart could but recoil with a holy dislike! what if it was because of a nature specially evil that she could not accept the god in whom the priests and elders of her people believed! but again and again, in the midst of profoundest wretchedness from such doubt, had a sudden flush of the world's beauty--that beauty which jesus has told us to consider and the modern pharisee to avoid, broken like gentlest mightiest sunrise through the hellish fog, and she had felt a power upon her as from the heart of a very god--a god such as she would give her life to believe in--one before whom she would cast herself in speechless adoration--not of his greatness--of that she felt little, but of his lovingkindness, the gentleness that was making her great. then would she care utterly for god and his christ, nothing for what men said about them: the lord never meant his lambs to be under the tyranny of any, least of all the tyranny of his own most imperfect church! its work is to teach; where it cannot teach, it must not rule! then would god appear to her not only true, but real--the heart of the human, to which she could cling, and so rest. the corruption of all religion comes of leaving the human, and god as the causing human, for something imagined holier. men who do not see the loveliness of the truth, search till they find a lie they can call lovely. what but a human reality could the heart of man ever love! what else are we offered in jesus but the absolutely human? that jesus has two natures is of the most mischievous fictions of theology. the divine and the human are not two. suddenly, after an absence of months, reappeared lord forgue--cheerful, manly, on the best terms with his father, and plainly willing to be on still better terms with his cousin! he had left the place a mooning youth; he came back a man of the world--easy in carriage, courteous in manners, serene in temper, abounding in what seemed the results of observation, attentive but not too attentive, jolly with davie, distant with donal, polite to all. donal could hardly receive the evidence of his senses: he would have wondered more had he known every factor in the change. all about him seemed to say it should not be his fault if the follies of his youth remained unforgotten; and his airy carriage sat well upon him. none the less donal felt there was no restoration of the charm which had at first attracted him; that was utterly vanished. he felt certain he had been going down hill, and was now, instead of negatively, consciously and positively untrue. with gradations undefined, but not unmarked of donal, as if the man found himself under influences of which the youth had been unaware, he began to show himself not indifferent to the attractions of his cousin. he expressed concern that her health was not what it had been; sought her in her room when she did not appear; professed an interest in knowing what books she was reading, and what were her studies with donal; behaved like a good brother-cousin, who would not be sorry to be something more. and now the earl, to the astonishment of the household, began to appear at table; and, apparently as a consequence of this, donal was requested rather than invited to take his meals with the family--not altogether to his satisfaction, seeing he could not only read while he ate alone, but could get through more quickly, and have the time thus saved, for things of greater consequence. his presence made it easier for lord forgue to act his part, and the manners he brought to the front left little to be desired. he bowed to the judgment of arctura, and seemed to welcome that of his father, to whom he was now as respectful as moralist could desire. yet he sometimes faced a card he did not mean to show: who that is not absolutely true can escape the mishap!--there was condescension in his politeness to donal! and this, had there been nothing else, would have been enough to revolt arctura. but in truth he impressed her altogether as a man of outsides; she felt that she did not see the man he was, but the nearest approach he could make to the man he would be taken for. he was gracious, dignified, responsive, kind, amusing, accurate, ready--everything but true. he would make of his outer man all but what it was meant for--a revelation of the inner. it was that notwithstanding. he was a man dressed in a man, and his dress was a revelation of much that he was, while he intended it only to show much that he was not. no man can help unveiling himself, however long he may escape even his own detection. there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed. things were meant to come out, and be read, and understood, in the face of the universe. the soul of every man is as a secret book, whose content is yet written on its cover for the reading of the wise. how differently is it read by the fool, whose very understanding is a misunderstanding! he takes a man for a god when on the point of being eaten up of worms! he buys for thirty pieces of silver him whom the sepulchre cannot hold! well for those in the world of revelation, who give their sins no quarter in this! forgue had been in edinburgh a part of the time, in england another part. he had many things to tell of the people he had seen, and the sports he had shared in. he had developed and enlarged a vein of gentlemanly satire, which he kept supplied by the observation and analysis of the peculiarities, generally weaknesses, of others. these, as a matter of course, he judged merely by the poor standard of society: questioned concerning any upon the larger human scale, he could give no account of them. to donal's eyes, the man was a shallow pool whose surface brightness concealed the muddy bottom. chapter lxvii. the breakfast-room. two years before, lady arctura had been in the habit of riding a good deal, but after an accident to a favourite horse for which she blamed herself, she had scarcely ridden at all. it was quite as much, however, from the influence of miss carmichael upon her spirits, that she had forsaken the exercise. partly because her uncle was neither much respected nor much liked, she had visited very little; and after mental trouble assailed her, growing under the false prescriptions of the soul-doctor she had called in, she withdrew more and more, avoiding even company she would have enjoyed, and which would before now have led her to resume it. for a time she persisted in refusing to ride with forgue. in vain he offered his horse, assuring her that davie's pony was quite able to carry him; she had no inclination to ride, she said. but at last one day, lest she should be guilty of unkindness, she consented, and so enjoyed the ride--felt, indeed, so much the better for it, that she did not thereafter so positively as before decline to allow her cousin to look out for a horse fit to carry her; and forgue, taking her consent for granted, succeeded, with the help of the factor, in finding for her a beautiful creature, just of the sort to please her. almost at sight of him she agreed to his purchase. this put forgue in great spirits, and much contentment with himself. he did not doubt that, gaining thus opportunity so excellent, he would quickly succeed in withdrawing her from the absurd influence which, to his dismay, he discovered his enemy had in his absence gained over her. he ought not to have been such a fool, he said to himself, as to leave the poor child to the temptations naturally arising in such a dreary solitude! he noted with satisfaction, however, that the parson's daughter seemed to have forsaken the house. and now at last, having got rid of the folly that a while possessed him, he was prepared to do his duty by the family, and, to that end, would make unfaltering use of the fascinations experience had taught him he was, in a most exceptional degree, gifted with! he would at once take arctura's education in his own hands, and give his full energy to it! she should speedily learn the difference between the assistance of a gentleman and that of a clotpoll! he had in england improved in his riding as well as his manners, and knew at least how a gentleman, if not how a man, ought to behave to the beast that carried him. also, having ridden a good deal with ladies, he was now able to give arctura not a few hints to the improvement of her seat, her hand, her courage; nor was there any nearer road, he judged from what he knew of his cousin, to her confidence and gratitude, than showing her a better way in a thing. but thinking that in teaching her to ride he could make her forget the man who had been teaching her to live, he was not a little mistaken in the woman he desired to captivate. he did not yet love her even in the way he called loving, else he might have been less confident; but he found her very pleasing. invigorated by the bright frosty air, the life of the animal under her, and the exultation of rapid motion, she seemed better in health, more merry and full of life, than he had ever seen her: he put all down to his success with her. he was incapable of suspecting how little of it was owing to him; incapable of believing how much to the fact that she now turned to the father of spirits without fear, almost without doubt; thought of him as the root of every delight of the world--at the heart of the horse she rode, in the wind that blew joy into hers as she swept through its yielding bosom; knew him as altogether loving and true, the father of jesus christ, as like him as like could be like--more like him than any one else in the universe could be like another--like him as only eternal son can be like eternal father. it was no wonder that with such a well of living water in her heart she should be glad--merry even, and ready for anything her horse could do! flying across a field in the very wildness of pleasure, her hair streaming behind her, and her pale face glowing, she would now and then take a jump forgue declared he could not face in cold blood: he did not know how far from cold her blood was! he began to wonder he had been such a fool as neglect her for--well, never mind!--and to feel something that was like love, and was indeed admiration. but for the searing brand of his past, he might have loved her truly--as a man may, without being the most exalted of mortals; for in love we are beyond our ordinary selves; the deep thing in us peers up into the human air, and is of god--therefore cannot live long in the mephitic air of a selfish and low nature, but sinks again out of sight. he was not at his ease with arctura; he was afraid of her. when a man is conscious of wrong, knows in his history what would draw a hideous smudge over the portrait he would present to the eyes of her he would please, he may well be afraid of her. he makes liberal allowance for himself, but is not sure she will! and before forgue lay a social gulf which he could pass only on the narrow plank of her favour! the more he was with her, the more he admired her, the more he desired to marry her; the more satisfied he grew with his own improvement, the more determined he became that for no poor, unjust scruples would he forgo his happiness. there was but one trifle to be kept from the world; it might know everything else about him! and once in possession of the property, who would dispute the title? then again he was not certain that his father had not merely invented a threat! surely if the fact were such, he would, even in rage diabolic, have kept it to himself! impetuous, and accustomed to what he counted success, he soon began to make plainer advance toward the end on which his self-love and cupidity at least were set. but, knowing in a vague manner how he had carried himself before he went, arctura, uninfluenced by the ways of the world, her judgment unwarped, her perception undimmed, her instincts nice, her personal delicacy exacting, had never imagined he could approach her on any ground but that of cousinship and a childhood of shared sports. she had seen that donal was far from pleased with him, and believed forgue knew that she knew he had been behaving badly. her behaviour to him was indeed largely based on the fact that he was in disgrace: she was sorry for him. by and by, however, she perceived that she had been allowing too much freedom where she was not prepared to allow more, and so one day declined to go with him. they had not had a ride for a fortnight, the weather having been unfavourable; and now when a morning broke into the season like a smile from an estranged friend, she would not go! he was annoyed--then alarmed, fearing adverse influence. they were alone in the breakfast-room. "why will you not, arctura?" he asked reproachfully: "do you not feel well?" "i am quite well," she answered. "it is such a lovely day!" he pleaded. "i am not in the mood. there are other things in the world besides riding, and i have been wasting my time--riding too much. i have learnt next to nothing since larkie came." "oh, bother! what have you to do with learning! health is the first thing." "i don't think so--and learning is good for the health. besides, i would not be a mere animal for perfect health!" "let me help you then with your studies." "thank you," she answered, laughing a little, "but i have a good master already! we, that is davie and i, are reading greek and mathematics with mr. grant." forgue's face flushed. "i ought to know as much of both as he does!" he said. "ought perhaps! but you know you do not." "i know enough to be your tutor." "yes, but i know enough not to be your pupil!" "what do you mean?" "that you can't teach." "how do you know that?" "because you do not love either greek or mathematics, and no one who does not love can teach." "that is nonsense! if i don't love greek enough to teach it, i love you enough to teach you," said forgue. "you are my riding-master," said arctura; "mr. grant is my master in greek." forgue strangled an imprecation on mr. grant, and tried to laugh, but there was not a laugh inside him. "then you won't ride to-day?" he said. "i think not," replied arctura. she ought to have said she would not. it is a pity to let doubt alight on decision. her reply re-opened the whole question. "i cannot see what should induce you to allow that fellow the honour of reading with you!" said forgue. "he's a long-winded, pedantic, ill-bred lout!" "mr. grant is my friend!" said arctura, and raising her head looked him in the eyes. "take my word for it, you are mistaken in him," he said. "i neither value nor ask your opinion of him," returned arctura. "i merely acquaint you with the fact that he is my friend." "here's the devil and all to pay!" thought forgue. "i beg your pardon," he said: "you do not know him as i do!" "not?--and with so much better opportunity of judging!" "he has never played the dominie with you!" said forgue foolishly. "indeed he has!" "he has! confound his insolence! how?" "he won't let me study as i want.--how has he interfered with you?" "we won't quarrel about him," rejoined forgue, attempting a tone of gaiety, but instantly growing serious. "we who ought to be so much to each other--" something told him he had already gone too far. "i do not know what you mean--or rather, i am not willing to think i know what you mean," said arctura. "after what took place--" in her turn she ceased: he had said nothing! "jealous!" concluded forgue; "--a good sign!" "i see he has been talking against me!" he said. "if you mean mr. grant, you mistake. he never, so far as i remember, once mentioned you to me." "i know better!" "you are rude. he never spoke of it; but i have seen enough with my own eyes--" "if you mean that silly fancy--why, arctura!--you know it was but a boyish folly!" "and since then you have grown a man!--how many months has it taken?" "i assure you, on the word of a gentleman, there is nothing in it now. it is all over, and i am heartily ashamed of it." a pause of a few seconds followed: it seemed as many minutes, and unbearable. "you will come out with me?" said forgue: she might be relenting, though she did not look like it! "no," she said; "i will not." "well," he returned, with simulated coolness, "this is rather cavalier treatment, i must say!--to throw a man over who has loved you so long--and for the sake of a lesson in greek!" "how long, pray, have you loved me?" said arctura, growing angry. "i was willing to be friendly with you, so much so that i am sorry it is no longer possible!" "you punish me pretty sharply, my lady, for a trifle of which i told you i was ashamed!" said forgue, biting his lip. "it was the merest--" "i do not wish to hear anything about it!" said arctura sternly. then, afraid she had been unkind, she added in altered tone: "you had better go and have a gallop. you may have larkie if you like." he turned and left the room. she only meant to pique him, he said to himself. she had been cherishing her displeasure, and now she had had her revenge would feel better and be sorry next! it was a very good morning's work after all! it was absurd to think she preferred a greek lesson from a clown to a ride with lord forgue! was not she too a graeme! partly to make reconciliation the easier, partly because the horse was superior to his own, he would ride larkie! but his reasoning was not so satisfactory to him as to put him in a good temper, and poor larkie had to suffer for his ill-humour. his least movement that displeased him put him in a rage, and he rode him so foolishly as well as tyrannically that he brought him home quite lame, thus putting an end for a time to all hope of riding again with arctura. instead of going and telling her what he had done, he sent for the farrier, and gave orders that the mishap should not be mentioned. a week passed, and then another; and as he could say nothing about riding, he was in a measure self-banished from arctura's company. a furious jealousy began to master him. he scorned to give place to it because of the insult to himself if he allowed a true ground for it. but it gradually gained power. this country bumpkin, this cow-herd, this man of spelling-books and grammars, to come between his cousin and him! of course he was not so silly as imagine for a moment she cared for him!--that she would disgrace herself by falling in love with a fellow just loosed from the plough-tail! she was a graeme, and could never be a traitor to her blood! if only he had not been such an infernal fool! a vulgar little thing without an idea in her head! so unpleasant--so disgusting at last with her love-making! nothing pleased her but hugging and kissing!--that was how he spoke to himself of the girl he had been in love with! damn that schoolmaster! she would never fall in love with him, but he might prevent her from falling in love with another! no attractions could make way against certain prepossessions! the girl had a fancy for being a saint, and the lout burned incense to her! so much he gathered from davie. his father must get rid of the fellow! if he thought he was doing so well with davie, why not send the two away together till things were settled? but the earl thought it would be better to win donal. he counselled him that every grant was lord seafield's cousin, and every highlander an implacable enemy where his pride was hurt. his lordship did not reflect that, if what he said were true of donal, he must have left the castle long ago. there was but one thing would have made it impossible for donal to remain--interference, namely, between him and his pupil. forgue did not argue with his father. he had given that up. at the same time, if he had told all that had passed between him and donal, the earl would have confessed he had advised an impossibility. forgue took a step in a very different direction: he began to draw to himself the good graces of miss carmichael: he did not know how little she could serve him. without being consciously insincere, she flattered him, and speedily gained his confidence. well descended on the mother-side, she had grown up fit, her father said, to adorn any society: with a keen appreciation of the claims and dignities of the aristocracy, she was well able to flatter the prejudices she honoured and shared in. careful not to say a word against his cousin, she made him feel more and more that his chief danger lay in the influence of donal. she fanned thus his hatred of the man who first came between him and his wrath; next, between him and his "love;" and last, between him and his fortunes. if only davie would fall ill, and require change of air! but davie was always in splendid health! now that he saw himself in such danger of failing, he fancied himself far more in love with arctura than he was. and as he got familiarized with the idea of his illegitimacy, although he would not assent to it, he made less and less of it--which would have been a proof to any other than himself that he believed it. in further sign of the same, he made no inquiry into the matter--did not once even question his father about it. if it was true, he did not want to know it: he would treat his lack of proof as ignorance, and act as with the innocence of ignorance! a fellow must take for granted what was commonly believed! at last, and the last was not long in arriving, he almost ceased to trouble himself about it. his father laughed at his fear of failure with arctura, but at times contemplated the thing as an awful possibility--not that he loved forgue much. the only way fathers in sight of the grave can fancy themselves holding on to the things they must leave, is in their children; but lord morven had a stronger and better reason for his unrighteousness: in a troubled, self-reproachful way, he loved the memory of their mother, and through her cared even for forgue more than he knew. they were also his own as much as if he had been legally married to her! for the relation in which they stood to society, he cared little so long as it continued undiscovered. he enjoyed the idea of stealing a march on society, and seeing the sons he had left at such a disadvantage behind him, ruffling it, in spite of absurd law, with the foolish best. from the grave he would so have his foot on the neck of his enemy law!--he was one of the many who can rejoice in even a stolen victory. nor would he ever have been the fool to let the truth fly, except under the reaction of evil drugs, and the rush of fierce wrath at the threatened ruin of his cherished scheme. arctura thenceforth avoided her cousin as much as she could--only remembering that the house was hers, and she must not make him feel he was not welcome to use it. they met at meals, and she tried to behave as if nothing unpleasant had happened and things were as before he went away. "you are very cruel, arctura," he said one morning he met her in the terrace avenue. "cruel?" returned arctura coldly; "i am not cruel. i would not willingly hurt anyone." "you hurt me much; you give me not a morsel, not a crumb of your society!" "percy," said arctura, "if you will be content to be my cousin, we shall get on well enough; but if you are set on what cannot be--once for all, believe me, it is of no use. you care for none of the things i live for! i feel as if we belonged to different worlds, so little have we in common. you may think me hard, but it is better we should understand each other. if you imagine that, because i have the property, you have a claim on me, be sure i will never acknowledge it. i would a thousand times rather you had the property and i were in my grave!" "i will be anything, do anything, learn anything you please!" cried forgue, his heart aching with disappointment. "i know what such submission is worth!" said arctura. "i should be everything till we were married, and then nothing! you dissemble, you hide even from yourself, but you are not hard to read." perhaps she would not have spoken just so severely, had she not been that morning unusually annoyed with his behaviour to donal, and at the same time specially pleased with the calm, unconsciously dignified way in which donal took it, casting it from him as the rock throws aside the sea-wave: it did not concern him! the dull world has got the wrong phrase: it is he who resents an affront who pockets it! he who takes no notice, lets it lie in the dirt. chapter lxviii. larkie. it was a lovely day in spring. "please, mr. grant," said davie, "may i have a holiday?" donal looked at him with a little wonder: the boy had never before made such a request! but he answered him at once. "yes, certainly, davie. but i should like to know what you want it for." "arkie wants very much to have a ride to-day. she says larkie--i gave him his name, to rime with arkie--she says larkie will forget her, and she does not wish to go out with forgue, so she wants me to go with her on my pony." "you will take good care of her, davie?" "i will take care of her, but you need not be anxious about us, mr. grant. arkie is a splendid rider, and much pluckier than she used to be!" donal did, however--he could not have said why--feel a little anxiety. he repressed it as unfaithfulness, but it kept returning. he could not go with them--there was no horse for him, and to go on foot, would, he feared, spoil their ride. he was so much afraid also of presuming on lady arctura's regard for him, that he would have shrunk from offering had it been more feasible. he got a book, and strolled into the park, not even going to see them off: forgue might be about the stable, and make things unpleasant! had forgue been about the stable, he would, i think, have somehow managed to prevent the ride, for larkie, though much better, was not yet cured of his lameness. arctura did not know he had been lame, or that he had therefore been very little exercised, and was now rather wild, with a pastern-joint far from equal to his spirit. there was but a boy about the stable, who either did not understand, or was afraid to speak: she rode in a danger of which she knew nothing. the consequence was that, jumping the merest little ditch in a field outside the park, they had a fall. the horse got up and trotted limping to the stable; his mistress lay where she fell. davie, wild with misery, galloped home. from the height of the park donal saw him tearing along, and knew something was amiss. he ran, got over the wall, found the pony's track, and following it, came where arctura lay. there was a little clear water in the ditch: he wet his handkerchief, and bathed her face. she came to herself, opened her eyes with a faint smile, and tried to raise herself, but fell back helpless, and closed her eyes again. "i believe i am hurt!" she murmured. "i think larkie must have fallen!" donal would have carried her, but she moaned so, that he gave up the idea at once. davie was gone for help; it would be better to wait! he pulled off his coat and laid it over her, then kneeling, raised her head a little from the damp ground upon his arm. she let him do as he pleased, but did not open her eyes. they had not long to wait. several came running, among them lord forgue. he fell beside his cousin on his knees, and took her hand in his. she neither moved nor spoke. as instead of doing anything he merely persisted in claiming her attention, donal saw it was for him to give orders. "my lady is much hurt," he said: "one of you go at once for the doctor; the others bring a hand-barrow--i know there is one about the place. lay the squab of a sofa on it, and make haste. let mistress brookes know." "mind your own business," said forgue. "do as mr. grant tells you," said lady arctura, without opening her eyes. the men departed running. forgue rose from his knees, and walked slowly to a little distance, where he stood gnawing his lip. "my lord," said donal, "please run and fetch a little brandy for her ladyship. she has fainted." what could forgue do but obey! he started at once, and with tolerable speed. then arctura opened her eyes, and smiled. "are you suffering much, my lady?" asked donal. "a good deal," she answered, "but i don't mind it.--thank you for not leaving me.--it is no more than i can bear, only bad when i try to move." "they will not be long now," he said. again she closed her eyes, and was silent. donal watched the sweet face, which a cloud of suffering would every now and then cross, and lifted up his heart to the saviour of men. he saw them coming with the extemporized litter, behind them mistress brookes, with forgue and one of the maids. when she came up, she addressed herself in silence to donal. he told her he feared her ladyship's spine was hurt, after his direction she put her hands under her and the maid took her feet, while he, placing his other arm under her shoulders, and gently rising, raised her body. being all strong and gentle, they managed the moving well, and laid her slowly on the litter. except a moan or two, and a gathering of the brows, she gave no sign of suffering; nothing to be called a cry escaped her. donal at the head and a groom at the foot, lifted the litter, and with ordered step, started for the house. once or twice she opened her eyes and looked up at donal, then, as if satisfied, closed them again. before they reach the house the doctor met them, for they had to walk slowly. forgue came behind in a devilish humour. he knew that first his ill usage of larkie, and then his preventing anything being said about it, must have been the cause of the accident; but he felt with some satisfaction--for self simply makes devils of us--that if she had not refused to go out with him, it would not have happened; he would not have allowed her to mount larkie. "served her right!" he caught himself saying once, and was ashamed--but presently said it again. self is as full of worms as it can hold; god deliver us from it! chapter lxix. the sick-chamber. she was carried to her room and laid on her bed. the doctor requested mrs. brookes and donal to remain, and dismissed the rest, then proceeded to examine her. there were no bones broken, he said, but she must be kept very quiet. the windows must be darkened, and she must if possible sleep. she gave donal a faint smile, and a pitiful glance, but did not speak. as he was following the doctor from the room, she made a sign to mrs. brookes with her eyes that she wanted to speak to him. he came, and bent over to hear, for she spoke very feebly. "you will come and see me, mr. grant?" "i will, indeed, my lady." "every day?" "yes, most certainly," he replied. she smiled, and so dismissed him. he went with his heart full. a little way from the door stood forgue, waiting for him to come out. he had sent the doctor to his father. donal passed him with a bend of the head. he followed him to the schoolroom. "it is time this farce was over, grant!" he said. "farce, my lord!" repeated donal indignantly. "these attentions to my lady." "i have paid her no more attention than i would your lordship, had you required it," answered donal sternly. "that would have been convenient doubtless! but there has been enough of humbug, and now for an end to it! ever since you came here, you have been at work on the mind of that inexperienced girl--with your damned religion!--for what end you know best! and now you've half killed her by persuading her to go out with you instead of me! the brute was lame and not fit to ride! any fool might have seen that!" "i had nothing to do with her going, my lord. she asked davie to go with her, and he had a holiday on purpose." "all very fine, but--" "my lord, i have told you the truth, but not to justify myself: you must be aware your opinion is of no value in my eyes! but tell me one thing, my lord: if my lady's horse was lame, how was it she did not know? you did!" forgue thought donal knew more than he did, and was taken aback. "it is time the place was clear of you!" he said. "i am your father's servant, not yours," answered donal, "and do not trouble myself as to your pleasure concerning me. but i think it is only fair to warn you that, though you cannot hurt me, nothing but honesty can take you out of my power." forgue turned on his heel, went to his father, and told him he knew now that donal was prejudicing the mind of lady arctura against him; but not until it came in the course of the conversation, did he mention the accident she had had. the earl professed himself greatly shocked, got up with something almost like alacrity from his sofa, and went down to inquire after his niece. he would have compelled mrs. brookes to admit him, but she was determined her lady should not be waked from a sleep invaluable to her, for the sake of receiving his condolements, and he had to return to his room without gaining anything. if she were to go, the property would be his, and he could will it as he pleased--that was, if she left no will. he sent for his son and cautioned him over and over to do nothing to offend her, but wait: what might come, who could tell! it might prove a serious affair! forgue tried to feel shocked at the coolness of his father's speculation, but allowed that, if she was determined not to receive him as her husband, the next best thing, in the exigence of affairs, would certainly be that she should leave a world for whose uses she was ill fitted, and go where she would be happier. the things she would then have no farther need of, would be welcome to those to whom by right they belonged more really than to her! she was a pleasant thing to look upon, and if she had loved him he would rather have had the property with than without her; but there was this advantage, he would be left free to choose! lady arctura lay suffering, feverish, and restless. mrs. brookes would let no one sit up with her but herself. the earl would have sent for "a suitable nurse!" a friend of his in london would find one! but she would not hear of it. and before the night was over she had greater reason still for refusing to yield her post: it was evident her young mistress was more occupied with donal grant than with the pain she was suffering! in her delirium she was constantly desiring his presence. "i know he can help me," she would say; "he is a shepherd, like the lord himself!" and mistress brookes, though by no means devoid of the prejudices of the rank with which her life had been so much associated, could not but allow that a nobler life must be possible with one like donal grant than with one like lord forgue. in the middle of the night arctura became so unquiet, that her nurse, calling the maid she had in a room near, flew like a bird to donal, and asked him to come down. he had but partially undressed, thinking his help might be wanted, and was down almost as soon as she. ere he came, however, she had dismissed the maid. donal went to the bedside. arctura was moaning and starting, sometimes opening her eyes, but distinguishing nothing. her hand lay on the counterpane: he laid his upon it. she gave a sigh as of one relieved; a smile came flickering over her face, and she lay still for some time. donal sat down beside her, and watched. the moment he saw her begin to be restless or look distressed, he laid his hand upon hers; she was immediately quiet, and lay for a time as if she knew herself safe. when she seemed about to wake, he withdrew. so things went on for many nights. donal slept instead of working when his duties with davie were over, and lay at night in the corridor, wrapt in his plaid. for even after arctura began to recover, her nights were sorely troubled, and her restoration would have been much retarded, had not donal been near to make her feel she was not abandoned to the terrors she passed through. one night the earl, wandering about in the anomalous condition of neither ghost nor genuine mortal, came suddenly upon what he took for a huge animal in wait to devour. he was not terrified, for he was accustomed to such things, and thought at first it was not of this world: he had no doubt of the reality of his visions, even when he knew they were invisible to others, and even in his waking moments had begun to believe in them as much as in the things then evident to him--or rather, perhaps, to disbelieve equally in both. he approached to see what it was, and stood staring down upon the mass. gently it rose and confronted him--if confronting that may be called where the face remained so undefined--for donal took care to keep his plaid over his head: he had hope in the probable condition of the earl! he turned from him and walked away. chapter lxx. a plot. but his lordship had his suspicions, and took measures to confirm or set them at rest--with the result that he concluded donal madly in love with his niece, and unable, while she was ill, to rest anywhere but, with the devotion of a savage, outside her door: if he did not take precautions, the lout would oust the lord! ever since donal spoke so plainly against his self-indulgence, he had not merely hated but feared the country lad. he recognized that donal feared nothing, had no respect of persons, would speak out before the world. he was doubtful also whether he had not allowed him to know more than it was well he should know. it was time to get rid of him--only it must be done cautiously, with the appearance of a good understanding! if he had him out of the house before she was able to see him again, that would do! and if in the meantime she should die, all would be well! his distrust, once roused, went farther than that of his son. he had not the same confidence in blue blood; he knew a few things more than forgue--believed it quite possible that the daughter of a long descent of lords and ladies should fall in love with a shepherd-lad. and as no one could tell what might have to be done if the legal owner of the property persisted in refusing her hand to the rightful owner of it, the fellow might be seriously in the way! arctura slowly recovered. she had not yet left her room, but had been a few hours on the couch every day for a fortnight, and the doctor, now sanguine of her final recovery, began to talk of carrying her to the library. the earl, who never suspected that mrs. brookes, having hitherto kept himself from her room, would admit the tutor, the moment he learned that the library was in view for her, decided that there must be no more delay. he had by this time contrived a neat little plan. he sent for donal. he had been thinking, the earl said, that he must want a holiday: he had not seen his parents since he came to the castle! and he had been thinking besides, how desirable it was that davie should see some other phases of life than those to which he had hitherto been accustomed. there was great danger of boys brought up in his position getting narrow, and careless of the lives and feelings of their fellowmen! he would take it as a great kindness if donal, who had a regard to the real education of his pupil, would take him to his home, and let him understand the ways of life among the humbler classes of the nation--so that, if ever he went into parliament, he might have the advantage of knowing the heart of the people for whom he would have to legislate. donal listened, and could not but agree with the remarks of his lordship. in himself he had not the least faith--wondered indeed which of them thought the other the greater fool to imagine that after all that had passed donal would place any confidence in what the earl said; but he listened. what lord morven really had in his mind, he could not surmise; but not the less to take davie to his father and mother was a delightful idea. the boy was growing fast, and had revealed a faculty quite rare in one so young, for looking to the heart of things, and seeing the relation of man to man; therefore such a lesson as the earl proposed would indeed be invaluable to him! then again, this faculty had been opened in him through a willing perception of those eternal truths, in a still higher relation of persons, which are open only to the childlike nature; whence he would be especially fitted for such company as that of his father and mother, who could now easily receive the boy as well as himself, since their house and their general worldly condition had been so much bettered by their friend, sir gibbie! with them davie would see genuine life, simplicity, dignity, and unselfishness--the very embodiment of the things he held constantly before him! there might be some other reason behind the earl's request which it would be well for him to know; but he would sooner discover that by a free consent than by hanging back: anything bad it could hardly be! he shrank indeed from leaving lady arctura while she was yet so far from well, but she was getting well much faster now: for a fortnight there had been no necessity for his presence to soothe her while she slept. neither did she yet know, so far, at least, as he or mistress brookes was aware, that he had ever been near her in the night! it was well also because of the position of things between him and lord forgue, that he should be away for a while: it would give a chance for that foolish soul to settle down, and let common sense assume the reins, while yet the better coachman was not allowed to mount the box! he had, of course, heard nothing of the strained relations between him and lady arctura; he might otherwise have been a little more anxious. for the earl, davie, he thought, would be a kind of pledge or hostage--in regard of what, he could not specify; but, though he little suspected what such a man was capable of sacrificing to gain a cherished end, some security for him, some hold over him, seemed to donal not undesirable. when davie heard the proposal, he was wild with joy. actually to see the mountains, and the sheep, and the colleys, of which donal had told him such wonderful things! to be out all night, perhaps, with donal and the dogs and the stars and the winds! perhaps a storm would come, and he would lie in donal's plaid under some great rock, and hear the wind roaring around them, but not able to get at them! and the sheep would come and huddle close up to them, and keep them warm with their woolly sides! and he would stroke their heads and love them! davie was no longer a mere child--far from it; but what is loveliest in the child's heart was only the stronger in him; and the prospect of going with donal was a thing to be dreamed of day and night till it came! nor were the days many before their departure was definitely settled. the earl would have mr. grant treat his pupil precisely as one of his own standing: he might take him on foot if he pleased! the suggestion was eagerly accepted by both. they got their boxes ready for the carrier, packed their wallets, and one lovely morning late in spring, just as summer was showing her womanly face through its smiles and tears, they set out together. it was with no small dismay that arctura heard of the proposal. she said nothing, however--only when donal came to take his leave she broke down a little. "we shall often wish, davie and i, that you were with us, my lady," he said. "why?" she asked, unable to say more. "because we shall often feel happy, and what then can we do but wish you shared our happiness!" she burst into tears, and presently was able to speak. "don't think me silly," she said. "i know god is with me, and as soon as you are gone i will go to him to comfort me. but i cannot help feeling as if you were leaving me like a lamb among wolves. i can give no reason for it; i only feel as if some danger were near me. but i have you yet, mistress brookes: god and you will take care of me!--indeed, if i hadn't you," she added, laughing through her tears, "i should run away with mr. grant and davie!" "if i had known you felt like that," said donal, "i would not have gone. yet i hardly see how i could have avoided it, being davie's tutor, and bound to do as his father wishes with him. only, dear lady arctura, there is no chance in this or in anything! we will not forget you, and in three weeks or a month we shall be back." "that is a long time," said arctura, ready to weep again. is it necessary to say she was not a weak woman? it is not betrayal of feeling, but avoidance of duty, that constitutes weakness. after an illness he has borne like a hero, a strong man may be ready to weep like a child. what the common people of society think about strength and weakness, is poor stuff, like the rest of their wisdom. she speedily recovered her composure, and with the gentlest smile bade donal good-bye. she was in her sitting-room next the state-chamber where she now slept; the sun was shining in at the open window, and with it came the song of a little bird, clear and sweet. "you hear him," said donal. "--how he trusts god without knowing it! we are made able to trust him knowing in whom we believe! ah, dear lady arctura! no heart even yet can tell what things god has in store for them who will just let him have his way with them. good-bye. write to me if anything comes to you that i can help you in. and be sure i will make haste to you the moment you let me know you want me." "thank you, mr. grant: i know you mean every word you say! if i need you, i will not hesitate to send for you--only if you come, it will be as my friend, and not--" "it will be as your servant, not lord morven's," said donal. "i quite understand. good bye. the father of jesus christ, who was so sure of him, will take care of you: do not be afraid." he turned and went; he could no longer bear the look of her eyes. chapter lxxi. glashgar. out of arctura's sight donal had his turn of so-called weakness! the day was a glorious one, and davie, full of spirits, could not understand why he seemed so unlike himself. "arkie would scold you, mr. grant!" he said. donal avoided the town, and walked a long way round to get into the road beyond it, his head bent as if he were pondering a pain. at moments he felt as if he must return at once, and refuse to leave the castle for any reason. but he could not see that it was the will of god he should do so. a presentiment is not a command. a prophecy may fail of the least indication of duty. hamlet defying augury is the consistent religious man shakspere takes pains to show him. a presentiment may be true, may be from god himself, yet involve no reason why a man should change his way, should turn a step aside from the path before him. st. paul received warning after warning on his road to jerusalem that bonds and imprisonment awaited him, and these warnings he knew came from the spirit of prophecy, but he heeded them only to set his face like a flint. he knew better than imagine duty determined by consequences, or take foresight for direction. there is a higher guide, and he followed that. so did donal now. moved to go back, he did not go back--neither afterwards repented that he did not. i will not describe the journey. suffice it to say that, after a few days of such walking as befitted an unaccustomed boy, they climbed the last hill, crossed the threshold of robert grant's cottage, and were both clasped in the embrace of janet. for davie rushed into the arms of donal's mother, and she took him to the same heart to which she had taken wee sir gibbie: the bosom of the peasant woman was indeed one to fee to. then followed delights which more than equalled the expectations of davie. one of them was seeing how donal was loved. another was a new sense of freedom: he had never imagined such liberty as he now enjoyed. it was as if god were giving it to him, fresh out of his sky, his mountains, his winds. then there was the twilight on the hill-side, with the sheep growing dusky around him; when donal would talk about the shepherd of the human sheep; and hearing him davie felt not only that there was once, but that there is now a man altogether lovely--the heart of all beauty everywhere--a man who gave himself up to his perfect father and his father's most imperfect children, that he might bring his brothers and sisters home to their father; for all his delight is in his father and his father's children. he showed him how the heart of jesus was, all through, the heart of a son, a son that adored his perfect father; and how if he had not had his perfect son to help him, god could not have made any of us, could never have got us to be his little sons and daughters, loving him with all our might. then davie's heart would glow, and he would feel ready to do whatever that son might want him to do; and donal hoped, and had good ground for hoping, that, when the hour of trial came, the youth would be able to hold, not merely by the unseen, but by the seemingly unpresent and unfelt, in the name of the eternally true. donal's youth began to seem far behind him. all bitterness was gone out of his memories of lady galbraith. he loved her tenderly, but was pleased she should be gibbie's. how much of this happy change was owing to his interest in lady arctura he did not inquire: greatly interested in her--more in very important ways than he had ever been in lady galbraith--he was so jealous of his heart, shrank so much from the danger of folly, knew so well how small an amount of yielding might unfit him for the manly and fresh performance of his duties--among which came first a due regard for her well-being lest he should himself fail or mislead her--that he often turned his thoughts into another channel, lest in that they should run too swiftly, deepen it too fast, and go far to imprison themselves in another agony. to lady galbraith he confided his uneasiness about lady arctura--not that he could explain--he could only confess himself infected with her uneasiness, and the rather that he knew better than she the nature of those with whom she might have to cope. if mrs. brookes had not been there, he dared not have come away, he said, leaving her with such a dread upon her. sir gibbie listened open-mouthed to the tale of the finding of the lost chapel, hidden away because it held the dust of the dead, and perhaps sometimes their wandering ghosts. they assured him that, if he would bring lady arctura to them, they would take care of her: had she not better give up the weary property, they said, and come and live with them, and be free as the lark? but donal said, that, if god had given her a property, he would not have her forsake her post, but wait for him to relieve her. she must administer her own kingdom ere she could have an abundant entrance into his! only he wished he were near her again to help her! chapter lxxii. sent, not called. he had been at home about ten days, during which not a word had come to davie or himself from the castle, and was beginning to grow, not perhaps anxious, but hungry for news of lady arctura, when from a sound sleep he started suddenly awake one midnight to find his mother by his bedside: she had roused him with difficulty. "laddie," she said, "i'm thinkin ye're wantit." "whaur am i wantit, mother?" he asked, rubbing his eyes, but with anxiety already throbbing at his heart. "at the castle," she replied. "hoo ken ye that?" he asked. "it wad be ill tellin' ye," she answered. "but gien i was you, donal, i wad be aff afore the day brak, to see what they're duin' wi' yon puir leddy at the muckle place ye left. my hert's that sair aboot her, i canna rest a moment till i hae ye awa' upo' the ro'd til her!" long before his mother had ended, donal was out of bed, and hurrying on his clothes. he had the profoundest faith in whatever his mother said. was it a vision she had had? he had never been told she had the second sight! it might have been only a dream, or an impression so deep she must heed it! one thing was plain: there was no time to ask questions! it was enough that his mother said "go;" more than enough that it was for lady arctura! how quickest could he go? there were horses at sir gibbie's: he would make free with one! he put a crust of bread in his pocket, and set out running. there was a little moonlight, enough for one who knew every foot of the way; and in half an hour of swift descent, he was at the stable door of glashruach. finding himself unable to rouse anyone, he crept through a way he knew, opened the door, without a moment's hesitation saddled and bridled sir gibbie's favourite mare, led her out, and mounted her. safe in the saddle, with four legs busy under him, he had time to think, and began to turn over in his mind what he must do. but he soon saw there was no planning anything till he knew what was the matter--of which he had dreadful forebodings. his imagination started and spurred by fear, he thought of many dread possibilities concerning which he wondered that he had never thought of them before: if he had he could not have left the castle! what might not a man in the mental and moral condition of the earl, unrestrained by law or conscience, risk to secure the property for his son? might he not poison her, smother her, kill her somehow, anyhow that was safest? then rushed into his mind what the housekeeper had told him of his cruelty to his wife: a man like that, no longer feeling, however knowing the difference between right and wrong, hardly knowing the difference between dreaming a thing and doing the thing, was no fitter member of a family than any devil in or out of hell! he would have blamed himself bitterly had he not been sure he was not following his own will in going away. if there were a better way it had not been intended he should take it, else it would have been shown him! but now he would be restrained by no delicacy towards the earl: whatever his hand found to do he would do, regardless of appearances! if he could not reach lady arctura, he would seek the help of the law, tell what he knew, and get a warrant of search. he dared not think what he dreaded, but he would trust nothing but seeing her with his own eyes, and hearing from her own mouth that all was well--which could not be, else why should his mother have sent him to her? doubtless the way would unfold before him as he went on; but if everything should seem to go against him, he would yet say with sir philip sidney that, "since a man is bound no farther to himself than to do wisely, chance is only to trouble them that stand upon chance." if his plans or attempts should one after the other fail, "there's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will"! so he rode on, careful over his mare, lest much haste should be little speed. the animal was strong and in good condition, and by the time donal had seen the sun rise, ascend the heavens, and go half-way down their western slope, and had stopped three times to refresh the mare, he found himself, after much climbing and descent, on a good level road that promised by nightfall to bring him to the place of his desire. but the mare was now getting tired, and no wonder, for she had had more than a hard day's work. donal dismounted every now and then to relieve her, that he might go the faster when he mounted again, comforting himself that in the true path the delays are as important as the speed; for the hour is the point, not the swiftness: an hour too soon may even be more disastrous than an hour too late! he would arrive at the right time for him whose ways are not as our ways inasmuch as they are greatly better! the sun went down and the stars came out, and the long twilight began. but before he was a mile farther he became aware that the sky had clouded over, the stars had vanished, and rain was at hand. the day had been sultry, and relief was come. lightning flamed out, and darkness full of thunder followed. the storm was drawing nearer, but his mare, though young and high-spirited, was too weary to be frightened; the rain refreshed both, and they made a little more speed. but it was dark night, with now grumbling now raging storm, before they came where, had it been light, donal would have looked to see the castle. chapter lxxiii. in the night. when he reached the town, he rode into the yard of the morven arms, and having found a sleepy ostler, gave up his mare: he would be better without her at the castle!--whither he was setting out to walk when the landlord appeared. "we didna luik to see you, sir, at this time!" he said. "why not?" returned donal. "we thoucht ye was awa' for the simmer, seein' ye tuik the yoong gentleman wi' ye, an' the yerl himsel' followt!" "where is he gone?" asked donal. "oh! dinna ye ken, sir? hae na ye h'ard?" "not a word." "that's verra strange, sir!--there's a clean clearance at the castel. first gaed my lord forgue, an' syne my lord himsel' an' my lady, an' syne gaed the hoosekeeper--her mither was deein', they said. i'm thinkin' there maun be a weddin' to the fore. there was some word o' fittin' up the auld hoose i' the toon, 'cause lord forgue didna care aboot bein' at the castel ony langer. it's strange ye haena h'ard, sir!" donal stood absorbed in awful hearing. surely some letter must have miscarried! the sure and firm-set earth seemed giving way under his feet. "i will run up to the castle, and hear all about it," he said. "look after my mare, will you?" "but i'm tellin' ye, sir, ye'll fin' naebody there!" said the man. "they're a' gane frae the hoose ony gait. there's no a sowl aboot that but deif betty lobban, wha wadna hear the angel wi' the last trump. mair by token, she's that feart for robbers she gangs til her bed the minute it begins to grow dark, an' sticks her heid 'aneth the bed-claes--no 'at that maks her ony deifer!" "then you think there is no use in going up?" "not the smallest," answered the inn-keeper. "get me some supper then. i will take a look at my mare." he went and saw that she was attended to--then set off for the castle as fast as his legs would carry him. there was foul play beyond a doubt!--of what sort he could not tell! if the man's report was correct, he would go straight to the police! then first he remembered, in addition to the other reported absences, that before he left with davie, the factor and his sister had gone together for a holiday: had this been contrived? he mounted the hill and drew near the castle. a terrible gloom fell upon him: there was not a light in the sullen pile! it was darksome even to terror! he went to the main entrance, and rang the great bell as loud as he could ring it, but there was no answer to the summons, which echoed and yelled horribly, as if the house were actually empty. he rang again, and again came the horrible yelling echo, but no more answer than if it had been a mausoleum. he had been told what to expect, yet his heart sank within him. once more he rang and waited; but there was no sound of hearing. the place grew terrible to him. but his mother had sent him there, and into it he must go! he must at least learn whether it was indeed abandoned! there was false play! he kept repeating to himself; but what was it? where and how was it to be met? as to getting into the house there was no difficulty. he had but to climb two walls to get to the door of baliol's tower, and the key of that he always carried. if he had not had it, he would yet soon have got in; he knew the place better than any one else about it. happily he had left the door locked when he went away, else probably they would have secured it otherwise. he entered softly, and, with a strange feeling of dread, went winding up the stair to his room--slowly, because he did not yet know at all what he was to do. if there were no false play, surely at least mrs. brookes would have written to tell him they were going! if only he could learn where she was! before he reached the top he found himself very weary. he staggered in, and fell on his bed in the dark. but he could not rest. the air seemed stifling. the storm had lulled, but the atmosphere was full of thunder. he got up and opened the window. a little breath came in and revived him; then came a little wind, and in the wind the moan of its harp. it woke many memories. there again was the lightning! the thunder broke with a great bellowing roar among the roofs and chimneys. it was to his mind! he went out on the roof, and mechanically took his way toward the nest of the music. at the base of the chimneys he sat down, and stared into the darkness. the lightning came; he saw the sea lie watching like a perfect peace to take up drift souls, and the land bordering it like a waste of dread; then the darkness swallowed both; and the thunder came so loud that it not only deafened but seemed to blind him beyond the darkness, that his brain turned to a lump of clay. then came a silence, and the silence was like a deeper deafness. but from the deafness burst and trickled a faint doubtful stream: could it be a voice, calling, calling, from a great distance? was he the fool of weariness and excitement, or did he actually hear his own name? whose voice could it be but lady arctura's, calling to him from the spirit world! they had killed her, and she was calling to let him know she was in the land of liberty! with that came another flash and another roar of thunder--and there was the voice again: "mr. grant! mr. grant! come, come! you promised!" did he actually hear the words? they sounded so far away that it seemed as if he ought not to hear them. but could the voice be from the spirit-land? would she claim his promise thence, tempting him thither? she would not! and she knew he would not go before his hour, if all the spirits on the other side were calling him. but he had heard of voices from far away, while those who called were yet in the body! if she would but say whither, he would follow her that moment! once more it came, but very faint; he could not tell what it said. a wail of the ghost-music followed close.--god in heaven! could she be down in the chapel? he sprang to his feet. with superhuman energy he leapt up and caught the edge of the cleft, drew himself up till his mouth reached it, and cried aloud, "lady arctura!" there came no answer. "i am stupid as death!" he said to himself: "i have let her call me in vain!" "i am coming!" he cried again, revived with sudden joy. he dropped on the roof, and sped down the stair to the door that opened on the second floor. all was dark as underground, but he knew the way so well he needed but a little guidance from his hands. he hurried to lady arctura's chamber, and the spot where the press stood, ready with one shove to send it yards out of his way. there was no press there!--nothing but a smooth, cold, damp wall! his heart sank within him. was he in a terrible dream? no, no! he had but made a mistake--had trusted too much to his knowledge of the house, and was not where he thought he was! he struck a light. alas! alas! he was where he had intended! it was her room! there was the wardrobe, but nearer the door! where it had stood was no recess!--nothing but a great patch of fresh plaster! it was no dream, but a true horror! instinctively clutching his skene dhu, he darted to the great stair. it must have been the voice of arctura he had heard! she was walled up in the chapel! down the stair, with swift noiseless foot he sped, and stopped at the door of the half-way room. it was locked! there was but one way left! to the foot of the stair he shot. good heavens! if that way also should have been known to the earl! he crept through the little door underneath the stair, feeling with his hands ere his body was through: the arch was open! in an instant he was in the crypt. but now to get up through the opening into the passage above--stopped with a heavy slab! he sprang at the steep slope of the window-sill, but there was no hold, and as often as he sprang he slipped down again. he tried and tried until he was worn out and almost in despair. she might be dying! he was close to her! he could not reach her! he stood still for a moment to think. to his mind came the word, "he that believeth shall not make haste." he thought with himself, "god cannot help men with wisdom when their minds are in too great a tumult to hear what he says!" he tried to lift up his heart and make a silence in his soul. as he stood he seemed to see, through the dark, the gloomy place as it first appeared when he threw in the lighted letter. all at once he started from his quiescence, dropped on his hands and knees, and crawled until he found the flat stone like a gravestone. out came his knife, and he dug away the earth at one end, until he could get both hands under it. then he heaved it from the floor, and shifting it along, got it under the opening in the wall. chapter lxxiv. a moral fungus. spiritual insanity, cupidity, cruelty, and possibly immediate demoniacal temptation had long been working in and on a mind that had now ceased almost to distinguish between the real and the unreal. every man who bends the energies of an immortal spirit to further the ends and objects of his lower being, fails so to distinguish; but with the earl the blindness had wrought outward as well as inwardly, so that he was even unable, during considerable portions of his life, to tell whether things took place outside or inside him. nor did this trouble him--he was past caring. he would argue that what equally affected him had an equal right to be by him regarded as existent. he paid no heed to the different natures of the two kinds of existence, their different laws, and the different demands they made upon the two consciousnesses; he had in fact, by a long course of disobedience growing to utter disuse of conscience, arrived nearly at non-individuality. in regard to what was outside him he was but a mirror, in regard to what was inside him a mere vessel of imperfectly interacting forces. and now his capacities and incapacities together had culminated in a hideous plot, in which it would be hard to say whether the folly, the crime, or the cunning predominated: he had made up his mind that, if the daughter of his brother refused to wed her cousin, and so carry out what he asserted to have been the declared wish of her father, she should go after her father, and leave her property to the next heir, so that if not in one way then in another the law of nature might be fulfilled, and title and property united without the intervention of a marriage. as to any evil that therein might be imagined to befall his niece, he quoted the words of hamlet--"since no man has ought of what he leaves, what is't to leave betimes?"--she would be no worse than she must have been when the few years of her natural pilgrimage were of necessity over: the difference to her was not worth thinking of beside the difference to the family! at the same time perhaps a scare might serve, and she would consent to marry forgue to escape a frightful end! the moment donal was gone, he sent forgue to london, and set himself to overcome the distrust of him which he could not but see had for some time been growing in her. with the sweet prejudices of a loving nature to assist him, he soon prevailed so far that, without much entreaty, she consented to accompany him to london--for a month or so, he said, while davie was gone. the proposal had charms for her: she had been there with her father when a mere child, and never since. she wrote to donal to let him know: how it was that her letter never reached him, it is hardly needful to inquire. the earl, in order, he said, to show his recognition of her sweet compliance, made arrangements for posting it all the way. he would take her by the road he used to travel himself when he was a young man: she should judge whether more had not been lost than gained by rapidity! whatever shortened any natural process, he said, simply shortened life itself. simmons should go before, and find a suitable place for them! they were hardly gone when mrs. brookes received a letter pretendedly from the clergyman of the parish, in a remote part of the south, where her mother, now a very old woman, lived, saying she was at the point of death, and could not die in peace without seeing her daughter. she went at once. the scheme was a madman's, excellently contrived for the instant object, but with no outlook for immediately resulting perils. after the first night on the road, he turned across country, and a little towards home; after the next night, he drove straight back, but as it was by a different road, arctura suspected nothing. when they came within a few hours of the castle, they stopped at a little inn for tea; there he contrived to give her a certain dose. at the next place where they stopped, he represented her as his daughter taken suddenly ill: he must go straight home with her, however late they might be. giving an imaginary name to their destination, and keeping on the last post-boy who knew nothing of the country, he directed him so as completely to bewilder him, with the result that he set them down at the castle supposing it a different place, and in a different part of the country. the thing was after the earl's own heart; he delighted in making a fool of a fellow-mortal. he sent him away so as not to enter the town: it was of importance his return should not be known. it is a marvel he could effect what followed; but he had the remnants of great strength, and when under influences he knew too well how to manage, was for the time almost as powerful as ever: he got his victim to his room on the stair, and thence through the oak door. chapter lxxv. the porch of hades. when arctura woke from her unnatural sleep, she lay a while without thought, then began to localize herself. the last place she recalled was the inn where they had tea: she must have been there taken ill, she thought, and was now in a room of the same. it was quite dark: they might have left a light by her! she lay comfortably enough, but had a suspicion that the place was not over clean, and was glad to find herself not undrest. she turned on her side: something pulled her by the wrist. she must have a bracelet on, and it was entangled in the coverlet! she tried to unclasp it, but could not: which of her bracelets could it be? there was something attached to it!--a chain--a thick chain! how odd! what could it mean? she lay quiet, slowly waking to fuller consciousness.--was there not a strange air, a dull odour in the room? undefined as it was, she had smelt it before, and not long since!--it was the smell of the lost chapel!--but that was at home in the castle! she had left it two days before! was she going out of her mind? the dew of agony burst from her forehead. she would have started up, but was pulled hard by the wrist! she cried on god.--yes, she was lying on the very spot where that heap of woman-dust had lain! she was manacled with the same ring from which that woman's arm had wasted--the decay of centuries her slow redeemer! her being recoiled so wildly from the horror, that for a moment she seemed on the edge of madness. but madness is not the sole refuge from terror! where the door of the spirit has once been opened wide to god, there is he, the present help in time of trouble! with him in the house, it is not only that we need fear nothing, but that is there which in its own being and nature casts out fear. god and fear cannot be together. it is a god far off that causes fear. "in thy presence is fulness of joy." such a sense of absolute helplessness overwhelmed arctura that she felt awake in her an endless claim upon the protection of her original, the source of her being. and what sooner would any father have of his children than action on such claim! god is always calling us as his children, and when we call him as our father, then, and not till then, does he begin to be satisfied. and with that there fell upon arctura a kind of sleep, which yet was not sleep; it was a repose such as perhaps is the sleep of a spirit. again the external began to intrude. she pictured to herself what the darkness was hiding. her feelings when first she came down into the place returned on her memory. the tide of terror began again to rise. it rose and rose, and threatened to become monstrous. she reasoned with herself: had she not been brought in safety through its first and most dangerous inroad?--but reason could not outface terror. it was fear, the most terrible of all terrors, that she feared. then again woke her faith: if the night hideth not from him, neither does the darkness of fear! it began to thunder, first with a low distant muttering roll, then with a loud and near bellowing. was it god coming to her? some are strangely terrified at thunder; arctura had the child's feeling that it was god that thundered: it comforted her as with the assurance that god was near. as she lay and heard the great organ of the heavens, its voice seemed to grow articulate; god was calling to her, and saying, "here i am, my child! be not afraid!" then she began to reason with herself that the worst that could happen to her was to lie there till she died of hunger, and that could not be so very bad! and therewith across the muttering thunder came a wail of the ghost-music. she started: had she not heard it a hundred times before, as she lay there in the dark alone? was she only now for the first time waking up to it--she, the lady they had shut up there to die--where she had lain for ages, with every now and then that sound of the angels singing, far above her in the blue sky? she was beginning to wander. she reasoned with herself, and dismissed the fancy; but it came and came again, mingled with real memories, mostly of the roof, and donal. by and by she fell asleep, and woke in a terror which seemed to have been growing in her sleep. she sat up, and stared into the dark. >from where stood the altar, seemed to rise and approach her a form of deeper darkness. she heard nothing, saw nothing, but something was there. it came nearer. it was but a fancy; she knew it; but the fancy assumed to be: the moment she gave way, and acknowledged it, that moment it would have the reality it had been waiting for, and clasp her in its skeleton-arms! she cried aloud, but it only came nearer; it was about to seize her! a sudden, divine change!--her fear was gone, and in its place a sense of absolute safety: there was nothing in all the universe to be afraid of! it was a night of june, with roses, roses everywhere! glory be to the father! but how was it? had he sent her mother to think her full of roses? why her mother? god himself is the heart of every rose that ever bloomed! she would have sung aloud for joy, but no voice came; she could not utter a sound. what a thing this would be to tell donal grant! this poor woman cried, and god heard her, and saved her out of all her distresses! the father had come to his child! the cry had gone from her heart into his! if she died there, would donal come one day and find her? no! no! she would speak to him in a dream, and beg him not to go near the place! she would not have him see her lie like that he and she standing together had there looked upon! with that came donal's voice, floated and rolled in music and thunder. it came from far away; she did not know whether she fancied or really heard it. she would have responded with a great cry, but her voice vanished in her throat. her joy was such that she remembered nothing more. chapter lxxvi. the angel of the lord. standing upon the edge of the stone leaned against the wall, donal seized the edge of the slab which crossed the opening near the top, and drew himself up into the sloping window-sill. pressing with all his might against the sides of the window, he succeeded at last in pushing up the slab so far as to get a hold with one hand on the next to it. then slowly turning himself on his side, while the whole weight of the stone rested on his fingers, he got the other hand also through the crack. this effected, he hauled and pushed himself up with his whole force, careless of what might happen to his head. the top of it came bang against the stone, and lifted it so far that he got head and neck through. the thing was done! with one more herculean lift of his body and the stone together, like a man rising from the dead, he rose from the crypt into the passage. but the door of the chapel would not yield to a gentle push. "my lady," he cried, "don't be afraid. i must make a noise. it's only donal grant! i'm going to drive the door open." she heard the words! they woke her from her swoon of joy. "only donal grant!" what less of an only could there be in the world for her! was he not the messenger who raised the dead! she tried to speak, but not a word would come. donal drew back a pace, and sent such a shoulder against the door that it flew to the wall, then fell with a great crash on the floor. "where are you, my lady?" he cried. but still she could not speak. he began feeling about. "not on that terrible bed!" she heard him murmur. fear lest in the darkness he should not find her, gave her back her voice. "i don't mind it now!" she said feebly. "thank god!" cried donal; "i've found you at last!" worn out, he sank on his knees, with his head on the bed, and fell a sobbing like a child. she would have put out her hand through the darkness to find him, but the chain checked it. he heard the rattle of it, and understood. "chained too, my dove!" he said, but in gaelic. his weakness was over. he thanked god, and took courage. new life rushed through every vein. he rose to his feet in conscious strength. "can you strike a light, and let me see you, donal?" said arctura. then first she called him by his christian name: it had been so often in her heart if not on her lips that night! the dim light wasted the darkness of the long buried place, and for a moment they looked at each other. she was not so changed as donal had feared to find her--hardly so change to him as he was to her. terrible as had been her trial, it had not lasted long, and had been succeeded by a heavenly joy. she was paler than usual, yet there was a rosy flush over her beautiful face. her hand was stretched towards him, its wrist clasped by the rusty ring, and tightening the chain that held it to the post. "how pale and tired you look!" she said. "i am a little tired," he answered. "i came almost without stopping. my mother sent me. she said i must come, but she did not tell me why." "it was god sent you," said arctura. then she briefly told him what she knew of her own story. "how did he get the ring on to your wrist?" said donal. he looked closer and saw that her hand was swollen, and the skin abraded. "he forced it on!" he said. "how it must hurt you!" "it does hurt now you speak of it," she replied. "i did not notice it before.--do you suppose he left me here to die?" "who can tell!" returned donal. "i suspect he is more of a madman than we knew. i wonder if a soul can be mad.--yes; the devil must be mad with self-worship! hell is the great madhouse of creation!" "take me away," she said. "i must first get you free," answered donal. she heard him rise. "you are not going to leave me?" she said. "only to get a tool or two." "and after that?" she said. "not until you wish me," he answered. "i am your servant now--his no more." chapter lxxvii. the angel of the devil. there came a great burst of thunder. it was the last of the storm. it bellowed and shuddered, went, and came rolling up again. it died away at last in the great distance, with a low continuous rumbling as if it would never cease. the silence that followed was like the egyptian darkness; it might be felt. out of the tense heart of the silence came a faint sound. it came again and again, at regular intervals. "that is my uncle's step!" said arctura in a scared whisper through the dark. it was plainly a slow step--far off, but approaching. "i wonder if he has a light!" she added hurriedly. "he often goes in the dark without one. if he has you must get behind the altar." "do not speak a word," said donal; "let him think you are asleep. if he has no light, i will stand so that he cannot come near the bed without coming against me. do not be afraid; he shall not touch you." the steps were coming nearer all the time. a door opened and shut. then they were loud--they were coming along the gallery! they ceased. he was standing up there in the thick darkness! "arctura," said a deep, awful voice. it was that of the earl. arctura made no answer. "dead of fright!" muttered the voice. "all goes well. i will go down and see. she might have proved as obstinate as the boys' mother!" again the steps began. they were coming down the stair. the door at the foot of it opened. the earl entered a step or two, then stopped. through the darkness donal seemed to know exactly where he stood. he knew also that he was fumbling for a match, and watched intently for the first spark. there came a sputter and a gleam, and the match failed. ere he could try another, donal made a swift blow at his arm. it knocked the box from his hand. "ha!" he cried, and there was terror in the cry, "she strikes at me through the dark!" donal kept very still. arctura kept as still as he. the earl turned and went away. "i will bring a candle!" he muttered. "now, my lady, we must make haste," said donal. "do you mind being left while i fetch my tools?" "no--but make haste," she answered. "i shall be back before him," he returned. "be careful you do not meet him," said arctura. there was no difficulty now, either in going or returning. he sped, and in a space that even to arctura seemed short, was back. there was no time to use the file: he attacked the staple, and drew it from the bed-post, then wound the chain about her arm, and tied it there. he had already made up his mind what to do with her. he had been inclined to carry her away from the house: doory would take care of her! but he saw that to leave the enemy in possession would be to yield him an advantage. awkward things might result from it! the tongues of inventive ignorance and stupidity would wag wildly! he would take her to her room, and there watch her as he would the pearl of price! "there! you are free, my lady," he said. "now come." he took her hands, and she raised herself wearily. "the air is so stifling!" she said. "we shall soon have better!" answered donal. "shall we go on the roof?" she said, like one talking in her sleep. "i will take you to your own room," replied donal. "--but i will not leave you," he added quickly, seeing a look of anxiety cloud her face, "--so long as your uncle is in the house." "take me where you will," rejoined arctura. there was no way but through the crypt: she followed him without hesitation. they crept through the little closet under the stair, and were in the hall of the castle. as they went softly up the stair, donal had an idea. "he is not back yet!" he said: "we will take the key from the oak door; he will think he has mislaid it, and will not find out that you are gone. i wonder what he will do!" cautiously listening to be sure the earl was not there, he ran to the oak door, locked it, and brought away the key. then they went to the room arctura had last occupied. the door was ajar; there was a light in the room. they went softly, and peeped in. the earl was there, turning over the contents of her writing-desk. "he will find nothing," she whispered with a smile. donal led her away. "we will go to your old room," he said. "the whole recess is built up with stone and lime: he cannot come near you that way!" she made no objection. donal secured the doors, lighted a fire, and went to look for food. they had agreed upon a certain knock, without which she was to open to none. while she was yet changing the garments in which she had lain on the terrible bed, she heard the earl go by, and the door of his room close. apparently he had concluded to let her pass the night without another visit: he had himself had a bad fright, and had probably not got over it. a little longer and she heard donal's gentle signal at the door of the sitting-room. he had brought some biscuits and a little wine in the bottom of a decanter from the housekeeper's room: there was literally nothing in the larder, he said. they sat down and ate the biscuits. donal told his adventures. they agreed that she must write to the factor to come home at once, and bring his sister. then donal set to with his file upon the ring: her hand was much too swollen to admit of its being removed as it had been put on. it was not easy to cut it, partly from the constant danger of hurting her swollen hand, partly that the rust filled and blunted the file. "there!" he said at last, "you are free! and now, my lady, you must take some rest. the door to the passage is secure. lock this one inside, and i will draw the sofa across it outside: if he come wandering in the night, and get into this room, he will not reach your door." weary as he was, donal could not sleep much. in the middle of the night he heard the earl's door open, and watched and followed him. he went to the oak door, and tried in vain to open it. "she has taken it!" he muttered, in what seemed to donal an awe-struck voice. all night long he roamed the house a spirit grievously tormented. in the gray of the morning, having perhaps persuaded himself that the whole affair was a trick of his imagination, he went back to his room. in the morning donal left the house, having first called to arctura and warned her to lock the door of the sitting-room the moment he was gone. he ran all the way down to the inn, paid his bill, bought some things in the town for their breakfast, and taking the mare, rode up to the castle, and rang the bell. no notice was taken. he went and put up his animal, then let himself into the house by baliol's tower, and began to sing. so singing he went up the great stair, and into and along the corridor where the earl lay. the singing roused him, and brought him to his door in a rage. but the moment he saw donal his countenance fell. "what the devil are you doing here?" he said. "they told me in the town you were in england, my lord!" "i wrote to you," said the earl, "that we were gone to london, and that you need be in no haste to return. i trust you have not brought davie with you?" "i have not, my lord." "then make what haste back to him you can. he must not be alone with bumpkins! you may stay there with him till i send for you--only mind you go on with your studies. now be off. i am at home but for a few hours on business, and leave again by the afternoon coach!" "i do not go, my lord, until i have seen my mistress." "your mistress! who, pray, is your mistress!" "i am no longer in your service, my lord." "then what, in the name of god, have you done with my son?" "in good time, my lord, when you have told me where my mistress is! i am in this house as lady arctura's servant; and i desire to know where i shall find her." "in london." "what address, please your lordship? i will wait her orders here." "you will leave this house at once," said the earl. "i will not have you here in both her ladyship's absence and my own." "my lord, i am not ignorant how things stand: i am in lady arctura's house; and here i remain till i receive her commands." "very well! by all means!" "i ask you again for her address, my lord." "find it for yourself. you will not obey my orders: am i to obey yours?" he turned on his heel, and flung to his door. donal went to lady arctura. she was in the sitting-room, anxiously waiting his return. she had heard their voices, but nothing that passed. he told her what he had done; then produced his provisions, and together they prepared their breakfast. by and by they heard the earl come from his room, go here and there through the still house, and return to his apartment. in the afternoon he left the house. they watched him away--ill able, apparently, even to crawl along. he went down the hill, nor once lifted his head. they turned and looked at each other. profound pity for the wretched old man was the feeling of both. it was followed by one of intense relief and liberty. "you would like to be rid of me now, my lady," said donal; "but i don't see how i can leave you. shall i go and fetch miss carmichael?" "no, certainly," answered arctura. "i cannot apply to her." "it would be a pity to lose the advantage of your uncle's not knowing what has become of you." "i wonder what he will do next! if i were to die now, the property would be his, and then forgue's!" "you can will it away, i suppose, my lady!" answered donal. arctura stood thoughtful. "is forgue a bad man, mr. grant?" "i dare not trust him," answered donal. "do you think he had any knowledge of this plot of his father's?" "i cannot tell. i do not believe he would have left you to die in the chapel." chapter lxxviii. restoration. the same afternoon, while donal was reading to arctura in the library, there came a loud ringing of the door-bell. donal ran to see, and to his great delight, there was mistress brookes, half wild with anxious terror. "is my leddy safe?" she cried--then clasped donal in her arms and embraced him as if he had been her son. >from the moment she discovered herself fooled, she had been imagining all manner of terrible things--yet none so terrible as the truth. there was no end to her objurgations, exclamations, anathemas, and interjections. "now i can leave you in peace, my lady!" said donal, who had not resumed his seat. "noo ye can bide whaur ye are, an' be thankfu'!" said mistress brookes. "wha daur meddle wi' ye, an' me i' the hoose! an' wha kens what the mad yerl, for mad i s' uphaud him, an' fit only to be lockit up--wha kens what he may do neist! maister grant, i cannot lat ye oot o' the hoose." "i was only going as far as mistress comin's," replied donal. "weel, ye can gang; but min' ye're hame i' gude time!" "i thought of putting up there, but i will do as my lady pleases." "come home," said arctura. donal went, and the first person he saw when he entered the house was eppy. she turned instantly away, and left the room: he could not help seeing why. the old woman welcomed him with her usual cordiality, but not her usual cheerfulness: he had scarcely noted since her husband's death any change on her manner till now: she looked weary of the world. she sat down, smoothed her apron on her knees, gave him one glance in the face, then looked down at her hands, and said nothing. "i ken what ails ye, doory," said donal; "but i' the name o' him 'at's awa', hearken til me.--the lass is no lost, naither is the lord asleep. yer lamb 's been sair misguidit, sair pluckit o' her bonny woo', but gien for that she haud the closer by the lord's flock, she'll ken it wasna for want o' his care the tod got a grup o' her. it's a terrible pity for the bonny cratur, disgracin' them 'at aucht her! what for winna yoong fowk believe them 'at speyks true, but wull believe them 'at tells them little but lees! still, it's no as gien she had been stealin'! she's wrangt her puir sel', an' she's wrangt us a', an' she's wrangt the lord; but for a' that ye canna luik doon upon her as upo' the man 'at's grown rich at the cost o' his neebours. there's mony a gran' prood leddy 'ill hae to stan' aside to lat eppy pass up, whan we're 'afore the richteous judge." "eh, but ye speyk like my anerew!" cried the poor woman, wiping her old eyes with her rough apron. "i s' do what i can for her; but there's no hidin' o' 't!" "hidin' o' 't!" cried donal. "the lord forbid! sic things are no to be hidden! sae lang 's she 's i' the warl', the thing has to be kenned o' a' 'at come nigh her. she maun beir her burden, puir lass! the lord he'll lichten 't til her, but he'll hae naething smugglet up. that's no the w'y o' his kingdom!--i suppose there's nae doobt wha?" "nane. the lord forbid!" two days after, mr. graeme and his sister returned, and at lady arctura's request took up their abode at the castle. she told them that of late she had become convinced her uncle was no longer capable of attending to her affairs; that he was gone to london; that she had gone away with him, and was supposed to be with him still, though she had returned, and he did not know where she was. she did not wish him to know, but desired for the present to remain concealed. she had her reasons; and requested therefore as a personal favour that they would not once or to any one allude to her being at the castle. mr. graeme would in the meantime be so good as make himself acquainted, so far as possible, with the state of affairs between her and her uncle. in the course of the investigations thereupon following, it became clear that a large portion of the moneys of the estate received by his lordship were nowise accounted for. lady arctura directed that further inquiry should in the meantime be stayed, but that no more money should be handed over to him. for some time the factor heard nothing from his lordship. at length came instructions as to the forwarding of money, forgue writing and his father signing. mr. graeme replied, excusing himself as he could, but sending no money. they wrote again. again he excused himself. the earl threatened. mr. graeme took no heed. his lordship continued to demand and threaten, but neither he nor his son appeared. the factor at length wrote that he would pay no money but to lady arctura. the earl himself wrote in reply, saying--had he been out of the country that he did not know she was dead and six weeks in her grave? again the factor did not reply. donal rode back to glashgar, and brought davie home. lessons were resumed, and arctura took her full share in them. soon all about the castle was bustle and labour--masons and carpenters busy from morning to night. the wall that masked the windows of the chapel was pulled down; the windows, of stained glass, with never a crack, were cleaned; the passage under them was opened to the great stair; lady arctura had a small sweet-toned organ built in the little gallery, and the mural stair from her own room opened again, that she might go down when she pleased to play on it--sometimes, in south-easterly winds, to listen to the aeolian harp dreaming out the music of the spheres. in the process of removing the bed, much of it crumbled to dust. the carved tester and back were set up, the one over the great chimney-piece in the hall, the other over that in arctura's room. the altar was replaced where the bed had been. the story of the finding of the lost chapel was written by donal, and placed by arctura among the records of the family. but it soon became evident that what she had passed through had exercised a hurtful influence on lady arctura's health. she was almost always happy, but her strength at times would suddenly desert her. both donal and mistress brookes regarded her with some anxiety. her organ, to which she gave more labour than she was quite equal to, was now one of her main delights. often would its chords be heard creeping through the long ducts and passages of the castle: either for a small instrument its tone was peculiarly penetrating, or the chapel was the centre of the system of the house. on the roof would donal often sit listening to the sounds that rose through the shaft--airs and harmonies freed by her worshipping fingers--rejoicing to think how her spirit was following the sounds, guided by them in lovely search after her native country. one day she went on playing till she forgot everything but her music, and almost unconsciously began to sing "the lord is mindful of his own." she was unaware that she had two listeners--one on the roof above, one in the chapel below. when twelve months were come and gone since his departure, the earl one bright morning approached the door of the castle, half doubting, half believing it his own: he was determined on dismissing the factor after rigorous examination of his accounts; and he wanted to see davie. he had driven to the stables, and thence walked out on the uppermost terrace, passing the chapel without observing its unmasked windows. the great door was standing open: he went in, and up the stair, haunted by sounds of music he had been hearing ever since he stepped on the terrace. but on the stair was a door he had never seen! who dared make changes in his house? the thing was bewildering! but he was accustomed to be bewildered. he opened the door--plainly a new one--and entered a gloomy little passage, lighted from a small aperture unfit to be called a window. the under side of the bare steps of a narrow stone stair were above his head. had he or had he not ever seen the place before? on the right was a door. he went to it, opened it, and the hitherto muffled music burst loud on his ear. he started back in dismal apprehension:--there was the chapel, wide open to the eye of day!--clear and clean!--gone the hideous bed! gone the damp and the dust! while the fresh air trembled with the organ-breath rushing and rippling through it, and setting it in sweetest turmoil! he had never had such a peculiar experience! he had often doubted whether things were or were not projections from his own brain; he moved and acted in a world of subdued fact and enhanced fiction; he knew that sometimes he could not tell the one from the other; but never had he had the apparently real and the actually unreal brought so much face to face with each other! everything was as clear to his eyes as in their prime of vision, and yet there could be no reality in what he saw! ever since he left the castle he had been greatly uncertain whether the things that seemed to have taken place there, had really taken place. he got himself in doubt about them the moment he failed to find the key of the oak door. when he asked himself what then could have become of his niece, he would reply that doubtless she was all right: she did not want to marry forgue, and had slipped out of the way: she had never cared about the property! to have their own will was all women cared about! would his factor otherwise have dared such liberties with him, the lady's guardian? he had not yet rendered his accounts, or yielded his stewardship. when she died the property would be his! if she was dead, it was his! she would never have dreamed of willing it away from him! she did not know she could: how should she? girls never thought about such things! besides she would not have the heart: he had loved her as his own flesh and blood! at intervals, nevertheless, he was assailed, at times overwhelmed, by the partial conviction that he had starved her to death in the chapel. then he was tormented as with all the furies of hell. in his night visions he would see her lie wasting, hear her moaning, and crying in vain for help: the hardest heart is yet at the mercy of a roused imagination. he saw her body in its progressive stages of decay as the weeks passed, and longed for the process to be over, that he might go back, and pretending to have just found the lost room, carry it away, and have it honourably buried! should he take it for granted that it had lain there for centuries, or suggest it must be lady arctura--that she had got shut up there, like the bride in the chest? if he could but find an old spring lock to put on the door! but people were so plaguy sharp nowadays! they found out everything!--he could not afford to have everything found out!--god himself must not be allowed to know everything! he stood staring. as he stood and stared, his mind began to change: perhaps, after all, what he saw, might be! the whole thing it had displaced must then be a fancy--a creation of the dreaming brain! god in heaven! if it could but be proven that he had never done it! all the other wicked things he was--or supposed himself guilty of--some of them so heavy that it had never seemed of the smallest use to repent of them--all the rest might be forgiven him!--but what difference would that make to the fact that he had done them? he could never take his place as a gentleman where all was known! they made such a fuss about a sin or two, that a man went and did worse out of pure despair! but if he had never murdered anybody! in that case he could almost consent there should be a god! he could almost even thank him!--for what! that he was not to be damned for the thing he had not done--a thing he had had the misfortune to dream he had done--god never interfering to protect him from the horrible fancy? what was the good of a god that would not do that much for you--that left his creatures to make fools of themselves, and only laughed at them!--bah! there was life in the old dog yet! if only he knew the thing for a fancy! the music ceased, and the silence was a shock to him. again he began to stare about him. he looked up. before him in the air hovered the pale face of the girl he had--or had not murdered! it was one of his visions--but not therefore more unreal than any other appearance: she came from the world of his imagination--so real to him that in expectant moods it was the world into which he was to step the moment he left the body. she looked sweetly at him! she was come to forgive his sins! was it then true? was there no sin of murder on his soul? was she there to assure him that he might yet hope for the world to come? he stretched out his arms to her. she turned away. he thought she had vanished. the next moment she was in the chapel, but he did not hear her, and stood gazing up. she threw her arms around him. the contact of the material startled him with such a revulsion, that he uttered a cry, staggered back, and stood looking at her in worse perplexity still. he had done the awful thing, yet had not done it! he stood as one bound to know the thing that could not be. "don't be frightened, uncle," said arctura. "i am not dead. the sepulchre is the only resurrection-house! uncle, uncle! thank god with me." the earl stood motionless. strange thoughts passed through him at their will. had her presence dispelled darkness and death, and restored the lost chapel to the light of day? had she haunted it ever since, dead yet alive, watching for his return to pardon him? would his wife so receive him at the last with forgiveness and endearment? his eyes were fixed upon her. his lips moved tremulously once or twice, but no word came. he turned from her, glanced round the place, and said, "it is a great improvement!" i wonder how it would be with souls if they waked up and found all their sins but hideous dreams! how many would loathe the sin? how many would remain capable of doing all again? but few, perhaps no burdened souls can have any idea of the power that lies in god's forgiveness to relieve their consciousness of defilement. those who say, "even god cannot destroy the fact!" care more about their own cursed shame than their father's blessed truth! such will rather excuse than confess. when a man heartily confesses, leaving excuse to god, the truth makes him free, he knows that the evil has gone from him, as a man knows that he is cured of his plague. "i did the thing," he says, "but i could not do it now. i am the same, yet not the same. i confess, i would not hide it, but i loathe it--ten times the more that the evil thing was mine." had the earl been able to say thus, he would have felt his soul a cleansed chapel, new-opened to the light and air;--nay, better--a fresh-watered garden, in which the fruits of the spirit had begun to grow! god's forgiveness is as the burst of a spring morning into the heart of winter. his autumn is the paying of the uttermost farthing. to let us go without that would be the pardon of a demon, not the forgiveness of the eternally loving god. but--not yet, alas, not yet! has to be said over so many souls! arctura was struck dumb. she turned and walked out upon the great stair, her uncle following her. all the way up to the second floor she felt as if he were about to stab her in the back, but she would not look behind her. she went straight to her room, and heard her uncle go on to his. she rang her bell, sent for donal, and told him what had passed. "i will go to him," said donal. arctura said nothing more, thus leaving the matter entirely in his hands. donal found him lying on the couch. "my lord," he said, "you must be aware of the reasons why you should not present yourself here!" the earl started up in one of his ready rages:--they were real enough! with epithets of contemptuous hatred, he ordered donal from the room and the house. donal answered nothing till the rush of his wrath had abated. "my lord," he said, "there is nothing i would not do to serve your lordship. but i have no choice but tell you that if you do not walk out, you shall be expelled!" "expelled, you dog!" "expelled, my lord. the would-be murderer of his hostess must at least be put out of the house." "good heavens!" cried the earl, changing his tone with an attempted laugh, "has the poor, hysterical girl succeeded in persuading a man of your sense to believe her childish fancies?" "i believe every word my lady says, my lord. i know that you had nearly murdered her." the earl caught up the poker and struck at his head. donal avoided the blow. it fell on the marble chimney-piece. while his arm was yet jarred by the impact, donal wrenched the poker from him. "my lord," he said, "with my own hands i drew the staple of the chain that fastened her to the bed on which you left her to die! you were yet in the house when i did so." "you damned rascal, you stole the key. if it had not been for that i should have gone to her again. i only wanted to bring her to reason!" "but as you had lost the key, rather than expose your cruelty, you went away, and left her to perish! you wanted her to die unless you could compel her to marry your son, that the title and property might go together; and that when with my own ears i heard your lordship tell that son that he had no right to any title!" "what a man may say in a rage goes for nothing," answered the earl, sulkily rather than fiercely. "but not what a woman writes in sorrow!" rejoined donal. "i know the truth from the testimony of her you called your wife, as well as from your own mouth!" "the testimony of the dead, and at second hand, will hardly be received in court!" returned the earl. "if after your lordship's death, the man now called lord forgue dares assume the title of morven, i will publish what i know. in view of that, your lordship had better furnish him with the vouchers of his mother's marriage. my lord, i again beg you to leave the house." the earl cast his eyes round the walls as if looking for a weapon. donal took him by the arm. "there is no farther room for ceremony," he said. "i am sorry to be rough with your lordship, but you compel me. please remember i am the younger and the stronger man." as he spoke he let the earl feel the ploughman's grasp: it was useless to struggle. his lordship threw himself on the couch. "i will not leave the house. i am come home to die," he yelled. "i'm dying now, i tell you. i cannot leave the house! i have no money. forgue has taken all." "you owe a large sum to the estate!" said donal. "it is lost--all lost, i tell you! i have nowhere to go to! i am dying!" he looked so utterly wretched that donal's heart smote him. he stood back a little, and gave himself time. "you would wish then to retire, my lord, i presume?" he said. "immediately--to be rid of you!" the earl answered. "i fear, my lord, if you stay, you will not soon be rid of me! have you brought simmons with you?" "no, damn him! he is like all the rest of you: he has left me!" "i will help you to bed, my lord." "go about your business. i will get myself to bed." "i will not leave you except in bed," rejoined donal with decision; and ringing the bell, he desired the servant to ask mistress brookes to come to him. she came instantly. before the earl had time even to look at her, donal asked her to get his lordship's bed ready:--if she would not mind doing it herself, he said, he would help her: he must see his lordship to bed. she looked a whole book at him, but said nothing. donal returned her gaze with one of quiet confidence, and she understood it. what it said was, "i know what i am doing, mistress brookes. my lady must not turn him out. i will take care of him." "what are you two whispering at there?" cried the earl. "here am i at the point of death, and you will not even let me go to bed!" "your room will be ready in a few minutes, my lord," said mrs. brookes; and she and donal went to work in earnest, but with the door open between the rooms. when it was ready, "now, my lord," said donal, "will you come?" "when you are gone. i will have none of your cursed help!" "my lord, i am not going to leave you." with much grumbling, and a very ill grace, his lordship submitted, and donal got him to bed. "now put that cabinet by me on the table," he said. the cabinet was that in which he kept his drugs, and had not been touched since he left it. donal opened the window, took up the cabinet, and threw it out. with a bellow like that of a bull, the earl sprang out of bed, and just as the crash came from below, ran at donal where he stood shutting the window, as if he would have sent him after the cabinet. donal caught him and held him fast. "my lord," he said, "i will nurse you, serve you, do anything, everything for you; but for the devil i'll be damned if i move hand or foot! not one drop of hellish stuff shall pass your lips while i am with you!" "but i am dying! i shall die of the horrors!" shrieked the earl, struggling to get to the window, as if he might yet do something to save his precious extracts, tinctures, essences, and compounds. "we will send for the doctor," said donal. "a very clever young fellow has come to the town since you left: perhaps he can help you. i will do what i can to make you give your life fair play." "come, come! none of that damned rubbish! my life is of no end of value to me! besides, it's too late. if i were young now, with a constitution like yours, and the world before me, there might be some good in a paring or two of self-denial; but you wouldn't stab your murderer for fear of the clasp knife closing on your hand! you would not fire your pistol at him for fear of its bursting and blowing your brains out!" "i have no desire to keep you alive, my lord; but i would give my life to let you get some of the good of this world before you pass to the next. to lengthen your life infinitely, i would not give you a single drop of any one of those cursed drugs!" he rang the bell again. "you're a friendly fellow!" grunted his lordship, and went back to his bed to ponder how to gain the solace of his passion. mrs. brookes came. "will you please send to mr. avory, the new surgeon," said donal, "and ask him, in my name, to come to the castle." the earl was so ill, however, as to be doubtful, much as he desired them, whether, while rendering him for the moment less sensible to them, any of his drugs would do no other than increase his sufferings. he lay with closed eyes, a strange expression of pain mingled with something like fear every now and then passing over his face. i doubt if his conscience troubled him. it is in general those, i think, who through comparatively small sins have come to see the true nature of them, whose consciences trouble them greatly. those who have gone from bad to worse through many years of moral decay, are seldom troubled as other men, or have any bands in their death. his lordship, it is true, suffered terribly at times because of the things he had done; but it was through the medium of a roused imagination rather than a roused conscience: the former deals with consequences; the latter with the deeds themselves. he declared he would see no doctor but his old attendant dowster, yet all the time was longing for the young man to appear: he might--who could tell?--save him from the dreaded jaws of death! he came. donal went to him. he had summoned him, he said, without his lordship's consent, but believed he would see him; the earl had been long in the habit of using narcotics and stimulants, though not alcohol, he thought; he trusted mr. avory would give his sanction to the entire disuse of them, for they were killing him, body and soul. "to give them up at once and entirely would cost him considerable suffering," said the doctor. "he knows that, and does not in the least desire to give them up. it is absolutely necessary he should be delivered from the passion." "if i am to undertake the case, it must be after my own judgment," said the doctor. "you must undertake two things, or give up the case," persisted donal. "i may as well hear what they are." "one is, that you make his final deliverance from the habit your object; the other, that you will give no medicine into his own hands." "i agree to both; but all will depend on his nurse." "i will be his nurse." the doctor went to see his patient. the earl gave one glance at him, recognized firmness, and said not a word. but when he would have applied to his wrist an instrument recording in curves the motions of the pulse, he would not consent. he would have no liberties taken with him, he said. "my lord, it is but to inquire into the action of your heart," said mr. avory. "i'll have no spying into my heart! it acts just like other people's!" the doctor put his instrument aside, and laid his finger on the pulse instead: his business was to help, not to conquer, he said to himself: if he might not do what he would, he would do what he could. while he was with the earl, donal found lady arctura, and told her all he had done. she thanked him for understanding her. chapter lxxix. a slow transition. a dreary time followed. sometimes the patient would lie awake half the night, howling with misery, and accusing donal of heartless cruelty. he knew as well as he what would ease his pain and give him sleep, but not a finger would he move to save him! he was taking the meanest of revenges! what did it matter to him what became of his soul! surely it was worse to hate as he made him hate than to swallow any amount of narcotics! "i tell you, grant," he said once, "i was never so cruel to those i treated worst. there's nothing in the persian hells, which beat all the rest, to come up to what i go through for want of my comfort. promise to give it me, and i will tell you where to find some." as often as donal refused he would break out in a torrent of curses, then lie still for a space. "how do you think you will do without it," donal once rejoined, "when you find yourself bodiless in the other world?" "i'm not there yet! when that comes, it will be under new conditions, if not unconditioned altogether. we'll take the world we have. so, my dear boy, just go and get me what i want. there are the keys!" "i dare not." "you wish to kill me!" "i wouldn't keep you alive to eat opium. i have other work than that. not a finger would i move to save a life for such a life. but i would willingly risk my own to make you able to do without it. there would be some good in that!" "oh, damn your preaching!" but the force of the habit abated a little. now and then it seemed to return as strong as ever, but the fit went off again. his sufferings plainly decreased. the doctor, having little yet of a practice, was able to be with him several hours every day, so that donal could lie down. as he grew better, davie, or mistress brookes, or lady arctura would sit with him. but donal was never farther off than the next room. the earl's madness was the worst of any, a moral madness: it could not fail to affect the brain, but had not yet put him beyond his own control. repeatedly had donal been on the verge of using force to restrain him, but had not yet found himself absolutely compelled to do so: fearless of him, he postponed it always to the very last, and the last had not yet arrived. the gentle ministrations of his niece by and by seemed to touch him. he was growing to love her a little, he would smile when she came into the room, and ask her how she did. once he sat looking at her for some time--then said, "i hope i did not hurt you much." "when?" she asked. "then," he answered. "oh, no; you did not hurt me--much!" "another time, i was very cruel to your aunt: do you think she will forgive me!" "yes, i do." "then you have forgiven me?" "of course i have." "then of course god will forgive me too!" "he will--if you leave off, you know, uncle." "that's more than i can promise." "if you try, he will help you." "how can he? it is a second nature now!" "he is your first nature. he can help you too by taking away the body and its nature together." "you're a fine comforter! god will help me to be good by taking away my life! a nice encouragement to try! hadn't i better kill myself and save him the trouble!" "it's not the dying, uncle! no amount of dying would ever make one good. it might only make it less difficult to be good." "but i might after all refuse to be good! i feel sure i should! he had better let me alone!" "god can do more than that to compel us to be good--a great deal more than that! indeed, uncle, we must repent." he said no more for some minutes; then suddenly spoke again. "i suppose you mean to marry that rascal of a tutor!" he said. she started up, and called donal. but to her relief he did not answer: he was fast asleep. "he would not thank you for the suggestion, i fear," she said, sitting down again. "he is far above me!" "is there no chance for forgue then?" "not the smallest. i would rather have died where you left me than--" "if you love me, don't mention that!" he cried. "i was not myself--indeed i was not! i don't know now--that is, i can't believe sometimes i ever did it." "uncle, have you asked god to forgive you!" "i have--a thousand times." "then i will never speak of it again." in general, however, he was sullen, cantankerous, abusive. they were all compassionate to him, treating him like a spoiled, but not the less in reality a sickly child. arctura thought her grandmother could not have brought him up well; more might surely have been made of him. but arctura had him after a lifetime fertile in cause of self-reproach, had him in the net of sore sickness, at the mercy of the spirit of god. he was a bad old child--this much only the wiser for being old, that he had found the ways of transgressors hard. one night donal, hearing him restless, got up from the chair where he watched by him most nights, and saw him staring, but not seeing: his eyes showed that they regarded nothing material. after a moment he gave a great sigh, and his jaw fell. donal thought he was dead. but presently he came to himself like one escaping from torture: a terrible dream was behind him, pulling at the skirts of his consciousness. "i've seen her!" he said. "she's waiting for me to take me--but where i do not know. she did not look angry, but then she seldom looked angry when i was worst to her!--grant, i beg of you, don't lose sight of davie. make a man of him, and his mother will thank you. she was a good woman, his mother, though i did what i could to spoil her! it was no use! i never could!--and that was how she kept her hold of me. if i had succeeded, there would have been an end of her power, and a genuine heir to the earldom! what a damned fool i was to let it out! who would have been the worse!" "he's a heartless, unnatural rascal, though," he resumed, "and has made of me the fool i deserved to be made! his mother must see it was not my fault! i would have set things right if i could! but it was too late! and you tell me she has had a hand in letting the truth out--leaving her letters about!--that's some comfort! she was always fair, and will be the less hard on me. if i could see a chance of god being half as good to me as my poor wife. she was my wife! i will say it in spite of all the priests in the stupid universe! she was my wife, and deserved to be my wife; and if i had her now, i would marry her, because she would be foolish enough to like it, though i would not do it all the time she was alive, let her beg ever so! where was the use of giving in, when i kept her in hand so easily that way? that was it! it was not that i wanted to do her any wrong. but you should keep the lead. a man mustn't play out his last trump and lose the lead. but then you never know about dying! if i had known my poor wife was going to die, i would have done whatever she wanted. we had merry times together! it was those cursed drugs that wiled the soul out of me, and then the devil went in and took its place!--there was curara in that last medicine, i'll swear!--look you here now, grant:--if there were any way of persuading god to give me a fresh lease of life! you say he hears prayer: why shouldn't you ask him? i would make you any promise you pleased--give you any security you wanted, hereafter to live a godly, righteous, and sober life." "but," said donal, "suppose god, reading your heart, saw that you would go on as bad as ever, and that to leave you any longer would only be to make it the more difficult for him to do anything with you afterwards?" "he might give me a chance! it is hard to expect a poor fellow to be as good as he is himself!" "the poor fellow was made in his image!" suggested donal. "very poorly made then!" said the earl with a sneer. "we might as well have been made in some other body's image!" donal thought with himself. "did you ever know a good woman, my lord?" he asked. "know a good woman?--hundreds of them!--the other sort was more to my taste! but there was my own mother! she was rather hard on my father now and then, but she was a good woman." "suppose you had been in her image, what then?" "you would have had some respect for me!" "then she was nearer the image of god than you?" "thousands of miles!" "did you ever know a bad woman?" "know a bad woman? hundreds that would take your heart's blood as you slept to make a philtre with!" "then you saw a difference between such a woman and your mother?" "the one was of heaven, the other of hell--that was all the little difference!" "did you ever know a bad woman grow better?" "no, never.--stop! let me see. i did once know a woman--she was a married woman too--that made it all the worse--all the better i mean: she took poison--in good earnest, and died--died, sir--died, i say--when she came to herself, and knew what she had done! that was the only woman i ever knew that grew better. how long she might have gone on better if she hadn't taken the poison, i can't tell. that fixed her good, you see!" "if she had gone on, she might have got as good as your mother?" "oh, hang it! no; i did not say that!" "i mean, with god teaching her all the time--for ten thousand years, say--and she always doing what he told her!" "oh, well! i don't know anything about that. i don't know what god had to do with my mother being so good! she was none of your canting sort!" "there is an old story," said donal, "of a man who was the very image of god, and ever so much better than the best of women." "he couldn't have been much of a man then!" "were you ever afraid, my lord?" "yes, several times--many a time." "that man never knew what fear was." "by jove!" "his mother was good, and he was better: your mother was good, and you are worse! whose fault is that?" "my own; i'm not ashamed to confess it!" "would to god you were!" said donal: "you shame your mother in being worse than she was. you were made in the image of god, but you don't look like him now any more than you look like your mother. i have a father and mother, my lord, as like god as they can look!" "of course! of course! in their position there are no such temptations as in ours!" "i am sure of one thing, my lord--that you will never be at any peace until you begin to show the image in which you were made. by that time you will care for nothing so much as that he should have his way with you and the whole world." "it will be long before i come to that!" "probably; but you will never have a moment's peace till you begin. it is no use talking though. god has not made you miserable enough yet." "i am more miserable than you can think." "why don't you cry to him to deliver you?" "i would kill myself if it weren't for one thing." "it is from yourself he would deliver you." "i would, but that i want to put off seeing my wife as long as i can." "i thought you wanted to see her!" "i long for her sometimes more than tongue can tell." "and you don't want to see her?" "not yet; not just yet. i should like to be a little better--to do something or other--i don't know what--first. i doubt if she would touch me now--with that small, firm hand she would catch hold of me with when i hurt her. by jove, if she had been a man, she would have made her mark in the world! she had a will and a way with her! if it hadn't been that she loved me--me, do you hear, you dog!--though there's nobody left to care a worm-eaten nut about me, it makes me proud as lucifer merely to think of it! i don't care if there's never another to love me to all eternity! i have been loved as never man was loved! all for my own sake, mind you! in the way of money i was no great catch; and for the rank, she never got any good of that, nor would if she had lived till i was earl; she had a conscience--which i never had--and would never have consented to be called countess. 'it will be no worse than passing for my wife now,' i would say. 'what's either but an appearance? what's any thing of all the damned humbug but appearance? one appearance is as good as another appearance!' she would only smile--smile fit to make a mule sad! and then when her baby was dying, and she wanted me to take her for a minute, and i wouldn't! she laid her down, and got what she wanted herself, and when she went to take the child again, the absurd little thing was--was--gone--dead, i mean gone dead, never to cry any more! there it lay motionless, like a lump of white clay. she looked at me--and never--in this world--smiled again!--nor cried either--all i could do to make her!" the wretched man burst into tears, and the heart of donal gave a leap for joy. common as tears are, fall as they may for the foolishest things, they may yet be such as to cause joy in paradise. the man himself may not know why he weeps, and his tears yet indicate his turning on his road. the earl was as far from a good man as man well could be; there were millions of spiritual miles betwixt him and the image of god; he had wept it was hard to say at what--not at his own cruelty, not at his wife's suffering, not in pity of the little soul that went away at last out of no human embrace; himself least of all could have told why he wept; yet was that weeping some sign of contact between his human soul and the great human soul of god; it was the beginning of a possible communion with the father of all! surely god saw this, and knew the heart he had made--saw the flax smoking yet! he who will not let us out until we have paid the uttermost farthing, rejoices over the offer of the first golden grain. donal dropped on his knees and prayed:-- "o father of us all!" he said, "in whose hands are these unruly hearts of ours, we cannot manage ourselves; we ruin our own selves; but in thee is our help found!" prayer went from him; he rose from his knees. "go on; go on; don't stop!" cried the earl. "he may hear you--who can tell!" donal went down on his knees again. "o god!" he said, "thou knowest us, whether we speak to thee or not; take from this man his hardness of heart. make him love thee." there he stopped again. he could say no more. "i can't pray, my lord," he said, rising. "i don't know why. it seems as if nothing i said meant anything. i will pray for you when i am alone." "are there so many devils about me that an honest fellow can't pray in my company?" cried the earl. "i will pray myself, in spite of the whole swarm of them, big and little!--o god, save me! i don't want to be damned. i will be good if thou wilt make me. i don't care about it myself, but thou canst do as thou pleasest. it would be a fine thing if a rascal like me were to escape the devil through thy goodness after all. i'm worth nothing, but there's my wife! pray, pray, lord god, let me one day see my wife again!--for christ's sake--ain't that the way, grant?--amen." donal had dropped on his knees once more when the earl began to pray. he uttered a hearty amen. the earl turned sharply towards him, and saw he was weeping. he put out his hand to him, and said, "you'll stand my friend, grant?" chapter lxxx. away-faring. suddenly what strength lady arctura had, gave way, and she began to sink. but it was spring with the summer at hand; they hoped she would recover sufficiently to be removed to a fitter climate. she did not herself think so. she had hardly a doubt that her time was come. she was calm, often cheerful, but her spirits were variable. donal's heart was sorer than he had thought it could be again. one day, having been reading a little to her, he sat looking at her. he did not know how sad was the expression of his countenance. she looked up, smiled, and said, "you think i am unhappy!--you could not look at me like that if you did not think so! i am only tired; i am not unhappy. i hardly know now what unhappiness is! if ever i look as if i were unhappy, it is only that i am waiting for more life. it is on the way; i feel it is, because i am so content with everything; i would have nothing other than it is. it is very hard for god that his children will not trust him to do with them what he pleases! i am sure, mr. grant, the world is all wrong, and on the way to be all wondrously right. it will cost god much labour yet: we will cost him as little as we can--won't we?--oh, mr. grant, if it hadn't been for you, god would have been far away still! for a god i should have had something half an idol, half a commonplace tyrant! i should never have dreamed of the glory of god!" "no, my lady!" returned donal; "if god had not sent me, he would have sent somebody else; you were ready!" "i am very glad he sent you! i should never have loved any other so much!" donal's eyes filled with tears. he was simple as a child. no male vanity, no self-exultation that a woman should love him, and tell him she loved him, sprang up in his heart. he knew she loved him; he loved her; all was so natural it could not be otherwise: he never presumed to imagine her once thinking of him as he had thought of ginevra. he was her servant, willing and loving as any angel of god: that was all--and enough! "you are not vexed with your pupil--are you?" she resumed, again looking up in his face, this time with a rosy flush on her own. "why?" said donal, with wonder. "for speaking so to my master." "angry because you love me?" "no, of course!" she responded, at once satisfied. "you knew that must be! how could i but love you--better than any one else in the world! you have given me life! i was dead.--you have been like another father to me!" she added, with a smile of heavenly tenderness. "but i could not have spoken to you like this, if i had not known i was dying." the word shot a sting as of fire through donal's heart. "you are always a child, mr. grant," she went on; "death is making a child of me; it makes us all children: as if we were two little children together, i tell you i love you.--don't look like that," she continued; "you must not forget what you have been teaching me all this time--that the will of god, the perfect god, is all in all! he is not a god far off: to know that is enough to have lived for! you have taught me that, and i love you with a true heart fervently." donal could not speak. he knew she was dying. "mr. grant," she began again, "my soul is open to his eyes, and is not ashamed. i know i am going to do what would by the world be counted unwomanly; but you and i stand before our father, not before the world. i ask you in plain words, knowing that if you cannot do as i ask you willingly, you will not do it. and be sure i shall plainly be dying before i claim the fulfilment of your promise if you give it. i do not want your answer all at once: you must think about it." here she paused a while, then said, "i want you to marry me, if you will, before i go." donal could not yet speak. his soul was in a tumult of emotion. "i am tired," she said. "please go and think it over. if you say no, i shall only say, 'he knows best what is best!' i shall not be ashamed. only you must not once think what the world would say: of all people we have nothing to do with the world! we have nothing to do but with god and love! if he be pleased with us, we can afford to smile at what his silly children think of us: they mind only what their vulgar nurses say, not what their perfect father says: we need not mind them--need we?--i wonder at myself," she went on, for donal did not utter a word, "for being able to speak like this; but then i have been thinking of it for a long time--chiefly as i lie awake. i am never afraid now--not though i lie awake all night: 'perfect love casteth out fear,' you know. i have god to love, and jesus to love, and you to love, and my own father to love! when you know him, you will see how good a man can be without having been brought up like you!--oh, donal, do say something, or i shall cry, and crying kills me!" she was sitting on a low chair, with the sunlight across her lap--for she was again in the sunny garland-room--and the firelight on her face. donal knelt gently down, and laid his hands in the sunlight on her lap, just as if he were going to say his prayers at his mother's knee. she laid both her hands on his. "i have something to tell you," he said; "and then you must speak again." "tell me," said arctura, with a little gasp. "when i came here," said donal, "i thought my heart so broken that it would never love--that way, i mean--any more. but i loved god better than ever: and as one i would fain help, i loved you from the very first. but i should have scorned myself had i once fancied you loved me more than just to do anything for me i needed done. when i saw you troubled, i longed to take you up in my arms, and carry you like a lovely bird that had fallen from one of god's nests; but never once, my lady, did i think of your caring for my love: it was yours as a matter of course. i once asked a lady to kiss me--just once, for a good-bye: she would not--and she was quite right; but after that i never spoke to a lady but she seemed to stand far away on the top of a hill against a sky." he stopped. her hands on his fluttered a little, as if they would fly. "is she still--is she--alive?" she asked. "oh yes, my lady." "then she may--change--" said arctura, and stopped, for there was a stone in her heart. donal laughed. it was an odd laugh, but it did arctura good. "no danger of that, my lady! she has the best husband in the world--a much better than i should have made, much as i loved her." "that can't be!" "why, my lady, her husband's sir gibbie! she's lady galbraith! i would never have wished her mine if i had known she loved gibbie. i love her next to him." "then--then--" "what, my lady?" "then--then--oh, do say something!" "what should i say? what god wills is fast as the roots of the universe, and lovely as its blossom." arctura burst into tears. "then you do not--care for me!" donal began to understand. in some things he went on so fast that he could not hear the cry behind him. she had spoken, and had been listening in vain for response! she thought herself unloved: he had shown her no sign that he loved her! his heart was so full of love and the joy of love, that they had made him very still: now the delight of love awoke. he took her in his arms like a child, rose, and went walking about the room with her, petting and soothing her. he held her close to his heart; her head was on his shoulder, and his face was turned to hers. "i love you," he said, "and love you to all eternity! i have love enough now to live upon, if you should die to-night, and i should tarry till he come. o god, thou art too good to me! it is more than my heart can bear! to make men and women, and give them to each other, and not be one moment jealous of the love wherewith they love one another, is to be a god indeed!" so said donal--and spoke the high truth. but alas for the love wherewith men and women love each other! there were small room for god to be jealous of that! it is the little love with which they love each other, the great love with which they love themselves, that hurts the heart of their father. arctura signed at length a prayer for release, and he set her gently down in her chair again. then he saw her face more beautiful than ever before; and the rose that bloomed there was the rose of a health deeper than sickness. these children of god were of the blessed few who love the more that they know him present, whose souls are naked before him, and not ashamed. let him that hears understand! if he understand not, let him hold his peace, and it will be his wisdom! he who has no place for this love in his religion, who thinks to be more holy without it, is not of god's mind when he said, "let us make man!" he may be a saint, but he cannot be a man after god's own heart. the finished man is the saved man. the saint may have to be saved from more than sin. "when shall we be married?" asked donal. "soon, soon," answered arctura. "to-morrow then?" "no, not to-morrow: there is no such haste--now that we understand each other," she added with a rosy smile. "i want to be married to you before i die, that is all--not just to-morrow, or the next day." "when you please, my love," said donal. she laid her head on his bosom. "we are as good as married now," she said: "we know that each loves the other! how i shall wait for you! you will be mine, you know--a little bit mine--won't you?--even if you should marry some beautiful lady after i am gone?--i shall love her when she comes." "arctura!" said donal. chapter lxxxi. a will and a wedding. but the opening of the windows of heaven, and the unspeakable rush of life through channels too narrow and banks too weak to hold its tide, caused a terrible inundation: the red flood broke its banks, and weakened all the land. arctura sent for mr. graeme, and commissioned him to fetch the family lawyer from edinburgh. alone with him she gave instructions concerning her will. the man of business shrugged his shoulders, laden with so many petty weights, bowed down with so many falsest opinions, and would have expostulated with her. "sir!" she said. "you have a cousin who inherits the title!" he suggested. "mr. fortune," she returned, "it may be i know as much of my family as you. i did not send for you to consult you, but to tell you how i would have my will drawn up!" "i beg your pardon, my lady," rejoined the lawyer, "but there are things which may make it one's duty to speak out." "speak then; i will listen--that you may ease your mind." he began a long, common-sense, worldly talk on the matter, nor once repeated himself. when he stopped,-- "now have you eased your mind?" she asked. "i have, my lady." "then listen to me. there is no necessity you should hurt either your feelings or your prejudices. if it goes against your conscience to do as i wish, i will not trouble you." mr. fortune bowed, took his instructions, and rose. "when will you bring it me?" she asked. "in the course of a week or two, my lady." "if it is not in my hands by the day after to-morrow, i will send for a gentleman from the town to prepare it." "you shall have it, my lady," said mr. fortune. she did have it, and it was signed and witnessed. then she sank more rapidly. donal said no word about the marriage: it should be as she pleased! he was much by her bedside, reading to her when she was able to listen, talking to her or sitting silent when she was not. arctura had at once told mistress brookes the relation in which she and donal stood to each other. it cost the good woman many tears, for she thought such a love one of the saddest things in a sad world. neither arctura nor donal thought so. the earl at this time was a little better, though without prospect of even temporary recovery. he had grown much gentler, and sadness had partially displaced his sullenness. he seemed to have become in a measure aware of the bruteness of the life he had hitherto led: he must have had a glimpse of something better. it is wonderful what the sickness which human stupidity regards as the one evil thing, can do towards redemption! he showed concern at his niece's illness, and had himself carried down every other day to see her for a few minutes. she received him always with the greatest gentleness, and he showed something that seemed like genuine affection for her. it was a morning in the month of may-- the naked twigs were shivering all for cold-- when donal, who had been with arctura the greater part of the night, and now lay on the couch in a neighbouring room, heard mrs. brookes call him. "my lady wants you, sir," she said. he started up, and went to her. "send for the minister," she whispered, "--not mr. carmichael; he does not know you. send for mr. graeme too: he and mistress brookes will be witnesses. i must call you husband once before i die!" "i hope you will many a time after!" he returned. she smiled on him with a look of love unutterable. "mind," she said, holding out her arms feebly, but drawing him fast to her bosom, "that this is how i love you! when you see me dull and stupid, and i hardly look at you--for though death makes bright, dying makes stupid--then say to yourself, 'this is not how she loves me; it is only how she is dying! she loves me and knows it--and by and by will be able to show it!'" they were precious words both then and afterwards! with some careful questioning, to satisfy himself that, so evidently at the gate of death she yet knew perfectly her own mind,--and not without some shakes of the head revealing disapprobation, the minister did as he was requested, and wrote a certificate of the fact, which was duly signed and witnessed. and if he showed his disapproval yet more in the prayer with which he concluded the ceremony, none but mistress brookes showed responsive indignation. the bridegroom gave his bride one gentle kiss, and withdrew with the clergyman. "pardon me if i characterize this as a strange proceeding!" said the latter. "not so strange perhaps as it looks, sir!" said donal. "on the very brink of the other world!" "the other world and its brink too are his who ordained marriage!" "for this world only," said the minister. "the gifts of god are without repentance," said donal. "i have heard of you!" returned the clergyman. "you are one, they tell me, given to misusing scripture." he had conceived a painful doubt that he had been drawn into some plot! "sir!" said donal sternly, "if you saw any impropriety in the ceremony, why did you perform it? i beg you will now reserve your remarks. you ought to have made them before or not at all. if you be silent, the thing will probably never be heard of, and i should greatly dislike having it the town-talk." "except i see reason--that is, if nothing follow to render disclosure necessary, i shall be silent," said the minister. he would have declined the fee offered by donal; but he was poor, and its amount prevailed: he accepted it, and took his leave with a stiffness he intended for dignity: he had a high sense, if not of the dignity of his office, at least of the dignity his office conferred on him. donal had next a brief interview with mr. graeme. the factor was in a state of utter bewilderment, and readily yielded donal a promise of silence: the mere whim of a dying girl, it had better be ignored and forgotten! as to grant's part in it he did not know what to think. it could not affect the property, he thought: it could hardly be a marriage! and then there was the will--of the contents of which he knew nothing! if it were a complete marriage, the will was worth nothing, being made before it! i will not linger over the quiet, sad time that followed. donal was to arctura, she said, father, brother, husband, in one. through him she had reaped the harvest of the world, in spite of falsehood, murder, fear, and distrust! she lay victorious on the battlefield! in the heart of her bridegroom reigned a peace the world could not give or take away. he loved with a love that cast the love of former days into the shadow of a sweet but undesired remembrance. a long twilight life lay before him, but he would have plenty to do! and such was the love between him and arctura, that every doing of the will of god was as the tying of a fresh bond between him and her: she was his because they were the father's, whose will was the life and bond of the universe. "i think," said donal, that same night by her bed, "when my mother dies, she will go near you: i will, if i can, send you a message by her. but it will not matter; it can only tell you what you will know well enough--that i love you, and am waiting to come to you." the stupidity of calling oneself a christian, and doubting if we shall know our friends hereafter! in those who do not believe such a doubt is more than natural, but in those who profess to believe, it shows what a ragged scarecrow is the thing they call their faith--not worth that of many an old jew, or that of here and there a pagan! "i shall not be far from you, dear, i think--sometimes at least," she said, speaking very low. "if you dream anything nice about me, think i am thinking of you. if you should dream anything not nice, think something is lying to you about me. i do not know if i shall be allowed to come near you, but if i am--and i think i shall be--sometimes, i shall laugh to myself to think how near i am, and you fancying me a long way off! but any way all will be well, for the great life, our god, our father, is, and in him we cannot but be together." after that she fell into a deep sleep, and slept for hours. then suddenly she sat up. donal put his arm behind and supported her. she looked a little wild, shuddered, murmured something he could not understand, then threw herself back into his arms. her expression changed to a look of divinest, loveliest content, and she was gone. chapter lxxxii. the will. when her will was read, it was found that, except some legacies, and an annuity to mrs. brookes, she had left everything to donal. mr. graeme, rising the moment the lawyer looked up, congratulated donal--politely, not cordially, and took his leave. "if you are walking towards home," said donal, "i will walk with you." "i shall be happy," said mr. graeme--feeling it not a little hard that one who would soon be heir presumptive to the title should have to tend the family property in the service of a stranger and a peasant. "lord morven cannot live long," said donal as they went. "it is not to be wished he should." mr. graeme returned no answer. donal resumed. "i think i ought to let you know at once that you are heir to the title." "i think you owe the knowledge to myself!" said the factor, not without a touch of contempt. "by no means," rejoined donal: "on presumption, after lord forgue, you told me;--after lord morven, i tell you." "i am at a loss to imagine on what you found such a statement," said graeme, beginning to suspect insanity. "naturally; no one knows it but myself. lord morven knows that his son cannot succeed, but he does not know that you can. i am prepared, if not to prove, at least to convince you that he and his son's mother were not married." mr. graeme was for a moment silent. then he laughed a little laugh--not a pleasant one. "another of time's clownish tricks!" he said to himself: "the earl the factor on the family-estate!" donal did not like the way he took it, but saw how natural it was. "i hope you have known me long enough," he said, "to believe i have contrived nothing?" "excuse me, mr. grant: the whole business looks suspicious. the girl was dying! you knew it!" "i do not understand you." "what did you marry her for?" "to make her my wife." "pray what could be the good of that except--?" "does it need any explanation but that we loved each other?" "you will find it difficult to convince the world that such was your sole motive." "having no care for the opinion of the world, i shall be satisfied if i convince you. the world needs never hear of the thing. would you, mr. graeme, have had me not marry her, because the world, including not a few honest men like yourself, would say my object was the property?" "don't put the question to me; i am not the proper person to answer it. there is not a man in a hundred millions who with the chance would not have done the same, or whom all the rest would not blame for doing it. it would have been better for you, however, that there had been no will." "how?" "it makes it look the more like a scheme:--the will might have been disputed." "why do you say--might have been?" "because it is not worth disputing now. if the marriage stands, it annuls the will." "i did not know; and i suppose she did not know either. or perhaps she wanted to make the thing sure: if the marriage was not enough, the will would be--she may have thought. but i knew nothing of it." "you did not?" "of course i did not." mr. graeme held his peace. for the first time he doubted donal's word. "but i wanted to have a little talk with you," resumed donal. "i want to know whether you think your duty all to the owner of the land, or in any measure to the tenants also." "that is easy to answer: one employed by the landlord can owe the tenant nothing." it was not just the answer he would have given to another questioner. "do you not owe him justice?" asked donal. "every legal advantage i ought to take for my employer." "even to the grinding of the faces of the poor?" "i have nothing to do, as his employé, with my own ideas as to what may be equitable." he drew the line thus hard in pure opposition to donal. "what then would you say if the land were your own? would you say you had it solely for your own and your family's good, or for that of the tenants as well?" "i should very likely reason that what was good for them would in the long run be good for me too.--but if you want to know how i have treated the tenants, there are intelligent men amongst them, not at all prejudiced in favour of the factor!" "i wish you would be open with me," said donal. "i prefer keeping my own place," rejoined mr. graeme. "you speak as one who found a change in me," returned donal. "there is none." so saying he shook hands with him, bade him good morning, and turned with the depression of failure. "i did not lead up to the point properly!" he said to himself. chapter lxxxiii. insight. mr. graeme was a good sort of man, and a gentleman; but he was not capable of meeting donal on the ground on which he approached him: on that level he had never set foot. there is nothing more disappointing to the generous man than the way in which his absolute frankness is met by the man of the world--always looking out for motives, and imagining them after what is in himself. there was great confidence between the brother and sister, and as he walked homeward, mr. graeme was not so well pleased with himself as to think with satisfaction on the report of the interview he could give kate. he did not accuse himself with regard to anything he had said, but he felt his behaviour influenced by jealousy of the low-born youth who had supplanted him. for, if percy could not succeed to the title, neither could he have succeeded to the property; and but for the will or the marriage, perhaps but for the two together, he would himself have come in for that also! the will was worth nothing except the marriage was disputed: annul the marriage, and the will was of force! he told his sister, as nearly as he could, all that had passed between them. "if he wanted me to talk to him," he said, "why did he tell me that about forgue? it was infernally stupid of him! but what's bred in the bone--! a gentleman 's not made in a day!" "nor in a thousand years, hector!" rejoined his sister. "donal grant is a gentleman in the best sense of the word! that you say he is not, lets me see you are vexed with yourself. he is a little awkward sometimes, i confess; but only when he is looking at a thing from some other point of view, and does not like to say you ought to have been looking at it from the same. and you can't say he shuffles, for he never stops till he has done his best to make you!--what have you been saying to him, hector?" "nothing but what i have told you; it's rather what i have not been saying!" answered her brother. "he would have had me open out to him, and i wouldn't. how could i! whatever i said that pleased him, would have looked as if i wanted to secure my situation! hang it all! i have a good mind to throw it up. how is a graeme to serve under a bumpkin?" "the man is not a bumpkin; he is a scholar and a poet!" said the lady. "pooh! pooh! what's a poet?" "one that may or may not be as good a man of business as yourself when it is required of him." "come, come! don't you turn against me, kate! it's hard enough to bear as it is!" miss graeme made no reply. she was meditating all she knew of donal, to guide her to the something to which she was sure her brother had not let him come; and presently she made him recount again all they had said to each other. "i tell you, hector," she exclaimed, "you never made such a fool of yourself in your life! if i know human nature, that man is different from any other you have had to do with. it will take a woman, a better woman than your sister, i confess, to understand him; but i see a little farther into him than you do. he is a man who, never having had money enough to learn the bad uses of it, and never having formed habits it takes money to supply, having no ambition, living in books not in places, and for pleasure having more at his command in himself than the richest--he is a man who, i say, would find money an impediment to his happiness, for he must have a sense of duty with regard to it which would interfere with everything he liked best. besides, though he does not care a straw for the judgment of the world where it differs from him, he would be sorry to seem to go against that judgment where he agrees with it: scorning to marry any woman for her money, he would not have the world think he had done so." "ah, katey, there i have you! the world would entirely approve of his doing that!" "i will take a better position then:--he would not willingly seem to have done a thing he himself despises. the man believes himself sent into the world to teach it something: he would not have it thrown in his teeth that, after all, he looks to the main chance as keenly as another! he would starve before he would have men say so--yes, even say so falsely. i am as sure he did not marry lady arctura for her money, as i am sure lord forgue, or you, hector, would have done it if you had had a chance.--there!--my conviction is that the bumpkin sought a fit opening to tell you that the will was to go for nothing, and that no word need be said about the marriage. you know he made you promise not to mention it--only i wormed it out of you!" "that's just like you women! the man you take a fancy to is always head and shoulders above other men!" "as you take it so, i will tell you more: that man will never marry again!" "wait a bit. admiration is sometimes mutual: who knows but he may ask you next!" "if he did ask me, i might take him, but i should never think so much of him!" "heroic kate!" "if you had been a little more heroic, hector, you would have responded to him--and found it considerably to your advantage." "you don't imagine i would be indebted--" "hush! hush! don't pledge yourself in a hurry--even to me!" said kate. "leave as wide a sea-margin about your boat as you may. you don't know what you would or would not. mr. grant knows, but you do not." "mr. grant again!--well!" "well!--we shall see!" and they soon did. for that same evening donal called, and asked to see miss graeme. "i am sorry my brother is gone down to the town," she said. "it was you i wanted to see," he answered. "i wish to speak openly to you, for i imagine you will understand me better than your brother. perhaps i ought rather to say--i shall be better able to explain myself to you." there was that in his countenance which seemed to seize and hold her--a calm exaltation, as of a man who had outlived weakness and was facing the eternal. the spirit of a smile hovered about his mouth and eyes, embodying itself now and then in a grave, sweet, satisfied smile: the man seemed full of content, not with himself, but with something he would gladly share. "i have been talking with your brother," he said, after a brief pause. "i know," she answered. "i am afraid he did not meet you as he ought. he is a good and honourable man; but like most men he needs a moment to pull himself together. few men, mr. grant, when suddenly called upon, answer from the best that is in them." "the fact is simply this," resumed donal: "i do not want the morven property. i thank god for lady arctura: what was hers i do not desire." "but may it not be your duty to take it, mr. grant?--pardon me for suggesting duty to one who always acts from it." "i have reflected, and do not think god wants me to take it. because she is mine, ought i of necessity to be enslaved to all her accidents? must i, because i love her, hoard her gowns and shoes?" then first miss graeme noted that he never spoke of his wife as in the past. "but there are others to be considered," she replied. "you have made me think about many things, mr. grant! my brother and i have had many talks as to what we would do if the land were ours." "and yours it shall be," said donal, "if you will take it as a trust for the good of all whom it supports. i have other work to do." "i will tell my brother what you say," answered miss graeme, with victory in her heart--for was it not as she had divined? "it is better," continued donal, "to help make good men than happy tenants. besides, i know how to do the one, and i do not know how to do the other. there would always be a prejudice against me too, as not to the manner born. but if your brother should accept my offer, i hope he will not think me interfering if i talk sometimes of the principles of the relation. things go wrong, generally, because men have such absurd and impossible notions about possession. they call things their own which it is impossible, from their very nature, ever to possess or make their own. power was never given to man over men for his own sake, and the nearer he that so uses it comes to success, the more utter will prove his discomfiture. talk to your brother about it, miss graeme. tell him that, as heir to the title, and as head of the family, he can do more than any other with the property, and i will gladly make it over to him without reserve. i would not be even partially turned aside from my own calling." "i will tell him what you say. i told him he had misunderstood you. i saw into your generous thought." "it is not generous at all. my dear miss graeme, you do not know how little of a temptation such things are to me! there are some who only care to inherit straight from the first father. you may say the earth is the lord's, and therefore a part of that first inheritance: i admit it; but such possession as this in question would not satisfy me in the least. i must inherit the earth in a far deeper, grander, truer way than calling the land mine, before i shall count myself to have come into my own. i want to have all things just as the maker of me wants me to have them.--i will call on you again to-morrow; i must now go back to the earl. poor man, he is sinking fast! but i believe he is more at peace than he has ever been before!" donal took his leave, and miss graeme had plenty to think of till her brother's return: if she felt a little triumphant, it may be pardoned her. he was ashamed, and not a little humbled by what she told him. he did not wait for donal to come to him, but went to the castle early the next morning. nor was he mistaken in trusting donal to believe that it was not from eagerness to retrace in his own interest the false step he had taken, but from desire to show his shame of having behaved so ungenerously: donal received him so as to make it plain he did not misunderstand him, and they had a long talk. graeme was all the readier for his blunder to hear what donal had to say, and donal's unquestionable disinterestedness was endlessly potent with graeme. their interview resulted in donal's thinking still better of him than before, and being satisfied that, up to his light, the man was honest--which is saying much--and thence open to conviction, and both sides of a question. but ere it was naturally over, donal was summoned to the earl. after his niece's death, no one would do for him but donal; nobody could please him but donal. his mind as well as his body was much weaker. but the intellect, great thing though it be, is yet but the soil out of which, or rather in which, higher things must grow, and it is well when that soil is not too strong, so to speak, for the most gracious and lovely of plants to root themselves in it. when the said soil is proud and unwilling to serve, it must be thinned and pulverized with sickness, failure, poverty, fear--that the good seeds of god's garden may be able to root themselves in it; when they get up a little, they will use all the riches and all the strength of the stiffest soil. "who will have the property now?" he asked one day. "is the factor anywhere in the running?" "title and property both will be his," answered donal. "and my poor davie?" said the earl, with wistful question in the eyes that gazed up in donal's face. "forgue, the rascal, has all my money in his power already." "i will see to davie," replied donal. "when you and i meet, my lord--by and by, i shall not be ashamed." the poor man was satisfied. he sent for davie, and told him he was always to do as mr. grant wished, that he left him in his charge, and that he must behave to him like a son. davie was fast making acquaintance with death--but it was not to him dreadful as to most children, for he saw it through the face and words of the man whom he most honoured. chapter lxxxiv. morven house. in the evening donal went again to the home-farm. finding himself alone in the drawing-room, he walked out into the old garden. "thank god," he said to himself, "if my wife should come here some sad, sweet night, with a low moon-crescent, and a gently thinking wind, and wander about the garden, it will not be to know herself forgotten!" he went up and down the grassy paths. once again, all as long ago--for it seemed long now--he was joined by miss graeme. "i couldn't help fancying," she said as she came up to him, "that i saw lady arctura walking by your side.--god forgive me! how could i be so heartless as mention her!" "her name will always be pleasant in my ears," returned donal. "i was thinking of her--that was how you felt as if you saw her! you did not really see anything, did you?" "oh, no!" "she is nearer me than that," said donal. "she will be with me wherever i am; i shall never be sad. god is with me, and i do not weep that i cannot see him: i wait; i wait." miss graeme was in tears. "mr. grant," she said, "she is gone a happy angel to heaven instead of a pining woman! that is your doing! god bless you!--you will let me think of you as a friend?" "always; always: you loved her." "i did not at first; i thought of her only as a poor troubled creature! now i know there was more life in her trouble than in my content. i came not only to love her, but to look up to her as a saint: if ever there was one, it was she, mr. grant. she often came here after i showed her that poem. she used to walk here alone in the twilight. that horrid miss carmichael! she was the plague of her life!" "she was god's messenger--to buffet her, and make her know her need of him. be sure, miss graeme, not a soul can do without him." here mr. graeme joined them. "i do not think the earl will last many days," said donal. "it would be well, it seems to me, at once upon his death to take possession of the house in the town. it is the only property that goes with the title. and of course you would at once take up your abode in the castle! you will find in the earl's papers many proofs, i imagine, that his son has no claim. i would have a deed of gift drawn up, but would rather you seemed to come in by natural succession. we are not bound to tell the world everything; we are only bound to be able without shame to tell it everything. and then i shall have a favour to ask: morven house, down in the town, is of no great use to you: let me rent it of you. i should like to live there and have a school, with davie for my first pupil. when we get another, we will try to make a man of him too. we will not care so much about making a great scholar, or a great anything of him, but a true man. we will try to help the whole man of him into the likeness of the one man." here mr. graeme broke in. "you will never make a living that way!" he said. donal opened his eyes and looked at him. like one convicted and ashamed, the eyes of the man of business fell before those of the man of god. "ah," said donal, "you have not an idea, mr. graeme, on how little i could live!--here, you had better take the will," he added, pulling it from his pocket. mr. graeme hesitated. "if you would rather not, i will keep it. i would throw it in the fire, but either you or i must keep it for a time as against all chances." mr. graeme took it. that night the earl died. donal wrote to percy that his father was dead. two days after, he appeared. the new earl met him in the hall. "mr. graeme," said percy,-- "i am lord morven, mr. graeme," returned his lordship. the fellow said an evil word, turned on his heel, and left them to bury his father without him. the funeral over, the earl turned to donal and looked him in the face: they walked back to the castle arm in arm, and from that moment were as brothers. earl hector did nothing of importance without consulting donal, and donal had the more influence both with landlord and tenants that he had no interest in the property. the same week he left the castle, and took possession of morven house. the people said mr. grant had played his cards well: had they known what he had really done, they would have called him a born idiot. davie, to whom no calamity could be overwhelming so long as he had mr. grant, accompanied him gladly, more than content to live with him till he went to college, whither the earl wished to send him. donal hindered rather than sped the day. when it came, the earl would have had him go too, but donal would not. "i have done what i can," he said. "it is time he should walk alone." it was soon evident that the boy would not disgrace him. there is no certainty as to how deep any teaching may have gone--as to whether it has reached the issues of life or not, until a youth is left by himself, and has to choose and refuse companions: the most promising youths are often but promisers. with the full concurrence of miss graeme, donal had persuaded mistress brookes--easy persuasion where the suggestion was enough!--to keep house for him. they went together, and together unlocked the door of morven house. mistress brookes said the place was in an awful state. there was not much, to be sure, for the mason to do, but for the carpenter! it had not been touched for generations! he must go away, and stay away till she summoned him! donal gladly went home to his hills, and took davie with him. he told his father and mother, sir gibbie and his lady, the things that had befallen him, and every one approved heartily of what he had done. his mother took his renunciation of the property as a matter of course. all agreed it should not be spoken of. when they returned to auchars, sir gibbie and lady galbraith went with them, and staid for some weeks. the townsfolk said he was but a poor baronet that could not speak mortal word. lord morven and miss graeme had done their best to make the house what they thought donal would like. but in the castle they kept for him the rooms lady arctura had called her own. there he gathered the books, and a few other of the more immediately personal possessions of his wife--her piano for one--upon which he taught himself to play a little; and thither he betook himself often on holidays, and always on sunday evenings. what went on then i leave to the imagination of the reader who knows that alone one may meet many, sitting still may travel far, and silent make the universe hear. lord morven kept larkie for davie. the last i heard of davie was that he was in india, an officer in the army, beloved of his men, and exercising a most beneficial influence on his regiment. the things he had learned he had so learned that they went out from him, finding new ground in which to root and grow. in his day and generation he helped the coming of the kingdom of truth and righteousness, and so fulfilled his high calling. it was some time before donal had any pupils, and he never had many, for he was regarded as a most peculiar man, with ideas about education odd in the extreme. it was granted, however, that, if a boy stayed, or rather if he allowed him to stay with him long enough, he was sure to turn out a gentleman: that which was deeper and was the life of the gentleman, people seldom saw--would seldom have valued if they had seen. most parents would like their children to be ladies and gentlemen; that they should be sons and daughters of god, they do not care! the few wise souls in the neighbourhood know donal as the heart of the place--the man to go to in any difficulty, in any trouble or apprehension. miss carmichael grew by degrees less talkative, and less obtrusive of her opinions. after some years she condescended to marry a farmer on lord morven's estate. their only child, a thoughtful boy, and a true reader, sought the company of the grave man with the sweet smile, going often to his house to ask him about this or that. he reminded him of davie, and grew very dear to him. the mother discovering that, as often as he stole away, it was to go to the master--everybody called him the maister--scolded and forbade. but the prohibition brought such a time of tears and gloom and loss of appetite, and her husband so little shared her prejudices against the master, that she was compelled to recall it, and the boy went and went as before. when he was taken ill, and on his deathbed, nobody could make him happy but the master; he almost nursed him through the last few days of his short earthly life. but the mother seemed not to like him any the better--rather to regard him as having deprived her of some of her rights in the love of her boy. donal is still a present power of heat and light in the town of auchars. he wears the same solemn look, the same hovering smile. they say to those who can read them, "i know in whom i have believed." it is the god who is the father of the lord that he believes in. his life is hid with christ in god, and he has no anxiety about anything. the wheels of the coming chariot, moving fast or slow to fetch him, are always moving; and whether it arrive at night, or at cock-crowing, or in the blaze of noon, is one to him. he is ready for the life his arctura knows. "god is," he says, "and all is well." he never disputes, rarely seeks to convince. "i will let what light i have shine; but disputation is smoke. it is to no profit!--and i do like," he says, "to give and to get the good of things!" the end. note from john bechard, creator of this electronic text. the following is a list of scottish words which are found in george macdonald's "donal grant". i have compiled this list myself and worked out the definitions from context with the help of margaret west, from leven in fife, scotland, and also by referring to a word list found in a collection of poems by robert burns, "chamber's scots dialect dictionary from the th century to the present" c. and "scots-english english-scots dictionary" lomond books c. . i have tried to be as thorough as possible given the limited resources and welcome any feedback on this list which may be wrong (my e-mail address is jabbechard@aol.com). this was never meant to be a comprehensive list of the national scottish language, but rather an aid to understanding some of the conversations and references in this text in the broad scots. i do apologise for any mistakes or omissions. i aimed for my list to be very comprehensive, and it often repeats the same word in a plural or diminutive form. as well, it includes words that are quite obvious to native english speakers, only spelled in such a way to demonstrate the regional pronunciation. this list is a compressed form that consists of three columns for 'word', 'definition', and 'additional notes'. it is set up with a comma between each item and a hard return at the end of each definition. this means that this section could easily be cut and pasted into its own text file and imported into a database or spreadsheet as a comma separated variable file (.csv file). failing that, you could do a search and replace for commas in this section (i have not used any commas in my words, definitions or notes) and replace the commas with spaces or tabs. word, definition, notes a', all; every, also have 'a', have, a' body, everyone; everybody, a' place, all places; everywhere, a' thing, everything; anything, a'body, everyone; everybody, aboon, above; up; over, aboot, about, abro'd, abroad, abune, above; up; over, ac', act, accep', accept, accoont, account, accoontable, accountable, accoonts, accounts, ae, one, ae-sidit, one-sided, aff, off; away; past; beyond, affrontit, affronted; disgraced, also ashamed; shamed afore, before; in front of, 'afore, before; in front of, 'afore han', beforehand, 'aforehan', beforehand, aft, often, aften, often, again, against; opposed to, also again again', against, agen, against, 'ahin', behind; after; at the back of, ahint, behind; after; at the back of, 'ahint, behind; after; at the back of, ain, own, also one aipple, apple, airms, arms, also coat of arms; crest airmy, army, airt, quarter; direction; compass point, also art airy, chilly, ait, eat, aith, oath, aither, either, aitin', eating, aiven, even, alane, alone, alang, along, alison, awl, alloo, allow, allooed, allowed, alloot, allowed, almichty, almighty; god, amen's, amends, amo', among, amoont, amount, an', and, ance, once, ane, one, also a single person or thing anent, opposite to; in front of, also concerning anerew, andrew, anes, ones, 'aneth, beneath; under, angers, angers; makes angry, also grieves angert, angered; angry, also grieved angle-corbie, raven (sent from heaven), reference to kings : anither, another, an'rew, andrew, answert, answered, appearit, appeared, appeart, appeared, approachin', approaching, appruv, approve, a'ready, already, arena, are not, argle-barglet, bandied words; disputed; haggled, art and part, aiding and abetting, ashamet, ashamed, aside, beside, also aside askin', asking, asun'er, asunder, 'at, that, aten, eaten, a'thegither, all together, a'thing, everything; anything, 'at'll, that will, 'at's, that is, atween, between, 'atween, between, aucht, eight; eighth, also ought; own; possess auchteen, eighteen, auchty, eighty, auld, old, aulder, older, auldest, oldest, auld-farrand, old-fashioned, also droll; witty; quaint ava', at all; of all, exclamation of banter; ridicule awa, away; distant, awa', away; distant, aweel, ah well; well then; well, awfu', awful, ay, yes; indeed, exclamation of surprise; wonder aye, yes; indeed, ayont, beyond; after, 'ayont, beyond; after, backbane, backbone, baggin', swelling; bulging, bairn, child, bairnie, little child, diminutive bairnly, childish, bairns, children, baith, both, banes, bones, bangin', banging, bangt, banged, barnflure, barn floor, becomin', becoming, bed-claes, bedclothes, beery, bury, beggin', begging, beggit, begged, beginnin', beginning, behavet, behaved, bein', being, beir, bear, beirin', bearing; allowing, believin', believing, belongin', belonging, ben, in; inside; into; within; inwards, also inner room bena, be not; is not, beseekit, beseeched, bethinking (oneself), stopping to think; reflecting, bidden, abided; stayed, bide, endure; bear; remain; live, also desire; wish bidin', enduring; bearing; remaining; living, also desiring; wishing biggin', building, biggit, built, binna, be not, bit, but; bit, also small; little--diminutive blamin', blaming, blaw, blow, blessin', blessing, blessin's, blessings, blin', blind, blink, take a hasty glance; ogle, also shine; gleam; twinkle blude, blood, bludeshed, bloodshed, bluid, blood, boady, body, body, person; fellow, also body bonnie, good; beautiful; pretty; handsome, bonny, good; beautiful; pretty; handsome, boord, board (i.e. room and board), brainch, branch, brak, break, brakfast, breakfast, br'akin', breaking, brawly, admirably; very; very much; well, breid, bread, brither, brother, brither man, fellowman; brother, brithers, brothers; fellows, brocht, brought, broucht, brought, bude, would prefer to, buik, book, also bible buiks, books, buildin', building, b'un', bound, burnin', burning, buss, bush; shrub; thicket, buyin', buying, by ord'nar, out of the ordinary; supernatural, also unusual; exceptional by ord'nar', out of the ordinary; supernatural, also unusual; exceptional ca', call; name, ca'd, called, cairriage, carriage, cairry, carry, callin', calling, cam, came, cam', came, cankerin', souring; festering, also fretting can'le, candle, canna, cannot, carefu', careful, caret, cared, carin', caring, carryin', carrying, ca's, calls, castel, castle, cat, ointment, lit. soft clay or mud cauld, cold, cauld-hertit, cold-hearted, 'cause, because, cawpable, capable, ceevil, civil, 'cep', except; but, chairge, charge, chappin', knocking; hammering; striking, cheenge, change, cheengeable, changeable, cheengt, changed, cheep, chirp; creak; hint; word, cheir, chair, cheirs, chairs, ch'ice, choice, chiel', child; young person; fellow, term of fondness or intimacy chimley-piece, chimney piece; mantle, chuise, choose, claes, clothes; dress, clan, group; class; coterie, clankin', clanking, clapper-clash, gossip, clash, blow; slap; mess, also gossip; tittle-tattle; tale-bearing clean, altogether; entirely, also comely; shapely; empty; clean clearin', clearing, clim', climb, cloods, clouds, cloot, clout; box (ear); beat; slap, also patch; mend close parin', give a short measure, cobblet, cobbled, cobblin', cobbling; shoemaking, comena, do not come, comfortin', comforting, comin', coming, comman', command, comman'ments, commandments, committit, committed, comparet, compared, compleen, complain, compleenin', complaining, comprehen', comprehend, conceivin', conceiving, concernin', concerning, concernt, concerned, condescen', condescend, conduc', conduct, conneckit, connected, considert, considered, conteened, contained, contert, contradicted; thwarted, contrairy, contrary, contrive, design, convic', convict, cooardly, cowardly, cooncil, council, coonsel, counsel, coont, count, coontenance, countenance, coontin', counting, coontit, counted, coonts, counts, coopered, tinkered up, coorse, coarse, also course coortin', courting, corbie, crow; raven, corbie-steps, corbel steps, projections on a gable resembling a step correc', correct, couldna, could not, crack, news; story; chat; gossip, cracks, news; stories; chats; gossip, craps, crops; produce of the field, cratur, creature, cratur', creature, craturs, creatures, crawin', crowing, creakin', creaking, creepit, crept; crawled, cried, called; summoned, croont, crowned, cry, call; summon, cryin', calling; summoning, cuist, cast, cunnin', cunning, cuttit, cut; harvested, dacent, decent, danglin', dangling, dauchter, daughter, daur, dare; challenge, daured, dared; challenged, daurna, dare not; do not dare, daursay, dare say, dawin', dawning, dawvid, david, declaret, declared, declarin', declaring, 'deed, indeed, dee'd, died, dee'dna, did not die, deein', doing, also dying dees, dies, deevil, devil, deevils, devils, defen', defend, deid, dead, deif, deaf, deifer, deafer, deil, devil, deith, death, deiths, deaths, denner, dinner, denyin', denying, depen', depend, describit, described, dewotit, devoted, didna, did not, diffeeclety, difficulty, differ, difference; dissent, also differ difficlety, difficulty, dignities, dignitaries, dignity, dignitary, din, sound; din; report; fame, dinna, do not, direc', direct, direckit, directed, direckly, directly; immediately, direc'ly, directly; immediately, dis, does, disapp'intit, disappointed, discipleen, discipline, discontentit, discontented, discoontenance, discountenance; refuse to approve of, discoorse, discourse, disgeist, digest, disgracin', disgracing, disna, does not, disrespec', disrespect, dist, dust, disturbit, disturbed, div, do, dochter, daughter, doesna, does not, dogsure, quite certain, doin', doing, doo, dove, darling--term of endearment dooble, double; duplicate, also double dealing; devious doobt, suspect; know; doubt, have an unpleasant conviction doobtfu', doubtful, doobtin', suspecting; knowing, also doubting doobtless, doubtless, doobtna, do not suspect; do not know, also does not doubt doobts, suspects; knows, also doubts doon, down, door-sill, threshold, doos, doves, dottlet, crazy; in dotage, douce, gentle; sensible; sober; prudent, dour, hard; stern; stiff; sullen, dowy, sad; lonely; depressing; dismal, also ailing doze, dose, drap, drop; small quantity of, drappin', dropping, drappit, dropped, dreid, dread, dreidfu', dreadful; dreadfully, dreidit, dreaded, drogues, drugs, drunken, drunken, du, do, duer, doer, duin', doing, dull, deaf; hard of hearing, dune, done, du't, do it, dwall, dwell, dyke, wall of stone or turf, earth-dyke, wall of earth, ebberdeen, aberdeen, edder, adder, e'e, eye, eemage, image, een, eyes, e'en, even; just; simply, also eyes; evening efter, after; afterwards, efterwards, afterwards, elbuck, elbow, en', end, encoonter, encounter, endeevour, endeavour, eneuch, enough, enew, enough, englan', england, enstance, instance, enterest, interest, er', ere; before, etin, giant, also ogre exackly, exactly, excep', except, expeckit, expected, experrience, experience, explainin', explaining, fa', fall; befall, fac', fact, fac's, facts; truths; realities, factor, manager of property, lets farms; collects rents; pays wages faddomless, fathomless, failt, failed, faimilies, families, faimily, family, faimily-name, family name; surname, fain, eager; anxious; fond, also fondly; gladly fa'in', falling, fairmer, farmer, faith!, indeed!; truly!, exclamation faither, father, faithers, fathers, faithfu', faithful, fallow, fellow; chap, fancyin', fancying, fa's, falls, faund, found, fause, false, fau't, fault; blame, fauvour, favour, fauvoured, favoured, fawvour, favour, fearfu', fearful; easily frightened, fears, makes afraid; frightens; scares, fearsome, terrifying; fearful; awful, feart, afraid; frightened; scared, feathert, feathered, feelin', feeling, fell, very; potent; keen; harsh; sharp, intensifies; also turf feow, few, fess, fetch, fillsna, does not fill, fin', find; feel, fit, foot; base, also fit; capable; able fittin', fitting, fittit, fitted, fivver, fever, fixtur, fixture, flangna, did not kick; did not throw, flee, fly (insect), flingin', kicking; throwing, flit, shift; remove; depart, followt, followed, forbeirs, ancestors; forefathers, forby, as well; as well as; besides, also over and above forepairt, front part, also early part (e.g. of the night) forgettin', forgetting, for't, for it, fortin, fortune, fortins, fortunes, fowk, folk, fra, from, frae, from, frae hame, away; not at home, freely, quite; very; thoroughly, freen', friend; relation, freen'ly, friendly, freens, friends; relations, freen's, friends; relations, fricht, frighten; scare away, also fright frichtit, frightened; scared away, fu', full; very; much, fule, fool, fules, fools, fulish, foolish, full, fully, also full f'un', found, f'undation, foundation, furnisht, furnished, furreign, foreign, furth, forth, fut, foot, futur, future, gae, gave, ga'e, gave, gaed, went, gaedna, did not go, gaein', going, gaein's, goings, gairden, garden, gait, way; fashion, also route; street gaither, gather, gaitherin', gathering, gane, gone, gang, go; goes; depart; walk, gangin', going; walking, gangin's, goings, gangs, goes; walks, gar, cause; make; compel, gars, makes; causes; compels, gat, got, gauin', going, gein, if; as if; then; whether, also given german ocean, , old reference to the english channel & north sea gether, gather, gethert, gathered, gettin', getting, gey, fairly; considerable, ghaist, ghost; soul; spirit, ghaists, ghosts; spirits; souls, gie, give, gied, gave, giedst, gave; gaveth (king james style), giein', giving, gien, if; as if; then; whether, also given gi'en, given, gies, gives, gie's, gives; give us; give his, gie't, give it, girn, grimace; snarl; twist the features, girned, grimaced; snarled; twisted features, also found fault girnin', grimacing; snarling, git, get; acquire, glaid, glad, glaidness, gladness, glaiss, glass, gleg, quick; lively; smart; quick-witted, glimp, glimpse; glance, also the least degree gloamin', twilight; dusk, glower, stare; gaze; scowl, glowered, stared; gazed; scowled, glowert, stared; gazed; scowled, gluves, gloves, god-fearin', god-fearing, goin', going, gowk, cuckoo; fool; blockhead, gran', grand; capital; first-rate, gran'child, grandchild, gran'er, grander, gran'father, grandfather, grantin', granting, grâtis, free; gratuitous, greit, cry; weep, greitin', crying; weeping, grip, grasp; understand, grippin', gripping, grit, great, grit-gran'mother-tongue, great grandmother-tongue, groanin', groaning, growin', growing, grue, feeling of horror; tremor, also tremble gruntin', grunting, grup, grip; grasp, grutch, grudge, gude, good, also god gudeman, master; husband; head of household, also farmer gudewife, mistress of the house; wife, also farmer's wife guid, good, also god guidman, master; husband; head of household, also farmer guidwife, mistress of the house; wife, also farmer's wife gurly, threatening to be stormy, also growling; boisterous ha', have, also hall; house hadna, had not, hae, have; has, ha'e, have, haein', having, haena, have not, hae't, have it, haibitable, habitable, haill, whole, hailstanes, hailstones, haith!, faith!, exclamation of surprise halesome, wholesome; pure, half-ways, half; partly, hame, home, hame-like, like home, han', hand, handiwark, handiwork, handy, near by; close at hand, han'fu', handful, hangin', hanging, hangt, hanged, han'led, handled; treated, han'let, handled, han'lin', handling, han's, hands, han'some, handsome, hantle, much; large quantity; far, happed, happened, happent, happened, h'ard, heard, hardenin', hardening, hasna, does not have, hathenish, heathenish, haud, hold; keep, hauden, held; kept, haudin', holding; keeping, hauds, holds; keeps, haud's, hold us; keep us, also hold his; keep his h'aven, heaven, h'avenly, heavenly, h'avens, heavens, hawt, hawked; cleared the throat, also hesitated healin', healing, heap, very much, also heap hearin', hearing, hearken, hearken; hear; listen, hearkenin', hearkening; listening, hearkent, hearkened; heard; listened, hearkin', hearkening; listening, heels ower heid, topsy-turvy, heicher, higher, heid, head; heading, heids, heads; headings, heild, held, helpit, helped, herd, herd-boy; cow-boy, also herd herd-laddie, herd-boy; cow-boy, hermonious, harmonious, hermony, harmony, hersel', herself, hert, heart, hertbrak, heartbreak, hert-brak, heartbreak, hertily, heartily, herts, hearts, het, hot; burning, hidin', hiding, hielan's, highlands, himsel', himself, hin'er, hinder, hing, hang, hingin', hanging, hit, it, emphatic hiz, us, emphatic honourt, honoured, hoo, how, hooever, however, hoor, hour, hoose, house, hoosekeep, keep house, hoosekeeper, housekeeper, hoot, pshaw, exclamation of doubt or contempt hoots, pshaw, exclamation of doubt or contempt hose, stocking, houp, hope, houpless, hopeless, howk, dig; excavate, howkit, dug; excavated, howlin', howling, hoydenish, inelegantly, hue, look; appearance, hummt, stammered; spoke hesitatingly, also murmured hungert, starved, i', in; into, i doobt, i know; i suspect, ilk, every; each, also common; ordinary ilka, every; each, also common; ordinary ill, bad; evil; hard; harsh; badly, also misfortune; harm 'ill, will, ill-mainnert, ill-mannered, ill-pleast, not pleased; unhappy, ill-used, used wrongly, ill-usin', using wrongly, 'im, him, implorin', imploring, impruvt, improved, in the sulks, sullen, ineequities, iniquities, ingle-neuk, chimney-corner or recess; fireside, inquirin', inquiring, intendit, intended, intil, into; in; within, intil't, into it, inveesible, invisible, ir, are, isna, is not, is't, is it, i'stead, instead, ither, other; another; further, ithers, others, itherwise, otherwise, it'll, it will, itsel', itself, jaud, lass; girl; worthless woman, old worn-out horse jeally, jelly, jeedge, judge, jeedges, judges, jeedgment, judgement, j'in, join, jist, just, justifee, justify, justifeein', justifying, keek, look; peep; spy, keepin', keeping, keepit, kept, ken, know; be acquainted with; recognise, kenna, do not know, kenned, known; knew, kennin', knowing, kens, knows, kent, known; knew, killin', killing, kin, kind; nature; sort; agreeable, also somewhat; in some degree; kin kin', kind; nature; sort; agreeable, also somewhat; in some degree kin'ness, kindness, kirk, church, kirk-session, lowest presbyterian church court, oversees congregation kirk-time, time to go to church, kirkyard, churchyard, kissin', kissing, kist, chest; coffer; box; chest of drawers, knockin', knocking, knockit, knocked, lad, boy, term of commendation or reverence laddie, boy, term of affection laddies, boys, term of affection lads, boys, term of commendation or reverence laich, low; inferior, laichest, lowest, lairger, larger, laistit, lasted, laitin, latin, lan', land; country; ground, lane, lone; alone; lonely; solitary, lanely, lonely, lanesome, lonesome, lang, long; big; large; many, also slow; tedious langer, longer, lang's, long as, lan'lord, landlord, lass, girl; young woman, term of address lasses, girls; young women, lassie, girl, term of endearment lat, let; allow, latna, let not; do not let, lat's, let's; let us; let his, latten, let; allowed, lattin', letting; allowing, lauch, laugh, lauchin', laughing, lauchs, laughs, lave, rest; remainder; others, also leave laverock, lark (type of bird), lay't, lay it, lea', leave, learnin', learning, also teaching learnit, learned, learnt, learned, also taught leavin', leaving, leddy, lady, also boy; lad; laddy leddyship, ladyship, leeberty, liberty, lees, lies, leevin', living; living being, leevit, lived, len'th, length, leuch, laughed, ley, leave, licht, light, lichten, lighten, lichter, lighter, lichtest, lightest, lichtit, lighted, lichts, lights, lickin', thrashing; punishment, lift, load; boost; lift; helping hand, also sky; heavens liftin', lifting, liftit, lifted, like, like; likely to; looking as if to, also as it were; as if likin', liking, likit, liked, lines, any written or printed authorities, lippen, trust; depend on, also look after lippent, trusted; depended on, also looked after listenin', listening, livin', living, 'll, will, loaf-breid, wheaten loaf (of bread), lockit, locked, lodgin', lodging, lo'e, love, lo'ed, loved, lo'ein', loving, lo'es, loves, lo'in', loving, lood, loud, lookin', looking, lookit, looked, loot, let; allowed; permitted, losin', losing, lovesna, does not love, lowlan's, lowlands, lowse, loose; free, also dishonest; immoral ludgin', lodging, lugs, ears, luik, look, luikin', looking, luikit, looked, luiks, looks, luved, loved, lyin', lying, macker, maker; god, mainner, manner, mair, more; greater, mairch, march, maist, most; almost, 'maist, almost, maister, master; mister, maistly, mostly; most of all, maitter, matter, mak, make; do, makin', making; doing, makker, maker; god, maks, makes; does, manse, scottish minister's official residence, mattin', matting, maun, must; have to, maunna, must not; may not, mayna, may not, meanin', meaning, meenute, minute, meeserable, miserable, meetin', meeting, mem, ma'am; miss; madam, men', mend, men of gotham, wise men who play the fools, refers to an english fable men'in', mending; healing, men'it, mended; healed, mentiont, mentioned, merriet, married, merry, marry, also merry merryin', marrying, micht, might, michtna, might not, michty, mighty; god, mickle, great; big; much; abundant; very, also important; proud mids, midst; middle, min', mind; recollection, also recollect; remember minnie, mother; mommy, pet name minnisters, ministers, min's, minds; reminds; recollects, mirk, darkness; gloom; night, mirracle, miracle, mischance, misfortune; bad luck, mischeef, mischief; injury; harm, misdoobt, doubt; disbelieve; suspect, misguidit, wasted; mismanaged; ill-used, mistak, mistake, mither, mother, mither-tongue, mother-tongue, mononday, monday, mony, many, moo, mouth, moo', mouth, moo's, mouths, moose, mouse, mooth, mouth, mornin', morning, mouldy, dirty; soiled, muckle, huge; enormous; big; great; much, muir, moor; heath, munelicht, moonlight, m'untain, mountain, murdert, murdered, muvs, moves; affects, my lane, on my own, mysel', myself, na, not; by no means, nae, no; none; not, naebody, nobody; no one, naething, nothing, naither, neither, nait'ral, natural, nane, none, nat'ral, natural, natur, nature, natur', nature, nearhan', nearly; almost; near by, neb, tip; point; nib; beak, necessar', necessary, neebour, neighbour, neebours, neighbours, needsna, does not need to, neeper, neighbour, negleckit, neglected, neist, next; nearest, news, talk; gossip, nicht, night; evening, nigh, near; nearly, nip, smart; squeeze; bite; pinch, also cheat; steal no, not, no', not, noo, now, nor, than; although; if, also nor nowt, cattle; oxen, o', of; on, obeddience, obedience, obeyin', obeying, objec', object, observt, observed, occurrt, occurred, offerin', offering, ohn, without; un-, uses past participle not present progressive on a suddent, suddenly; all of a sudden, ony, any, onybody, anybody; anyone, onygait, anyway, onything, anything, onyw'y, anyway, oonbelief, unbelief, oondefent, undefended, oongratefu', ungrateful, oonholy, unholy, oonlikly, unlikely, oonseen, unseen, oor, our, oors, ours, oorsels, ourselves, oorsel's, ourselves, oot, out, ootside, outside, ootward, outward, open-hertit, open-hearted, openin', opening, oppresst, oppressed, or, before; ere; until; by, also or ordinar', ordinary; usual; natural, also custom; habit ord'nar, ordinary; usual; natural, also custom; habit ord'nar', ordinary; usual; natural, also custom; habit oucht, anything; all, also ought ouchtna, ought not, ow, oh, exclamation of surprise ower, over; upon; too, owerbeirin', overbearing, owercome, overcome; recover, ower's, over us; over his, ower't, over it, pack, property; belongings, pailace, palace, pairt, part, pairties, parties, pairts, parts, parin', paring; cutting off the surface, parritch, oatmeal porridge, partic'lar, particular, pat, put; made, pattren, pattern, peacefu', peaceful, pecooliar, peculiar, peety, pity, perris, parish, perswaud, persuade, pey, pay, peyin', paying, peyment, payment, peyt, paid, p'int, point, plack, the smallest coin, worth / of a penny plaguin', plaguing, plaister, plaster, playin', playing, pleasin', pleasing, pleast, pleased, pleasur, pleasure, pleesur, pleasure, pluckit, plucked, pooches, pockets, pooer, power, potterin', pottering, praist, praised, prayin', praying, preejudice, prejudice, preejudized, prejudiced, preevilege, privilege, prefar, prefer, prejudeese, prejudice, preparin', preparing, preshume, presume, press, wall-cupboard with shelves, presses, wall-cupboards with shelves, preten', pretend, prevailt, prevailed, prood, proud, protec', protect, providin', providing, prowlin', prowling, pu', pull, pu'd, pulled, pu'in', pulling, puir, poor, pullin', pulling, pu'pit, pulpit, pushin', pushing, putten, put, puttin', putting, quaiet, quiet, quaietly, quietly, queston, question, quo', swore; said; quoth, ragin', raging, raither, rather, rampaugin', rampaging, rattlin', rattling, readin', reading, rebukit, rebuked, recollec', recollect, reid, red, reivin', plundering; robbing, also roaming; straying remaint, remained, repentit, repented, resolvt, resolved, respec', respect, richt, right; correct, also mend richteous, righteous, richteousness, righteousness, richts, rights, rin, run, ringin', ringing, rinnin', running, rist, rest, rive, rent; tear; tug; wrench, rizzon, reason, rizzonable, reasonable, rizzons, reasons, roarin', roaring, ro'd, road; course; way, ro'd-side, roadside, romage, disturbance, romour, rumour, roomie, little room, diminutive roon', around; round, rouch, rough, rouchly, roughly, routit, bellowed; made a loud noise, also poked about; cleared out row, roll; wrap up; wind, rudimen's, rudiments, rum'lin's, rumblings, rute, root, 's, us; his; as; is, also has s', shall, sacrets, secrets, sae, so; as, saft, muddy; soft; silly; foolish, safter, muddier; softer; sillier, saidna, did not say, sair, sore; sorely; sad; hard; very; greatly, also serve sair-hertit, sad of heart, saitisfee, satisfy, sall, shall, sanct, saint, sarks, shirts, sattle, settle, sattlet, settled, sattlin, settling; deciding, savin', saving, also except sawbath, sabbath; sunday, sawbath-day, sabbath day; sunday, saxpence, sixpence, say, speech; saying; proverb, sayin', saying, scaret, scared, school-maister, schoolmaster, scriptur, scripture, scriptur', scripture, scunnert, disgusted; loathed, scushlin, slide; shuffle in walking, seein', seeing, seekin', seeking, seemile, simile, seemna, do not seem, seemt, seemed, seesna, does not see, see't, see it, sel', self, sellin', selling, semple, simple; of low birth, sen', send, sen'in', sending, servan', servant, servan's, servants, setna, do not set, setterday, saturday, settin', setting, shakin', shaking, shamefu', modest; shy; bashful, sharper, sharper; rougher; coarser, also more clever shaw, show; reveal, also grove shaws, shows, shelterin', sheltering, shillin', shilling, shillins, shillings, shiverin', shivering, shochle, shake about; joggle; stagger, shoothers, shoulders, shoots, shouts, shouldna, should not, shue, shoe, shuit, suit, shune, shoes, shutten, shut, sic, such; so; similar, sicht, sight, sichts, sights, siclike, suchlike; likewise, like such a person or thing sic-like, suchlike; likewise, like such a person or thing sidewise, sideways, siller, silver; money; wealth, simmer, summer, sin, since; ago; since then, also sin; sun sin', since; ago; since then, sittin', sitting, skean dhu, knife; dirk; short-sword, slaverin', slobbering; talking fast; flattering, sleepit, slept, sma', small; little; slight; narrow; young, sma'est, smallest; littlest; slightest; narrowest, smugglet, concealed; hid, sodger, soldier, some, somewhat; rather; quite; very, also some somewhaur, somewhere, soon', sound, soon's, sounds, soop, sweep; brush, sornin', taking food or lodging; sponging, taking by force of threat soucht, sought, sowl, soul, sowls, souls, spak, spoke, spang, leap; bound; spring; span, spark, speck; spot; blemish; atom, speakin', speaking, speakna, speak not; do not speak, speerit, spirit, speerits, spirits, speir, ask about; enquire; question, speiredna, did not ask about or enquire, speirin', asking about; enquiring; questioning, speirt, asked about; enquired; questioned, spellin', spelling, speyk, speak, speyks, speaks, spier, ask about; enquire; question, sp'ilt, spoiled, stair, stairs; staircase, stamack, stomach, stammert, staggered; stumbled; faltered, stan', stand; stop, stan'in, standing, stan'in', standing, stan's, stands, startit, started, stealin', stealing, steek, shut; close; clench, also stitch (as in clothing) steer, stir; disturbance; commotion; fuss, steik, shut; close; push, also stitch (as in clothing) stick, stick; gore; butt with horns, stickin', sticking; goring, stiles, gates; passages over a wall, stime, glimpse; glance; least particle, faintest form of an object stoot, stout; healthy; strong; plucky, stoppit, stopped, story-buik, storybook, strae, straw, straicht, straight, strak, struck, stramash, uproar; tumult; fuss; brawl, straucht, straighten; straight, stren'th, strength, stude, stood, sud, should, suddent, sudden; suddenly, sudna, should not, sune, soon; early, suner, sooner, sun'ert, sundered, supposin', supposing, sutors, shoemakers; cobblers, swarmin', swarming, sweir, swear, sweirin', swearing, swingin', swinging, syne, ago; since; then; at that time, also in (good) time 't, it, ta, to, tae, toe; also tea, also the one; to taen, taken; seized, ta'en, taken; seized, taibernacles, tabernacles, taich, teach, tak, take; seize, takin', taking, takna, do not take, taks, takes; seizes, taksna, does not take, talkin', talking, tane, the one, tanneree, tannery, tap, top; tip; head, taucht, taught, tauld, told, teep, type, teeps, types, teetin', peeping; stealing a glance, teetle, title, telled, told, tellin', telling, tellt, told, telt, told, ten'ency, tendency, ten'er, tender, ten'erest-hertit, most tender-hearted, thae, those; these, than, then, also than thankfu', thankful, thankfu'ness, thankfulness, thankit, thanked, the day, today, the morn, tomorrow, the morn's, tomorrow is, the nicht, tonight, the noo, just now; now, thegither, together, themsel's, themselves, thereawa', thereabouts; in that quarter, thinkin', thinking, thinkna, do not think, thinksna, does not think, this day week, in a week's time; a week from now, also a week ago this mony a day, for some time, thocht, thought, thoo, thou; you (god), thoucht, thought, thrashen, threshed, thraw, throw; turn; twist, threid, thread, threip, argue obstinately, also maintain by dint of assertion thro't, throat, throttlin', throttling, throu', through, throuw, through, til, to; till; until; about; at; before, till's, to his; to us, til's, to his; to us, til't, to it; at it, timorsome, timorous; fearful; nervous, tither, the other, tod, fox, toddlin', toddling; walking unsteadily, toon, town; village, toon-fowk, town folk; city folk, toons, towns; villages, toor, tower, toot-moot, low muttering conversation, touchin', touching, traivel, travel, traivellin', travelling, traivels, travels, traivelt, travelled, tramp, trudge, also tramp transplantit, transplanted, travellin', travelling, treatin', treating, trem'lin', trembling, tre't, treat, trible, trouble, tribled, troubled, triblet, troubled, trimlin', trembling, trim'lin', trembling, troth, truth; indeed, also used as an exclamation trowth, truth; indeed, also used as an exclamation trustit, trusted, tryin', trying, 'tsel', itself, tu, too; also, tuik, took, turnin', turning, turnpike-stair, narrow spiral staircase, turnt, turned, twa, two; a few, twalmonth, twelvemonth; year, twasome, couple; pair, twise, twice, unco, unknown; odd; strange; uncouth, also very great unco', unknown; odd; strange; uncouth, also very great un'erstan', understand, un'erstan'in, understanding, un'erstan'in', understanding, un'erstan's, understands, un'erstan't, understood, unlockit, unlocked, up the stair, upstairs, also to heaven upbringin', upbringing, uphaud, uphold; maintain; support, upo', upon; on to; at, upsettin', forward; ambitious; stuck-up; proud, uttert, uttered, varily, verily; truly, varra, very, veesitation, visitation, veesitin', visiting, veesitit, visited, veesits, visits, verra, very; true; real, v'ice, voice, vooed, vowed, wa', wall, also way; away wad, would, wadna, would not, waitin', waiting, waitit, waited, wan'erin', wandering, wantin', wanting; lacking; without; in want of, wantit, wanted, war, were, wark, work; labour, warkin', working, warklessness, inability to work, warks, works, warl', world; worldly goods, also a large number warl's, worlds, warna, were not, warnin', warning, warran', warrant; guarantee, warst, worst, warstle, wrestle, wa's, walls, also ways wasna, was not, was't, was it, wastena, do not waste, watter, water, wauges, wages, wauk, wake, waukin', waking, waukit, woke, waur, worse, also spend money wawves, waves, wayfarin', wayfaring, weather-cock, place where criminals were kept, refers to churchsteeple weddin', wedding, wee, small; little; bit, also short time; while weel, well; fine, weel-behavet, well-behaved, weel-kent, well-known; familiar, weel's, well as, weicht, weight, weir, wear, also hedge; fence; enclosure weirer, wearer, wha, who, whaever, whoever, whan, when, wha's, who is, also whose whase, whose, what for no?, why not?, what for?, why?, whate'er, whatever, whauls, whales, whaur, where, whaurat, wherefore, whaurever, wherever, whauron, whereon, whause, whose, wheen, little; few; number; quantity, whiles, sometimes; at times; now and then, whilk, which, whustlin', whistling, wi', with, willin', willing, win, reach; gain; get; go; come, win', wind, winna, will not, winnin', reaching; gaining; getting, win's, winds, winsome, large; comely; merry, wi'oot, without, withoot, without, won, reached; gained; got, wonderin', wondering, won'er, wonder; marvel, won'erfu', wonderful; great; large, won'erin', wondering, woo', wool, workin', working, worryin', worrying, wouldna, would not, wow, woe, exclamation of wonder or grief or satisfaction wrang, wrong; injured, wranged, wronged, wrangs, wrongs, wrangt, wronged, wringin', wringing, writin', writing, wud, wood; forest, adj.-enraged; angry; also would wudna, would not; will not, wull, will; wish; desire, also astray; stray; wild wullin', willing; wanting, wullin'ly, willingly, wulls, wills; wishes; desires, wuman, woman, wur, lay out, also were wuss, wish, w'y, way, wynds, narrow lanes or streets; alleys, w'ys, ways, wyte, blame; reproach; fault, ye, you; yourself, year, years, also year ye'll, you will, yer, your, yerd, yard; garden, ye're, you are, yerl, earl, yersel', yourself, yon, that; those; that there; these, yon'er, yonder; over there; in that place, yon's, that is; that (thing) there is, yoong, young, yoonger, younger, yoongest, youngest, zacchay, zaccheus, see luke the children of the castle by mrs molesworth illustrations by walter crane published by macmillan and co ltd, st martin's street, london. this edition dated . the children of the castle, by mrs molesworth. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ the children of the castle, by mrs molesworth. chapter one. ruby and mavis. "hast thou seen that lordly castle, that castle by the sea? golden and red above it the clouds float gorgeously." trans. of uhland: longfellow. do you remember gratian--gratian conyfer, the godson of the four winds, the boy who lived at the old farmhouse up among the moors, where these strange beautiful sisters used to meet? do you remember how full of fancies and stories gratian's little head was, and how sometimes he put them into words to please fergus, the lame child he loved so much? the story i am now going to tell you is one of these. i think it was their favourite one. i can not say that it is in the very words in which gratian used to tell it, for it was not till long, long after those boyish days that it came to be written down. but all the same it is his story. how long ago it was i cannot say, nor can i tell you exactly where it was. this is not a story for which you will require an atlas, nor a history of england or of any other country, nor a dictionary of dates. all those wise and clever and useful things you may put out of your heads for a bit. i am just going to tell you a story. it was somewhere and somewhen, and i think that will do. the "it" was a castle--and something else. but first about the castle. it was really worthy of the name, for it was very old and very strong, and in ancient days it had been used as a place of defence, and had a look about it of not having forgotten this. (i am afraid this sounds a _very_ little historical. i must take care.) it was very big too, towering over the sea-washed cliffs on which it stood as if defying the winds and the waves to do their worst, frowning at them with the little round window-eyes of its turrets, like a cross old ogre. but it was a two-faced castle; it was only on one side--the rocky side, where the cliffs went down precipitously to the water--that it looked grim and forbidding. inland, you could scarcely have believed it was the same castle at all. for here, towards the sunny south, it seemed to change into a gracious, comfortable, hospitably-inviting mansion; it did not look nearly so high on this side, for the ivy-covered turrets had more the effect of dimly dark trees in the background, and the bright wide-windowed rooms opened on to trim lawns and terraces gay with flowers. that was the case in summer-time at least. the whole look of things varied a good deal according to the seasons. in winter, grim as it was, i don't know but that the fortress-front, so to speak, of the great building had the best of it. for it was grand to watch the waves breaking down below when you knew you were safe and cosy behind the barred panes of the turret windows, those windows pierced in the walls through such a thickness of stone that each was like a little room within a room. and even in winter there were wonderful sunsets to be seen from the children's favourite turret-room--the one which had two windows to the west and only one to the cold north. for the "something else" was the children. much more interesting than the castle--indeed, what would any castle or any house be without them? not that the castle was not a very interesting place to live in, as you will hear, but all _places_, i think, need people to bring out their interest. people who have been, sometimes, and sometimes, people that still are. there was a mixture of both in my castle. but first and foremost i will tell you of the children, whose home it was, and perhaps is yet. there were only two of them, only two, that is to say, who lived there regularly; they were girls, twin-sisters, ruby and mavis were their names, and at this time they were nearly twelve years old. i will not say much in description of them, it is best to let you find out about them for yourselves. they were almost exactly the same size; ruby perhaps a very little the taller, and at first sight every one thought them exceedingly like each other. and so they were, so far as the colour of their hair, the shape of their features, their eyes and complexions went. they were pretty little girls, and they made a pretty pair. but the more you got to know them the less alike you got to think them, till at last you be an to wonder how you ever could have thought them like at all! and even almost at the first glance _some_ differences were to be seen. ruby was certainly the prettier. her eyes were brighter, her colour more brilliant, her way of walking and holding herself more graceful, even her very manner of talking was more interesting and attractive. "what a charming child she is," said strangers always. "such pretty winning ways, so sweet and unselfish, so clever and intelligent! what a pity that dull little mavis is not more like her--why, i thought them the image of each other at first, and now i can scarcely believe they are sisters. i am sure poor ruby must find mavis very trying, she is so stupid; but ruby is so good and patient with her--it quite adds another charm to the dear child." this opinion or one like it was always the first expressed--well, perhaps not _always_, but almost always. now i will let you judge for yourselves. it was late autumn. so late, that one felt inclined to wish it were already winter, without any thought or talk of a milder season. for it was very cold, and thick-walled though the castle was, it needed any amount of huge fires and curtains in front of the doorways and double windows, and, in the modern rooms, hot air or water-pipes to make it comfortable in severe weather. and all these things in winter it had. but the housekeeper had rather old-fashioned and stiff ideas. she did everything by rule. on a certain day in the autumn the winter arrangements were begun, on a certain day in the spring they came to an end. and this, whatever the weather was,--not a very good plan, for as everybody knows, the weather itself is not so formal and particular. there are quite warm, mild days sometimes in late november, and really bitterly cold ones in april and may. but there would have been no manner of use in trying to make old bertha see this. winter _should_ stop on a certain day, and summer should come, and _vice versa_. it had always been so in her time, and bertha did not like new-fangled ways. so everybody shivered, and the more daring ones, of whom ruby was the foremost, scolded and grumbled. but it was no use. "you may as well try to bear it patiently, my dear," said cousin hortensia, "the mild weather must come soon. i will lend you one of my little shawls if you like. you will feel warmer when you have been out for a run." cousin hortensia was the lady who lived at the castle to teach and take care of the two little girls. for their mother was dead and their father was often away. he had some appointment at the court. i am not sure what it was, but he was considered a very important person. he was kind and good, as you will see, and it was always a great delight to the children when he came home, and a great sorrow when he had to leave. cousin hortensia was only a very far-off cousin, but the children always called her so. for though she was really with them as a governess as well as a friend, it would not have seemed so nice to call her by any other name. she was very gentle, and took the best care she could of them. and she was clever and taught them well. but she was rather a dreamy sort of person. she had lived for many years a very quiet life, and knew little of the outside world. she had known and loved the twins' mother, and their father too, when they were but boy and girl, for she was no longer young. and she loved ruby and mavis, ruby especially, so dearly, that she could see no fault in them. it was to ruby she was speaking and offering a shawl. they were sitting in one of the rooms on the south side of the castle, sheltered from the stormy winds which often came whirling down from the north. but even here it was cold, or at least chilly. ruby shrugged her shoulders. "you always offer me a shawl as if i were seventy, cousin hortensia," she said rather pertly. "it would be much better if you would speak to bertha, and _insist_ on her having the fires lighted now it is so cold. when i'm grown up i can tell you _i_ won't stand the old thing's tyranny." cousin hortensia looked rather distressed. there was some sense in what ruby said, but there were a great many other things to be considered, all of which she could not explain to the children. bertha was an exceedingly valuable servant, and if she were interfered with and went away it would be almost impossible to get any one like her. for it was necessary that the castle should be managed with economy as well as care. "i would speak to bertha if there was anything really important to complain of," she said. "but this weather cannot last, and you are not cold at night, are you?" "no," said mavis, "not at all." "bertha would never get all the work done unless she took her own way," miss hortensia went on. "but i'll tell you what i'll do, ruby. i will have the fire lighted in my own little room. i don't need to trouble bertha about that, thanks to your kind father's thoughtfulness. my little wood-cupboard is always kept filled by tim. and when you come in from your walk we will have tea there instead of here, and spend a cosy evening." ruby darted at miss hortensia and kissed her. "that will be lovely," she said. "and as it's to be a sort of a treat evening, do tell us a story after tea, dear cousin." "if you're not tired," put in mavis. "cousin hortensia had a headache this morning," she said to ruby, turning to her. "rubbish!" cried ruby, but she checked herself quickly. "i don't mean that," she went on, "but mavis is such a kill-joy. you won't be tired will you, dear cousin? mavis doesn't care for stories as much as i do. i've read nearly all the books in the library, and she never reads if she can help it." "i've enough to do with my lesson-books," said mavis with a sigh. "and i can scarcely ever find stories to read that i understand. but i like _hearing_ stories, for then i can ask what it means if there comes a puzzling part." "poor mavis!" said ruby contemptuously, "she's always getting puzzled." "we must try to make your wits work a little quicker, my dear," said miss hortensia. "you will get to like reading when you are older, i daresay. i must look out for some easier story-books for you." "but i love _hearing_ stories, cousin," said mavis. "please don't think that i don't like your stories. i do so like that one about when you came to the castle once when you were a little girl and about the dream you had." "i don't care for stories about dreams," said ruby. "i like to hear about when cousin hortensia was a young lady and went to balls at the court. i would love to have beautiful dresses and go to the court. do you think father will take me when i'm grown up, cousin hortensia?" "i daresay he will. you will both go, probably," miss hortensia replied. "but you must not think too much of it or you may be disappointed. your mother was very beautiful and everybody admired her when she went out in the world, but she always loved best to be here at the castle." ruby made a face. "then i don't think i'm like her," she said. "i'm very tired of this stupid old place already. and if you tell your dream-story to mavis, you must tell me the one about how mother looked when she went to her first ball. she was dressed all in white, wasn't she?" "no," mavis answered. "in blue--wavy, changing blue, like the colour the sea is sometimes." "_blue_," ruby repeated, "what nonsense! isn't it nonsense, cousin hortensia? didn't our mother wear all white at her first ball-- everybody does." miss hortensia looked up in surprise. "yes, of course," she said. "who ever told you she wore blue, mavis?" mavis grew very red. "i wasn't speaking of our mother," she said. "it was the lady you saw in your dream i meant, cousin hortensia." "you silly girl!" said ruby. "isn't she stupid?" mavis looked ready to cry. "you must get out of that habit of not listening to what people say, my dear," said miss hortensia. "now you had better both go out--wrap up warmly, and don't stay very long, and when you come in you will find me in my own room." "and you'll tell us stories, won't you, dear good cousin?" said ruby coaxingly, as she put up her pretty face for a kiss. "if you'll tell me _my_ story, you may tell mavis hers afterwards." "well, well, we'll see," said miss hortensia, smiling. "i do so like the story of the blue lady," said mavis, very softly, as they left the room. five minutes later the twins were standing under the great archway which led to the principal entrance to the castle. at one end this archway opened on to a winding road cut in the rock, at the foot of which was a little sandy cove--a sort of refuge among the cliffs. on each side of it the waves broke noisily, but they never entirely covered the cove, even at very high tides, and except in exceedingly rough and stormy weather the water rippled in gently, as if almost asking pardon for intruding at all. when the sea was out there was a scrambling path among the rocks to the left, by which one could make one's way to a little fishing-hamlet about a quarter of a mile off on the west. for, as i should have explained before, the castle stood almost at a corner, the coast-line turning sharply southwards, after running for many miles almost due east and west. the proper way to this hamlet was by the same inland road which led to the castle, and which, so the legend ran, was much more modern than the building itself, much more modern at least than the north side of it. that grim fortress-like front was very ancient. it had been built doubtless for a safe retreat, and originally had only been accessible from the sea, being in those days girt round on the land side by enormous walls, in which was no entrance of any kind. a part of these walls, ivy-clad and crumbling, still remained, but sufficient had been pulled down to give space for the pleasant sunny rooms and the sheltered garden with its terraces. ruby shivered as she and mavis stood a moment hesitating in the archway. "it is cold here," she said; "the wind seems to come from everywhere at once. which way shall we go, mavis?" "it would be a little warmer at the back, perhaps," said mavis. "but i don't care much for the gardens on a dull day like this." "nor do i," said ruby, "there's nothing to see. now at the front it's almost nicer on a dull day than when it's sunny--except of course for the cold. let's go down to the cove, mavis, and see how it feels there." it was curious that they always spoke of the fortress side as the front, even though the southern part of the building was what would have naturally seemed so. "i'd like to stay out till sunset and see the colours up in the turret windows," said mavis, as they clambered down the rocky path. "i wish i knew which of these rooms is the one where the blue fairy lady used to come. i do think cousin hortensia might have found out." "rubbish!" said ruby. it was rather a favourite expression of hers, i am afraid. "i don't believe cousin hortensia ever saw her. it was all a fancy because she had heard about it. if ever she did come, it was ages and ages ago, and i don't believe she did even then. i don't believe one bit about spirits and fairies and dreams and things like that." mavis said nothing, but a puzzled, disappointed look crept into her eyes. "perhaps it's because i'm stupid," she said, "but i shouldn't like to think like you, ruby. and you know the story wouldn't have come all of itself, and cousin hortensia, though she calls it a dream, can't really explain it that way." "if you know so much about it, why do you keep teasing to have it told again?" said ruby impatiently. "well, here we are at the cove; what are we to do now?" mavis looked about her. it was chilly, and the sky was grey, but over towards the west there was a lightening. the wind came in little puffs down here, now and again only, for they were well under the shelter of the cliffs. and up above, the old castle frowning down upon them--his own children, whose ancestors he had housed and sheltered and protected for years that counted by centuries--suddenly seemed to give a half unwilling smile. it was a ray of thin afternoon sunshine striking across the turret windows. "see, see," said mavis. "the sun's coming out. i'm sure the sky must be pretty and bright round where the cottages are. the sea's quite far enough back, and it's going out. do let us go and ask how the baby-- joan's baby, i mean--is to-day." "very well," said ruby. "not that i care much how the baby is, but there's rather a nice scrambly way home up behind joan's house. i found it one day when you had a cold and weren't with me. it brings you out down by the stile into the little fir-wood--just where you'd never expect to find yourself. and oh, mavis, there's such a queer little cottage farther along the shore, at least just above the shore that way. i saw it from the back, along the scrambly path." "i wonder whose it is," said mavis. "i don't remember any cottage that way. oh yes, i think i remember passing it one day long ago when joan was our nurse, and she made me run on quick, but she didn't say why." "perhaps it's haunted, or some nonsense like that," said ruby with her contemptuous air. "i'll ask joan to-day. and if we pass it i'll walk just as slow as ever i can on purpose. you'll see, mavis." "we'd better run now," said mavis. "the sands are pretty firm just here, and cousin hortensia said we were to make ourselves warm. let's have a race." they had left the cove and were making their way to the hamlet by the foot of the rocks, where at low tide there was a narrow strip of pebbly sand, only here and there broken by out-jutting crags which the children found it very amusing to clamber over. their voices sounded clear and high in the air. for the wind seemed to have fallen with the receding tide. by the time they reached the cottages they were both in a glow, and ruby had quite forgotten her indignation at old bertha's fireless rooms. chapter two. winfried. "and somewhat southward toward the noon, whence lies a way up to the moon; and thence the fairy can as soon pass to the earth below it." drayton. joan, a pleasant-faced young woman who had once been the children's nurse, and was now married to a fisherman who owned several boats, and was a person of some consequence among the villagers, was standing at the door of her cottage with a baby in her arms as the children came up. her face beamed with smiles, but before she had time to speak ruby called out to her. "how are you, joan? we've come round to ask how baby is, but it's very easy to see he is better, otherwise you wouldn't be so smiling." "and here he is to speak for himself, miss ruby," said joan. "how very kind of you to think of him! and you too, miss mavis, my dear. are you both quite well?" "yes, thank you, joan," said mavis quietly. but ruby was fussing about the baby, admiring him and petting him in a way that could scarcely fail to gain his mother's heart. joan, however, though fond of both the children, had plenty of discernment. she smiled at ruby--"miss ruby has pretty ways with her, there's no denying," she told her husband afterwards,--but there was a very gentle tone in her voice as she turned to mavis. "you've had no more headaches, i hope, miss mavis? have you been working hard at your lessons?" "i have to work hard if i work at all, joan," said the little girl rather sadly. "she's so stupid," said ruby; "and she gets her head full of fancies. i daresay that prevents her having room for sensible things. oh, by-the-bye, joan, tell us who lives in that queer cottage all by itself some way farther along the coast. i never saw it till the other day-- it's almost hidden among the rocks. but mavis says she once passed it with you, and you made her run by quickly. why did you, joan? i do so want to know." joan looked rather at a loss. "you mean old adam's cottage," she said. "i really don't know why people speak against him. he's never done any harm, indeed, he's a kind old man. but he's come from a long way off, and he's not like the other folk, and they got up a tale that there were queer sounds and sights in his cottage sometimes--singing and lights late at night, that couldn't be canny. some spoke of mermaids swimming down below in front of his hut and him standing talking to them quite friendly-like. but that's a good while ago now, and i think it's forgotten. and he goes to church regularly. you'll always be sure of seeing him there." "then why don't people like him?" said mavis. "perhaps it's just because he is good and goes to church," said ruby. "i'm not at all sure that i like extra good people myself. they're so tiresome." "he's not one to meddle with others," said joan. "he keeps very much to himself, and his talking doesn't sound like ours. so they call him a foreigner. indeed, he's often not heard of or seen for weeks and even months at a time, unless any one's ill or in trouble, and then he seems to know it all of himself, and comes to see if he can help. that's one reason why they think him uncanny." "did he come when baby was ill?" asked ruby. joan shook her head. "no, for a wonder he didn't." "perhaps he's dead," said ruby indifferently. "we're going past that way, mavis. let's peep in and see." mavis grew rather pale. "ruby," she said, "i wish you wouldn't--you frighten me." "miss ruby would be frightened herself. she's only joking," said joan. "i don't suppose there's aught the matter, still i don't think you'd better stop at old adam's. it isn't like as if he was one of our own folk." "rubbish!" said ruby again. "i'm off. you can send your husband to see if the old wizard has turned us into frogs or sea-gulls, in case we are not heard of any more. good-night;" and off she ran. mavis had to follow her. there was not much fear of ruby's really doing anything rash, for she was by no means a very brave child, still mavis always felt uncomfortable when her sister got into one of these wild moods. "good-bye, joan," she said gently. "i'm so glad baby's better. i daresay ruby's only joking;" and then she ran along the path, which just here in the hamlet was pretty level and smooth, after ruby. they had quite half a mile to go before they got to the lonely cottage. it stood some way back from the shore, and great craggy rocks near at hand almost hid it from sight. one might have passed by that way often without noticing that there was any human dwelling-place there. but the children were on the look-out. "there," said ruby, "the old ogre can't be dead: there's smoke coming out of the chimney. and--oh, just look, mavis, what a big fire he must have; do you see the red of it in the window?" "no," said mavis, "it's the sun setting. look out to sea--isn't it splendid?" but ruby had set her heart upon exploring the fisherman's hut. she began scrambling up the stones, for there was really nothing worthy of the name of a pathway, quite regardless of the beautiful sight behind her. and as usual. mavis had to follow, though reluctantly. still she was not quite without curiosity about the lonely cottage herself. suddenly, when within a short distance of the hut, ruby stopped short, and glancing back towards her sister, lifted her hand as if to tell her to be silent and listen. then mavis became conscious of the sound of voices speaking--not old adam's voice certainly, for these sounded soft and clear, and now and then came a ripple of silvery laughter, very sweet and very delicate. the little girls, who had drawn near together, looked at each other. "who can it be?" said mavis in a whisper. "the mermaids," replied ruby mockingly. "perhaps old adam has invited them to tea." but as she spoke there came distinctly the sound of the words "good-bye, good-bye," and then there was silence. somehow both children felt rather frightened. "suppose old adam's really dead," said ruby, looking rather pale, "and that these are-- fairies, or i don't know what, come to fetch him." "angels," said mavis. "joan says he's good. but--ruby--i shouldn't think angels would laugh." she had scarcely said the words when they saw running down the rough slope from the hut the figure of a boy. he ran fast and lightly, his feet scarcely seeming to touch the stones; he was slight and very active-looking; it was pretty to watch him running, even though as he came close it was plain that he was only a simple fisher-boy, in rough clothes, barefoot and sunburnt. he slackened his pace a little as he came near the children, then glancing at them with a smile he lifted his dark blue cap and stopped short. "can i?" he began, then hesitated. he had a pleasant face and clear grey eyes, which looked one straight in the face with interest and inquiry. "what do you say?" asked ruby rather haughtily. "i thought perhaps you had lost your way," he answered quietly. "there's not many gentry comes round here;" and then he smiled, for no very particular reason apparently, though his smile nevertheless gave one the feeling that he had a reason if he chose to give it. "no, we haven't lost our way," said ruby; "we came here on purpose. do you know the old man who lives up there?" and she pointed to the hut. "is it true that there's something queer about him?" the boy looked at her, still smiling. "queer?" he repeated. ruby began to feel annoyed. she tapped her foot impatiently. "yes," she said, "_queer_. why do you repeat my words, and why don't you say `miss,' or `my lady?' lots of the people here call me `my lady.' do you know who i am?" the boy's face had grown graver. "yes," he said. "you are the little ladies from the castle. i have seen you sometimes. i have seen you in church. we always call you the little ladies--grandfather and i--when we are talking. he has told me about you--and--i've heard about the castle, though i've never been in it. it's very fine. i like to look up at it from the sea." ruby felt a little smoothed down. her tone became more gracious. mavis, who had drawn near, stood listening with great interest, and as the boy turned towards her the smile came over his face again. "who do you mean by `grandfather'?" asked ruby eagerly. "is it old adam? i didn't know he had any children or grandchildren." "yes," the boy replied, "i'm his grandson. was it grandfather you meant when you said he was queer?" "oh," said mavis, "ruby didn't mean to be rude. it was only nonsense. people say--" "they say he's very queer indeed," said ruby, who had no intention of deserting her colours. "they say he's a kind of a wizard or an ogre, and that you hear all sorts of sounds--music and talking and i don't know all what--if you're near his cottage in the evening, and that there are lights to be seen in it too, not common lights like candles, but much more. some say he's friends with the mermaids, and that they come to see him--is that true?" and notwithstanding her boasted boldness ruby dropped her voice a little, and glanced over her shoulder half nervously seawards, as if not quite sure but that some of the tailed ladies in question might be listening to her. the boy did more than smile now. he laughed outright; but his laugh, though bright and ringing, was not the laugh the sisters had heard from the cottage. "the mermaids," he said. "no, indeed, poor little things, they never visit grandfather." "well, why do you laugh?" said ruby angrily again. "you speak as if there _were_ mermaids." "i was thinking of stories i have heard about them," said the boy simply. "but i couldn't help laughing to think of them coming to see grandfather. how could they ever get up these stones?" "oh, i don't know, i'm sure," ruby answered impatiently. "if he's a wizard he could do anything like that. i wish you'd tell us all about him. you must know, as you live with him." "i've not been long with him," said the boy. "he _may_ be friends with the mermaids for all i know. he's friends with everybody." "you're mocking at me," said ruby, "and i won't have it. i'm sure you could tell me things if you chose." "we did hear talking and laughing," said mavis gently, speaking almost for the first time, "and it seemed as if there was some one else there." the boy looked at her again, and a very pleasant light came into his eyes--more than that, indeed, as mavis watched him it seemed to her that they changed in colour. was it the reflection from the sky? no, there was a mingling of every hue to be seen over by the western horizon certainly, but scarcely the deep clear midsummer sky-blue they suddenly became. "what funny eyes you've got," exclaimed the child impulsively. "they're quite blue now, and they weren't a minute ago." ruby stared at him and then at mavis. "nonsense," she said, "they're not. they're just common coloured eyes. you shouldn't say such things, mavis; people will think you're out of your mind." mavis looked very ashamed, but the boy's face flushed up. he looked both glad and excited. "if you please, miss," he said, "some people see things that others don't. i don't even mind that nonsense about gran and the mermaids; those that say it don't know any better." ruby looked at him sharply. "then there is something to know," she said. "now you might as well tell us all about it. is old adam a wizard?" "that he's not," answered the boy stoutly, "if so be, as i take it, that a wizard means one that has to do with bad spirits--unkind and mischief-making and unloving, call them what you will. none of such like would come near gran, or, if they did, he'd soon send them to the right-about. i'd like you to see him for yourself some day, but not to-day, if you'll excuse it. he's very tired. i was running down to the shore to fetch a pailful of sea water to bathe his lame arm." "then we mustn't keep you," said mavis. "but might we really come to see your grandfather some day, do you think?" "i'll ask him," said the boy; "and i think he'd be pleased to see you." "you might come up to the castle if there's anything he would like--a little soup or anything," said ruby in her patronising way. "i'll speak to the housekeeper." "thank you, miss," said the boy, but more hesitatingly than he had spoken before. "what's your name?" asked ruby. "we'd better know it, so that you can say who you are when you come." "winfried," he answered simply. "then good-bye, winfried," said ruby. "come on, mavis;" and she turned to pursue her way home past the cottage. winfried hesitated. then he ran a step or two after them. "i can show you a nearer way home to the castle," he said, "and if you don't mind, it would be very kind of you not to go near by our cottage. grandfather is feeble still--did you know he had been very ill?--and seeing or hearing strangers might startle him." "then you come with us," said ruby. "you can tell him who we are." "i'm in a hurry to get the salt water," said the boy. "i have put off time already, and if you won't think me rude i'd much rather you came to the cottage some day when we could invite you to step in." his manner was so simple and hearty that ruby could not take offence, though she had been quite ready to do so. "very well," she said, "then show us your nearer way." he led them without speaking some little distance towards the shore again. after all there was a path--not a bad one of its kind, for here and there it ran on quite smoothly for a few yards and then descended by stones arranged so as to make a few rough steps. "dear me," said ruby, "how stupid we were not to find this path before." winfried smiled. "i scarce think you could have found it without me to show you," he said, "nor the short way home either for that matter. see here;" and having come to the end of the path he went on a few steps along the pebbly shore, for here there was no smooth sand, and stopped before a great boulder stone, as large as a hay-cart, which stood out suddenly among the broken rocks. winfried stepped up close to it and touched it apparently quite gently. to the children's amazement it swung round lightly as if it had been the most perfectly hung door. and there before them was revealed a little roadway, wide enough for two to walk abreast, which seemed to wind in and out among the rocks as far as they could see. it was like a carefully rolled gravel path in a garden, except that it seemed to be of a peculiar kind of sand, white and glistening. ruby darted forward. "what a lovely path!" she exclaimed; "will it take us straight home? are you sure it will?" "quite sure," said winfried. "you will see your way in no time if you run hand-in-hand." "what a funny idea," laughed the child; and mavis too looked pleased. "i'm quite sure it's a fairy road," she was beginning to say, but, looking round, their little guide had disappeared. then came his voice: "good-night," he said cheerfully. "i've shut-to the stone door, and i'm up on the top of it. good-night, little ladies. run home hand-in-hand." the girls looked at each other. "upon my word," exclaimed ruby, not quite knowing what to say, "if old adam isn't a wizard his grandson is. i think we'd better get out of this as quick as we can, mavis." she seemed half frightened and half provoked. mavis, on the contrary, was quite simply delighted. "i shouldn't wonder if this was the mermaid's own way to the cottage," she said. "i'm sure old adam and winfried aren't wizards; but i do think they must be some kind of good fairies, or at least they must have to do with fairies. come along, ruby, hand-in-hand;" and she held out her own hand. but ruby by this time had grown cross. "i won't give in to such rubbish," she said. "i don't want to go along hand-in-hand like two silly babies. if it was worth the trouble i'd climb up to the top of the stone and go home the proper way." this was all boasting. she knew quite well she could not possibly climb up the stone. but she walked on a few steps in sulky dignity. suddenly she gave a little cry, slipped, and fell. "oh, i've hurt my ankle!" she exclaimed. "this horrid white gravel is so slippery." mavis was beside her almost before she had said the words, and with her sister's help ruby got on to her feet again, though looking rather doleful. "i believe it's all a trick of that horrid boy's," she said. "i wish you hadn't made me come to see that dirty old cottage, mavis." mavis stared. "_me_ make you come, ruby?" she said. "why, it was yourself." "well, you didn't stop it, any way," said ruby, "and you seem to have taken such a fancy to that boy and his grandfather, and--" "ruby, we must go home," said mavis. "try if you can get along." they were "hand-in-hand." there was no help for it now. ruby tried to walk; to her surprise her ankle scarcely hurt her, and after a moment or two she even began urging mavis to go faster. "i believe i could run," she said. "perhaps the bone in my ankle got out of its place and now has got into it again. come on, mavis." they started running together, for in spite of her boasting ruby had had a lesson and would not let go of mavis. they got on famously; the ground seemed elastic; as they ran, each step grew at once firmer and yet lighter. "it isn't a bit slippery now, is it?" said mavis, glowing with the pleasant exercise. "and oh, ruby, do look up at the sky--isn't it lovely? and isn't that the evening star coming out--that blue light up there; no, it's too early. see--no, it's gone. what could it be? why, here we are, at the gate of the low terrace!" they had suddenly, as they ran, come out from the path, walled in, as it were, among the broken rocky fragments, on to a more open space, which at the first moment they scarcely recognised as one of the fields at the south side of the castle. ruby too gazed about her with surprise. "it _is_ a quick way home, certainly," she allowed, "but i don't see any star or blue light, mavis. it must be your fancy." mavis looked up at the sky. the sunset colours were just beginning to fade; a soft pearly grey veil was slowly drawing over them, though they were still brilliant. mavis seemed perplexed. "it is gone," she said, "but i did see it." "it must have been the dazzle of the light in your eyes," said ruby. "i am seeing lots of little suns all over--red ones and yellow ones." "no, it wasn't like that," said mavis; "it was more like--" "more like what?" asked ruby. "i was going to say more like a forget-me-not up in the sky," said her sister. "you _silly_ girl," laughed ruby. "i never did hear any one talk such nonsense as you do. i'll tell cousin hortensia, see if i don't." "i don't mind," said mavis quietly. chapter three. the princess with the forget-me-not eyes. "for, just when it thrills me most, the fairies change into phantoms cold, and the beautiful dream is lost!" miss hortensia was looking out for the little girls as they slowly came up the terraces. "there you are at last," she called out. "you are rather late, my dears. i have been round at the other side, thinking i saw you go out that way." "so we did," said ruby. "we went down to the cove and along the shore as far as --. oh, cousin hortensia, we have had _such_ adventures, and last of all, what _do_ you think? mavis has just seen a forget-me-not up in the sky." miss hortensia smiled at mavis; she had a particular way of smiling at her, as if she was not perfectly sure if the little girl were quite like other people. but mavis, though she understood this far better than her cousin imagined, never felt angry at it. "a forget-me-not in the sky," said the lady; "that is an odd idea. but you must tell me all your adventures when we are comfortably settled for the evening. run in and take your things off quickly, for i don't want you to catch cold, and the air, now the sun is set, is chilly. there is a splendid fire burning, and we shall have tea in my room as i promised you." "oh, how nice," said ruby. "come along, mavis. i'm as hungry as a hawk." "and you'll tell us stories after tea, cousin hortensia, won't you?" said mavis; "at least you'll tell us about your queer dream." "and about mamma's going to court," added ruby, as she dashed upstairs. for by this time they were inside the house. the part of the castle that the children and their cousin and the few servants in attendance on them occupied was really only a corner of it. a short flight of stairs led up to a small gallery running round a side-hall, and out of this gallery opened their sleeping-rooms and what had been their nursery and play-rooms. the school-room and miss hortensia's own sitting-room were on the ground-floor. to get to any of the turrets was quite a long journey. they were approached by the great staircase which ascended from the large white and black tiled hall, dividing, after the first flight, into two branches, each of which led to passages from which other smaller stairs went upwards to the top of the house. the grandest rooms opened out of the tiled hall on the ground-floor, and out of the passages on the first floor. from this central part of the house the children's corner was shut off by heavy swing doors seldom opened. so when ruby and mavis visited the turrets they had to pass through these doors, and go some way along the passages, and then up one of the side stairs--up, up, up, the flights of steps getting steeper and narrower as they climbed, till at last they reached the door of the turret-chamber itself. of these chambers there were two, one in each turret, east and west. the west was their favourite, partly because from it they saw the sunset, and partly because it was nearer their own rooms. they had been allowed to make a sort of private nest of it for themselves, and to play there on rainy days when they could not get out, and sometimes in very cold or snowy weather they had a fire there, which made the queer old room very cheery. there were three windows in each turret, and they were furnished in an odd, irregular way with all sorts of quaint old-fashioned furniture discarded from other parts of the castle. in former days these turret-rooms had sometimes been used as guest-chambers when the house was very full of visitors. for the large modern rooms and the hall i have spoken of had been added by the children's grandfather--a very hospitable but extravagant man. and before he made these improvements there were often more guests than it was easy to find room for. ruby and mavis were not long in taking off their out-door things and "tidying" themselves for their evening in miss hortensia's pleasant little room. they made a pretty picture as they ran downstairs, their fair curls dancing on their shoulders, though if i were to describe to you how they were dressed, i am afraid you would think they must have been a very old-world looking little pair. "here we are, cousin hortensia," exclaimed ruby as they came in, "and i do hope it's nearly tea-time." "not quite, my dear," miss hortensia replied, glancing at a beautifully carved swiss clock which stood on the mantelpiece; "the little trumpeter won't tell us it's six o'clock for half an hour yet--his dog has just barked twice." "lazy things," said ruby, shrugging her shoulders, "i'd like to shake that old trumpeter sometimes." "and sometimes you'd like to pat him to sleep, wouldn't you?" said mavis. "when cousin hortensia's telling us stories, and he says it's bed-time." miss hortensia looked at mavis in some surprise, but she seemed very pleased too. it was not often mavis spoke so brightly. "suppose you use up the half-hour in telling _me_ stories," said their cousin. "mine will keep till after tea. what were all the adventures you met with?" "oh," said ruby, "it was too queer. did you know, cousin, that there was a short way home from the sea-shore near old adam's cottage? _such_ a queer way;" and she went on to describe the path between the rocks. miss hortensia looked very puzzled. "who showed it to you?" she said; for ruby, in her helter-skelter way, had begun at the end of the story, without speaking of the boy winfried, or explaining why they--or she--had been so curious about the old man whom the villagers called a wizard. "it was the boy," mavis replied; "such a nice boy, cousin hortensia, with funny bluey eyes--at least they're _sometimes_ blue." "oh, mavis, do not talk so sillily," said ruby; "his eyes aren't a bit blue. she's got blue on the brain, cousin, she really has. seeing forget-me-nots in the sky too! i don't think he _was_ a particularly nice boy. he was rather cool. i'm sure we wouldn't have done his grandfather any harm. did you ever hear of him, cousin? old adam they call him;" and then she went on to give a rather more clear account of their walk, and all they had seen and heard. miss hortensia listened attentively, and into her own eyes crept a dreamy, far-away, or rather long-ago look. "it is odd," she said; "i have a kind of fancy that i have heard of the old `solitary,' for he must be almost a hermit, before. but somehow i don't think it was here. i wonder how long he has lived here?" "i don't know," said ruby. "a good while, i should think. he was here when joan was our nurse." "but that was only two years ago," said miss hortensia, smiling. "if he had been here many years the people would not count him so much of a foreigner. and the boy you met--has he come to take care of the old man?" "i suppose so. we didn't ask him," said ruby carelessly. "he was really such a cool boy, ordering us not to go near the cottage indeed! i told him he might come up to get some soup or jelly for his grandfather," she went on, with a toss of her head. "i said it, you know, just to put him in his place, and remind him whom he was speaking to." "i'm sure he didn't mean to be rude," said mavis; "and, cousin, there really was something rather `fairy' about him. isn't it _very_ queer we never heard of that path before?" "yes," miss hortensia replied. "are you sure you didn't both fall asleep on the shore and dream it all? though, to be sure, it is rather too cold weather for you to have been overcome by drowsiness." "and we couldn't both have dreamt the same thing if we had fallen asleep," said mavis, in her practical way. "it wasn't like when you were a little girl and saw or dreamt--" "don't you begin telling the story if cousin hortensia's going to tell it herself," interrupted ruby. "i was just thinking i had forgotten it a good deal, and that it would seem fresh. but here's tea at last--i am so glad." they were very merry and happy during the meal. ruby was particularly pleased with herself, having a vague idea that she had behaved in a very grand and dignified way. mavis's eyes were very bright. the afternoon's adventure had left on her a feeling of expecting something pleasant, that she could hardly put in words. and besides this, there was cousin hortensia's story to hear. when the table was cleared, cousin hortensia settled herself with her knitting in a low chair by the fire, and told the children to bring forward two little stools and seat themselves beside her. they had their knitting too, for this useful art had been taught them while they were so young that they could scarcely remember having learnt it. and the three pairs of needles made a soft click-click, which did not the least disturb their owners, so used were they to it. rather did it seem a pleasant accompaniment to miss hortensia's voice. "you want me to tell you the story of my night in the west turret-room when i was a little girl," she began. "you have heard it before, partly at least, but i will try to tell it more fully this time. i was a very little girl, younger than you two--i don't think i was more than eight years old. i had come here with my father and mother and elder sisters to join a merry party assembled to celebrate the silver wedding of your great-grandparents. your grandfather himself, their eldest child, was about three and twenty. he was not then married, so it was some time before your father was born. i don't quite know why they had brought me. it seems to me i would have been better at home in my nursery, for there were no children as young as i to keep me company. perhaps it was that they wished to have me to represent another generation, as it were, though, after all, that might have been done by my sisters. the elder of them, jacintha, was then nineteen; it was she who afterwards married your grandfather, so that besides being cousins of the family, as we were already, i am your grandmother's sister, and thus your great-aunt as well as cousin." the little girls nodded their heads. "i was so much younger than jacintha," miss hortensia went on, "that your father never called me aunt. he and i have always been robert and hortensia to each other, and to me he has always been like a younger brother." "but about your adventure," said ruby, who was not of a sentimental turn. "i am coming to it," said their cousin. "well, as i said, the party was a merry one. they had dancing and music in plenty every evening, and the house, which was in some ways smaller than it is now, was very full. there were a great many bedrooms, though few of them were large, and i and my sisters, being relations, were treated with rather less ceremony than some of the stranger guests, and put to sleep in the turret-room. i had a little bed in one corner, and my sisters slept together in the same old four-poster which is still there. i used to be put to bed much earlier than they came, for, as i said, there were dancing and other amusements most evenings till pretty late. i was not at all a nervous or frightened child, and even sometimes when i lay up there by myself wide awake--for the change and the excitement kept me from going to sleep as quickly as at home--i did not feel at all lonely. from my bed i could see out of the window, for the turret windows are so high up that it has never been necessary to have blinds on them, and i loved to lie there watching the starlit sky, or sometimes, when the moon was bright and full, gazing up at the clouds that went scurrying over her face. one night i had been unusually wakeful. i lay there, hearing now and then very, very faint, far-off sounds of the music down below. it was a mild night, and i think the windows were a little open. at last i must have fallen asleep. when i awoke, or rather when i _thought_ i awoke, the room was all in darkness except in one corner, the corner by the west window. there, there was a soft steady light, and it seemed to me that it was on purpose to make me look that way. for there, sitting on the old chair that still stands in the depth of that window was some one i had never seen before. a lady in a cloudy silvery dress, with a sheen of blue over it. my waking, or looking at her, for though it must all have been a dream, i could not make you understand it unless i described it as if it were real, seemed to be made conscious to her, for she at once turned her eyes upon me, then rose slowly and came over the room towards me." "weren't you frightened?" said ruby breathlessly. in spite of her boasted disbelief in dreams and visions her cousin's story had caught her attention. miss hortensia shook her head. "not in the _very_ least," she said. "on the contrary, i felt a strange and delightful kind of pleasure and wonder. it was more intense than i have ever felt anything of the kind in waking life; indeed, if it had lasted long i think it would have been more than i could bear--" miss hortensia stopped for a moment and leant back in her chair. "i have felt _something_ of the same," she went on, "when listening to very, _very_ beautiful music--music that seemed too beautiful and made you almost cry out for it to stop." "i've never heard music like that," whispered little mavis, "but i think i know what you mean." "or," continued miss hortensia, "sometimes on a marvellously beautiful day--what people call a `heavenly' day, i have had a feeling rather like it. a feeling that makes one shut one's eyes for very pleasure." "well," said ruby, "did you shut your eyes then, or what did you do?" "no," said her cousin. "i could not have shut them. i felt she was looking at me, and her eyes seemed to catch and fasten mine and draw them into hers. it was her eyes above all that filled me with that beautiful wonderful feeling. i can never forget it--never. i could fancy sometimes even now, old woman as i am, that i am again the little enraptured child gazing up at the beautiful vision. i feel her eyes in mine still." "how funny you are," interrupted ruby. "a minute ago you said she pulled your eyes into hers, now you say hers came into yours. it would be a very funny feeling whichever it was; i don't think i should like it." miss hortensia glanced at her, but gravely. she did not smile. "it must be a very `funny' feeling, as you call it, to a hitherto blind man the first time he sees the sunshine. i daresay he would find it difficult to describe; and to a still blind person it would be impossible to explain it. i daresay the newly-cured man would not feel sure whether the sun had come into his eyes or his eyes had reached up to the sun." ruby fidgeted. "oh, do go on about the fairy or whatever she was," she said. "never mind about what i said." miss hortensia smiled. "the lady came slowly across the room to me," she went on, "and stood by my bed, looking down at me with those wonderful blue eyes. then she smiled, and it seemed as if the light about her grew still brighter. i thought i sat up in bed to see her better. `are you a fairy?' i said at last. she smiled still more. `if you like, you may call me a fairy,' she answered. `but if i am a fairy my home must be fairyland, and this turret-room is one of my homes. so you are my guest, my little girl.' i did not mind her saying that. i smiled too. `i've never seen you here before,' i said. and she laughed a little--i never heard anything so pretty as her laugh. `no,' she replied, `but i have seen you and every one that has ever been here, though every one has not seen me. now listen, my child. i wanted you to see me because i have something to say to you. there will come a time when you will be drawn two ways, one will be back here to the old castle by the sea, after many years; many, many years as you count things. choose that way, for you will be wanted here. those yet unborn will want you, for they will want love and care. look into my eyes, little girl, and promise me you will come to them.' and in my dream i thought i gazed again into her eyes, and i felt as if their blue light was the light of a faith and truth that could not be broken, and i said, `i promise.' and then the fairy lady seemed to draw a gauze veil over her face, and it grew dim, and the wonderful eyes were hidden, and i thought i fell asleep. in reality, i suppose, i had never been awake." "and when you did wake up it was morning, i suppose, and it had all been a dream?" asked ruby. miss hortensia gave a little sigh. "yes," she said, "i suppose it had been a dream. it was morning, bright morning, the sun streaming in at the other window when i awoke, and i never saw the fairy lady again--not even in a dream. but what she had said came true, my dears. many, many years after, when i was already beginning to be an old woman, it came true. i am afraid i had grown selfish--life had brought me many anxieties, and i had lived in a great city where there was much luxury and gaiety, and where no one seemed to have thought for anything but the rush of pleasure and worldly cares. i had forgotten all about my beautiful vision, when one day there came a summons. your sweet young mother had died, my darlings, and your poor father in his desolation could think of no one better to come and take care of his little girls--you were only two years old--than his old cousin. and so i came; and then there crept back to me the remembrance of my dream. i had indeed been drawn two ways, for the friends i might have gone to live with were rich and good-natured, and they promised me everything i could wish. but i thought of the two little motherless ones, here in the old castle by the sea, in want of love and care as _she_ had said, and i came." miss hortensia stopped. even ruby was impressed by what she had heard. "dear cousin," she said, "it was very good of you." "and have you never seen the beautiful lady again?" said mavis. "she told you the west turret was her own room, didn't she? have you never seen her there?" miss hortensia shook her head. "you forget, dear, it was only a dream. and even if it had been more than that, we grow very far away from angels and fairies as we get old, i fear." "not _you_," mavis said; "you're not like that. and the lady must have been so pleased with you for caring for us, i wonder she hasn't ever come to see you again. do you know," she went on eagerly, after a moment's pause, "i have a feeling that she _is_ in the west turret-room sometimes!" miss hortensia looked at the child in amazement mavis's quiet, rather dull face seemed transformed; it was all flushed and beaming, her eyes sparkling and bright. "mavis!" she said, "you look as if you had seen her yourself. but it was only a dream, you mustn't let my old-world stories make you fanciful. i am too fanciful myself perhaps--i have always loved the vest turret, and that was why i chose it for your play-room when you were little dots." "i'm so glad you did," said mavis, drawing a long breath. after that they were all rather silent for a while. then ruby claimed miss hortensia's promise of the story or description rather of the grand court ball at which her mother's beauty had made such a sensation, and when that was ended, the little trumpeter announced, much to the children's displeasure, that it was time to go to bed. "we _have_ had a cosy evening," said mavis, as she kissed miss hortensia. "and, oh ruby," she said, as her sister and she were going slowly upstairs, "_don't_ you wish we might sleep in the turret-room?" "no indeed," ruby replied, in a most decided tone, "i certainly don't." chapter four. a boy and a boat. "are little boats alive? and can they plan and feel?" "a." "if you please, there's a boy at the kitchen-door asking for the young ladies," said the young maid-servant ulrica, who generally waited on ruby and mavis. they were just finishing their morning lessons with miss hortensia, and mavis was putting away the books, a task which usually fell to her share. miss hortensia gave a little start. "a boy," she exclaimed, "what kind of a boy? it can't be--oh no of course not. how foolish i am. at the kitchen-door, did you say, ulrica? who is it?" "oh, i know!" cried ruby, jumping up with a clatter, delighted to avoid finding out the mistake in a sum which miss hortensia had told her she must correct. "it's winfried; i'm sure it is. he's come for some soup or something. i told him he might, but i do think it's rather greedy to have come the very next day. mayn't i go and speak to him, cousin?" "well, yes, i suppose so. no, i think it would be better for him to come in here. show the boy in here, ulrica--at least--ask him if he is old adam's grandson." in a minute or two the door was again opened. "if you please, ma'am," said ulrica's voice as before, "it's--it's the boy." "the boy" walked in; he held his cap in his hand, and made a sort of graceful though simple obeisance to the ladies. he did not seem the least shy, yet neither was there a touch of boldness about him. on his face was the slight but pleasant smile that had more than once lighted it up the day before, and his eyes, as he stood there full in the bright gleam of the window--for it was a clear and sunny day--were _very_ blue. ruby came forward. "oh, it's you, is it?" she said, with the half-patronising good humour usual to her when not put out. "i thought it was. it's winfried, cousin hortensia; the boy i told you of. i suppose you've come for some soup for your grandfather." winfried smiled, a little more than before. mavis crept forward; she wished she could have said something, but she was afraid of vexing ruby. "no, miss," said winfried, "i did not come for that, though grandfather said it was very kind of you, and some day perhaps--" he stopped short. "i came to bring you this which i found on the rocks down below our cottage;" and he held out a little silver cross. ruby started, and put her hand up to her neck. "oh dear," she said, "i never knew i had lost it. are you sure it isn't yours, mavis? i've got my cord on." "yes, but the cross must have dropped off," said mavis. "i have mine all right." and so it proved. both little sisters wore these crosses, which were exactly alike. ruby took hers from winfried, and began examining it to see how it had got loose. miss hortensia came forward. "it was very good of you to bring the little cross," she said kindly; for something about the boy attracted her very much. "ruby, my dear," she went on half reprovingly. ruby started and looked up. "i am sure you are very much obliged?" "oh yes, of course i am," said the little girl carelessly. "it certainly was very sharp of you to find it," she added with more interest. "i can generally find things," said winfried quietly. "is there anything we can do for your grandfather?" asked miss hortensia. "i am sorry to hear he's so ill." the boy shook his head; a sad look passed across his bright face. "yes," he said, "he's pretty bad sometimes. but some days he's much better. he's better to-day. there's one thing he would like," he went on, "he told me to ask you if some day the young ladies might come to see him; he said i might ask--" ruby interrupted-- "why, how funny you are," she said; "that was just what we wanted yesterday, and you wouldn't let us go near the cottage. you said we'd startle him." "he was very tired yesterday," said winfried; "and you see he wasn't looking for you." "he was chattering and laughing all the same--or somebody was," said ruby. "we heard them--don't you remember?" winfried did not speak. but he did not seem vexed. "i believe it was the mermaids after all," ruby went on. "cousin hortensia, if you let us go there the mermaids will steal us." "no, indeed," exclaimed winfried eagerly. miss hortensia smiled at him. "i am not afraid," she said. "tell your grandfather the young ladies shall certainly go to see him some day soon." "to-morrow," said mavis, speaking almost for the first time. "oh, do say we may go to-morrow--it's our half-holiday." "very well," said miss hortensia. "are you sure you can find your way? i can send ulrica with you." "mayn't i come to fetch the young ladies?" asked winfried. "i know all the short cuts." "i should think you did," laughed ruby. "we told cousin hortensia all about that queer path through the rocks. _she'd_ never seen it either." "i'll take you quite as nice a way to-morrow," said the boy composedly. "may i go now, please?" he added, turning to miss hortensia. "grandfather may be wanting me, and thank you very much;" and in another moment he was gone. miss hortensia was quite silent for a minute or two after he had left the room. "cousin," began ruby; but her cousin did not seem to hear. "_cousin_," repeated the child impatiently. miss hortensia looked up as if awakened from a brown study. "did you speak, my dear?" she said. "yes, of course i did. i want you to say something about that queer boy. i suppose you think him very nice, or you wouldn't let mavis and me go to his cottage. you're generally so frightened about us." "i do think he is a very nice boy," said miss hortensia. "i am sure he is quite trustworthy." "_i_ believe he's a bit of a fairy, and i'm sure his old grandfather's a wizard," murmured ruby. "and i quite expect, as i said to joan, that we shall be turned into sea-gulls or frogs if we go there." "i shouldn't mind being a sea-gull," said mavis. "not for a little while at least. would you, cousin hortensia?" but miss hortensia had not been listening to their chatter. "my dears," she said suddenly, "i will tell you one reason why i should be glad for you sometimes to have winfried as a companion if he is as good and manly as he seems. i have had a letter from your father, telling me of a new guest we are to expect. it is a cousin of yours--a little nephew of your father's--your aunt margaret's son. he is an only child, and, your father fears, a good deal spoilt. he is coming here because his father is away at sea and his mother is ill and must be kept quiet, and bertrand, it seems, is very noisy." "bertrand," repeated ruby, "oh, i remember about him. i remember father telling us about him--he is a horrid boy, i know." "your father did not call him a horrid boy, i'm sure," said miss hortensia. "no," said mavis, "he only said he was spoilt. and he said he was a pretty little boy, and nice in some ways." "well, we must do our best to make him nicer," said miss hortensia; "though i confess i feel a little uneasy--you have never been accustomed to rough bearish ways. and if winfried can be with you sometimes he might help you with bertrand." "when is he coming?" asked ruby. "very soon, but i do not know the exact day. now run off, my dears; there is time for you to have half an hour's play in the garden before dinner." it was curious that of the two little girls mavis seemed the more to dislike the idea of the expected guest. "ruby," she said rather dolefully, "i do wish bertrand weren't coming. he'll spoil everything, and we shan't know what to do with him." "there's not much to spoil that i see," said ruby. "what do you mean?" "oh, our nice quiet ways. cousin hortensia telling us stories and all that," said mavis. "and i'm sure winfried won't want to have to look after a rough, rude little boy. it's quite different with _us_-- winfried likes us because we're--ladies, you know, and gentle and nice to him." ruby laughed. "how you go on about winfried--winfried!" she said mockingly. "i think it's a very good thing bertrand is coming to put him down a bit--a common fisher-boy! i wonder at cousin hortensia. i'm sure if father knew he wouldn't be at all pleased, but _i'm_ not going to tell him. i mean to have some fun with master winfried before i have done with him, and i expect bertrand will help me." "ruby!" exclaimed mavis, looking startled, "you don't mean that you are going to play him any tricks?" ruby only laughed again, more mockingly than before. "i'd like to lock him up in the haunted room in the west turret one night," she said. "i do hope he'd get a good fright." mavis seemed to have recovered from her alarm. "i don't believe he'd mind the least scrap," she said; "that shows you don't understand him one bit. he'd like it; besides, you say yourself you think he's a fairy boy, so why should he be afraid of fairies?" "nobody's afraid of _fairies_, you silly girl. but if cousin hortensia saw anything in the turret--and i don't believe she did,--it wasn't a fairy, it was quite different--more a sort of witch, i suppose." "you're always talking of witches and wizards," retorted mavis, who seemed to be picking up a spirit which rather astonished ruby. "_i_ like thinking of nicer things--angels and--oh ruby!" she suddenly broke off, "do look here--oh, how lovely!" and stooping down she pointed to a thick cluster of turquoise blossoms, almost hidden in a corner beneath the shrubs. "_aren't_ they darlings? really it's enough to make one believe in fairies or kind spirits of some kind--to find forget-me-nots like these in november!" and she looked up at her sister with delight dancing in her eyes. even ruby looked surprised. "they are beauties," she said; "and i'm almost sure they weren't there yesterday. didn't we come round by here, mavis?" "not till it was nearly dark. we ran in this way, you know, after we came out of winfried's path," said mavis. "oh, yes, i remember," ruby replied, and a half dreamy look stole over her face. they were standing on the lower terrace. this side of the castle, as i have said, was much more sheltered and protected than the other, but still already in november it was bleak and bare. the evergreen shrubs had begun to look self-satisfied and important, as i think they always do in late autumn, when their fragile companions of the summer are shivering together in forlorn misery, or sinking slowly and sadly, leaf by leaf, brown and shrivelled, into the parent bosom of mother earth, always ready to receive and hide her poor children in their day of desolation. nay, more, far more than that does she for them in her dark but loving embrace; not a leaf, not a tiniest twig is lost or mislaid-- all, everything, is cared for and restored again, at the sun's warm kiss to creep forth in ever fresh and renewed life and beauty. for all we see, children dear, is but a type, faint and shadowy, of the real things that _are_. then a strange sort of irritation came over ruby. the soft wondering expression so new to her disappeared, and she turned sharply to mavis. "rubbish!" she said. "of course they were there yesterday. but they shan't be there to-morrow--here goes;" and she bent down to pick the little flowers. mavis stopped her with a cry. "don't gather them, ruby," she said. "poor little things, they might stay in their corner in peace, and we could come and look at them every day. they'd wither so soon in the house." ruby laughed. she was much more careless than actually unkind, at least when kindness cost her little. "_what_ a baby you are," she said contemptuously. "you make as much fuss as when i wanted to take the thrush's eggs last spring. wouldn't you like to give your dear winfried a posy of them?" "no," mavis answered, "he wouldn't like us to gather them; there are so few and they do look so sweet." the next day was clear and bright, but cold; evidently winter was coming now. but old bertha had started the fires at last, as the date on which it was the rule at the castle for them to begin on was now past. so inside the house it was comfortable enough--in the inhabited part of it at least; though in the great unused rooms round the tiled hall, where all the furniture was shrouded in ghostly-looking linen covers, and up the echoing staircase, and up still higher in the turret-rooms where the wind whistled in at one window and out again at the opposite one, where jack frost's pictures lasted the same on the panes for days at a time--dear, dear, it _was_ cold, even bertha herself allowed, when she had to make her weekly tour of inspection to see that all was right. "i will ask miss hortensia not to let the little ladies play in the west turret this winter," thought the old woman. "i'm sure it was there miss mavis caught her cold last christmas. a good fire indeed! it'd take a week of bonfires to warm that room." but old bertha was mistaken, as you will see. there was no thought of playing in the west turret this half-holiday, however, for it was the right sort of day for a bright winter walk. and while the afternoon was still young, ruby and mavis, warmly wrapt up in their fur-lined mantles and hoods, were racing downstairs to winfried, who had come punctually and was waiting for them, so ulrica had come in to say, at the door in the archway on the sea side of the castle. "what are you here for?" was ruby's first greeting. "why didn't you come to the garden side? aren't you going to take us by the path between the rocks, down below the field?" "no, miss ruby," said the boy, his cap in his hand. "we're going another way to-day. i think you will like it just as well. we must go down to the cove first." "_i_ don't mind," said ruby, dancing on in front of the two others; "but i'm afraid mavis has been dreaming of that nice cosy little path. she wouldn't let me even look for the entrance to it yesterday; she said we should wait for you to show it us." "i think miss mavis will like to-day's way just as well," winfried repeated. they were some little distance down the cliff by this time. it was very clear and bright; for once, the waves, even though the tide was close up to the shore, seemed in a peaceful mood, and only as a distant murmur came the boom of their dashing against the rocks, round to the right beyond the little sheltered nook. winfried stood still for a moment and gazed down seawards, shading his eyes with his hand, for winter though it was, the afternoon sunshine was almost dazzling. "what is it? what are you looking for?" asked ruby, coming back a step or two and standing beside him. "do come on; it's too cold to hang about." for once winfried was less polite than usual. he did not answer ruby, but turned to mavis, who was a little behind. "do you see anything?" he asked. and mavis, following his eyes, answered, "yes--there's--oh, there's a little boat drifting in--a tiny boat--is it drifting? no; there's some one in it,--some one with a blue cloak; no, it must have been the waves just touching; the waves are so blue to-day." the boy gave a little sigh of satisfaction. "i thought so," he said. then he sprang forward eagerly: "come on," he cried, "we mustn't be late." ruby followed, not too pleased. "i've as good eyes as mavis," she said. "why didn't you ask me? i don't believe there's a boat at all." but even ruby had to give in when in a few minutes they found themselves at the edge of the cove, on the little half-circle of sand which was all that the sea left uncovered at full tide. for there _was_ a boat, a most unmistakable and delightful boat, though scarcely larger than a sofa, and looking like a perfect toy as it rocked gently on the rippling water. "goodness!" said ruby,--and it must be allowed that goodness is a prettier word than rubbish,--"how in the world did that boat come here? did you bring it, winfried? no, for if you had you wouldn't have been looking to see if it had come. but is it your boat?" "no," answered the boy; "it's lent me, on purpose for you and miss mavis. get in, please." ruby came forward, but hesitated. "are you sure it's safe?" she said. "you know the sea is very rough-- round there near the village. and this is such a very little boat." winfried laughed. "it's as safe as--as the safest thing you can think of," he said. "_you're_ not afraid, miss mavis." for all answer the little girl sprang into the boat; it danced under her feet, but she only laughed. "come on, ruby," she called out; "it's lovely." ruby stepped in cautiously. the little boat was most dainty and pretty. there were cushions for the little girls, and one or two soft rich coloured shawls, of a fashion and material such as they had never seen before. "dear me," said ruby, settling herself in the most comfortable place and drawing the pretty rugs round her, "what a nice little boat! your friends must be very rich, winfried. but i know what i know;" and she shook her head mysteriously. "what do you mean, ruby?" said mavis. winfried was busy with his oars and did not seem to be attending to them. ruby leant forward and whispered, close into her sister's ear, "_mermaids_!" then seeing or thinking that the boy was not listening, she went on. "you know mermaids _are_ very rich. they dive down into the shipwrecked vessels and fish up all the treasures. i daresay these shawls have come from some strange country, right over at the other side of the world. indeed, _some_ people say that the horrid things sing to make the sailors turn to look for them and get their ships all in among the rocks." mavis looked puzzled. "i don't think that's _mermaids_," she said. "there's another name for those naughty, unkind creatures." "syrens," came winfried's voice from the other end of the boat. and he looked up with a smile at the little girls' start of surprise. "don't be afraid," he said, "my friends are neither mermaids nor syrens; you're not going to be shipwrecked in this boat, i promise you." somehow the boy seemed to have gained a new kind of dignity now that the children were, so to say, his guests. ruby said, "thank you," quite meekly and submissively for her. then they were all quite silent for a while, only the plash of winfried's oars broke the stillness. and somehow out there on the water it seemed to have grown warmer, at least the children felt conscious of neither cold nor heat, it was just perfectly pleasant. and the sun shone on mildly. there was a thorough feeling of "afternoon," with its quiet and mystery and yet faint expectation, such as one seldom has except in summer. "it is lovely," said mavis presently; "only i'm a little afraid i'm getting sleepy." "no, you needn't be afraid," said winfried; and just as he said the words, mavis started, as something flitted against her cheek. "ruby, ruby!" she exclaimed, "did you see it? a butterfly--a blue butterfly--in november! oh, where has it gone to?" and she gazed all round anxiously. chapter five. the fisherman's hut. "... there are things which through the gazing eye reach the full soul and thrill it into love." _to my child_. ruby burst out laughing. "you've been asleep and dreaming, you silly girl," she said. "winfried, do you hear? mavis says a blue butterfly flew past." "it kissed my cheek," said mavis. winfried smiled: "it's quite possible," he said. ruby was just turning upon him with her laughter, when something made _her_ jump in turn. something cold and damp touched her hand: she had taken her glove off and was dabbling idly in the water. "ugh," she said, "i do believe that was a toad." the laugh was against her now. "a toad, ruby, out at sea! what are you thinking of?" said mavis. "you needn't make fun of my butterfly if you talk of toads." "well, it was something slimy and horrid like a toad," said ruby. "perhaps it was only a fish. but whatever it was, i believe it was a trick of winfried's. i'm sure, positive sure, you're a wizard, winfried." she was half in fun and half in earnest. but the boy took it quite composedly. "no, i'm not," he said; "and no more is gran. but--people don't understand, you see. if they see that one's a bit different from others they've no words for it but wizard and uncanny, and they get frightened when it should be just the other way." this was much more of a speech than the fisher-boy was in the habit of making. both the children listened with interest. "how is your gran different from others?" asked ruby. "you'll see it in his face; at least, i think you will," said winfried. "but now i mustn't talk, we're close to the little creek." he got the boat in most cleverly, to a very tiny creek, where was a little landing-place, and leading upwards from it a flight of steps cut in the rock. "how funny, how very funny we never saw this place before," exclaimed the little girls. "do you keep the boat here, winfried?" "sometimes," he replied, "but not to-day. we won't need it again." he folded up the shawls and laid them neatly on the cushions, then he drew in the oars, and in another moment he had helped the children to get on shore, and all three had mounted several of the rock steps when winfried called to them to stop for a moment. "look down," he said; and as he spoke, the little girls saw something moving there below where they had just landed. it was the little boat; calmly and steadily it was moving out to sea, though it had no sails, and the oars were lying just as winfried had drawn them in. "oh winfried," exclaimed ruby; "the dear little boat, it's drifting out, it will be lost. can't you jump into the water and drag it back?" "it's all right," said the boy. "it's going home till it's needed again. i only wanted you to see how quietly it goes off, once its business is done." and he turned and began to whistle softly as he went on up the steps. "_now_," said ruby, half triumphant and half frightened, in a whisper to mavis, "now, can you say he's not a wizard? i think cousin hortensia was very silly to let us come with him, but it was all you, mavis, going on about him so. if we're not turned into toads or lizards before we get home, i--" "butterflies would be nicer," said mavis, laughing. "i'll ask winfried and his gran to make me into a blue butterfly, and you can be a yellow one if you like." she seemed to have caught something of winfried's happy confidence, ruby looked at her in surprise, but it was mixed with anger. what she was going to have said i don't know, for just then their guide called out again. "here we are," he said, "if you'll stoop your heads a little;" and looking up, the children saw before them a narrow, low archway, at the entrance to which the steps stopped. ruby hung back a little, but mavis ran forward. "it's all right, ruby," she called back; "and oh, what a pretty garden! do come quick." ruby followed. it was only necessary to stoop for a moment or two, then she found herself beside her sister, and she could not help joining in her exclamation of pleasure. somehow or other they had arrived at the back of the cottage, which at this side, they now saw, stood in a pretty and sheltered garden. perhaps garden is hardly the word to use, for though there were flowers of more than one kind and plants, there were other things one does not often see in a garden. there were ever so many little bowers and grottoes, cleverly put together of different kinds of queerly-shaped and queerly-coloured fragments of rock; there were two or three basins hollowed out of the same stones, in which clear water sparkled, and brilliant seaweed of every shade, from delicate pink to blood-red crimson, glowed; there were shells of strange and wonderful form, and tints as many as those of the rainbow, arranged so that at a little distance they looked like groups of flowers--in short, ruby was not far wrong when returning to her old idea, she whispered to mavis, "it's a _mermaid's_ garden." "and i only hope," she went on in the same tone, "we shan't find that somehow or other he has got us down under the sea without our knowing." mavis broke into a merry laugh. "don't be afraid," she said. "look up; there's the good old sun, smiling as usual, with no water between him and us. and see here, ruby," and she ran forward, "there are earth flower's too, as well as sea ones." she was right; on a border sheltered by the wall of the cottage were great masses of fern, still green and luxuriant, and here and there among them clumps, brilliantly blue, of the tender, loving forget-me-not. "it's _just_ like that bunch of it we found on our terrace," said mavis, joyfully. "i really could believe you had brought a root of it and planted it there for us, winfried. i never saw such beauties." "gran loves it," was all the boy said. then he led them round to the front of the house, and opened the door for them to enter. inside the cottage all was very plain, but very, very neat and clean. in an old-fashioned large wooden arm-chair by the fire sat old adam. he looked very old, older than the children had expected, and a kind of awe came over them. his hair was white, but scarcely whiter than his face, his hands were unusually delicate and refined, though gnarled and knotted as are those of aged people. he looked up with a smile, for his sight was still good, as his visitors came in. "you will forgive my not standing up, my dear little ladies," he said. "you see i am very old. it is good of you to come to see me. i have often seen you, oftener than you knew, since you were very tiny things." "have you lived here a long time, then?" asked ruby. "it would seem a long time to you, though not to me," he said with a smile. "and long ago before that, i knew your grandmother and the lady who takes care of you. when i was a young man, and a middle-aged man too for that matter, my home was where theirs was. so i remember your mother when she was as little as you." "oh, how nice," exclaimed mavis. "was our mother like us, mr adam?" "you may be very like her if you wish," he said kindly. but their attention was already distracted. on a small table, close beside the old man's chair, in what at first sight looked like a delicate china cup, but was in reality a large and lovely shell, was a posy, freshly gathered apparently, of the same beautiful forget-me-nots. "oh, these are out of your garden," said ruby; "how do you manage to make them grow so well and so late in the year?" "the part of the garden where they grow is not mine," said adam quietly; "it belongs to a friend who tends it herself. i could not succeed as she does." "is--is she a mermaid?" asked ruby, her eyes growing very round. "no, my dear. mermaids' flowers, if they have any, would scarcely be like these, i think." "you speak as if there are no such things as mermaids; do you not think there are?" said mavis. old adam shook his head. "i have never seen one; but i would never take upon myself to say there is nothing but what i've seen." "tell us about the friend who plants these in your garden," said ruby, touching the forget-me-nots. "could it have been she who put some on the terrace at the castle for us?" "maybe," said the old man. "is she a lady, or--or a fairy, or what is she, if she's not a mermaid?" asked ruby. before the old man could answer, winfried's voice made her start in surprise. "she's a princess," he said; and he smiled all over his face when he saw ruby's astonishment. "oh!" was all she said, but her manner became more respectful to both adam and his grandson from that moment. then the old man made a sign to winfried, and the boy went out of the room, coming back in a moment with a little plain wooden tray, on which were two glasses of rich tempting-looking milk and a basket of cakes, brown and crisp, of a kind the children had never seen before. he set the tray down on a table which stood in the window, and adam begged the children to help themselves. they did so gladly. never had cake and milk tasted so delicious. ruby felt rather small when she thought of her condescending offer of soup from the castle kitchen. "but then," she reflected, "of course i didn't know--how could i?--that a princess comes to see them. i daresay she sends them these delicious cakes. i wish bertha could make some like them." "i never saw cakes like these before," said little mavis. "they are _so_ good." old adam seemed pleased. "my boy isn't a bad cook," he said proudly, with a glance at winfried. "did _you_ make them?" said ruby, staring at winfried. "i thought perhaps as a princess comes to see you that _she_ sent you them--they are so very good." winfried could not help laughing: something in ruby's speech seemed to him so comical. then at the little girls' request he took them out again to examine some of the wonders of the grotto-garden. he fished out some lovely sprays of seaweed for them, and gave them also several of the prettiest shells; best of all, he gathered a sweet nosegay of the forget-me-nots, which mavis said she would take home to cousin hortensia. and then, as the sun by this time had travelled a long way downwards, they ran in to bid old adam good-bye, and to thank him, before setting off homewards. "how are we going?" asked ruby. "you've sent away the boat." "i could call it back again, but i think we had better go a shorter way," said winfried. "you're not frightened of a little bit of the dark, are you? there's a nice short cut to the rock path through one of the arbours." the little girls followed him, feeling very curious, and, perhaps, just a tiny scrap afraid. he led them into one of the grottoes, which, to their surprise, they found a good deal larger than they had expected, for it lengthened out at the back into a sort of cave. this cave was too dark for them to see its size, but winfried plunged fearlessly into its recesses. "i must see that the way is clear," he said, as he left them; "wait where you are for a few minutes." ruby was not very pleased at being treated so unceremoniously. "i don't call waiting here a quick way of getting home," she said, "and i hate the dark. i've a good mind to run out and go back the regular way, mavis." "oh no," mavis was beginning, but just then both children started. it seemed to have grown suddenly dark outside, as if a cloud or mist had come over the sky; and as they gazed out, feeling rather bewildered, a clear voice sounded through the grotto. "ruby; mavis," it said. ruby turned to mavis. "it's a trick of that boy's," she said. "he wants to startle us. he has no business to call us by out names like that. i'll not stay;" and she ran out. mavis was following her to bring her back when a ray of light--scarcely a ray, rather, i should say, a soft glow--seemed to fill the entrance to the grotto. and gradually, as her eyes got used to it, she distinguished a lovely figure--a lady, with soft silvery-blue garments floating round her and a sweet grave face, was standing there looking at her. a strange thrill passed through the child, yet even as she felt it she knew it was not a thrill of fear. and something seemed to draw her eyes upwards--a touch she could not have resisted if she had wished--till they found their resting-place in meeting those that were bent upon her--those beautiful, wonderful blue eyes, eyes like none she had ever seen, or--nay, she had _heard_ of such eyes--they were like those of the fairy lady in her old cousin's dream. and now mavis knew in part why the strange vision did _not_ seem strange to her; why, rather, she felt as if she had always known it would come, as if all her life she had been expecting this moment. "mavis," said the soft yet clear and thrilling voice, "you see me, my child?" "yes," said the little girl, speaking steadily, though in a whisper, "i see you, and i see your eyes. who are you? i may ask you, may i not?" the fairy--if fairy she was--smiled. "i have many names," she said; "but if you like you may think of me by the one winfried loves. he calls me `princess with the forget-me-not eyes,' or `princess forget-me-not.'" "yes," said mavis, "i like that; and i will never forget you, princess." again the lovely vision smiled. "no, my child, you never will, for, to tell you a secret, you cannot, even if you wished. afterwards, when you know _me_ better, you will see how well my name suits me. but it does not seem to all a sweet name, as i think it always will to you," and she sighed a little. "there are those who long to forget me; those who wish they had never seen me." the sadness in her eyes was reflected in the child's. "how can that be?" asked mavis. the blue-eyed princess shook her head. "nay, my darling, i cannot tell you, and i scarce would if i could," she said gently. but then a brighter look came over her face again, "don't look so sad. they change again some of them, and seek me as earnestly as they would have before fled from me. and some day you may help and guide such seekers, simple as you are, my little mavis. now i must go-- call ruby--she would not stay for me; she has not yet seen me. but she heard my voice, that is better than nothing. good-bye, little mavis, and if you want me again before i come of myself, seek me in the west turret." mavis's face lighted up. "then it _was_ you--you are cousin hortensia's fairy, and it wasn't a dream after all. and of course you must be a fairy, for that was ever, ever so long ago. she was a little girl then, and now she is quite old, and you look as young as--as--" "as who or what?" asked the princess, smiling again. "as the sleeping beauty in the wood," replied mavis, after deep consideration. at this the princess did more than smile; she laughed,--the same clear delicate laugh which the children had heard that day in the distance. and mavis laughed too; she could not help it. "may i tell cousin hortensia?" she asked. "oh do say i may." "you may," said forget-me-not, "if--if you _can_!" and while mavis was wondering what she meant, a breath of soft wind seemed to blow past her, and glancing up, the princess was gone! mavis rubbed her eyes. had she been asleep? it seemed a long time since winfried told her and ruby to wait for him in the grotto; and where was ruby? why did she not come back? mavis began to feel uneasy. surely she had been asleep--for--was she asleep still? looking round her, she saw that she was no longer in the grotto-cave behind old adam's cottage, but standing in the archway at the sea side of the castle--the archway i have told you of into which opened the principal entrance to the grim old building. and as she stood there, silent and perplexed, uncertain whether she was not still dreaming, she heard voices coming near. the first she could distinguish was ruby's. "there you are, mavis, i declare," she exclaimed. "now it's too bad of you to have run on so fast without telling, and i've been fussing about you all the way home, though winfried said he was sure we should find you here. how _did_ you get back?" "how did _you_?" asked mavis in return. "and why didn't you come back to me in the grotto? i--i waited ever so long, and then--" but that was all she could say, though a smile broke over her face when she thought of what she had seen. "you look as if you had been asleep," said ruby impatiently. "and having pleasant dreams," added winfried. "but all's well that ends well. won't you run in now, my little ladies, and let miss hortensia see that i've brought you safe back. it is cold and dark standing out here, and i must be off home." "good-night then," said ruby; "you're a very queer boy, but you brought _me_ home all right any way, and those cakes were very good." "you will come to see us soon again, won't you, winfried?" said mavis, who felt as if she had a great deal to ask which only he could answer, though with ruby there beside her she could not have explained what she wanted to know. "to be sure i will, if you want me," said the boy. "don't be puzzled, miss mavis, pleasant dreams don't do any one harm." and as they pushed open the great, nail-studded door which was never locked till after nightfall winfried ran off. they stood still for a moment just inside the entrance. they could hear him whistling as he went, smoothly at first, then it seemed to come in jerks, going on for a moment or two and then suddenly stopping, to begin again as suddenly. "he's jumping down the cliff. i can hear it by his whistle," said ruby. "how dangerous!" "he's very sure-footed," said mavis with a little sigh. she was feeling tired--and--_was_ it a dream? if so, how had she got home? had the fairy lady wrapped her round in her cloak of mist and flown with her to the castle? mavis could not tell, and somehow ruby did not ask her again. "how did you come home, ruby?" mavis asked as they were going along the passage to their sitting-room. "oh," said ruby, "winfried took me down some steps, and then up some others, and before i knew where we were, we were in the rock path not far from home. it was like magic. i can't make out that boy," she said mysteriously; "but we're not turned into frogs or toads _yet_. here we are, cousin hortensia," she went on, as the good lady suddenly appeared at the end of the passage, "safe home from the wizard's haunts." but miss hortensia only smiled. "i was not uneasy," she said. "i thought you would be quite safe." chapter six. bertrand. "but the unkind and the unruly, and the sort who eat unduly, theirs is quite a different story." _good and bad children_: louis stevenson. they were just beginning tea, and ruby's tongue was going fast as she described to miss hortensia all that happened that afternoon, while mavis sat half-dreamily wondering what the fairy lady had meant by saying she might tell her cousin about her "if she _could_," when there came a sudden and unusual sound that made them all start. it was the clanging of the great bell at the principal entrance on the south side-- the entrance by which, you remember, all visitors, except those coming by sea, came to the castle. "who can that be?" exclaimed ruby, jumping up and looking very pleased-- ruby loved any excitement. "can it be father? what fun if he's come to surprise us! only i hope he won't have forgotten our presents. he generally asks us what we want before he comes." mavis had grown a little pale; somehow the things that ruby was frightened of never alarmed her, and yet she was more easily startled by others that ruby rather enjoyed. "i hope it isn't a message to say that anything is the matter with dear father," she said anxiously. miss hortensia got up from her seat and went to the door. she did not seem frightened, but still rather uneasy. "i'm afraid," she began, "i'm afraid--and yet i should not speak of it that way; it is not kind. but i did so ask them to give us notice of his coming." she had left the room almost before she had finished speaking. the children looked at each other. "i say, mavis," said ruby, "it's bertrand! don't you think we might run out and see?" "no," mavis replied decidedly, "certainly not. cousin hortensia would have told us to come if she had wanted us." but they went to the open door and stood close beside it, listening intently. then came the sound of old joseph's steps along the stone passage from the part of the house which he and bertha--joseph was bertha's husband--inhabited, then the drawing back of the bolts and bars, and, most interesting and exciting of all, a noise of horses stamping and shaking their harness as if glad to have got to the end of their journey. then followed voices; and in a minute or two the children heard miss hortensia coming back, speaking as she came. "you must be very cold, my dear boy, and hungry too," she was saying. "we are just beginning tea, so you had better come in at once as you are." "it's terribly cold, and that fool of a driver wouldn't come any faster; he said his horses were tired. i wish _i_ could have got a cut at them--what are horses for?" was the reply to miss hortensia's kind speech. mavis touched ruby. "come in. cousin hortensia wouldn't like to see us standing at the door like this," she said. they sat down at their places again, only getting up as miss hortensia came in. she was followed by a boy. he was about the height of the twins, broad and strong-looking, wrapped up in a rich fur-lined coat, and with a travelling cap of the same fur still on his head. he was dark-haired and dark-eyed, a handsome boy with a haughty, rather contemptuous expression of face--an expression winch it did not take much to turn into a scowl if he was annoyed or put out. "these are your cousins, bertrand; your cousins ruby and mavis--you have heard of them, i am sure, though you have never met each other before." bertrand looked up coolly. "i knew there were girls here," he answered. "mother said so. but i don't care for girls--i told mother so. i'm awfully hungry;" and he began to pull forward a chair. "my dear," said miss hortensia, "do you know you have not taken off your cap yet? you must take off your coat too, but, above all, your cap." bertrand put up his hand and slowly drew off his cap. "mother never minds," he said. but there was a slight touch of apology in the words. then, more for his own comfort evidently than out of any sense of courtesy, he pulled off his heavy coat and flung it on to a chair. the little girls had not yet spoken to him, they felt too much taken aback. "perhaps he is shy and strange, and that makes him seem rough," thought mavis, and she began drawing forward another chair. "will you sit here?" she was saying, when bertrand pushed past her. "i'll sit by the fire," he said, and he calmly settled himself on what he could not but have seen was her seat or ruby's; "and i'm awfully hungry," he went on. "at home i have dinner, at least if i want it, i do. it's only fit for girls to have tea in this babyish way." he helped himself to a large slice of cake as he spoke; and not content with this, he also put a big piece of butter on his plate. miss hortensia glanced at him, and was evidently just going to speak, but checked herself. it was bertrand's first evening, and she was a very hospitable person. but when bertrand proceeded to butter his cake thickly, ruby, never accustomed to control her tongue, burst out. "that's cake, bertrand," she said. "people don't butter _cake_." "don't they just?" said the boy, speaking with his mouth full. "_i_ do, i know, and at home mother never minds." "does she let you do whatever you like?" asked ruby. "yes," said bertrand; "and whether she did or not i'd do it all the same." then he broke into a merry laugh. it was one of the few attractive things about him, beside his good looks, that laugh of his. it made him seem for the time a hearty, good-tempered child, and gave one the feeling that he did not really mean the things he said and did. and now that his hunger was appeased, and he was warm and comfortable, he became much more amiable. ruby looked at him with admiration. "i wish i lived with your mother," she said, "how nice it must be to do always just what one likes!" "do you think so," said mavis. "i think it would be quite miserable." "quite right, mavis," said miss hortensia. "when i was a child i remember reading a story of a little girl who for a great treat one birthday was allowed to do just what she wanted all day, and--oh dear!-- how unhappy she was before evening came." bertrand stared at her with his big eyes. _some_ eyes are very misleading; his looked now and then as if he had nothing but kind and beautiful thoughts behind them. "what a fool she must have been," he said roughly. and poor miss hortensia's heart sank. the evening was not a long one, for bertrand was tired with his journey, and for once willing to do as he was told, by going to bed early. a room near his cousins' had been preparing for him, and though not quite ready, a good fire made it look very cosy. they all went upstairs with him to show him the way. as they passed the great baize door which divided their wing from the rest of the house. bertrand pushed it open. "what's, through there?" he asked, in his usual unceremonious way. "oh, all the rest of the castle," said ruby importantly. bertrand peered through. it was like looking into a great church with all the lights out, for this door opened right upon the gallery running round the large hall. "what a ramshackle old cavern!" said bertrand. a blast of cold air rushed in through the doorway as he spoke and made them all shiver. "nonsense, bertrand," said miss hortensia, more sharply than she had yet spoken to him. "it is a splendid old house." "you should see the staircases up to the turrets," said ruby. "they are as high as--as i don't know what. if you are naughty we can put you to sleep in the west turret-room, and they say it's haunted." "_i_ shouldn't mind that," laughed bertrand. "nor should i," said ruby boastfully. "mavis here is a dreadful coward. and--oh, bertrand--i'll tell you something to-morrow. i have such an idea. don't you love playing tricks on people--people who set themselves up, you know, and preach at you?" her last words were almost whispered, and miss hortensia, who had gone on in front--they had closed the swing door by this time--did not hear them. but mavis caught what ruby said, and she waited uneasily for bertrand's answer. "prigs, you mean," he said. "i hate prigs. yes, indeed, i'll join you in any game of that kind. you should have seen how we served a little wretch at school who tried to stop us teaching a puppy to swim--such a joke--the puppy could scarcely walk, much less swim. so we took master prig and made _him_ swim instead. it was winter, and he caught a jolly cold, and had to leave school." "did he get better?" said mavis, in a strange voice. "don't know, i'm sure. i should think not. his mother was too poor to pay for a doctor, they said. he'd no business to be at a school with gentlemen," said bertrand brutally. mavis gasped. then suddenly, without saying good-night to any one, she rushed down the passage to the room she shared with her sister; and there ruby found her a few minutes later on her knees and all in the dark. "what's the matter with you? cousin hortensia told me to say good-night to you for her. it wasn't very civil to fly off like that the first night bertrand was here. i'm sure cousin hortensia thought so too," said ruby carelessly. "my goodness, are you _crying_?" as the light she carried fell on mavis's tear-stained face. "cousin hortensia didn't _hear_," said mavis. "oh, ruby, i can't bear it." "what?" "that wicked boy. oh, ruby, you can't say you like him?" "i think he's lots of fun in him," said ruby wonderingly. "he's only a boy; you are so queer, mavis." but catching sight again of her sister's expression she suddenly changed. "poor little mavie," she cried, throwing her arms round her, "you're such a goose. you're far too tender-hearted." mavis clung to her, sobbing. "oh, ruby, my ruby," she said, "don't speak like that. i couldn't _bear_ you to get hard and cruel." but ruby was, for her, wonderfully gentle and kind, and at last the two little sisters kissed each other, promising that nothing should ever come between them. a good night's rest and a huge breakfast put master bertrand into a very fairly amiable humour the next morning. he flatly refused, however, to do any lessons, though it was intended that he should; and miss hortensia, judging it best to make a virtue of necessity, told him he should have his time to himself for three days, after which he must join the twins in the school-room. "for these three days," she said, "i will give ruby and mavis a half-holiday, so that they may go about with you and show you everything. but if you do not come regularly and punctually to lessons after that, i will not give your cousins any extra holidays while you are here." she spoke firmly, and bertrand looked at her with surprise. he was surprised indeed into unusual meekness, for he said nothing but "all right." they gave him some directions as to where he would be most likely to amuse himself and with safety. indeed, unless one were _determined_ to hurt oneself, there were no really dangerous places about the castle; in spite of the cliffs and the sea, ruby and mavis had played there all their lives without ever getting into mischief. "he is not a stupid boy," said miss hortensia, after giving her instructions to bertrand, "and i have no doubt he can take care of himself if he likes." "i'm sure he wouldn't like to hurt himself," said ruby with a little contempt; "he's the sort of boy that would hate pain or being ill." "it is to be hoped nothing of that kind will happen while he is here," said miss hortensia. "but i can only do my best. i did not seek the charge, and it would be quite impossible to shut him up in the house." "he'd very likely try to get out of the window if you did, cousin hortensia," said mavis with her gentle little laugh. she was feeling happy, for ruby had continued kind and gentle this morning. "and if i were a boy i'm not sure but that i would too, if i were shut up." "well, let us get to our work," said miss hortensia with a resigned little sigh. lessons were over; ruby and mavis had had their usual morning run along the terrace, had brushed their hair and washed their hands, and were standing up while miss hortensia said grace before beginning dinner, when bertrand appeared. he came banging in, his cap on his head, his boots wet and dirty, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes bright with running and excitement. he looked very pretty notwithstanding the untidy state he was in, but it was impossible to welcome him cordially; he was so rude and careless, leaving the door wide open, and bringing in a strong fishy smell, the reason of which was explained when he flung down a great mass of coarse slimy seaweed he had been carrying. "you nasty, dirty boy," said ruby, turning up her nose and sniffing. "really, bertrand, my dear," began miss hortensia, "what have you brought that wet seaweed here for? it cannot stay in this room." "i'll take it away," said mavis, jumping up. "what harm does it do?" said bertrand, sitting down sideways on his chair. "i want it. i say you're not to go pitching it away, mavis. well when am i to have something to eat?" "go and wash your hands and hang up your coat and come and sit straight at the table and then i will give you your dinner," said miss hortensia drily. "why can't you give it me now?" said bertrand, with the ugly scowl on his face. "because i will not," she replied decidedly. the roast meat looked very tempting, so did the tart on the sideboard. bertrand lounged up out of his seat, and in a few minutes lounged back again. eating generally put him into a better temper. when he had got through one plateful and was ready for another, he condescended to turn to his companions with a more sociable air. "i met a fellow down there--on the shore," he said, jerking his head towards where he supposed the sea to be; "only a common chap, but he seems to know the place. he was inclined to be cheeky at first, but of course i soon put him down. i told him to be there this afternoon again; we might find him useful, now he knows his place." ruby's eyes sparkled. "i'm very glad you did put him down," she said. "all the same--" then she hesitated. "do you know who he is?" asked bertrand. "he's the best and nicest and cleverest boy in all the world," said little mavis. bertrand scowled at her and muttered something, of which "a dirty fisher-boy," was all that was audible. miss hortensia's presence did overawe him a little. "i am afraid there can be no question of any of you going out this afternoon," she said, glancing out of the window as she spoke; "it is clouding over--all over. you must make up your minds to amuse yourselves indoors. you can show bertrand over the house--that will take some time." "may we go up into the turret-rooms and everywhere?" said ruby. "yes, if you don't stay too long. it is not very cold, and you are sure to keep moving about. there--now comes the rain." come indeed it did, a regular battle of wind and water; one of the sudden storms one must often expect on the coast. but after the first outburst the sky grew somewhat lighter, and the wind went down a little, the rain settling into a steady, heavy pour that threatened to last several hours. for reasons of her own, ruby set herself to coax bertrand into a good humour, and she so far succeeded that he condescended to go all over the castle with them, even now and then expressing what was meant to be admiration and approval. "it isn't ramshackle, any way," said ruby. "it's one of the strongest built places far or near." "if i were a man and a soldier, as i mean to be," said bertrand boastfully, "i'd like to cannonade it. you'd see how it'd come toppling over." "you wouldn't like to see it, i should think," said mavis. "it's been the home of your grandfathers just as much as of ours. don't you know your mother is our father's sister?" bertrand stared at her. "what does it matter about old rubbishing grandfathers and stuff like that?" he said. "that was what that fisher-fellow began saying about the castle, as if it was any business of his." "yes indeed," said ruby, "he's far too fond of giving his opinion." she nodded her head mysteriously. "we'll have a talk about him afterwards, bertrand." "ruby," began mavis in distress; but ruby pushed her aside. "mind your own business," she said, more rudely than mavis had ever heard her speak. "it's all bertrand," said mavis to herself, feeling ready to cry. "i'm sure they are going to plan some very naughty unkind thing." they were on their way up the turret-stair now; the west turret. they had already explored the other side. suddenly a strange feeling came over mavis; she had not been in this part of the castle since the adventure in the grotto. "she said she comes to the west turret still," thought the child; "just as she did when cousin hortensia was a little girl. i wonder if she only comes in the night? i wonder if possibly i shall see her ever up here? if i did, i think i would ask her to stop bertrand making ruby naughty. i am sure dear princess forget-me-not _could_ make anybody do anything she liked." and she could not help having a curious feeling of expecting something, when ruby, who was in front, threw open the turret-room door. "this is the _haunted_ room, bertrand," she said, and there was a mocking tone in her voice. "at least so mavis and cousin hortensia believe. cousin hortensia can tell you a wonderful story of a night she spent here if you care to hear it." bertrand laughed contemptuously. "i'd like to see a ghost uncommonly," he said. "it would take a good lot of them to frighten _me_." "that's what i say," said ruby. "but the room looks dingy enough, doesn't it? i don't think i ever saw it look so dingy before." "it looks as if it was full of smoke," said bertrand, sniffing about; "but yet i don't smell smoke." there _was_ something strange. mavis saw it too, and much more clearly than did the others. to her the room seemed filled with a soft blue haze; far from appearing "dingy," as ruby said, she thought the vague cloudiness beautiful; and as she looked, it became plain to her that the haze all came from one corner, where it almost seemed to take form, to thicken and yet to lighten; for there was a glow and radiance over there by the window that looked towards the setting sun that did not come from any outside gleam or brightness. no indeed. for the rain was pouring down, steadily and hopelessly, with dull pitiless monotony from a leaden sky. scarcely could you picture to yourself a drearier scene than the unbroken grey above, and unbroken grey beneath, which was all there was to be seen from the castle that afternoon. yet in mavis's eyes there was a light, a reflection of something beautiful and sunshiny, as she stood there gazing across the room, with an unspoken hope in her heart. the others did not see the look in her face, or they saw it wrong, ruby especially, strange to say. "what are you gaping at, mavis?" she said. "you do look so silly." bertrand stared at her in his turn. "she looks as if she was asleep, or dreaming," he said curiously. mavis rubbed her eyes. "no, no," she said brightly, "i'm not." and then she tried to be very kind and merry and pleasant to the others. she felt as if "somebody" was watching, and would be pleased. and bertrand was a little bit gentler and softer than he had yet been, almost giving mavis a feeling that in some faint far-off way the sweet influence was over him too. but ruby was very contradictory. she ran about making fun of the old furniture and mocking at miss hortensia's story till she got bertrand to join with her, and both began boasting and talking very foolishly--worse than foolishly indeed. more than once mavis caught words and hints which filled her with distress and anxiety. she knew, however, that when ruby was in this kind of humour it was less than useless to say anything, now above all that she had got bertrand to back her up. suddenly the boy gave an impatient exclamation. "i hate this cock-loft," he said. "it's so stuffy and choky, and that smoke or mist has got into my eyes and makes them smart. come along, ruby, do." "it's not stuffy. i think it's dreadfully cold," she replied. "but i'm sure i don't want to stay here. the mist's quite gone--not that i ever saw any really; it was only with the room being shut up, i suppose. i'm quite ready to go; let's run down and get a good warm at the school-room fire, and i'll tell you something--a grand secret, bertrand." chapter seven. in the turret-room. "the wind with the clouds is battling, till the pine-trees shriek with fear." _pan_. they ran off, leaving mavis alone in the turret-room. poor mavis! all her happy and hopeful feelings were gone. "it is no use," she said to herself; "i can't stop ruby. bertrand will just make her as naughty as himself. oh, _how_ i do wish he had never come! all our happiness is spoilt." and feeling very sorry for herself, and for every one concerned except bertrand, towards whom, i fear, her feelings were more of anger than grief, mavis sat down on one of the capacious old chairs that stood beside her and began to cry quietly. suddenly a strange sensation came over her--through her, rather. she drew her handkerchief from her eyes and looked up--she _had_ to look up--and--yes, there it was again, there _they_ were again. the wonderful unforgettable blue eyes, so searching, so irresistible, so tender. sweet and perfectly loving as they were, it was yet impossible to meet them without a half-trembling thrill. and the first thought that flashed through the little girl was, "how could i bear her to look at me if i had been naughty?" "naughty" she had not been, but--she felt her cheeks flush--look down she could not, as she said to herself that she was afraid she had been-- the word was taken out of her thoughts and expressed just as she came to it. "silly," said the clear soft voice. "silly little mavis. what is it all about? is everything going wrong at the first trial?" then as mavis gazed, the silvery-blue mist grew firmer and less vague, and gradually the lovely form and features became distinct. "oh dear princess," said the child, "i am _so_ glad you have come. yes, i daresay i am silly, but i am so unhappy;" and she poured out all her troubles. "i shall not be unhappy any more," she ended up, "now i know you are _true_. i had almost begun to fancy you were all a dream." forget-me-not smiled, but for a moment or two she did not speak. then she said-- "what is it you are afraid of ruby doing--ruby and bertrand?" "playing some unkind trick on winfried," replied mavis eagerly; "or even worse--for ruby knows that would hurt him most--on his old grandfather. it would be so horrid, so _wicked_," and mavis's voice grew tearful again, "when they have been so kind to us. oh dear princess, will you stop them?" forget-me-not looked at her gravely. "my child," she said, "do they not _know_ it would be wrong to do such a thing?" "yes," mavis replied, "of course they do." "then how could i stop them? i mean to say, what would be the good of stopping them, if they know already it is wrong?" said the princess. mavis looked puzzled. "but if--if--they were to hurt or frighten old adam or winfried?" she said. forget-me-not smiled again. "ah yes," she said, "_that_ i can promise you shall not be. but beyond that, if it is in their hearts wilfully to do what they know to be wrong, i fear, little mavis, i fear they must do it, and perhaps learn thereby. when people _know_--" mavis's eyes told that she understood; she looked very grave, but still somewhat relieved. "i am glad you won't let it hurt winfried or his grandfather," she said. "but oh, i can't bear ruby to be made naughty by that horrid boy," and she seemed on the point of bursting into tears. "dear princess," she went on, "couldn't you speak to her--the way you do to me? you make me feel that i would--i would do _anything_ you told me." "dear child, ruby cannot hear me yet; she cannot see me. if she could, she would feel as you. be patient, mavis, love her as you have always done; that will not be difficult. but that is not all. you must try to love bertrand too." mavis's face grew very long. "i don't think i _can_," she said at last. "but you must, sooner or later, and it may as well be sooner. i will tell you one thing--a secret, which perhaps will make it easier for you. i mean to make him love _me_ before i have done with him, though he may begin by hating me." the little girl looked very grave. "and ruby?" she said. "i should care most for ruby to love you." strange to say, forget-me-not's eyes looked sadder than when she had been talking of bertrand. "it may be more difficult," she murmured, so low that mavis hardly caught the words. "oh no, dear princess," she said eagerly, "ruby isn't anything like as naughty as bertrand. you mustn't fancy that. she's just--just--she doesn't think--" "i know," said forget-me-not; but that was all, and her eyes still looked sad. then she glanced round. the old room seemed like a background to her lovely figure, it was like gazing at a picture in a dark setting. "i must go," she said, "and when i go you will be all in the dark. the clouds are so heavy and the day is getting on. can you find your way all down the stair alone, mavis? the others have not thought about leaving you up here alone." "i don't think i mind," said mavis; but her voice was a little tremulous, for the corner where the door was, across the room from where forget-me-not stood, loomed dark and gloomy. the princess smiled. "yes you do, dear. don't tell stories. i was only trying your courage a tiny bit. come here, darling." mavis crept nearer her, nearer than she had yet been. "i am afraid of soiling your lovely dress," she said. "my pinafore's rather dirty; we've been playing all over the dusty rooms, you see." then forget-me-not laughed. her talking was charming, her smile was bewitching, her grave sad looks were like solemn music--what words have we left to describe her laugh? i can think of none. i can only tell you that it made little mavis feel as if all the birds in the trees, all the flowers in the fields, all the brooks and waterfalls, all the happy joyous things in the world had suddenly come together with a shout--no, shout is too loud and rough,--with a warble and flutter of irrepressible glee. "oh," said mavis, "how beautiful it is to hear you, princess, and how--" she did not finish her sentence. in another moment she felt herself lifted up--up in the air ever so far, it seemed, and then cosily deposited most comfortably on forget-me-not's shoulder. it was years and years since mavis had thought herself small enough to ride even on her father's shoulder--great, strong tall father--and the princess who looked so slight and fairy-like, how could she be so strong? yet the arms that had lifted her _were_ strong, strong and firm as father's, nay stronger. and the hand that held her up in her place was so secure in its gentle grasp that the little girl felt she _could_ not fall, and that is a very pleasant feeling, i can assure you. "shut your eyes, mavis," said forget-me-not, "i am quick in my movements. you are quite firm--there now, i have thrown my scarf over you. i am going to take you rather a round-about way, i warn you." a soft whirr and rush--where were they? out of the window somehow they had got, for mavis felt the chilly air and heard the swish of the rain, though strange to say the chill seemed only a pleasant freshness, and the raindrops did not touch her. then up, up--dear, dear, where _were_ they off to? had forget-me-not suddenly turned into the old woman who goes up to brush away the cobwebs in the sky? mavis laughed as the fancy struck her; she did not care, not she, the higher the better, the faster they flew the merrier she felt. till at last there came a halt. forget-me-not stopped short with a long breath. "heigh-ho!" she exclaimed, "i've given you a toss up, haven't i? look out, mavis; we've come ever so far,--peep out and you'll see the stars getting ready to bid you good-evening. it's quite clear, of course, up here above the clouds." mavis opened her eyes and peeped out from the folds of forget-me-not's scarf, which, light as it was, had yet a marvellous warmth about it. clear, i should think it _was_ clear! never had mavis pictured to herself anything so beautiful as that evening sky, up "above the clouds," as the princess had said. i have never seen it, so i cannot very well describe it; indeed, i should be rather afraid to do so on hearsay, for i should be sure to make some mistake, and to name the wrong planets and constellations. "oh," said mavis, "how nice!" it was rather a stupid little word to say, but forget-me-not was too "understanding" to mind. "look about you well for a minute or two. who knows when you may have such a chance again?" and for a little there was silence. then "shut your eyes again, dear, and clasp me tight; little girls are apt to get giddy in such circumstances. yes, that's right." "the stars are like your eyes," said mavis. then again the soft rash; a plunge downwards this time, which made mavis need no second bidding to clasp her friend closely. there came over her a misty, sleepy feeling. she could not have told exactly when they stopped; she only felt a sort of butterfly kiss on her eyes, and a breath that sounded like good-night, and then--she was standing in the school-room by the fire; the lamp was lighted, it looked bright and cosy, and mavis had never felt happier or stronger in her life. "that nice fresh air has brightened me up so," she said to herself. but her hands were rather cold. she went close up to the fire to warm them. there was no one in the room. "i wonder where ruby and bertrand are," thought mavis. just then she heard miss hortensia's voice. "poor dear," she was saying. "ruby, how could you be so thoughtless? i must get lights at once and go and look for her." "we've called and called up the stair, but she didn't answer," said ruby in rather an ashamed tone of voice. "called," repeated miss hortensia, "why didn't you _go_?" "it was so dark when we remembered about her, and--" "you were afraid, i suppose," said her cousin. "really; and yet you would leave poor mavis all alone--and a great boy like you, bertrand." "_i_ wasn't afraid, but i wasn't going to bother to go up all that way. she could come down by herself," said master bertrand rudely. but before miss hortensia could reply again mavis ran out. "here i am, dear cousin," she said. "i'm all right." and indeed she did look all right, as she stood there sideways in the doorway, the light from the room behind her falling on her pretty hair and fair face. "the dear child," thought miss hortensia. "no one could say mavis isn't as pretty as ruby now." and aloud she exclaimed: "my darling, where have you been? and were you afraid up there in the dark all by yourself?" "why didn't you come with us?" said ruby crossly. "it was all your own fault." "i didn't mind," said mavis. "i'm only sorry cousin hortensia was frightened. i'm all right, you see." "i was frightened about you too," grumbled ruby. "_i_ wasn't," said bertrand with a rough laugh. "there's nothing to _frighten_ one up in that cock-loft; dingy, misty place that it is." "misty!" exclaimed miss hortensia in surprise, "what does the child mean?" "bertrand will say the turret was full of blue smoke," said ruby, "and that it hurt his eyes." "it did," said the boy; "they're smarting still." mavis smiled. miss hortensia seemed perplexed, and rather anxious to change the subject. "i do hope," she said, "that to-morrow will be fine, so that bertrand and you, ruby, may get rid of some of your spirits out-of-doors." "i hope too that it will be fine," said ruby meaningly. "bertrand and i have planned a very long walk. you needn't come," she went on, turning to mavis, "if you think you'd be tired." "i don't get tired quicker than you do," said mavis quietly. her heart sank within her at ruby's tone; for though she was glad to think forget-me-not would prevent any harm to old adam or winfried, she did not like to think of ruby's heartlessness and folly. and when she glanced at bertrand and saw the half-scornful smile on his face, it was all she could do to keep back her tears. all that evening the rain kept pouring down in torrents, and the wind beat on the window, shaking even the heavy frames, like a giant in a fury, determined to make his way in. "what a storm," said miss hortensia more than once, with a little shiver. "i cannot bear to think of the poor souls at sea." bertrand laughed. "it would be great fun to see a shipwreck, if one was safe out of harm's way. i wouldn't mind staying up in that musty old turret a whole afternoon to have a good view." even ruby was startled. "oh bertrand," she said, "you can't know what a shipwreck means if you speak like that." "i've read stories of them," said the boy, "so i should know." there was a very slight touch of something in his tone which made mavis wonder if he really meant all the naughty things he said. she glanced up at him quickly. "if there ever were a shipwreck here," she said, "i know who'd help and who wouldn't." bertrand's face hardened at once. "that's meant for me," he retorted; "for me and that precious lout of a friend of yours. you think him so grand and brave! ah well! wait a bit and see. when people don't know their proper place they must be taught it." mavis drew herself up. "yes," she said, "we _will_ wait a bit and see. but it won't be the sort of seeing you'll like perhaps." "you've no business to speak like that," said ruby. "i think you're quite out of your mind about that common boy and his grandfather--or else--and i shouldn't wonder if it was that, they've bewitched you, somehow." she dropped her voice with the last words, for she did not want her cousin to hear. but miss hortensia, though she was busily counting the rows of her knitting at the other end of the room, noticed the tone of the children's voices. "come, come, my dears," she said, "no wrangling--it would be something quite new here. i do _hope_," she added to herself, "that it will be fine to-morrow; it is so much better for children when they can get out." it _was_fine "to-morrow"; very fine. it was almost impossible for the little girls to believe that so few hours before the storm spirits had been indulging in their wild games, when they looked out of their window on to the bright clear winter sky, where scarcely a cloud was to be seen, the sun smiling down coldly but calmly; not a breath of wind moving the great fir-trees on the south side of the castle. yet looking a little closer there were some traces of the night's work; the ground was strewn with branches, and the last of the leaves had found their way down to their resting-place on old mother earth's brown lap. in spite of her anxieties, mavis could not help her spirits rising. "what a nice afternoon ruby and i might have had with winfried, if _only_ bertrand hadn't come," she thought. ruby was all smiles and gaiety. "perhaps," mavis went on to herself, "perhaps she's really going to be nice and good. and if we two keep together, we can stop bertrand being very naughty." miss hortensia was anxious for them to profit by the fine day. she had not much faith in the clear thin sunshine's lasting, she said, and she shortened the lessons so that dinner might be very early, and the afternoon free. it was still very bright and fine when the three children found themselves standing at the entrance of the archway, on the sea side of the castle. "which way shall we go?" said mavis. "oh, down to the shore," ruby replied. "we may," she went on, with a very slight glance in bertrand's direction, and a tone in her voice which struck mavis oddly, though she scarcely knew why--"we _may_ meet winfried." "yes," said bertrand in an off-hand way. "i told the fellow we might be somewhere about if it was fine to-day, and i said he might as well have his boat ready. i don't mind paying him for the use of it. i've any amount of pocket-money;" and he thrust his hands into his pockets, jingling the coins which were in them. mavis thought to herself that she had never disliked him as much as now. but she said nothing, and they all three walked on. the pathway soon became steep and rugged, as i have told you. ruby and mavis were accustomed to it, and bertrand was a strong, well-made boy. still none of them were agile and nimble as the fisher-lad. "you should see winfried running down here," said ruby; "he goes like a stag, or a chamois, rather." she glanced at bertrand as she spoke. notwithstanding her alliance with him, there was something in ruby's nature that made it impossible for her to resist vexing him by this little hit. the black look came over the boy's face. "what do you mean by that?" he muttered. "i'm not going to--" "rubbish, bertrand," interrupted ruby. "i never said anything about _you_. winfried's a fisher-boy; it's his business to scramble about." then she went close up to her cousin and whispered something to him, which seemed to smooth him down, though this only made mavis more anxious and unhappy. chapter eight. a naughty plan. "the boatie rows, the boatie rows, the boatie rows fu' weel." ewen. they were nearly at the cove, when they caught sight of a scarlet cap moving up and down among the rocks. "there's winfried," cried mavis joyfully. she could not help having a feeling of safety when the fisher-lad was with them, in spite of her fears about the mischief the other two were planning. "winfried, winfried," she called, "here we are." he glanced up with his bright though rather mysterious smile. "i knew you'd be coming," he said quietly. "of course you did," said bertrand in his rough, rude way, "considering i told you to meet us here. have you got that boat of yours ready?" "yes," said winfried, and he pointed towards the cove. there, sure enough, was the little boat, bright and dainty, the sun shining on its pretty cushions and on the white glistening oars. bertrand was running forward, when there came a sudden exclamation from ruby. she had put up her hand to her neck. "oh, my cross," she cried, "my little silver cross. i forgot to fetch it from the turret-room. i left it there last night, and i meant to go and get it this morning. and i daren't go on the sea without it--i'd be drowned, i know i should be." mavis looked at her. "ruby," she said, "i don't, think you could have left it up there. you had no reason to take it off up there." "oh, but i did, i did," said ruby. "i have a trick of taking it off; the cord gets entangled in my hair. i know it's there." "i'll fetch it you," said bertrand, with perfectly astounding good-nature. and he actually set off up the rocky path. winfried started forward. "i will go," he said. "i can run much faster than he," and he hastened after bertrand. but bertrand had exerted himself unusually. he was already some way up before winfried overtook him. "no," he said, when winfried explained why he had come, "i want to go. but you may as well come too. i want to carry down my fishing-tackle-- i'd forgotten it. you haven't got any in the boat, i suppose?" "no," said winfried, "it would keep us out too long. it's too cold for the little ladies, and we should have to go too far out to sea." "i'll bring it all the same," said bertrand doggedly; "so mind your own business." but as winfried walked on beside him without speaking, he added more civilly, "you may as well look at it and tell me if it's the right kind. it's what my father gave me." "i'm pretty sure it's not right," said winfried. "the fishing here is quite different to anything you've ever seen. and any way we cannot keep your cousins waiting while we look at it." they were at the arched entrance by now. "well, then," said bertrand, "you run up and look for the cross. no need for two of us to tire our legs. i'll wait here." winfried entered the castle, and after one or two wrong turnings found himself on the right stair. he knew pretty exactly where he had to go, for he had often looked up at the west turret from the outside. but just as he got to the door he was overtaken by bertrand, who had naturally come straight up without any wrong turnings. "what a time you've been," said bertrand, pushing in before him. "now, let's see--where did ruby say she'd left her cross? oh yes, hanging up there; she must have stood on a chair to reach it." and sure enough, on a nail pretty high up on the wall hung the little ornament. winfried drew forward a chair; in another minute he had reached down the cross. "here it is," he said, turning to bertrand. but--he spoke to the air! bertrand was gone. winfried's face flushed; but he controlled himself. he walked quietly to the door and turned the handle. it did not open. it was locked from the outside. he was a prisoner! "i knew something of the kind would come," he said to himself. "what will they do now? poor little mavis! i must trust her to the princess." but he could not help a feeling of bitter anger. it was no light punishment to the active energetic boy to have to spend all the bright afternoon hours shut up here like an old owl in a church tower. and he knew that till some one came to let him out, a prisoner he verily was. for he might have shouted his voice hoarse, no one down below could have heard him. and the chance of any one in the castle coming up was very small. "what will gran think?" he said to himself. "and, if these naughty children try to play him any trick. i know ruby more than half believes all that nonsense about his being a wizard and about the mermaids, and bertrand will egg her on." he went to the window and stood looking out, trying to keep down the dreadful restless _caged_ feeling which began to come over him. "how can i bear it?" he said. "if i had tools now, and could pick the lock; but some of these old locks are very strong, and i have nothing. if only i had wings;" and he gazed again out of the window. when he turned round, though it was quite bright and sunny outside, it almost seemed as if the evening haze had somehow got into the room before its time. it was filled with a thin bluish mist. winfried's eyes brightened. "my princess!" he exclaimed. "are you there?" a little laugh answered him, and gradually the mist drew together and into shape, and forget-me-not stood before him. "my boy," she exclaimed, "i am surprised at you. why, you were looking quite depressed!" winfried reddened. "it was the horrid feeling of being locked up," he said. "i never felt it before, and--it seems such a shame, such a mean trick. i wouldn't have minded a stand-up fight with any fellow, but--" "of course you wouldn't; but you've got a good bit farther than _that_, i hope, winfried," she said with a smile. "and besides, bertrand is much smaller than you. but it had to be, you know. i have explained enough to you--you and little mavis;--it had to be." winfried started. "that's another thing," he said. "i am uneasy about her. what will they do? they don't understand the boat, you know, princess, and she is alone with them." forget-me-not smiled again. "how faithless you are to-day, winfried," she said. "mavis will be getting before you if you don't take care, simple and ignorant as she is. can't you trust her to me?" and as the boy's face brightened. "come," she said, "i see you are recovering your usual ground, so i will tell you how i am going to do. but first, shut your eyes, winfried; and here, wrap the end of my scarf round you. you might feel giddy still, though it's not the first time. ready?--that's right--there now, give me your hand--we're up on the window ledge. you were wishing for wings--isn't this as good as wings?" bertrand rushed down--as much as he could rush, that is to say, over the steep and rough path--to the shore where the sisters were waiting. "have you got it?" asked mavis eagerly. "what?" asked bertrand, out of breath. "_what_? why, ruby's cross, of course, that you went for. and where is winfried?" "all right," said bertrand, in a curious voice; "he's coming directly. we're to get into the boat and go on a little way, keeping near the shore. he's coming down another way." (yes, bertrand, that he is!) mavis looked up anxiously. "and the cross?" she said. "winfried's got it," he said. which was true. then he turned away, the fact being that he was so choking with laughter that he was afraid of betraying himself. "ruby," he called, "come and help _me_ to drag the boat a little nearer;" and as ruby came close he whispered to her, "i've done it-- splendidly--he's shut up in his tower! locked in, and the locks are good strong ones--now we can have a jolly good spree without that prig of a fellow. only don't let mavis know till we're safe out in the boat." ruby jumped with pleasure. "what fun!" she exclaimed. "how capital! you have been clever, bertrand. but take care, or mavis will suspect something. quick, mavis," she went on, turning to her sister, "help us to pull in the boat. there, we can jump in now, bertrand. you and mavis steady it while i spring;" and in another moment she was in the boat, where her sister and bertrand soon followed her. all seemed well; the sky was clear and bright, the sun still shining. the faces of two of the party were sparkling with glee and triumph. but mavis looked frightened and dissatisfied. "i wish winfried had come back with you, bertrand," she said. "why didn't he? did cousin hortensia keep him for anything?" "goodness, no," said bertrand. "what a fuss you make, child! he's all right; you can look out for him, and tell me if you see him coming. i shall have enough to do with rowing you two." "winfried doesn't find the boat hard to row," said mavis; "it's your own fault if it is hard. you might as well wait for him; he'd see us as he comes down the cliffs." "oh no, that would be nonsense," said ruby hastily; "besides, he's not coming that way. you heard bertrand say so. _i_ could row too, bertrand," she went on. but the boy had already got his oars in motion, and though he was neither skilful nor experienced, strange to say the little boat glided on with the utmost ease and smoothness. "there now," said bertrand, considerably surprised, to tell the truth, at his own success, "didn't i tell you i could row?" "no," said mavis bluntly, "you said just this moment you'd have enough to do to manage it." "mavis, why are you so cross?" said ruby. "it is such a pity to spoil everything." she spoke very smoothly and almost coaxingly, but mavis looked her straight in the eyes, and ruby grew uncomfortable and turned away. but just then a new misgiving struck mavis. "bertrand," she cried, "either you can't manage the boat, or you're doing it on purpose. you're not keeping near the shore as you said you would. you're going right out to sea;" and she jumped up as if she would have snatched the oars from him. "sit down, mavis," said ruby. "i'm sure you know you should never jump about in a boat. it's all right. don't you know there's--there's a current hereabouts?" current or no, _something_ there was, besides bertrand's rowing, that was rapidly carrying them away farther and farther from the shore. mavis looked at bertrand, not sure whether he could help himself or not. but-- "winfried wouldn't have told you to keep near the shore if you couldn't," she said; "he knows all about the currents." bertrand turned with a rude laugh. "does he indeed?" he said. "it's more than i do; but all the same this current, or whatever it is that is taking us out so fast, has come just at the right minute. i never meant to keep near in, there's no fun in that. we're going a jolly good way out, and when we're tired of it we'll come back and land close to the old wizard's cottage. ruby and i are going to play him a trick; we want to catch him with the mermaids ruby heard singing the other day. if we set the villagers on him, they'll soon make an end of him and his precious grandson." "yes," said ruby spitefully; "and a good riddance they'd be. that winfried setting himself up over us all." mavis grew pale. "ruby; bertrand," she said, "you cannot mean to be so wicked. you know the villagers are already set against old adam rather, even though he has been so good to them, and if you stir them up--they might kill him if they really thought he was a wizard." "we're not going to do anything till we know for ourselves," said ruby. "we're first going to the cottage really to find out if it's true. you know yourself, mavis, we _did_ hear some one singing and speaking there the other day who wasn't to be seen when we got there. and i believe it _was_ a mermaid, or--or a syren, or some witchy sort of creature." mavis was silent. she had her own thoughts about the voice they had overheard, thoughts which she could not share with the others. "oh, dear princess forget-me-not," she said to her self, "why don't you make them see you, and understand how naughty they are?" for the moment she had forgotten the princess's promise that neither winfried nor his grandfather should suffer any harm, and she felt terribly frightened and unhappy. "where is winfried?" she said at last. "he will see us going out to sea when he comes down to the shore, and if he tells cousin hortensia she can easily get some of the fishermen to come after us. they can row far quicker than you." bertrand stopped rowing to laugh more rudely than before. "_can_ they?" he said. "i doubt it. and as for winfried telling--why, he doesn't know; he's locked in safe and sound in the west turret! he'll be quite comfortable there for as long as i choose to leave him, and however he shouts no one can hear him. not that there's much fear of any of those lumbering boats overtaking us if they tried--why--" he took up the oars again as he spoke, but before he began to row he half started and glanced round. no wonder; the boat was gliding out to sea without his help, quite as fast as when he was rowing. "how--how it drifts!" he said in a rather queer tone of voice. "is there a current hereabouts, ruby?" "i suppose so," said ruby. "try and row the other way, that'll soon show you." but it was all very well to speak of "trying." no efforts of bertrand's had the very slightest effect on the boat. on it sped, faster and faster, as if laughing at him, dancing along the water as if it were alive and enjoying the joke. bertrand grew angry, then, by degrees, frightened. "it isn't my fault," he said. "i don't pretend to know all about the currents and tides and nonsense. you shouldn't have let me come out here, ruby?" ruby was terrified, but angry too. "it isn't _my_ fault," she said. "you planned it all; you know you did. and if we're all--" "be quiet, ruby," said mavis, who alone of the three was perfectly calm and composed. "if it stops you and bertrand carrying out your naughty plan, i am very glad if we are taken out to sea." "that's _too_ bad of you," said ruby, angry in spite of her terror. "i believe you'd rather we were drowned than that your precious winfried and his grandfather should get what they deserve. and we _are_ going to be drowned, or any way starved to death. we're going faster and faster. oh, i do believe there must be a whirlpool somewhere near here, and that we are going to be sucked into it." she began to sob and cry. bertrand, to do him justice, put a good face upon it. he looked pale but determined. "this is what comes of having to do with people like that," he said vindictively. "i believe he's bewitched the boat to spite us. i'll have another try, however." but it was all no use. the boat, slight and fragile as it seemed, resisted his efforts as if it were a living thing opposing him. crimson with heat and vexation, the boy muttered some words, which it was to be hoped the girls did not catch, and flung down the oars in a rage. one fell inside, the other was just slipping over the edge when mavis caught it. strange to say, no sooner was it in her hold than the motion stopped; the boat lay still and passive on the water, swaying gently as if waiting for orders. "we've got out of the current," exclaimed ruby. "try, mavis, can you turn it?" it hardly seemed to need trying. the boat turned almost, as it were, of itself, and in another moment they were quietly moving towards the shore. nor did it seem to make any difference when bertrand took the oars from mavis and resumed his rowing. "if i only waited another moment," he said. "we got out of the current just as you caught the oar, mavis." she shook her head doubtfully. "i don't know. i don't think it was that," she said. "but any way now it is all right again, and we are going back, you and bertrand, ruby, will not think of playing any trick, or setting the villagers on to old adam." "why not, pray?" said bertrand. "and--" "i don't see what has made any difference," said ruby pertly. "suppose the horrid things had bewitched the boat, is that any reason for not showing them up? you think it's all your wonderful cleverness that got the boat round, do you, mavis?" "no, i don't. i think a good many things i'm not going to tell you," said the little girl. "but one thing i will tell you, _i_ will not leave the boat or come on shore unless you promise me to give up your naughty cruel plan." she spoke so firmly that ruby was startled. and indeed her own words seemed to surprise mavis herself. it was as if some one were whispering to her what to say. but on bertrand they made no impression. "you won't, won't you?" he said. "ah, well, we'll see to that." they were close to the shore by this time. the marvellous boat had "got over the ground," i was going to say--i mean the _water_--even more quickly than when going out to sea. and in another minute, thanks to something--no doubt bertrand thought it was thanks to his wonderful skill--they glided quietly into the little landing-place where winfried had brought them two days ago. up jumped ruby. "that's capital," she said. "we can easily make out way to the old wizard's cottage from here. and before we peep in on him himself, bertrand, we may as well look round his garden, as he calls it. it is the queerest place you ever saw, full of caves and grottoes." both bertrand and she had jumped on shore. "come on, mavis," cried they. "what are you so slow about?" for mavis sat perfectly still in her place. "i am not coming on shore," she said quietly, "not unless you promise to give up whatever mischief it is that you are planning." "nonsense," said bertrand. "you just _shall_ come; tell her she must, ruby, you're the eldest." "come, mavis," said ruby. "you'd better come, for everybody's sake, i can tell you," she added meaningly. "if you're there you can look after your precious old wizard. i won't promise anything." "no," mavis repeated. "i will not come. we have no right to go forcing ourselves into his cottage. it is as much his as the castle is ours, and you know you have locked up winfried on purpose so that he can't get out. no, i will not go with you." "then stay," shouted bertrand, "and take the consequences." and he dragged ruby back from the boat. chapter nine. beginnings? "very wrong, very wrong, very wrong and bad." _child world_. "let's run on fast a little way," said bertrand, "to make her think we won't wait for her. that will frighten her, and she will run after us, you'll see. don't look round, ruby." in his heart he really did not believe that mavis would change her mind or run after them. and he did not care. indeed, he much preferred having ruby alone, as he knew he could far more easily persuade her by herself to join in his mischievous schemes. but he felt that she was half-hearted about leaving her sister, and so he did not hesitate to trick her too. they hurried on for some distance. then ruby, who was growing both tired and cross, pulled her hand away from bertrand. "stop," she said. "i'm quite out of breath. and i want to see if mavis is coming." bertrand had to give in. they were on higher ground than the shore, and could see it clearly. there lay the little boat as they had left it, and mavis sitting in it calmly. to all appearance at least. "she's not coming--not a bit of her," exclaimed ruby angrily. "i don't believe you thought she would, bertrand." "she _will_ come, you'll see," said the boy, "and even if she doesn't, what does it matter? we'll run on and spy out the old wizard and have some fun. mavis will stay there safe enough till we get back." "i thought you meant to go home by the village and tell the people about old adam, if we _do_ see anything queer," said ruby. "so i did, but if you're in such a fidget about mavis perhaps we'd better go home as we came, and not say anything in the village to-day. i'd like to see what master winfried has been up to when we get back. perhaps he'll have got some old witch to lend him a broomstick, and we shall find him flown;" and bertrand laughed scornfully. ruby laughed too. "i don't think that's likely," she said. "but there's no telling. i do wish he and his grandfather were out of the country altogether. there's something about winfried that makes me feel furious. he _is_ such a prig; and he's even got cousin hortensia to think him a piece of perfection." "he may take his perfections elsewhere, and he shall, too," said bertrand. and the fierceness of his tone almost startled even ruby. they were not far from the old fisherman's cottage by this time. they stopped again to take breath. mavis and the boat were not visible from where they stood, for the path went in and out among the rocks, and just here some large projecting boulders hid the shore from sight. suddenly, as if it came from some cave beneath their feet, both children grew conscious of a faint sound as of distant music. and every moment it became clearer and louder even though muffled. bertrand and ruby looked at each other. "mermaids!" both exclaimed. "they always sing," said bertrand. "yes," added ruby, with her old confusion of ideas about syrens; "and they make people go after them by their singing, and then they catch them and kill them, and i'm not sure but what they _eat_ them. i know i've read something about bare dry bones being found. shall we put our fingers in our ears, bertrand?" she looked quite pale with fear. "nonsense," said the boy. "that's only sailors at sea. they lure them in among the rocks. we're quite safe on dry land. besides, i don't think it's _mermaids_ that do that. they're miserable crying creatures; but i don't think they kill people." the subterraneous music came nearer and nearer. somehow the children could not _help_ listening. "didn't you say you and mavis heard singing the day you were here before--at the wizard's cottage, i mean?" said bertrand. "n-no, not exactly singing. it was laughing, and a voice calling out good-bye in a singing way," answered ruby. as if in response to her words, the ringing suddenly stopped, and from below their feet--precisely below it seemed--came the sound of ringing, silvery laughter, clear and unmistakable. "oh," cried ruby, "come away, bertrand. i'm sure it's the mermaids, and they _will_ catch us and kill us, you'll see." her boasted courage had not come to much. and yet there was nothing very alarming in the pretty sounds they had heard. "and what if it is the mermaids?" said bertrand coolly. "we came out to catch them, didn't we? it's just what we wanted. come along, ruby. how do we get to the cottage? there seems to be a sort of wall in front." "we go round by the back," said ruby. "it's there there are the queer grottoes and little caves. but you won't go far into them, will you, bertrand? for i am not at all sure but that the mermaids come up from the sea through these caves; you see they _do_ come some underground way." bertrand gave a sort of grunt. what ruby said only made him the more determined to explore as far as he possibly could. they entered the strange little garden i have already described without further adventure. there seemed no one about, no sound of any kind broke the almost unnatural stillness. "how _very_ quiet it is," said ruby with a little shiver. "and there's no smoke coming out of the chimney--there was the last time, for there was a good fire in the kitchen where old adam was." and as she said this there came over her the remembrance of the kind old man's gentle hospitality and interest in them. why had she taken such a hatred to winfried and his grandfather, especially since bertrand's arrival? she could not have given any real reason. "i hope he isn't very ill--or--_dead_," she said, dropping her voice. "and winfried locked up and not able to get to him. it would be our fault, bertrand." "nonsense," said bertrand roughly, with his usual scornful contempt of any softer feelings. "he's fallen asleep over his pipe and glass of grog. i daresay he drinks lots of grog--those fellows always do." "i'm sure _he_ doesn't," contradicted ruby, feeling angry with herself as well as bertrand. "let's go to the window and peep in before we look at the caves." she ran round to the front, followed by her cousin, taking care to make as little sound as possible. she remembered on which side of the door was the kitchen, and softly approached what she knew must be its window. but how surprised she was when she looked in! it was the kitchen; she remembered the shape of the room; she recognised the neat little fireplace, but all was completely deserted. every trace of furniture had disappeared; old adam's large chair by the hearth might never have been in existence, well as she remembered it. except that it was clean and swept, the room might not have, been inhabited for years. ruby turned to bertrand, who was staring in at another window. "i say, ruby," he whispered, "the room over here is quite--" "i know," she said. "so is the kitchen. they're gone, bertrand, quite gone, and we've had all our trouble for nothing. it's too bad." "_they_!" repeated bertrand, "you can't say _they_, when you know that winfried is locked up in the turret-room." "oh," exclaimed ruby starting, "i quite forgot. he must have hidden his grandfather somewhere. and yet i don't see how they could have managed it so quietly. we always know when any of the village people are moving their furniture; they send to borrow our carts." "well," said bertrand, "there's one thing certain. if you didn't believe it before, you must now; i should think even mavis would--the old fellow _is_ a wizard, and so's his precious grandson." "shall we go into the house?" said ruby, though she looked half afraid to do so. "isn't the door locked?" said bertrand, trying it as he spoke. it yielded to his touch; he went in, followed, though tremblingly, by ruby. but after all there was little or nothing to see; the three rooms, though scrupulously clean, even the windows shining bright and polished, were perfectly empty. as the children strolled back to the kitchen, annoyed and disappointed, feeling, to tell the truth, rather small, something caught ruby's eye in one corner of the room. it was a small object, gleaming bright and blue on the white stones of the floor. she ran forward and picked it up, it was a tiny bunch of forget-me-nots tied with a scrap of ribbon; the same large brilliant kind of forget-me-not as those which she and mavis had so admired on their first visit to the now deserted cottage. she gave a little cry. "look, bertrand," she said, "they can't have been long gone. these flowers are quite fresh. i wonder where they came from. they must have been growing in a pot in the house, for there are none in the garden. i looked as we came through." bertrand glanced at the flowers carelessly. "wizards," he began, "can--" but his sentence was never finished. for as he spoke there came a sudden gust of wind down the wide chimney, so loud and furious that it was as startling as a clap of thunder. then it subsided again, but for a moment or two a long low wail sounded overhead, gradually dying away in the distance. "what was that?" said bertrand. while the sounds lasted both children had stood perfectly still. "the wind of course," said ruby. she was more accustomed than her cousin to the unexpected vagaries of the storm spirits so near the sea, still even she seemed startled. "it's often like that," she was beginning to say, but she hesitated. "it _was_ very loud," she added. "there must be rough weather coming," said bertrand. "we'd better go home by the road, i think, ruby." "_we_," exclaimed ruby indignantly. "do you mean you and me, bertrand? and what about mavis?" "she can come on shore," replied the boy carelessly. "she knows where we are. it's her own fault. come along, there's nothing to wait for in this empty old hole. i want you to show me the caves outside." "i'll try to signal to mavis first," said ruby. "i'll tie my handkerchief to a stick and wave it about. she can see us up here quite well, and perhaps when she finds we're alone she'll come." they left the cottage, and ruby got out her handkerchief. but it was small use. for just as they stepped on to the rough little terrace in front from whence they could clearly see the shore, there came another and even--it seemed so at least now they were standing outside--more violent blast. it was all ruby could do to keep her feet, and when she recovered from the giddying effect of the wind she was still breathless and shaken. and that the hurricane was gathering strength every second was plain to be seen; the waves were dashing in excitedly, the sky at one side had that strange lurid purple colour which foretells great disturbance. but it was not these things only which made ruby turn pale and shiver. "bertrand," she gasped, "i don't know if there's something the matter with my eyes, i can't see clearly--bertrand--look--where is mavis--mavis and the boat; can you see them?" bertrand shaded his brow with his hand and gazed. "'pon my soul," he said, "it's very odd. _i_ can't see them. and there's not been time for mavis to have rowed out to sea or even to have drifted out; we can see right out ever so far, and there's no boat; not a sign of one." "can--can she have landed and dragged the boat ashore somehow?" said ruby, her teeth chattering with cold and fear. "no," said bertrand, "we'd certainly see her and the boat in that case." "then, where is she?" cried ruby. "_bertrand_, you must care. what do you think has become of her?" "can't say, i'm sure," said the boy. "the boat may have capsized: the sea's awfully rough now." "do you mean that mavis may be drowned or drowning?" screamed ruby. she had to scream, even had she been less terribly excited, for the roar of wind was on them again, and her voice was scarcely audible. "i don't see that she need be drowned," said bertrand. "it's shallow. she _may_ have crept on shore, and be lying somewhere among those big stones; and if not, can't your precious wizard friends look after her? she's fond enough of them." he was partly in earnest; but ruby took it all as cruel heartless mocking. she turned upon him furiously. "you're a brutal wicked boy," she screamed. "i wish you were drowned; i wish you had never come near us; i wish--" she stopped, choked by her fury and misery, and by the wind which came tearing round again. bertrand came close to her. "as you're so busy wishing," he called into her ear, "you'd better wish you hadn't done what you have done yourself. it was all you who started the plan, and settled how we were to trick winfried into the turret-room; you know you did." "and did i plan to drown mavis, my own darling little sister?" returned ruby as well as she could speak between her sobs and breathlessness. "come down to the shore with me this moment and help me to look for her, if you're not altogether a cruel heartless bully." "not i," said bertrand, "we'd probably get drowned ourselves. just see how the waves come leaping in; they look as if they were alive. i believe it's all witches' work together. i'm not going to trust myself down there. come and show me the grottoes and the caves, ruby. we may as well shelter in them till the wind goes down a bit. we can't do mavis any good; if she's on the shore she can take care of herself, and if she's under the water _we_ can't reach her;" and he caught hold of ruby to pull her along, but she tore herself from his grasp with a wrench. "you wicked, you heartless, brutal boy," she cried. "i don't care if i am drowned; i would rather be drowned with mavis than stay alive with you." and almost before bertrand knew what she was doing, ruby was rushing through the little garden at the back of the cottage on her way to descend the rough path to the shore. he stood looking after her coolly for a moment or two with his hands in his pockets. he tried to whistle, but it was not very successful; the wind had the best of it. "i don't believe mavis has come to any harm," he said aloud, though speaking to himself, and almost as if trying to excuse his own conduct. "anyway, i don't see that it's my business to look after her, it was all her own obstinacy." he kicked roughly at the pebbles at his feet, and as he did so, his glance fell on a tiny speck of colour just where he was kicking. it was one of the blue flowers ruby had found in the cottage. bertrand stooped and picked it up, and, strange to say, he handled it gently. but as he looked at it there came again to him the queer smarting pain in his eyes which he had complained of in the turret-room, and glancing up he became aware that the wind had suddenly gone down, everything had become almost unnaturally still, while a thin bluish haze seemed gathering closely round where he stood. bertrand rubbed his eyes. "there can't be smoke here," he said. "what can be the matter with my eyes?" and he rubbed them impatiently. it did no good. "no, that will do no good," said a voice. it seemed quite near him. "look up;" and in spite of himself the boy could not help looking up. "_oh_," he screamed; "_oh_, what is it? what is it?" for an agony, short but indescribable, had darted through his eyeballs, piercing, it seemed to him, to his very brain; and bertrand was not in some ways a cowardly boy. there was silence, perfect, dead silence, and gradually the intense aching, which the short terrible pain had left, began to subside. as it did so, and bertrand ventured to look up again, he saw that--what he had seen, he could not describe it better--was gone, the haze had disappeared, the air was again clear, but far from still, for round the corner of the old cottage the blast now came rushing and tearing, as if infuriated at having been for a moment obliged to keep back; and with it now came the rain, such rain as the inland-bred boy had never seen before--blinding, drenching, lashing rain, whose drops seemed to cut and sting, with such force did they fall. it added to his confusion and bewilderment. like a hunted animal he turned and ran, anywhere to get shelter; and soon he found himself behind the house, and then the thought of the grottoes the little girls had told him of returned to his mind. "i won't go back into that witches' hole," he said to himself as he glanced back at the house. "i'll shelter in one of the grottoes." as he thought this he caught sight of an opening in the rockery before him. it was the entrance to the very cave where mavis had been left by ruby. bertrand ran in; what happened to him there you shall hear in good time. chapter ten. "forget-me-not land." "a world... where the month is always june." _three worlds_. ruby meanwhile was running or rather stumbling down the stones. she cried and sobbed as she went; her pretty face had never, i think, looked so woebegone and forlorn; for it was new to her to be really distressed or anxious about anything. "mavis, mavis," she called out every now and then, "are you there darling? can't you answer?" as if, even had the wind been less wildly raging, mavis could possibly have heard her so far-off. and before long ruby was obliged to stop for a moment to gather strength and breath. the wind seemed to increase every minute. she turned her back to it for a second; the relief was immense; and just then she noticed that she was still clutching the little bunch of flowers she had picked up. they made her begin to cry again. "mavis loves them so," she thought, and her memory went back to the happy peaceful afternoon they had spent with old adam and his grandson. how kind they were, and how nice the cakes were that winfried had made for them himself! "oh," thought ruby, "i wish bertrand had never come! it's all--" but there she hesitated. there had been truth in her cousin's mean reproach, that the mischief and the cruel tricks they had planned had been first thought of by _her_. and ruby knew, too, in her heart, that she had not been gentle or unselfish or kind long before she had ever seen bertrand. she had not been so actively naughty because she had had no chance of being so, as it were. the coming together of the two selfish unfeeling natures had been like the meeting of the flint and steel, setting loose the hidden fire. and besides this, for bertrand there might have been some excuse; he had been neglected and yet spoilt; he had never known what it was truly to love any one, whereas ruby had lived in love all her life; and this was her return for it. "i have killed my little mavis," she sobbed. "yes, it has been all me. we needn't have minded bertrand; he couldn't have made me naughty if i hadn't let him. oh, mavis, mavis, whatever shall i do?" her glance fell again on the flowers in her hand. they were not the least withered or spoilt, but as fresh as if just newly gathered. they seemed to smile up at her, and she felt somehow comforted. "dear little flowers," she said. seldom in her life had ruby spoken so tenderly. she started, as close beside her she heard a faint sigh. "ruby," said a voice, "can you hear me?" "yes," said the little girl, beginning to tremble. "but you cannot see me? and yet i am here, close to you, as i have often been before. try ruby, try to see me." "are--are you a mermaid, or a--that other thing?" asked the child. there came a little laugh, scarcely a laugh, then the sigh again. "if you could see me you would know how foolish you are," said the voice. "but i must have patience--it will come--your eyes are not strong, ruby; they are not even as strong as bertrand's." "yes, they are," said ruby indignantly. "i've never had sore eyes in my life, and bertrand's have hurt him several times lately." "i know; so much the better for him," was the reply. "well, good-bye for the present, ruby. go on to look for mavis; you must face it all-- there, the rain is coming now. ah!" and with this, which sounded like a long sigh, the voice seemed to waft itself away, and down came the rain. the same swirl which had been too much for sturdy bertrand was upon ruby now, standing, too, in a far more exposed place, with no shelter near, and the rough rocky path before her. she did not stand long; she turned again and began to descend, stumbling, slipping, blinded by the rain, dashed and knocked about by the wind. "she might have helped me, whoever she was that spoke to me," sobbed ruby. "it isn't my fault if i can't see creatures like that. i'm not good enough, i suppose." as she said these last words, or thought them, rather, a queer little thrill passed through her, and something, in spite of herself, made her look up. was it--no, it could not be--she had suddenly thought a gleam of sunshine and blue sky had flashed on her sight; but no, the storm was too furious. "yet still, i did," thought ruby, "i did see something bright and blue, as if two of my little flowers had got up there and were looking down on me." she glanced at her hand; the forget-me-nots were gone! "i must have dropped them," she said. "oh dear, dear!" and yet as she struggled on again she did not feel _quite_ so miserable. yet it was terribly hard work, and every moment her anxiety about mavis increased; ruby had never _felt_ so much in all her life. "who could it be that spoke to me so strangely?" she asked herself over and over again. "and what can i do to be able to see her? i wonder if mavis has seen her, i wonder--" and suddenly there came into her mind the remembrance of miss hortensia's long-ago story of the vision in the west turret. "there was something about forget-me-nots in it," she thought dreamily. "could it have been true?" how she had mocked at the story! she had at last reached the shore by this time. the rain still fell in pitiless torrents, but the wind had fallen a little, and down here she seemed rather less exposed than on the face of the cliffs. still ruby was completely drenched through; never before had she had any conception of the misery to which some of our poor fellow-creatures are exposed to almost every day of their lives. and yet, her fears for mavis overmastered all her other sufferings; for the first time ruby thought of another more than of herself. "mavis, dear little mavis, mavis darling, where are you?" she sobbed wildly, her teeth chattering, while terrible shivers shook her from head to foot. "oh, it _can't_ be that she is under those dreadful, fierce, leaping waves. they look as if they were dancing in cruel joy over something they had got;" and a shudder worse than those caused by the cold went through the poor child. "mavis," she called out at last, after she had peered round about every large stone, _every_ corner where her sister could possibly have tried to find shelter, without coming upon the slightest trace of either the child or the boat, "you must be in the sea. i'll go after you; it doesn't matter if i am drowned if you are. perhaps--perhaps the mermaids are keeping you safe; there are kind ones among them it says in the fairy stories." and she turned resolutely to the water. it was cold, icily cold as it touched first her feet, then her ankles, then crept up to her knees; it seemed to catch her breath even before it was at all deep. ruby felt her powers going and her senses failing. "i shall never be able to find mavis even if she is under the sea," she thought to herself, just as a huge wave caught her in its rolling clutch, and she knew no more. it seemed as if time beyond counting, years, centuries had passed when ruby came to her senses again, enough to know that she was herself, gradually to remember that once, long ago, there had been a little girl called ruby, somewhere, somehow, and that some one dear, most dear to her, had been in awful danger from which she had tried to rescue her. and through all the long mist, through all the dream wanderings of her spirit, in which may be it had been learning lessons, the fruit of which remained, though the teachings themselves were forgotten,--for who knows, who can limit what we _do_ learn in these mysterious ways?-- ruby's guardian angel must have rejoiced to see that the thought of her sister, not herself, was uppermost. "mavis," was the first word she whispered; "mavis, are you alive? are you not drowned, darling? but it was such a _very_ long time ago. perhaps the world is finished. but mavis--i thought mavis was dead; and, oh! who are you?" she ended with a thrill which seemed to make her quite alive and awake. "are you the fairy in the turret? and what are you doing to my eyes?" she sat up and rubbed them. there was the strangest feeling in them-- not pain now; indeed it was, though strange, a beautiful feeling. they felt drawn upwards, upwards to something or some one, and a new light and strength seemed to fill them, light and strength and colour such as ruby had never before even _imagined_. and the some one--yes, it was the lovely gracious figure, with the exquisite never-, once seen, to-be-forgotten eyes, of winfried's princess. ruby saw her at last! a smile overspread the sweet face; the blue eyes shone with gladness. "how often i have hoped for this," she murmured. "no, ruby, you will never know how often. darling, shut your eyes, you must not strain them; shut your eyes and think of mavis, and trust yourself to me." ruby obeyed; she had not even looked round to see where she was; she only felt that she was lying on something soft and warm and _dry_; oh, how nice it was to feel dry again. for now the distant, long-ago sensation began to fade, and she remembered everything clearly as if it had happened, say, yesterday or the day before at farthest. the naughty mischief she and bertrand had been planning, the strange little boat, the deserted cottage, the hurricane, and the misery about mavis, the plunge in search of her into the sea, even to the loss of the forget-me-nots, which had been her only comfort, all came back; and with it a wonderful delightful feeling of hope and peace and trust, such as she had never known before. she gave herself up to the kind strong arms that clasped her round! "she will take me to mavis," she thought; "and oh, i _will_ try never, never to be selfish and unkind and naughty again." then, still wrapped in the soft warm mantle or rug she had felt herself lying upon, she was lifted upwards, upwards still, she knew not and cared not whither, for ruby's eyes were closed and she was fast asleep, and this time her sleep was dreamless. "ruby, my own little ruby," were the first words she heard. they awoke her as nothing else would have done. "mavis," she whispered. yes, it was mavis. she was leaning over the couch on which ruby lay. never had ruby seen her so bright and sweet and happy-looking. "mavis," ruby repeated. "and you weren't drowned, darling? at least;" and as she raised herself a little she looked round her doubtfully, "at least, not unless this is heaven? it looks like it--only," with a deep sigh, "it can't be, for if it were, _i_ shouldn't be in it." "no, darling, it isn't heaven, but it's a beautiful place, and i _think_ it must be a little on the way there. it's one of the homes of our princess; she won't tell me the name, but i call it forget-me-not land. isn't that a good name? look all about, ruby." they were in a little arbour, in one corner of what one would have called a garden, except that gardens are usually enclosed. they don't stretch as far as the eyes can see, which was the case here. a soft clear yet not dazzling or glaring light was over everything, yet there was no sun visible in the sky. and as ruby gazed and gazed she began to feel that there were differences between this garden and any others she had ever seen. one of these mavis pointed out to her. "do you see, ruby," she said, "that all the flowers in this garden are our wild flowers, though they are such beauties?" she stooped to gather one or two blossoms growing close beside her as she spoke. "see, here are the same kind of forget-me-nots that were at the old cottage, and that we found so strangely on the castle terrace. and here are violets and primroses and snowdrops, all the spring flowers; and the summer ones too, honeysuckle and dog-roses; and even the tiny common ones, buttercups and daisies, and celandine and pimpernel, and eye-bright and shepherd's-purse, and--and--" "but you're mixing them all up together," said ruby. "they don't all come at the same time of year." "yes, they do _here_," said mavis. "that's the wonder. i found it out for myself almost immediately, and the princess was so pleased i did. i think this garden is a sort of nursery for wild flowers; you see up where we live there are no gardens or gardeners for them." "up!" said ruby, "are we down below the world? are we out of the world?" mavis smiled. "i don't know," she said. "it may be up or it may be down. it doesn't matter. the princess says we may call it fairyland if we like. and fancy, ruby, old adam is the gardener here." a shadow passed over ruby's face. "don't be frightened, dear. he knew you were coming, and he's as kind as kind. we're to have supper at his cottage before we go home." "oh," said ruby disappointed, "then we are to go home?" "oh yes," mavis explained, "it wouldn't do for us to stay always here. but i _think_ we may come back again sometimes. adam has been often here, ever since he was a boy, he told me. and now he's going to stay always, till it's time for him to go somewhere else, he says. it was too cold and rough for him up by the sea now he is so old." "and--about winfried?" asked ruby, growing very red. mavis laughed joyously. "winfried," she cried, "why, he was here already when i came; the boat went down, down with me, ruby, when the great waves rolled over it and me. i _was_ frightened, just for a minute, and then it was all right, and the princess and winfried lifted me out." "how many days ago was it?" asked ruby. mavis shook her head. "i don't know that either; perhaps it's not days at all here. i've never thought about it. but cousin hortensia won't be frightened. the princess told me that. winfried will take us home. he can't stay here either; he's got work to do somewhere, and he can only come back sometimes. there, ruby--look--there he comes; do you see him coming up that little hill? he'll be here in a few minutes." chapter eleven. down the well. "blue-bells the news are spreading, ring-a-ting, ting, ting, ting! all the flowers have voices, lovely the songs that they sing; _how_ the blue-bell rejoices, ting-a-ring, ting, ting, ting!" ruby shrank back a little. "i don't want to see winfried," she said, "after all we did. and, oh mavis, i must be in such a mess--my clothes were all soaked in the sea." "no, they weren't," said mavis, laughing; "at least if they were they've come right again. stand up, ruby, and shake yourself, and look at yourself. there now, did you ever look neater or nicer in your life?" ruby stood up and looked at herself as mavis advised her. "is this my own frock?" she said. "no, it can't be. see, mavis, it's all beautifully embroidered with forget-me-nots! and what lovely blue ribbon my hair is tied with; and my hands are so white and clean mavis, did the princess dress me while i was asleep?" mavis nodded her head sagely. "something like it," she said. "and oh," continued ruby, "your frock is just the same, and your ribbons and all. _how_ nice you look, mavis! is the princess here? i should so like her to see us." "she's not here to-day," said mavis. "she's away somewhere--i'm not sure," she added in a lower voice, "but that it's about bertrand." ruby gave a sort of shiver. "oh mavis!" she said, "he was so cruel and so heartless, and i was so miserable. i do hope the princess will make him go quite away." "or--if he was to be quite changed," said mavis. "no, no. i don't want him. i only want you, my darling little mavis, and we shall be so happy--much, much happier than we have ever been. kiss me, mavis, and tell me you quite forgive me, and if ever i am naughty or horrid again, i hope the princess will punish me." "she won't let you forget her any way," said mavis. "i think that is how she punishes." ruby looked rather puzzled; but before she could ask more they heard winfried's whistle, and in a moment he appeared. his face was all one smile--all ruby's fears and misgivings faded away before it. "grandfather is waiting for you," he said. "there are some cakes, miss ruby, that you will find even better than those others. for _everything_ is better here, you see." "how lovely it must all be," said ruby, with a little sigh. "aren't you sorry, winfried, that you can't stay here altogether? mavis says you have to go away to work." "of course," said winfried cheerily. "it would never do, young as i am, not to work. and we shouldn't enjoy this half as much if we had it always--it's the rest and refreshment after common life that makes half the happiness. it's different for gran--he's done _his_ part, none better, and now his work should be light i'm thankful to know he's safe here. now we had better go--down that little hill is the way to his cottage." children, you have perhaps never been in fairyland, nor, for that matter, have i been there either. but i have had glimpses of it a good many times in my life, and so i hope have you. and these glimpses, do you know, become more frequent and are less fleeting as one grows older. i, at least, find it so. is not that something to look forward to? though, after all, this sweet country to which our three little friends, thanks to the beautiful princess, had found their way, was scarcely the dream region which we think of as fairyland; it was better described by little mavis's own name for the nameless garden--"forget-me-not land"; for once having entered there, no one can lose the remembrance of it, any more than once having looked into _her_ eyes one can forget princess forget-me-not herself. but it would be difficult to describe this magic land; i must leave a good deal of it to that kind of fancy which comes nearer truth than clumsy words. though, as it is nice to be told all that _can_ be told of the sweetest and most beautiful things, i will try to tell you a little of what ruby and mavis saw. it might not have seemed such a lovely place to everybody, perhaps. time had been even when ruby herself might not have thought it so; for this garden-land was not a gorgeous place; it was just sweet and restful. as i told you, all the flowers were wild flowers; but that gives you no idea of what they looked like, for they were carefully tended and arranged, growing in great masses together in a way we never see, except sometimes in spring when the primroses almost hide the ground where they grow, or at midsummer when a rich luxuriance of dog-roses and honeysuckle makes it seem as if they had been "planted on purpose," as children say. all along the grassy paths where winfried led them, every step made the little girls exclaim in new admiration. "oh see, ruby, there is a whole bank of `robin.' i could not have believed it would look so beautiful; and there--look at those masses of `sweet cicely,' just like snowflakes. and in _our_ fields it is such a poor frightened little weed of a flower you scarcely notice it," said mavis. "but it's lovely if you look into it closely," said winfried. "some of the very tiniest flowers are really the most beautiful." then they came in sight of a stretch of hair-bells--white and blue--the kind that in some places are called "blue-bells." "stop a moment," said the boy. "stop and listen--hush--there now, do you hear them ringing? that is a sound you can never hear in--anywhere but here." they listened with all their ears, you may be sure. yes, as they grew accustomed to the exceeding stillness, to the clear thin _fineness_ of the air, they heard the softest, sweetest tinkle you can imagine; a perfect fairy bell-ringing, and the longer they listened the clearer it grew. "oh, how wonderful," said mavis. and ruby added, "i should think if we lived long enough in this country we should end by hearing the grass growing." "perhaps," said winfried. "but don't you miss the sea things?" ruby went on. "you love them so, winfried, and somehow you seem to belong to the sea." "so i do," the boy replied. "the sea is my life. coming here is only a rest and a holiday." "i wonder," said mavis, "i wonder if there is a garden country for the sea to match this for the land. a place where seaweeds and corals and all the loveliest sea things are taken care of, like the wild flowers here?" "you may be sure there is," said the fisher-boy, smiling. "there is no saying what the princess won't have to show us, and where she won't take us now she has us in hand. why, only to look into her eyes, you can see it--they seem to reach to everywhere; everywhere and everything beautiful seems in them." "you have seen farther into them than we have," said mavis thoughtfully. "but still i think i can understand what you mean." "so can i, a _very_ little," said ruby. "but--they are rather frightening too, don't you think?" "they must be at first," said winfried. but just then, a little way off, they caught sight of old adam coming to meet them. his cottage was close by; they came upon it suddenly, for it stood half-hidden under the shelter of the hill they had been descending. such a lovely cottage it was--so simple, yet so pretty; _quite_ clean, with a cleanness you never see out of fairyland or places of that kind, with flowers of all kinds, forget-me-nots above all, clustering about it and peeping in at the windows. adam welcomed his little guests as kindly as if no unkind thought of him had ever entered ruby's head; he made no difference between her and mavis, and i think this caused ruby to feel more sorry than anything could have done. if they had been happy that afternoon in the cottage by the sea, you can fancy how happy they were in this wonderful new fairy home of the good old man's. there was no end to the things he had to show them and teach them, mostly, i think, about flowers; things they had never dreamt of, beauties of form and colour such as it would be impossible for me to describe. and each time they came to see him he promised to show and teach them still more. but at last winfried said they must be going. "i promised the princess," he said, for now he spoke of her quite openly to the children, "that i would take you home by the time the sun sets beside the castle, and it must be near that now." "and how are we to go home?" asked ruby. "the boat is ready," winfried answered. "but where's the sea for it to sail on?" whispered ruby to mavis. she had not the courage to ask winfried anymore. "wait and see," said mavis. "i don't know, but it is sure to be all right." then they bade adam farewell, promising to come to visit him again whenever they should be allowed to do so--and rather wondering where winfried was going to take them, they set off. there was some reason for ruby's question, for so far they had seen no water at all in forget-me-not land. everything seemed fresh and fragrant, as if there was no dearth of moisture, but there was neither lake, nor pond, nor running brook. winfried mounted the hill a little way, then turning sharply, they found themselves in a sort of small wooded ravine or glen. steps led down the steep sides to the bottom, which was a perfect thicket of ferns, mostly of the deep green delicate kind, which loves darkness and water. winfried stooped and lifted, by a ring fixed into it, a heavy stone. "you won't be frightened," he said. "this is the way. we have to go down the well. i'll go first; you'll find it quite easy." it scarcely looked so, for it was very dark. winfried stepped in--there was a ladder against the side--and soon disappeared, all but his head, then mavis, and lastly, trembling a little it must be confessed, ruby. as soon as they were all inside, the stone lid shut itself down; but instead, as one might have expected, of this leaving them in darkness, a clear almost bright light shone upwards as if a large lamp had been lighted at the foot of the well, and without difficulty the children made their way down the ladder. "that's very nice," said ruby. "i was so afraid we were going to be in the dark." "were you, dear?" said a voice whose sweet tones were not strange to her. "no fear of that when i have to do with things. jump, that's right; here you are, and you too, mavis." the princess was standing in the boat, for the "well" widened out at one side into a little stream large enough to row along. "the brook takes us to the river, and the river to the sea; that is your way home," she said. "winfried will row, and you two shall nestle up to me." she put an arm round each, and in silence, save for the gentle drip of the oars, the little boat made its way. it was a still evening, not yet dark, though growing dusk, and though they were back in the winter world by now the children felt no cold--who could have felt cold with the princess's mantle round them? they grew sleepy, too sleepy to notice how, as she had said, the brook turned into the river, and the river led on to the sea, the familiar sea, not more than a mile or two from the cove below the castle. and it was only when the boat grated a little on the pebbly shore that both ruby and mavis started up to find themselves alone with winfried. the princess had left them. "i will go up to the door with you," said the boy. "miss hortensia is expecting you. see, there she is standing under the archway with a lantern." "my darlings," said their cousin. "so winfried has brought you safe home." "and i must hurry back," said the fisher-lad. and almost before they could thank him or say good-night, he had disappeared again in the fast-gathering gloom. it seemed to the children as miss hortensia kissed them that _years_ had passed since they had seen her or their home. "haven't you been dreadfully lonely without us all this time, dear cousin?" said mavis. "no, dears, not particularly so. it is a little later than usual, but when winfried ran back to tell me he would bring you safe home, he said it might be so." "was it only _this_ afternoon we went?" said ruby wonderingly. miss hortensia looked at her anxiously. "my dear, are you very tired? you seem half asleep." "i am rather sleepy," said ruby. "please may we go to bed at once." "certainly. i will tell ulrica to take your supper upstairs. i do hope you haven't caught cold. we must shut the door;" for they were standing all this time at the entrance under the archway. "bertrand is behind you, i suppose?" the little girls looked at each other. "we have not seen him for ever so long," they replied. "he would not stay with me," said ruby. "i thought perhaps we should find him here," said mavis. miss hortensia looked more annoyed than anxious. "i suppose he will find his way back before long," she said. "bad pennies always turn up. but he is a most troublesome boy. i wish i had asked winfried what to do--" "i don't think he could have done anything," said mavis. "but--i'm sure bertrand is safe. what's the matter, ulrica?" for at that moment--they were on their way upstairs by this time--the young maid-servant came flying to meet them, her face pale, her eyes gleaming with fear. "oh," she cried, "i am glad the young ladies are safe back. martin has seen the blue light in the west turret; he was coming from the village a few minutes ago, and something made him look up. it is many and many a year since it has been seen, not since the young ladies were babies, and it always--" "stop, ulrica," said miss hortensia sharply. "it is very wrong of you to come startling us in that wild way, and the young ladies so tired as you see. call bertha and joseph. you take the children to their room, and see that they are warm and comfortable. i will myself go up to the west turret with the others and put a stop to these idle tales." but ruby and mavis pressed forward. a strange thought had struck them both. "oh cousin, let us go too," they said. "we are not a bit frightened." so when old joseph and bertha had joined them, the whole party set off for the turret. as they got near to the top of the stair, a slight sound made them all start. "hush!" said miss hortensia. they stood in perfect silence. it came again--a murmur of faint sobs and weeping. ulrica grew whiter and whiter. "i told you so," she began, but no one listened. they all pressed on, miss hortensia the first. when she opened the door it was, except for the lamp she held in her hand, upon total darkness. but in one corner was heard a sort of convulsive breathing, and then a voice. "who's there? who's there? oh the pain, the cruel pain!" and there--lying on the same little couch-bed on which years and years ago miss hortensia had slept and dreamt of the lovely fairy lady--was bertrand--weeping and moaning, utterly broken down. but he turned away sullenly from miss hortensia when she leant over him in concern and pity; he would not look at ruby either, and it was not till after some moments had passed that they at last heard him whisper. "mavis, i want to speak to mavis. go away everybody. i only want mavis." they all looked at each other in mute astonishment. they thought he was wandering in his mind. but no; he kept to the same idea. "mavis," he repeated, "come here and give me your hand. i can't see you. oh the pain, the pain!" then mavis came forward, and the others drew back in a group to the door. "try and find out what it is; surely it is not another naughty trick that he is playing," said miss hortensia anxiously. "no, no. i am sure it isn't. don't be afraid, dear cousin," said the little girl. chapter twelve. opened eyes. "the world that only thy spirit knows is the fairest world of the three." _three worlds_. "mavis," whispered bertrand, when he was sure the others were out of earshot, "you can understand; they would think i was mad. listen--stoop down--it is _she_. you know who i mean. she made me see her, and oh, the pain is too awful. it isn't only in my eyes, it goes down into my heart somehow. what shall i do? can't you make her come to take it away? i've been crying and crying to her, but she won't." "perhaps it is that you _must_ bear it," said mavis. "think that way, and see if that makes it any better." the boy gasped, but did not speak. after a moment or two he went on again. "i was in the caves behind the cottage. i ran in to get out of the storm, and because i didn't want to go looking for you. i thought you were drowned, and i didn't want to see your white face," he shivered. "and i was peeping about in one of the caves when i fell; i don't know how or where. i fell down, down, ever so far. i thought i was never going to stop, and then my breath went away, and i didn't know anything till i found myself in another cave, all knocked about and bruised. i'm aching now all over, but i don't mind that. and then, mavis, _she_ came and looked at me." "you saw her?" said mavis. "yes--oh mavis, she made my eyes go up to hers. and oh, the pain! she didn't say anything except just `bertrand.' but i knew all she meant, better than by any speaking. and she was kind; she lifted me and carried me up here. and she put something on my leg; that was where i was most hurt, i think. then she sat by me here, and she put it all into my mind, all the naughty things i'd ever done. mavis, i didn't know, i _really_ didn't, how bad i was. it came out of her eyes somehow, though i dared not look again; and when she went away, even though i _think_ she kissed me, the pain got worse and worse. oh mavis, will it ever go? will my eyes ever feel the same again?" "no," said mavis, "i don't think they'll ever feel the _same_, for they'll feel much, much better than they used to. the pain will go, though it may come back sometimes, to _remind_ you." "i shan't need reminding," said the boy. "i can't ever forget. i'm sure of that. i wish i could!" "no, bertrand, i don't think you do wish that." he gave an impatient wriggle, but without speaking. "oh the pain," he cried again in a moment or two, "and it did seem a little better." miss hortensia came forward. "mavis, my dear, what is it? where is he hurt? and why did you hide yourself up here, bertrand, instead of coming to me?" bertrand would not answer. he turned his face away again. "he's had a fall, cousin hortensia," said mavis. "but i don't think it's very bad, he says he's only bruised and sore. bertrand, do you think you can manage to get down to your own room?" "if you'll come at one side and joseph at the other, i'll try," said the boy, with unusual graciousness. "and when i'm in bed, will you stay beside me, mavis? i think the pain isn't so bad when you're there," he whispered, so that no one else could hear. miss hortensia was quick-witted. "i will order a fire to be lighted in bertrand's room," she said; "and if you like, mavis, you may have your supper there beside him." she hurried away, calling ruby to go with her. it was a sign of a very different state of things with ruby that she showed, and felt, no jealousy at bertrand's preference for her sister. "poor bertrand," she said to herself softly, "perhaps i made him naughtier than he would have been." the boy was more hurt than he would allow, but he put great constraint on himself, and limped downstairs with scarcely a groan. "it's nothing compared to the other pain," he murmured. and when he was at last safely deposited in his little bed, he looked so white and pitiful that for the first time mavis stooped down and gave him a loving kiss. bertrand started. "what is it?" said mavis. "i don't know," he replied. "when you kissed me, the pain got worse for a moment; it gave a great stab, but now it seems better. if you'll kiss me again, mavis, the last thing when you say good-night, perhaps i'll be able to go to sleep." she stayed beside him all the rest of the evening. he scarcely spoke, only groaning a little from time to time. when miss hortensia came in to send mavis to bed, she began for the first time to feel really uneasy about the boy. "mavis," she said, not meaning bertrand to hear, "if he isn't better to-morrow morning, we must send for the doctor." "perhaps," said the little girl, "he could do something to take away the aching--poor bertrand is aching all over from his fall." "i don't mind that," said the boy suddenly. "it isn't that, you know it isn't, mavis, and i won't have the doctor." ruby, who had stolen in behind her cousin, crept up to mavis. "do you think," she whispered, "do you think, mavis, that he has seen _her_, and that that's it?" mavis did not answer. "bertrand," she said, "we are going to bed now; do you mind being left alone for the night?" "no," he said, "i'd rather, unless it was you, and you can't stay. you'd be too tired. listen," and he drew her down to him, "do you think perhaps she'll come again and take away the pain? for i _am_ sorry now--i am sorry--and i didn't know how bad i was." "poor bertrand," whispered mavis pityingly. "perhaps she will come. any way, if you are patient and try to think the pain has to be, i think it will get better, even if it doesn't go away altogether." and again she kissed him. "mavis," said ruby, as the two little sisters were lying side by side in their white curtained beds, "cousin hortensia may not know it, and nobody may know it, but _i_ know it, and it is that years have passed since we went to bed here last night." "yes," said mavis. "i think so too. there are some things that you can't count time for, which are really far more than any time." "all my hating of bertrand has gone away now," continued ruby. "only i don't want him to stay here, because the naughty in him and the naughty in me might get together again like it did before." "why don't you think of the good in him and the good in you joining to make you both better; and the good in me too! i suppose it isn't conceited to think there is a little good in oneself, at least there's trying to be and wanting to be," said mavis, with a little sigh. "but you're so much quicker and cleverer than i am, ruby, i wish you would think about helping me and not about being naughty. and, oh ruby, isn't it lovely to think that we may go sometimes to forget-me-not land?" "let's go to sleep now as quick as we can and dream of it," said ruby. bertrand looked still very white and ill the next day. he was very quiet and subdued, and even gave in to miss hortensia's decision that the doctor must be sent for. the doctor came "and shook his head." the boy was not in a satisfactory condition,--which they knew already as it happened, otherwise the doctor would not have been sent for,--he had been shaken by the fall, and it was possible that his back had been injured. there was not much comfort in all this, certainly, but it decided one thing, that he was to stay where he was for the present, not to attempt to get up or to move about. and, strange to say, this too bertrand accepted uncomplainingly. he said no word to the doctor of the strange pain he had confided about to mavis; and though his eyes seemed sad and wearied, they had a new look in them which had never been there before. even miss hortensia was moved by it, though hitherto, and rightly, she had been inclined to treat bertrand's troubles as well deserved. "is there anything we can do for you, my poor boy?" she said kindly. "no, thank you," he replied; "except to let mavis come to stay beside me sometimes--and--" he hesitated, "if the fisher-boy, winfried, comes to the castle, i'd like to see him." "certainly," miss hortensia answered. "but i doubt if he will come any more. i hear in the village that his grandfather has gone away, quite away, to a milder part of the country. i can't understand it, it seems so sudden." but winfried did come, that very afternoon. his new home was not so very far away, he told miss hortensia with a smile. "gran's home, that is to say," he went on. "but i myself am going to have a different kind of home now. i'm going to sea; i've always wished it, and gran has wished it for me." "but won't he miss you terribly?" asked the lady. "i'll often be with him, and he's well cared for where he is," said the boy. and then mavis took him up to see bertrand, with whom she left him alone for some time. there was a brighter look in the boy's face when she went back to him. "winfried has promised to come again before he goes quite away," he said. "did you know, mavis, that he is going ever so far away? he is going to be a sailor, a real sailor, not a fisherman. he says he has always wanted it, but he couldn't leave his grandfather alone here where the village people were not--" bertrand stopped suddenly, as it struck him that it was not the ignorant village people only who had been unkind to good old adam. mavis understood but said nothing. and after a bit bertrand went out again. "mavis," he said, "i've seen her again. either i saw her or i dreamt of her. i don't much mind which it was, for it's all come true. she said i must try to bear it, like what you said, mavis; and it has got better. but she said it would come back again, and that i'd get to want it to come back--at least, unless i wanted to forget her, and i don't want to do that. i don't think i _could_, even if i tried. and she kissed me-- my eyes, mavis; so you see i couldn't forget her now." "you never could, i'm sure," said mavis; "that's what she is; it's her name." bertrand threw himself back with a sigh. "i can't feel like you," he said. "i've never thought about being good, and sometimes i think i won't try. oh mavis!" "was it the pain again?" said the little girl sympathisingly, though in her heart she felt inclined to smile a very little. "yes," said bertrand dolefully, "i'm afraid it will take an awfully long time before i begin to get the least bit good," and he sighed again still more deeply. just then ruby put her head in at the door. she and bertrand were not yet quite at ease with each other, but she came up to his bedside very gently and said she hoped he was better, to which he replied meekly enough, though rather stiffly. "mavis," said ruby eagerly, pleased to find something to talk about, "have you heard about winfried? about his going to be a real sailor?" "yes," said mavis. "bertrand was talking about it." bertrand sat up and his eyes sparkled. "i didn't mean to tell you," he said, "but i think i must. do you know, i believe i shall be a sailor too? papa has always wanted it since i was quite little, and i shall soon be old enough to begin. but i thought i wouldn't like it till i came here and saw the sea; and now winfried's talking has made it come into my mind, just the way papa said it did into his when he was a boy." ruby glanced at him admiringly. "how brave you are, bertrand!" she said, which was a very foolish speech. "no," he said with a touch of his old roughness, "i'm not. it isn't that at all. mavis, would you be glad for me to be a sailor?" "if you found it the best thing for you i'd be glad," said mavis. "sailors must see wonderful and beautiful things," she went on thoughtfully. "perhaps you and winfried might be sailors together some time," said ruby. "that would be nice." "yes," said bertrand. "when i got to be captain or something like that, i'll look him up, and--" but he stopped abruptly. there had been a touch of arrogance in his tone. just then ruby ran off. mavis was going too, but bertrand stopped her. "mavis," he said, "winfried knows all about _her_. he calls her his princess." "i know," said mavis. "and," bertrand went on, "he says he knows she'll never be far away if he wants her. even _ever_ so far away, over at the other side of the world, out at sea with no land for weeks and months; he says it would be just the same, or even better. the loneliness makes it easier to see her sometimes, he says. i can fancy that," he went on dreamily, "her eyes are a little like the sea, don't you think, mavis?" "like the sea when it is _quite_ good, quite at peace, loving and gentle," she replied. "but still, if you had lived beside the sea as long as we have, bertrand, you'd understand that there's never a sure feeling about it, you never know what it won't be doing next; and the princess, you know, makes you feel surer than sure; that's the best of her." "yes," said bertrand, "the sea's like ruby and me. now just at this time i want more than anything to be good, and never to be selfish or cruel, or--or boasting, or mischievous. but when i get about again with ruby--even though she's very good now, and she never was anything like as bad as me--i don't feel sure but what we might do each other harm and forget about being good and all that; do you see?" "i think it's a very good thing that you do _not_ feel sure," said mavis. but she was struck by his saying just what ruby herself had said, and it made her a little anxious. the children's new resolutions, however, were not put to the test in the way they expected. bertrand quickly got well again and was able to run about in his usual way. but very soon after this his uncle, the father of ruby and mavis, came unexpectedly for one of his short visits to the castle, to his little daughters' great delight. and when he left he took bertrand away with him. there was more than one reason for the boy's visit coming to an end so much sooner than had been intended. miss hortensia may have had something to do with it, for though she had grown to like bertrand much better during his illness, and no one could have been more delighted than she at the improvement in him, it was not to be wondered at if she trembled at continuing to have the charge of him. then, too, bertrand confided to his uncle his wish to be a sailor, in which he never again wavered. ruby and mavis felt sad when the travellers had left them. their father's "good-byes" were the only alloy to the pleasure of his visits. and this time there was bertrand to say good-bye to also! "who would have thought," said mavis, "that we should ever be sorry to see him go? but i am glad to feel sorry." "yes," said miss hortensia, "much better for him to go while his present mood lasts, and we are able to regret him. and may be he will come to pay us a visit again some time or other." "i hope he will," said mavis. "i don't think he will _ever_ again be like what he was, cousin." "mavis," said ruby, when they were alone, "when bertrand does come to see us again, we must plan all to go to forget-me-not land together. it would be so nice, all four of us. winfried will come to see us again soon; he said he would whenever he comes to his grandfather; let us ask him. i am sure the princess wouldn't mind now bertrand is so different." "i am sure she wouldn't," said mavis, smiling. "and who knows," ruby went on, "what lovely new things and places we shan't see when we go there again. winfried says there's no end to them, and that every time we go we'll find more to see." "perhaps it's because we learn to see better and better," said mavis. and i think she was right. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the end. generously made available by the internet archive/canadian libraries) castles and châteaux of old touraine and the loire country _works of francis miltoun_ _the following, each vol., library mo, cloth, gilt top, profusely illustrated, $ . _ _rambles on the riviera_ _rambles in normandy_ _rambles in brittany_ _the cathedrals and churches of the rhine_ _the cathedrals of northern france_ _the cathedrals of southern france_ _the cathedrals of italy_ (_in preparation_) _the following, vol., square octavo, cloth, gilt top, profusely illustrated. $ . _ _castles and châteaux of old touraine and the loire country_ _l. c. page & company new england building, boston, mass._ [illustration: a peasant girl of touraine] castles and châteaux of old touraine and the loire country by francis miltoun author of "rambles in normandy," "rambles in brittany," "rambles on the riviera," etc. _with many illustrations reproduced from paintings made on the spot_ by blanche mcmanus [illustration] boston l. c. page & company _copyright, _ by l. c. page & company (incorporated) _all rights reserved_ first impression, june, _colonial press_ _electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co._ _boston, u. s. a._ [illustration: ed velay] by way of introduction this book is not the result of ordinary conventional rambles, of sightseeing by day, and flying by night, but rather of leisurely wanderings, for a somewhat extended period, along the banks of the loire and its tributaries and through the countryside dotted with those splendid monuments of renaissance architecture which have perhaps a more appealing interest for strangers than any other similar edifices wherever found. before this book was projected, the conventional tour of the château country had been "done," baedeker, joanne and james's "little tour" in hand. on another occasion angers, with its almost inconceivably real castellated fortress, and nantes, with its memories of the "edict" and "la duchesse anne," had been tasted and digested _en route_ to a certain little artist's village in brittany. on another occasion, when we were headed due south, we lingered for a time in the upper valley, between "the little italian city of nevers" and "the most picturesque spot in the world"--le puy. but all this left certain ground to be covered, and certain gaps to be filled, though the author's note-books were numerous and full to overflowing with much comment, and the artist's portfolio was already bulging with its contents. so more note-books were bought, and, following the genial mark twain's advice, another fountain pen and more crayons and sketch-books, and the author and artist set out in the beginning of a warm september to fill those gaps and to reduce, if possible, that series of rambles along the now flat and now rolling banks of the broad blue loire to something like consecutiveness and uniformity; with what result the reader may judge. contents chapter page by way of introduction v i. a general survey ii. the orlÉannais iii. the blaisois and the sologne iv. chambord v. cheverny, beauregard, and chaumont vi. touraine: the garden spot of france vii. amboise viii. chenonceaux ix. loches x. tours and about there xi. luynes and langeais xii. azay-le-rideau, ussÉ, and chinon xiii. anjou and bretagne xiv. south of the loire xv. berry and george sand's country xvi. the upper loire index list of illustrations page a peasant girl of touraine _frontispiece_ itinerary of the loire (map) facing a lace-maker of the upper loire facing the loire chÂteaux (map) the ancient provinces of the loire valley and their capitals (map) the loire near la charitÉ facing coiffes of amboise and orleans facing the chÂteaux of the loire (map) facing environs of orleans (map) the loiret facing the loire at meung facing beaugency facing arms of the city of blois the riverside at blois facing signature of franÇois premier cypher of anne de bretagne, at blois arms of louis xii. central doorway, chÂteau de blois facing the chÂteaux of blois (diagram) cypher of franÇois premier and claude of france, at blois native types in the sologne donjon of montrichard facing arms of franÇois premier, at chambord plan of chÂteau de chambord chÂteau de chambord facing chÂteau de cheverny facing cheverny-sur-loire chaumont facing signature of diane de poitiers the loire in touraine facing the vintage in touraine facing chÂteau d'amboise facing sculpture from the chapelle de st. hubert facing cypher of anne de bretagne, hÔtel de ville, amboise chÂteau de chenonceaux facing chÂteau de chenonceaux (diagram) loches loches and its church facing sketch plan of loches st. ours, loches facing tours facing arms of the printers, _avocats_, and innkeepers, tours scene in the quartier de la cathÉdrale, tours facing plessis-les-tours in the time of louis xi. environs of tours (map) a vineyard of vouvray facing mediÆval stairway and the chÂteau de luynes facing ruins of cinq-mars facing chÂteau de langeais facing arms of louis xii. and anne de bretagne chÂteau d'azay-le-rideau facing chÂteau d'ussÉ facing the roof-tops of chinon facing rabelais chÂteau de chinon facing cuisines, fontevrault chÂteau de saumur facing the ponts de cÉ facing chÂteau d'angers facing environs of nantes (map) donjon of the chÂteau de clisson facing berry (map) la tour, sancerre chÂteau de gien facing chÂteau de valenÇay facing gateway of mehun-sur-yevre facing le carrior dorÉ, romorantin Église s. aignan, cosne pouilly-sur-loire facing porte du croux, nevers facing [illustration: itinerary of the loire (map)] castles and châteaux of old touraine and the loire country chapter i. a general survey any account of the loire and of the towns along its banks must naturally have for its chief mention touraine and the long line of splendid feudal and renaissance châteaux which reflect themselves so gloriously in its current. the loire possesses a certain fascination and charm which many other more commercially great rivers entirely lack, and, while the element of absolute novelty cannot perforce be claimed for it, it has the merit of appealing largely to the lover of the romantic and the picturesque. a french writer of a hundred years ago dedicated his work on touraine to "le baron de langeais, le vicomte de beaumont, le marquis de beauregard, le comte de fontenailles, le comte de jouffroy-gonsans, le duc de luynes, le comte de vouvray, le comte de villeneuve, _et als._;" and he might have continued with a directory of all the descendants of the _noblesse_ of an earlier age, for he afterward grouped them under the general category of "_propriétaires des fortresses et châteaux les plus remarquables--au point de vue historique ou architectural_." he was fortunate in being able, as he said, to have had access to their "_papiers de famille_," their souvenirs, and to have been able to interrogate them in person. most of his facts and his gossip concerning the personalities of the later generations of those who inhabited these magnificent establishments have come down to us through later writers, and it is fortunate that this should be the case, since the present-day aspect of the châteaux is ever changing, and one who views them to-day is chagrined when he discovers, for instance, that an iron-trussed, red-tiled wash-house has been built on the banks of the cosson before the magnificent château of chambord, and that somewhere within the confines of the old castle at loches a shopkeeper has hung out his shingle, announcing a newly discovered dungeon in his own basement, accidentally come upon when digging a well. balzac, rabelais, and descartes are the leading literary celebrities of tours, and balzac's "le lys dans la vallée" will give one a more delightful insight into the old life of the tourangeaux than whole series of guide-books and shelves of dry histories. blois and its counts, tours and its bishops, and amboise and its kings, to say nothing of fontevrault, redolent of memories of the plantagenets, nantes and its famous "edict," and its equally infamous "revocation," have left vivid impress upon all students of french history. others will perhaps remember nantes for dumas's brilliant descriptions of the outcome of the breton conspiracy. all of us have a natural desire to know more of historic ground, and whether we make a start by entering the valley of the loire at the luxurious midway city of tours, and follow the river first to the sea and then to the source, or make the journey from source to mouth, or vice versa, it does not matter in the least. we traverse the same ground and we meet the same varying conditions as we advance a hundred kilometres in either direction. tours, for example, stands for all that is typical of the sunny south. prune and palm trees thrust themselves forward in strong contrast to the cider-apples of the lower seine. below tours one is almost at the coast, and the _tables d'hôte_ are abundantly supplied with sea-food of all sorts. above tours the orléannais is typical of a certain well-to-do, matter-of-fact existence, neither very luxurious nor very difficult. nevers is another step and resembles somewhat the opulence of burgundy as to conditions of life, though the general aspect of the city, as well as a great part of its history, is italian through and through. the last great step begins at le puy, in the great volcanic _massif centrale_, where conditions of life, if prosperous, are at least harder than elsewhere. such are the varying characteristics of the towns and cities through which the loire flows. they run the whole gamut from gay to earnest and solemn; from the ease and comfort of the country around tours, almost sub-tropical in its softness, to the grime and smoke of busy st. etienne, and the chilliness and rigours of a mountain winter at le puy. [illustration: _a lace-maker of the upper loire_] these districts are all very full of memories of events which have helped to build up the solidarity of france of to-day, though the nantois still proudly proclaims himself a breton, and the tourangeau will tell you that his is the tongue, above all others, which speaks the purest french,--and so on through the whole category, each and every citizen of a _petit pays_ living up to his traditions to the fullest extent possible. in no other journey in france, of a similar length, will one see as many varying contrasts in conditions of life as he will along the length of the loire, the broad, shallow river which st. martin, charles martel, and louis xi., the typical figures of church, arms, and state, came to know so well. du bellay, a poet of the renaissance, has sung the praises of the loire in a manner unapproached by any other topographical poet, if one may so call him, for that is what he really was in this particular instance. there is a great deal of patriotism in it all, too, and certainly no sweet singer of the present day has even approached these lines, which are eulogistic without being fulsome and fervent without being lurid. the verses have frequently been rendered into english, but the following is as good as any, and better than most translations, though it is one of those fragments of "newspaper verse" whose authors are lost in obscurity. "mightier to me the house my fathers made, than your audacious heads, o halls of rome! more than immortal marbles undecayed, the thin sad slates that cover up my home; more than your tiber is my loire to me, more palatine my little lyré there; and more than all the winds of all the sea, the quiet kindness of the angevin air." in history the loire valley is rich indeed, from the days of the ancient counts of touraine to those of mazarin, who held forth at nevers. touraine has well been called the heart of the old french monarchy. provincial france has a charm never known to paris-dwellers. balzac and flaubert were provincials, and dumas was a city-dweller,--and there lies the difference between them. balzac has written most charmingly of touraine in many of his books, in "le lys dans la vallée" and "le curé de tours" in particular; not always in complimentary terms, either, for he has said that the tourangeaux will not even inconvenience themselves to go in search of pleasure. this does not bespeak indolence so much as philosophy, so most of us will not cavil. george sand's country lies a little to the southward of touraine, and berry, too, as the authoress herself has said, has a climate "_souple et chaud, avec pluie abondant et courte_." the architectural remains in the loire valley are exceedingly rich and varied. the feudal system is illustrated at its best in the great walled château at angers, the still inhabited and less grand château at langeais, the ruins at cinq-mars, and the very scanty remains of plessis-les-tours. the ecclesiastical remains are quite as great. the churches are, many of them, of the first rank, and the great cathedrals at nantes, angers, tours, and orleans are magnificent examples of the church-builders' art in the middle ages, and are entitled to rank among the great cathedrals, if not actually of the first class. with modern civic and other public buildings, the case is not far different. tours has a gorgeous hôtel de ville, its architecture being of the most luxuriant of modern french renaissance, while the railway stations, even, at both tours and orleans, are models of what railway stations should be, and in addition are decoratively beautiful in their appointments and arrangements,--which most railway stations are not. altogether, throughout the loire valley there is an air of prosperity which in a more vigorous climate is often lacking. this in spite of the alleged tendency in what is commonly known as a relaxing climate toward _laisser-aller_. finally, the picturesque landscape of the loire is something quite different from the harder, grayer outlines of the north. all is of the south, warm and ruddy, and the wooded banks not only refine the crudities of a flat shore-line, but form a screen or barrier to the flowering charms of the examples of renaissance architecture which, in touraine, at least, are as thick as leaves in vallambrosa. starting at gien, the valley of the loire begins to offer those monumental châteaux which have made its fame as the land of castles. from the old fortress-château of gien to the château de clisson, or the logis de la duchesse anne at nantes, is one long succession of florid masterpieces, not to be equalled elsewhere. the true château region of touraine--by which most people usually comprehend the loire châteaux--commences only at blois. here the edifices, to a great extent, take on these superfine residential attributes which were the glory of the renaissance period of french architecture. [illustration: the loire chÂteaux (map)] both above and below touraine, at montrichard, at loches, and beaugency, are still to be found scattering examples of feudal fortresses and donjons which are as representative of their class as are the best norman structures of the same era, the great fortresses of arques, falaise, domfront, and les andelys being usually accounted as the types which gave the stimulus to similar edifices elsewhere. in this same versatile region also, beginning perhaps with the orléannais, are a vast number of religious monuments equally celebrated. for instance, the church of st. benoit-sur-loire is one of the most important romanesque churches in all france, and the cathedral of st. gatien, with its "bejewelled façade," at tours, the twin-spired st. maurice at angers, and even the pompous, and not very good gothic, edifice at orleans (especially noteworthy because its crypt is an ancient work anterior to the capetian dynasty) are all wonderfully interesting and imposing examples of mediæval ecclesiastical architecture. three great tributaries enter the loire below tours, the cher, the indre, and the vienne. the first has for its chief attractions the renaissance châteaux st. aignan and chenonceaux, the roman remains of chabris, thézée, and larçay, the romanesque churches of selles and st. aignan, and the feudal donjon of montrichard. the indre possesses the château of azay-le-rideau and the sombre fortresses of montbazon and loches; while the vienne depends for its chief interest upon the galaxy of fortress-châteaux at chinon. the loire is a mighty river and is navigable for nearly nine hundred kilometres of its length, almost to le puy, or, to be exact, to the little town of vorey in the department of the haute loire. at orleans, blois, or tours one hardly realizes this, much less at nevers. the river appears to be a great, tranquil, docile stream, with scarce enough water in its bed to make a respectable current, leaving its beds and bars of _sable_ and _cailloux_ bare to the sky. the scarcity of water, except at occasional flood, is the principal and obvious reason for the absence of water-borne traffic, even though a paternal ministerial department of the government calls the river navigable. at the times of the _grandes crues_ there are four metres or more registered on the big scale at the pont d'ancenis, while at other times it falls to less than a metre, and when it does there is a mere rivulet of water which trickles through the broad river-bottom at chaumont, or blois, or orleans. below ancenis navigation is not so difficult, but the current is more strong. from blois to angers, on the right bank, extends a long dike which carries the roadway beside the river for a couple of hundred kilometres. this is one of the charms of travel by the loire. the only thing usually seen on the bosom of the river, save an occasional fishing punt, is one of those great flat-bottomed ferry-boats, with a square sail hung on a yard amidships, such as turner always made an accompaniment to his loire pictures, for conditions of traffic on the river have not greatly changed. whenever one sees a barge or a boat worthy of classification with those one finds on the rivers of the east or north, or on the great canals, it is only about a quarter of the usual size; so, in spite of its great navigable length, the waterway of the loire is to be considered more as a picturesque and healthful element of the landscape than as a commercial proposition. where the great canals join the river at orleans, and from chatillon to roanne, the traffic increases, though more is carried by the canal-boats on the _canal latéral_ than by the barges on the loire. it is only on the loire between angers and nantes that there is any semblance of river traffic such as one sees on most of the other great waterways of europe. there is a considerable traffic, too, which descends the maine, particularly from angers downward, for angers with its italian skies is usually thought of, and really is to be considered, as a loire town, though it is actually on the banks of the maine some miles from the loire itself. one thousand or more bateaux make the ascent to angers from the loire at la pointe each year, all laden with a miscellaneous cargo of merchandise. the sarthe and the loir also bring a notable agricultural traffic to the greater loire, and the smaller confluents, the dive, the thouet, the authion, and the layon, all go to swell the parent stream until, when it reaches nantes, the loire has at last taken on something of the aspect of a well-ordered and useful stream, characteristics which above nantes are painfully lacking. because of its lack of commerce the loire is in a certain way the most noble, magnificent, and aristocratic river of france; and so, too, it is also in respect to its associations of the past. it has not the grandeur of the rhône when the spring freshets from the jura and the swiss lakes have filled it to its banks; it has not the burning activity of the seine as it bears its thousands of boat-loads of produce and merchandise to and from the paris market; it has not the prettiness of the thames, nor the legendary aspect of the rhine; but in a way it combines something of the features of all, and has, in addition, a tone that is all its own, as it sweeps along through its countless miles of ample curves, and holds within its embrace all that is best of mediæval and renaissance france, the period which built up the later monarchy and, who shall not say, the present prosperous republic. throughout most of the river's course, one sees, stretching to the horizon, row upon row of staked vineyards with fruit and leaves in luxuriant abundance and of all rainbow colours. the peasant here, the worker in the vineyards, is a picturesque element. he is not particularly brilliant in colouring, but he is usually joyous, and he invariably lives in a well-kept and brilliantly environed habitation and has an air of content and prosperity amid the well-beloved treasures of his household. the loire is essentially a river of other days. truly, as mr. james has said, "it is the very model of a generous, beneficent stream ... a wide river which you may follow by a wide road is excellent company." the frenchman himself is more flowery: "_c'est la plus noble rivière de france. son domaine est immense et magnifique._" [illustration: the ancient provinces of the loire valley and their capitals (map)] the ancient provinces of the loire valley and their capitals bretagne rennes anjou angers touraine tours orléannais orleans berry bourges nivernais nevers bourbonnais moulins lyonnais lyon bourgogne dijon auvergne clermont-ferrand languedoc toulouse the loire is the longest river in france, and the only one of the four great rivers whose basin or watershed lies wholly within french territory. it moreover traverses eleven provinces. it rises in a fissure of granite rock at the foot of the gerbier-de-jonc, a volcanic cone in the mountains of the vivarais, a hundred kilometres or more south of lyons. in three kilometres, approximately two miles, the little torrent drops a thousand feet, after receiving to its arms a tiny affluent coming from the croix de monteuse. for twelve kilometres the river twists and turns around the base of the vivarais mountains, and finally enters a gorge between the rocks, and mingles with the waters of the little lac d'issarles, entering for the first time a flat lowland plain like that through which its course mostly runs. the monument-crowned pinnacles of le puy and the inverted bowl of puy-de-dôme rise high above the plain and point the way to roanne, where such activity as does actually take place upon the loire begins. navigation, classed officially as "_flottable_," merely, has already begun at vorey, just below le puy, but the traffic is insignificant. meantime the streams coming from the direction of st. etienne and lyons have been added to the loire, but they do not much increase its bulk. st. galmier, the _source_ dear to patrons of _tables d'hôte_ on account of its palatable mineral water, which is about the only decent drinking-water one can buy at a reasonable price, lies but a short distance away to the right. at st. rambert the plain of forez is entered, and here the stream is enriched by numberless rivulets which make their way from various sources through a thickly wooded country. from roanne onward, the _canal latéral_ keeps company with the loire to chatillon, not far from orleans. before reaching nevers, the _canal du nivernais_ branches off to the left and joins the loire with the yonne at auxerre. daudet tells of the life of the _canal du nivernais_, in "la belle nivernaise," in a manner too convincingly graphic for any one else to attempt the task, in fiction or out of it. like the tartarin books, "la belle nivernaise" is distinctly local, and forms of itself an excellent guide to a little known and little visited region. at nevers the topography changes, or rather, the characteristics of the life of the country round about change, for the topography, so far as its profile is concerned, remains much the same for three-fourths the length of this great river. nevers, la charité, sancerre, gien, and cosne follow in quick succession, all reminders of a historic past as vivid as it was varied. from the heights of sancerre one sees a wonderful history-making panorama before him. cæsar crossed the loire at gien, the franks forded the river at la charité, when they first went against aquitaine, and charles the bald came sadly to grief on a certain occasion at pouilly. it is here that the loire rises to its greatest flood, and hundreds of times, so history tells, from to , the fickle river has caused a devastation so great and terrible that the memory of it is not yet dead. this hardly seems possible of this usually tranquil stream, and there have always been scoffers. madame de sévigné wrote in to m. de coulanges (but in her case perhaps it was mere well-wishing), "_la belle loire, elle est un peu sujette à se déborder, mais elle en est plus douce_." ancient writers were wont to consider the inundations of the loire as a punishment from heaven, and even in later times the superstition--if it was a superstition--still remained. [illustration: _the loire near la charité_] in , when thousands of charcoal-burners (_charbonniers_) were all but ruined, they petitioned the government for assistance. the official who had the matter in charge, and whose name--fortunately for his fame--does not appear to have been recorded, replied simply that the flood was a periodical condition of affairs which the almighty brought about as occasion demanded, with good cause, and for this reason he refused all assistance. important public works have done much to prevent repetitions of these inundations, but the danger still exists, and always, in a wet season, there are those dwellers along the river's banks who fear the rising flood as they would the plague. chatillon, with its towers; gien, a busy hive of industry, though with a historic past; sully; and st. benoit-sur-loire, with its unique double transepted church; all pass in rapid review, and one enters the ancient capital of the orléannais quite ready for the new chapter which, in colouring, is to be so different from that devoted to the upper valley. from orleans, south, one passes through a veritable wonderland of fascinating charms. châteaux, monasteries, and great civic and ecclesiastical monuments pass quickly in turn. then comes touraine which all love, the river meantime having grown no more swift or ample, nor any more sluggish or attenuated. it is simply the same characteristic flow which one has known before. the landscape only is changing, while the fruits and flowers, and the trees and foliage are more luxuriant, and the great châteaux are more numerous, splendid, and imposing. of his well-beloved touraine, balzac wrote: "do not ask me _why_ i love touraine; i love it not merely as one loves the cradle of his birth, nor as one loves an oasis in a desert, but as an artist loves his art." blois, with its bloody memories; chaumont, splendid and retired; chambord, magnificent, pompous, and bare; amboise, with its great tower high above the river, follow in turn till the loire makes its regal entrée into tours. "what a spectacle it is," wrote sterne in "tristram shandy," "for a traveller who journeys through touraine at the time of the vintage." and then comes the final step which brings the traveller to where the limpid waters of the loire mingle with the salty ocean, and what a triumphant meeting it is! [illustration: _coiffes of amboise and orleans_] most of the cities of the loire possess but one bridge, but tours has three, and, as becomes a great provincial capital, sits enthroned upon the river-bank in mighty splendour. the feudal towers of the château de luynes are almost opposite, and cinq-mars, with its pagan "_pile_" and the ruins of its feudal castle high upon a hill, points the way down-stream like a mariner's beacon. langeais follows, and the indre, the cher, and the vienne, all ample and historic rivers, go to swell the flood which passes under the bridges of saumur, ancenis, and ponts de cé. from tours to the ocean, the loire comes to its greatest amplitude, though even then, in spite of its breadth, it is, for the greater part of the year, impotent as to the functions of a great river. below angers the loire receives its first great affluent coming from the country lying back of the right bank: the maine itself is a considerable river. it rises far up in the breton peninsula, and before it empties itself into the loire, it has been aggrandized by three great tributaries, the loir, the sarthe, and the mayenne. here in this backwater of the loire, as one might call it, is as wonderful a collection of natural beauties and historical châteaux as on the loire itself. châteaudun, mayenne, and vendôme are historic ground of superlative interest, and the great castle at châteaudun is as magnificent in its way as any of the monuments of the loire. vendôme has a hôtel de ville which is an admirable relic of a feudal edifice, and the _clocher_ of its church, which dominates many square leagues of country, is counted as one of the most perfectly disposed church spires in existence, as lovely, almost, as texier's masterwork at chartres, or the needle-like _flêches_ at strasburg or freiburg in breisgau. the maine joins the loire just below angers, at a little village significantly called la pointe. below la pointe are st. georges-sur-loire, and three _châteaux de commerce_ which give their names to the three principal angevin vineyards: château serrand, l'epinay, and chevigné. vineyard after vineyard, and château after château follow rapidly, until one reaches the ponts de cé with their _petite ville_,--all very delightful. not so the bridge at ancenis, where the flow of water is marked daily on a huge black and white scale. the bridge is quite the ugliest wire-rope affair to be seen on the loire, and one is only too glad to leave it behind, though it is with a real regret that he parts from ancenis itself. some years ago one could go from angers to st. nazaire by boat. it must have been a magnificent trip, extraordinarily calm and serene, amid an abundance of picturesque details; old châteaux and bridges in strong contrast to the prairies of touraine and the orléannais. one embarked at the foot of the stupendously towered château of king rené, and for a _petite heure_ navigated the maine in the midst of great _chalands_, fussy little _remorqueurs_ and _barques_ until la pointe was reached, when the loire was followed to nantes and st. nazaire. to-day this fine trip is denied one, the boats going only so far as la pointe. below angers the loire flows around and about a veritable archipelago of islands and islets, cultivated with all the luxuriance of a back-yard garden, and dotted with tiny hamlets of folk who are supremely happy and content with their lot. some currents which run behind the islands are swift flowing and impetuous, while others are practically elongated lakes, as dead as those _lômes_ which in certain places flank the saône and the rhône. all these various branches are united as the loire flows between the piers of the ungainly bridge of the chemin-de-fer de niort as it crosses the river at chalonnes. champtocé and montjean follow, each with an individuality all its own. here the commerce takes on an increased activity, thanks to the great national waterway known as the "canal de brest à nantes." here at the busy port of montjean--which the angevins still spell and pronounce _montéjean_--the loire takes on a breadth and grandeur similar to the great rivers in the western part of america. montjean is dominated by a fine ogival church, with a battery of arcs-boutants which are a joy in themselves. on the other bank, lying back of a great plain, which stretches away from the river itself, is champtocé, pleasantly situated on the flank of a hill and dominated by the ruins of a thirteenth-century château which belonged to the cruel gilles de retz, somewhat apocryphally known to history as "barbe-bleu"--not the bluebeard of the nursery tale, who was of eastern origin, but a sort of occidental successor who was equally cruel and bloodthirsty in his attitude toward his whilom wives. from this point on one comes within the sphere of influence of nantes, and there is more or less of a suburban traffic on the railway, and the plodders cityward by road are more numerous than the mere vagabonds of the countryside. the peasant women whom one meets wear a curious bonnet, set on the head well to the fore, with wings at the side folded back quite like the pictures that one sees of the mediæval dames of these parts, a survival indeed of the middle ages. the loire becomes more and more animated and occasionally there is a great tow of boats like those that one sees continually passing on the lower seine. here the course of the loire takes on a singular aspect. it is filled with long flat islands, sometimes in archipelagos, but often only a great flat prairie surrounded by a tranquil canal, wide and deep, and with little resemblance to the mistress loire of a hundred or two kilometres up-stream. all these isles are in a high state of cultivation, though wholly worked with the hoe and the spade, both of them of a primitiveness that might have come down from bible times; rare it is to see a horse or a harrow on these "bouquets of verdure surrounded by waves." near oudon is one of those monumental follies which one comes across now and then in most foreign countries: a great edifice which serves no useful purpose, and which, were it not for certain redeeming features, would be a sorry thing indeed. the "folie-siffait," a citadel which perches itself high upon the summit of a hill, was--and is--an _amusette_ built by a public-spirited man of nantes in order that his workmen might have something to do in a time of a scarcity of work. it is a bizarre, incredible thing, but the motive which inspired its erection was most worthy, and the roadway running beneath, piercing its foundation walls, gives a theatrical effect which, in a way, makes it the picturesque rival of many a more famous rhine castle. the river valley widens out here at oudon, practically the frontier of bretagne and anjou. the railroad pierces the rock walls of the river with numerous tunnels along the right bank, and the vendean country stretches far to the southward in long rolling hills quite unlike any of the characteristics of other parts of the valley. finally, the vast plain of mauves comes into sight, beautifully coloured with a white and iron-stained rocky background which is startlingly picturesque in its way, if not wholly beautiful according to the majority of standards. next comes what a frenchman has called a "tumultuous vision of nantes." to-day the very ancient and historic city which grew up from the portus namnetum and the condivicnum of the romans is indeed a veritable tumult of chimneys, masts, and locomotives. but all this will not detract one jot from its reputation of being one of the most delightful of provincial capitals, and the smoke and activity of its port only tend to accentuate a note of colour that in the whole itinerary of the loire has been but pale. below nantes the loire estuary has turned the surrounding country into a little holland, where fisherfolk and their boats, with sails of red and blue, form charming symphonies of pale colour. in the _cabarets_ along its shores there is a strange medley of peasants, sea-farers, and fisher men and women. not so cosmopolitan a crew as one sees in the harbourside _cabarets_ at marseilles, or even le havre, but sufficiently strange to be a fascination to one who has just come down from the headwaters. the "section maritime," from nantes to the sea, is a matter of some sixty kilometres. here the boats increase in number and size. they are known as _gabares_, _chalands_, and _alléges_, and go down with the river-current and return on the incoming ebb, for here the river is tidal. gray and green is the aspect at the loire's source, and green and gray it still is, though of a decidedly different colour-value, at st. nazaire, below nantes, the real deep-water port of the loire. by this time the river has amplified into a broad estuary which is lost in the incoming and outgoing tides of the bay of biscay. for nearly a thousand kilometres the loire has wound its way gently and broadly through rocky escarpments, fertile plains, populous and luxurious towns,--all of it historic ground,--by stately châteaux and through vineyards and fruit orchards, with a placid grandeur. now it becomes more or less prosaic and matter-of-fact, though in a way no less interesting, as it takes on some of the attributes of the outside world. this outline, then, approximates somewhat a portrait of the loire. it is the result of many pilgrimages enthusiastically undertaken; a long contemplation of the charms of perhaps the most beautiful river in france, from its source to its mouth, at all seasons of the year. the riches and curios of the cities along its banks have been contemplated with pleasure, intermingled with a memory of many stirring scenes of the past, but it is its châteaux that make it famous. the story of the châteaux has been told before in hundreds of volumes, but only a personal view of them will bring home to one the manners and customs of one of the most luxurious periods of life in the france of other days. chapter ii. the orlÉannais of the many travelled english and americans who go to paris, how few visit the loire valley with its glorious array of mediæval and renaissance châteaux. no part of france, except paris, is so accessible, and none is so comfortably travelled, whether by road or by rail. at orleans one is at the very gateway of this splendid, bountiful region, the lower valley of the loire. here the river first takes on a complexion which previously it had lacked, for it is only when the loire becomes the boundary-line between the north and the south that one comes to realize its full importance. the orléannais, like many another province of mid-france, is a region where plenty awaits rich and poor alike. not wholly given over to agriculture, nor yet wholly to manufacturing, it is without that restless activity of the frankly industrial centres of the north. in spite of this, though, the orléannais is not idle. [illustration: the chÂteaux of the loire (map)] orleans is the obvious _pointe de départ_ for all the wonderland of the renaissance which is to follow, but itself and its immediate surroundings have not the importance for the visitor, in spite of the vivid historical chapters which have been written here in the past, that many another less famous city possesses. by this is meant that the existing monuments of history are by no means as numerous or splendid here as one might suppose. not that they are entirely lacking, but rather that they are of a different species altogether from that array of magnificently planned châteaux which line the banks of the loire below. to one coming from the north the entrance to the orléannais will be emphatically marked. it is the first experience of an atmosphere which, if not characteristically or climatically of the south, is at least reminiscent thereof, with a luminosity which the provinces of old france farther north entirely lack. as lavedan, the académicien, says: "here all focuses itself into one great picture, the combined romance of an epoch. have you not been struck with a land where the clouds, the atmosphere, the odour of the soil, and the breezes from afar, all comport, one with another, in true and just proportions?" this is the orléannais, a land where was witnessed the morning of the valois, the full noon of louis xiv., and the twilight of louis xvi. the orléannais formed a distinct part of mediæval france, as it did, ages before, of western gaul. of all the provinces through which the loire flows, the orléannais is as prolific as any of great names and greater events, and its historical monuments, if not so splendid as those in touraine, are no less rare. orleans itself contains many remarkable gothic and renaissance constructions, and not far away is the ancient church of the old abbey of notre dame de cléry, one of the most historic and celebrated shrines in the time of the superstitious louis xi.; while innumerable mediæval villes and ruined fortresses plentifully besprinkle the province. one characteristic possessed by the orléannais differentiates it from the other outlying provinces of the old monarchy. the people and the manners and customs of this great and important duchy were allied, in nearly all things, with the interests and events of the capital itself, and so there was always a lack of individuality, which even to-day is noticeably apparent in the orleans capital. the shops, hotels, cafés, and the people themselves might well be one of the _quartiers_ of paris, so like are they in general aspect. the notable parisian character of the inhabitants of orleans, and the resemblance of the people of the surrounding country to those of the ile of france, is due principally to the fact that the orléannais was never so isolated as many others of the ancient provinces. it was virtually a neighbour of the capital, and its relations with it were intimate and numerous. moreover, it was favoured by a great number of lines of communication by road and by water, so that its manners and customs became, more or less unconsciously, interpolations. the great event of the year in orleans is the fête de jeanne d'arc, which takes place in the month of may. usually few english and american visitors are present, though why it is hard to reason out, for it takes place at quite the most delightful season in the year. perhaps it is because anglo-saxons are ashamed of the part played by their ancestors in the shocking death of the maid of domremy and orleans. innumerable are the relics and reminders of the "maid" scattered throughout the town, and the local booksellers have likewise innumerable and authoritative accounts of the various episodes of her life, which saves the necessity of making further mention here. there are several statues of jeanne d'arc in the city, and they have given rise to the following account written by jules lemaitre, the académicien: "i believe that the history of jeanne d'arc was the first that was ever told to me (before even the fairy-tales of perrault). the 'mort de jeanne d'arc,' of casimir delavigne, was the first fable that i learned, and the equestrian statue of the 'maid,' in the place martroi, at orleans, is perhaps the oldest vision that my memory guards. "this statue of jeanne d'arc is absurd. she has a grecian profile, and a charger which is not a war-horse but a race-horse. nevertheless to me it was noble and imposing. "in the courtyard of the hôtel de ville is a _petite pucelle_, very gentle and pious, who holds against her heart her sword, after the manner of a crucifix. at the end of the bridge across the loire is another jeanne d'arc, as the maid of war, surrounded by swirling draperies, as in a picture of juvenet's. this to me tells the whole story of the reverence with which the martyred 'maid' is regarded in the city of orleans by the loire." one can appreciate all this, and to the full, for a frenchman is a stern critic of art, even that of his own countrymen, and jeanne d'arc, along with some other celebrities, is one of those historical figures which have seldom had justice done them in sculptured or pictorial representations. the best, perhaps, is the precocious lepage's fine painting, now in america. what would not the french give for the return of this work of art? the orléannais, with the ile de france, formed the particular domain of the third race of french monarchs. from to the province was an appanage known as the duché d'orleans, but it was united with the crown by louis xii., and finally divided into the departments of loir et cher, eure et loir, and loiret. like the "pardons" and "benedictions" of finistère and other parts of bretagne, the peasants of the loiret have a quaint custom which bespeaks a long handed-down superstition. on the first sunday of lent they hie themselves to the fields with lighted fagots and chanting the following lines: "sortez, sortez d'ici mulots! où je vais vous brûler les crocs! quittez, quittez ces blés; allez, vous trouverez dans la cave du curé plus à boire qu' à manger." just how far the curé endorses these sentiments, the author of this book does not know. the explanation of the rather extraordinary proceeding came from one of the participants, who, having played his part in the ceremony, dictated the above lines over sundry _petits verres_ paid for by the writer. the day is not wound up, however, with an orgy of eating and drinking, as is sometimes the case in far-western brittany. the peasant of the loiret simply eats rather heavily of "_mi_," which is nothing more or less than oatmeal porridge, after which he goes to bed. the loire rolls down through the orléannais, from châteauneuf-sur-loire and jargeau, and cuts the banks of _sable_, and the very shores themselves, into little capes and bays which are delightful in their eccentricity. here cuts in the _canal d'orleans_, which makes possible the little traffic that goes on between the seine and the loire. a few kilometres away from the right bank of the loire, in the heart of the gatanais, is lorris, the home of guillaume de lorris, the first author of the "roman de la rose." for this reason alone it should become a literary shrine of the very first rank, though, in spite of its claim, no one ever heard of a literary pilgrim making his way there. lorris is simply a big, overgrown french market-town, which is delightful enough in its somnolence, but which lacks most of the attributes which tourists in general seem to demand. at lorris a most momentous treaty was signed, known as the "paix de lorris," wherein was assured to the posterity of st. louis the heritage of the comte de toulouse, another of those periodical territorial aggrandizements which ultimately welded the french nation into the whole that it is to-day. from the juncture of the _canal d'orleans_ with the loire one sees shining in the brilliant sunlight the roof-tops of orleans, the aurelianum of the romans, its hybrid cathedral overtopping all else. it was victor hugo who said of this cathedral: "this odious church, which from afar holds so much of promise, and which near by has none," and hugo undoubtedly spoke the truth. orleans is an old city and a _cité neuve_. where the river laps its quays, it is old but commonplace; back from the river is a strata which is really old, fine gothic house-fronts and old leaning walls; while still farther from the river, as one approaches the railway station, it is strictly modern, with all the devices and appliances of the newest of the new. the orleans of history lies riverwards,--the orleans where the heart of france pulsed itself again into life in the tragic days which were glorified by "the maid." "the countryside of the orléannais has the monotony of a desert," said an english traveller some generations ago. he was wrong. to do him justice, however, or to do his observations justice, he meant, probably, that, save the river-bottom of the loire, the great plain which begins with la beauce and ends with the sologne has a comparatively uninteresting topography. this is true; but it is not a desert. la beauce is the best grain-growing region in all france, and the sologne is now a reclaimed land whose sandy soil has proved admirably adapted to an unusually abundant growth of the vine. so much for this old-time point of view, which to-day has changed considerably. the orléannais is one of the most populous and progressive sections of all france, and its inhabitants, per square kilometre, are constantly increasing in numbers, which is more than can be said of every _département_. there are multitudes of tiny villages, and one is scarcely ever out of sight and sound of a habitation. [illustration: _environs of orleans_ (map)] in the great forest, just to the west of orleans, are two small villages, each a celebrated battle-ground, and a place of a patriotic pilgrimage on the eighth and ninth of november of each year. they are coulmiers and bacon, and here some fugitives from metz and sedan, with some young troops exposed to fire for the first time, engaged with the prussians (in ) who had occupied orleans since mid-october. there is the usual conventional "soldiers' monument,"--with considerably more art about it than is usually seen in america,--before which frenchmen seemingly never cease to worship. this same _forêt d'orleans_, one of those wild-woods which so plentifully besprinkle france, has a sad and doleful memory in the traditions of the druidical inhabitants of a former day. their practices here did not differ greatly from those of their brethren elsewhere, but local history is full of references to atrocities so bloodthirsty that it is difficult to believe that they were ever perpetrated under the guise of religion. surrounding the forest are many villages and hamlets, war-stricken all in the dark days of seventy-one, when the prussians were overrunning the land. of all the cities of the loire, orleans, blois, tours, angers, and nantes alone show any spirit of modern progressiveness or of likeness to the capital. the rest, to all appearances, are dead, or at least sleeping in their pasts. but they are charming and restful spots for all that, where in melancholy silence sit the old men, while the younger folk, including the very children, are all at work in the neighbouring vineyards or in the wheat-fields of la beauce. meung-sur-loire and beaugency sleep on the river-bank, their proud monuments rising high in the background,--the massive tower of cæsar and a quartette of church spires. just below orleans is the juncture of the loiret and the loire at st. mesmin, while only a few kilometres away is cléry, famed for its associations of louis xi. the loiret is not a very ample river, and is classed by the minister of public works as navigable for but four kilometres of its length. this, better than anything else, should define its relative importance among the great waterways of france. navigation, as it is known elsewhere, is practically non-existent. the course of the loiret is perhaps twelve kilometres all told, but it has given its name to a great french _département_, though it is doubtless the shortest of all the rivers of france thus honoured. it first comes to light in the dainty park of the château de la source, where there are two distinct sources. the first forms a small circular basin, known as the "bouillon," which leads into another semicircular basin called the "bassin du miroir," from the fact that it reflects the façade of the château in its placid surface. of course, this is all very artificial and theatrical, but it is a pretty conceit nevertheless. the other source, known as the "grande source," joins the rivulet some hundreds of yards below the "bassin du miroir." the château de la source is a seventeenth-century edifice, of no great architectural beauty in itself, but sufficiently sylvan in its surroundings to give it rank as one of the notable places of pilgrimage for tourists who, said a cynical french writer, "take the châteaux of the loire _tour à tour_ as they do the morgue, the moulin rouge, and the sewers of paris." in the early days the château belonged to the cardinal briçonnet, and it was here that bolingbroke, after having been stripped of his titles in england, went into retirement in . in he received voltaire, who read him his "henriade." [illustration: the loiret] in the invading prince eckmühl, with his staff, installed himself in the château, when, after waterloo, the prussian and french armies were separated only by a barrier placed midway on the bridge at orleans. it was here also that the prussian army was disbanded, on the agreement of the council held at angerville, near orleans. there are three other châteaux on the borders of the loiret, which are of more than ordinary interest, so far as great country houses and their surroundings go, though their histories are not very striking, with perhaps the exception of the château de la fontaine, which has a remarkable garden, laid out by lenôtre, the designer of the parks at versailles. leaving orleans by the right bank of the loire, one first comes to la chapelle-st. mesmin. la chapelle has a church dating from the eleventh century and a château which is to-day the _maison de campagne_ of the bishop of orleans. on the opposite bank was the abbaye de micy, founded by clovis at the time of his conversion. a stone cross, only, marks the site to-day. st. ay follows next, and is usually set down in the guide-books as "celebrated for good wines." this is not to be denied for a moment, and it is curious to note that the city bears the same name as the famous town in the champagne district, celebrated also for good wine, though of a different kind. the name of the orléannais ay is gained from a hermitage founded here by a holy man, who died in the sixth century. his tomb was discovered in , under the choir of the church, which makes it a place of pilgrimage of no little local importance. at meung-sur-loire one should cross the river to cléry, five kilometres off, seldom if ever visited by casual travellers. but why? simply because it is overlooked in that universal haste shown by most travellers--who are not students of art or architecture, or deep lovers of history--in making their way to more popular shrines. one will not regret the time taken to visit cléry, which shared with our lady of embrun the devotions of louis xi. cléry's three thousand pastoral inhabitants of to-day would never give it distinction, and it is only the maison de louis xi. and the basilique de notre dame which makes it worth while, but this is enough. in "quentin durward" one reads of the time when the superstitious louis was held in captivity by the burgundian, charles the bold, and of how the french king made his devotions before the little image, worn in his hat, of the virgin of cléry; "the grossness of his superstition, none the less than his fickleness, leading him to believe our lady of cléry to be quite a different person from the other object of his devotion, the madonna of embrun, a tiny mountain village in southwestern france. "'sweet lady of cléry,' he exclaimed, clasping his hands and beating his breast as he spoke, 'blessed mother of mercy! thou who art omnipotent with omnipotence, have compassion with me, a sinner! it is true i have sometimes neglected you for thy blessed sister of embrun; but i am a king, my power is great, my wealth boundless; and were it otherwise, i would double my _gabelle_ on my subjects rather than not pay my debts to you both.'" louis endowed the church at cléry, and the edifice was built in the fine flamboyant style of the period, just previous to his death, which de commines gives as "_le samedy pénultième jour d'aoust, l'an mil quatre cens quatre-vingtz et trois, à huit heures du soir_." louis xi. was buried here, and the chief "sight" is of course his tomb, beside which is a flagstone which covers the heart of charles viii. the chapelle st. jacques, within the church, is ornamented by a series of charming sculptures, and the chapelle des dunois-longueville holds the remains of the famous ally of jeanne d'arc and members of his family. in the choir is the massive oaken statue of our lady of cléry (thirteenth century); the very one before which louis made his vows. there is some old glass in the choir and a series of sculptured stalls, which would make famous a more visited and better known shrine. there is a fine sculptured stone portal to the sacristy, and within there are some magnificent old _armoires_, and also two chasubles, which saw service in some great church, perhaps here, in the times of louis himself. the "maison de louis xi.," near the church, is a house of brick, restored in , and now--or until a very recent date--occupied by a community of nuns. in the grande rue is another "maison de louis xi.;" at least it has his cipher on the painted ceiling. it is now occupied by the hôtel de la belle image. those who like to dine and sleep where have also dined and slept royal heads will appreciate putting up at this hostelry. [illustration: _the loire at meung_] meung-sur-loire was the birthplace of jehan clopinel, better known as jean de meung, who continued guillaume de lorris's "roman de la rose," the most famous bit of verse produced by the _trouvères_ of the thirteenth century. the voice of the troubadour was soon after hushed for ever, but that thirteenth-century masterwork--though by two hands and the respective portions unequal in merit--lives for ever as the greatest of its kind. in memory of the author, meung has its rue jehan de meung, for want of a more effective or appealing monument. dumas opens the history of "les trois mousquétaires" with the following brilliantly romantic lines anent meung: "_le premier lundi du mois d'avril, , le bourg de meung, où naquit l'auteur du 'roman de la rose.'_" (one of the authors, he should have said, but here is where dumas nodded, as he frequently did.) continuing, one reads: "the town was in a veritable uproar. it was as if the huguenots were up in arms and the drama of a second rochelle was being enacted." really the description is too brilliant and entrancing to be repeated here, and if any one has forgotten his dumas to the extent that he has forgotten d'artagnan's introduction to the hostelry of the "franc meunier," he is respectfully referred back to that perennially delightful romance. meung was once a roman fortress, known as maudunum, and in the eleventh century st. liphard founded a monastery here. in the fifteenth century meung was the prison of françois villon. poor vagabond as he was then, it has become the fashion to laud both the personality and the poesy of maître françois villon. by the orders of thibaut d'aussigny, bishop of orleans, villon was confined in a strong tower attached to the side of the _clocher_ of the parish church of st. liphard, and which adjoined the _château de plaisance_ belonging to the bishop. primarily this imprisonment was due to a robbery in which the poet had been concerned at orleans. he spent the whole of the summer in this dungeon, which was overrun with rats, and into which he had to be lowered by ropes. as his food consisted of bread and water only, his sufferings at this time were probably greater than at any other period in his life. here the burglar-poet remained until october, , when louis xi. visited meung, and, to mark the occasion, ordered the release of all prisoners. for this delivery, villon, according to the accounts of his life, appears to have been genuinely grateful to the king. at beaugency, seven kilometres from meung, one comes upon an architectural and historical treat which is unexpected. in the eleventh century beaugency was a fief of the bishopric of amiens, and its once strong château was occupied by the barons de landry, the last of whom died, without children, in the thirteenth century. philippe-le-bel bought the fief and united it with the comté de blois. it was made an independent _comté_ of itself in , and in became definitely an appanage of orleans. the prince de galles took beaugency in , the gascons in , duguesclin in and again in ; in and in it was taken by the english, from whom it was delivered by jeanne d'arc in . internal wars and warfares continued for another hundred and fifty years, finally culminating in one of the grossest scenes which had been enacted within its walls,--the bloody revenge against the protestants, encouraged doubtless by the affair of st. bartholomew's night at paris. the ancient square donjon of the eleventh century, known as the tour de césar, still looms high above the town. it must be one of the hugest keeps in all france. the old château of the dunois is now a charitable institution, but reflects, in a way, the splendour of its fourteenth-century inception, and its salle de jeanne d'arc, with its great chimneypiece, is worthy to rank with the best of its kind along the loire. the spiral staircase, of which the loire builders were so fond, is admirable here, and dates from . the hôtel de ville of beaugency is a charming edifice of the very best of renaissance, which many more pretentious structures of the period are not. it dates from , and was entirely restored--not, however, to its detriment, as frequently happens--in the last years of the nineteenth century. its charm, nevertheless, lies mostly in its exterior, for little remains of value within except a remarkable series of old embroideries taken from the choir of the old abbey of beaugency. the Église de notre dame is a romanesque structure with gothic interpolations. it is not bad in its way, but decidedly is not remarkable as mediæval churches go. the old streets of beaugency contain a dazzling array of old houses in wood and stone, and in the rue des templiers is a rare example of romanesque civil architecture; at least the type is rare enough in the orléannais, though more frequently seen in the south of france. the tour st. firmin dates from , and is all that remains of a church which stood here up to revolutionary times. the square ruined towers known as the porte tavers are relics of the city's old walls and gates, and are all that are left to mark the ancient enclosure. [illustration: _beaugency_] the tour du diable and the house of the ruling abbot remain to suggest the power and magnificence of the great abbey which was built here in the tenth century. in it was burned, and later restored, but beyond the two features just mentioned there is nothing to indicate its former uses, the remaining structures having passed into private hands and being devoted to secular uses. the old bridge which crosses the loire at this point is most curious, and dates from various epochs. it is metres in length, and is composed of twenty-six arches, one of which dates from the fourteenth century, when bridge-building was really an art. eight of the present-day arches are of wood, and on the second is a monolith surmounted by a figure of christ in bronze, replacing a former chapel to st. jacques. a chapel on a bridge is not a unique arrangement, but few exist to-day, one of the most famous being, perhaps, that on the ruined bridge of st. bénezet at avignon. altogether, beaugency, as it sleeps its life away after the strenuous days of the middle ages, is more lovable by far than a great metropolis. the traveller is well repaid who makes a stop at beaugency a part of a three days' gentle ramble among the usually neglected towns and villages of the orléannais and the blaisois, instead of rushing through to blois by express-train, which is what one usually does. southward one's route lies through pleasant vineyards, on one side the sologne, and on the other the coteau de guignes, which latter ranks as quite the best among the vine-growing districts of the orléannais. near tavers is a natural curiosity in the shape of the "fontaine des sables mouvants," where the sands of a tiny spring boil and bubble like a miniature geyser. mer, another small town, follows, twelve kilometres farther on. like beaugency it is a somnolent bourg, and the life of the peasant folk round about, who go to market on one day at beaugency and on another at blois, and occasionally as far away as orleans, is much the same as it was a century ago. there is a boulevard de la gare and a grande rue at mer, the latter leading to a fine gothic church with a fifteenth-century tower, which is admirable in every way, and forms a beacon by land for many miles around. the primitive church at mer dates from the eleventh century, the side walls, however, being all that remain of that period. there is a sculptured pulpit of the seventeenth century, and a great painting, which looks ancient and is certainly a masterful work of art, representing an "adoration of the magi." when all is said and done, it is its irresistible and inexpressible charm which makes mer well-beloved, rather than any great wealth of artistic atmosphere of any nature. away to the south, across the loire to muides, runs the route to chambord, through the sologne, where immediately the whole aspect of life changes from that on the borders of the rich grain-lands of the orléannais and la beauce. all the way from beaugency to blois the loire threads its way through a lovely country, whose rolling slopes, back from the river, are surmounted here and there by windmills, a not very frequent adjunct to the landscape of france, except in the north. near mer is menars, with its eighteenth-century château of la pompadour; suèvres, the site of an ancient roman city; the lowlands lying before chambord; st. die; montlivault; st. claude, and a score of little villages which are entrancing in their old-world aspect even in these days of progress. this completes the panorama to blois which, with the blaisois, forms the borderland between the orléannais and touraine. before reaching blois, menars, at any rate, commands attention. it fronts upon the loire, but is practically upon the northern border of the forêt de blois, hence properly belongs to the blaisois. menars was made a rendezvous for the chase by the wily and pleasure-loving la pompadour, who quartered herself at the château, which afterward passed to her brother, de marigny. before the revolution, menars was the seat of a marquisate, of which the land was bought by louis xv. for his famous, or infamous, _maîtresse_. the property has frequently changed hands since that day, but its gardens and terraces, descending toward the river-bank, mark it as one of those _coquette_ establishments, with which france was dotted in the eighteenth century. these establishments possessed enough of luxurious appointments to be classed as fitting for the butterflies of the time, but in no way, so far as the architectural design or the artistic details were concerned, were any of them worthy to be classed with the great domestic châteaux of the early years of the renaissance. chapter iii. the blaisois and the sologne the blésois or blaisois was the ancient name given to the _petit pays_ which made a part of the government of the orléannais. it was, and is, the borderland between the orléannais and touraine, and, with its capital, blois, the city of counts, was a powerful territory in its own right, in spite of the allegiance which it owed to the crown. twenty leagues in length by thirteen in width, it was bounded on the north by the dunois and the orléannais, on the east by berry, on the south by touraine, and on the west by touraine and the vendomois. blois, its capital, was famed ever in the annals of the middle ages, and to-day no city in the loire valley possesses more sentimental interest for the traveller than does blois. to the eastward lay the sands of the sologne, and southward the ample and fruitful touraine, hence blois's position was one of supreme importance, and there is no wonder that it proved to be the scene of so many momentous events of history. the present day department of the loir et cher was carved out from the blaisois, the vendomois, and the orléannais. the baisois was, in olden time, one of the most important of the _petits gouvernements_ of all the kingdom, and gave to blois a line of counts who rivalled in power and wealth the churchmen of tours and the dukes of brittany. gregory of tours is the first historian who makes mention of the ancient _pagus blensensis_. one must not tell the citizen of blois that it is at tours that one hears the best french spoken. everybody knows this, but the inhabitant of the blaisois will not admit it, and, in truth, to the stranger there is not much apparent difference. throughout this whole region he understands and makes himself understood with much more facility than in any other part of france. for one thing, not usually recalled, blois should be revered and glorified. it was the native place of lenoir, who invented the instrument which made possible the definite determination of the metric system of measurement. one reads in bernier's "histoire de blois" that the inhabitants are "honest, gallant, and polite in conversation, and of a delicate and diffident temperament." this was written nearly a century ago, but there is no excuse for one's changing the opinion to-day unless, as was the misfortune of the writer, he runs up against an unusually importunate vender of post-cards or an aggressive _garçon de café_. [illustration: arms of the city of blois] blois, among all the cities of the loire, is the favourite with the tourist. why this should be is an enigma. it is overburdened, at times, with droves of tourists, and this in itself is a detraction in the eyes of many. perhaps it is because here one first meets a great château of state; and certainly the château de blois lives in one's memory more than any other château in france. [illustration: _the riverside at blois_] much has been written of blois, its counts, its château, and its many and famous _hôtels_ of the nobility, by writers of all opinions and abilities, from those old chroniclers who wrote of the plots and intrigues of other days to those critics of art and architecture who have discovered--or think they have discovered--that da vinci designed the famous spiral staircase. from this one may well gather that blois is the foremost château of all the loire in popularity and theatrical effect. truly this is so, but it is by no manner of means the most lovable; indeed, it is the least lovable of all that great galaxy which begins at blois and ends at nantes. it is a show-place and not much more, and partakes in every form and feature--as one sees it to-day--of the attributes of a museum, and such it really is. all of its former gorgeousness is still there, and all the banalities of the later period when gaston of orleans built his ugly wing, for the "personally conducted" to marvel at, and honeymoon couples to envy. the french are quite fond of visiting this shrine themselves, but usually it is the young people and their mammas, and detached couples of american and english birth that one most sees strolling about the courts and apartments were formerly lords and ladies and cavaliers moved and plotted. the great château of the counts of blois is built upon an inclined rock which rises above the roof-tops of the lower town quite in fairy-book fashion,-- "... bâtie en pierre et d'ardoise converte, blanche et carrée au bas de la colline verte." commonly referred to as the château de blois, it is really composed of four separate and distinct foundations; the original château of the counts; the later addition of louis xii.; the palace of françois i., and the most unsympathetically and dismally disposed _pavillon_ of gaston of orleans. [illustration: _signature of françois premier_] the artistic qualities of the greater part of the distinct edifices which go to make up the château as it stands to-day are superb, with the exception of that great wing of gaston's, before mentioned, which is as cold and unfeeling as the overrated palace at versailles. the comtes de chatillon built that portion just to the right of the present entrance; louis xii., the edifice through which one enters the inner court and which extends far to the left, including also the chapel immediately to the rear; while françois premier, who here as elsewhere let his unbounded italian proclivities have full sway, built the extended wing to the left of the inner court and fronting on the present place du château, formerly the place royale. immediately to the left, in the basse cour de château, are the hôtel d'amboise, the hôtel d'Épernon, and farther away, in the rue st. honore, the hôtel sardini, the hôtel d'alluye, and a score of others belonging to the nobility of other days; all of them the scenes of many stirring and gallant events in renaissance times. this is hardly the place for a discussion of the merits or demerits of any particular artistic style, but the frequently repeated expression of buffon's "_le style, c'est l'homme_" may well be paraphrased into "_l'art, c'est l'époque._" in fact one finds at all times imprinted upon the architectural style of any period the current mood bred of some historical event or a passing fancy. at blois this is particularly noticeable. as an architectural monument the château is a picturesque assemblage of edifices belonging to many different epochs, and, as such, shows, as well as any other document of contemporary times, the varying ambitions and emotions of its builders, from the rude and rough manners of the earliest of feudal times through the highly refined renaissance details of the imaginative brain of françois, down to the base concoction of the elder mansart, produced at the commands of gaston of orleans. [illustration: cypher of anne d'bretange chÂteau de blois] the whole gamut, from the gay and winsome to the sad and dismal, is found here. the escutcheons of the various occupants are plainly in evidence,--the swan pierced by an arrow of the first counts of blois; the ermine of anne de bretagne; the porcupine of the ducs d'orleans, and the salamander of françois premier. in the earliest structure were to be seen all the attributes of a feudal fortress, towers and walls pierced with narrow loopholes, and damp, dark dungeons hidden away in the thick walls. then came a structure which was less of a fortress and more habitable, but still a stronghold, though having ample and decorative doorways and windows, with curious sculptures and rich framings. then the pompous renaissance with _escaliers_ and _balcons à jour_, balustrades crowning the walls, arabesques enriching the pilasters and walls, and elaborate cornices here, there, and everywhere,--all bespeaking the gallantry and taste of the _roi-chevalier_. finally came the cold, classic features of the period of the brother of louis xiii., decidedly the worst and most unlivable and unlovely architecture which france has ever produced. all these features are plain in the general scheme of the château de blois to-day, and doubtless it is this that makes the appeal; too much loveliness, as at chenonceaux or azay-le-rideau, staggers the modern mortal by the sheer impossibility of its modern attainment. in plan the château de blois forms an irregular square situated at the apex of a promontory high above the surface of the loire, and practically behind the town itself. the building has a most picturesque aspect, and, to those who know, gives practically a history of the château architecture of the time. abandoned, mutilated, and dishonoured from time to time, the structure gradually took on new forms until the thick walls underlying the apartment known to-day as the salle des États--probably the most ancient portion of all--were overshadowed by the great richness of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. one early fragment was entirely enveloped in the structure which was built by françois premier, the ancient tour de château regnault, or de moulins, or des oubliettes, as it was variously known, and from the outside this is no longer visible. from the platform one sees a magnificent panorama of the city and the far-reaching loire, which unrolls itself southward and northward for many leagues, its banks covered by rich vineyards and crowned by thick forests. the building of louis xii. presents its brick-faced exterior in black and red lozenge shapes, with sculptured window-frames, squarely upon the little tree-bordered _place_ of to-day, which in other times formed a part of that magnificent terrace which looked down upon the roof of the Église st. nicolas, and the jesuit church of the immaculate conception, and the silvery belt of the loire itself. [illustration: arms of lois xii] on the west façade of this vast conglomerate structure one sees the effigy of the porcupine, that weird symbol adopted by the family of orleans. the choice of this ungainly animal--in spite of which it is most decorative in outline--was due to the first louis, who was duc d'orleans. in the year louis founded the order of the porcupine, in honour of the birth of charles, his eldest son, who was born to him by valentine de milan. the legend which accompanied the adoption of the symbol--though often enough it was missing in the sculptured representations--was _cominus et eminus_, which had its origin in the belief that the porcupine could defend himself in a near attack, but that when he himself attacked, he fought from afar by launching forth his spines. naturalists will tell you that the porcupine does no such thing; but in those days it was evidently believed that he did, and in many, if not all, of the sculptured effigies that one sees of the beast there is a halo of detached spines forming a background as if they were really launching themselves forth in mid-air. above this central doorway, or entrance to the courtyard, is a niche in which is a modern equestrian statue of louis xii., replacing a more ancient one destroyed at the revolution. this old statue, it is claimed, was an admirable work of art in its day, and the present statue is thought to be a replica of it. it originally bore the following inscription--a verse written by fausto andrelini, the king's favourite poet. [illustration: _central doorway, château de blois_] "hic ubi natus erat dextro lodoicus olympo, sumpsit honorata regia sceptra manu; felix quæ tanti fulfit lux nuntia regis; gallia non alio principe digna fuit. faustus ." according to an old french description this old statue was: "_très beau et très agréable ainsy que tous ses portraits l'ont représenté, comme celui qui est au grand portail de bloys_." above rises a balustrade with fantastic gargoyles with the pinnacles and fleurons of the window gables all very ornate, the whole topped off with a roofing of slate. blois, in its general aspect, is fascinating; but it is not sympathetic, and this is not surprising when one remembers men and women who worked their deeds of bloody daring within its walls. the murders and other acts of violence and treason which took place here are interesting enough, but one cannot but feel, when he views the chimneypiece before which the duc de guise was standing when called to his death in the royal closet, that the men of whom the bloody tales of blois are told quite deserved their fates. one comes away with the impression of it all stamped only upon the mind, not graven upon the heart. political intrigue to-day, if quite as vulgar, is less sordid. bigotry and ambition in those days allowed few of the finer feelings to come to the surface, except with regard to the luxuriance of surroundings. of this last there can be no question, and blois is as characteristically luxurious as any of the magnificent edifices which lodged the royalty and nobility of other days, throughout the valley of the loire. a numismatic curiosity, connected with the history of the château de blois, is an ancient piece of money which one may see in the local museum. it is the oldest document in existence in which, or on which, the name of blois is mentioned. on one side is a symbolical figure and the legend _bleso castro_, and on the other a _croix haussée_ and the name of the officer of the mint at blois, _pre cistato, monetario_. the plan of the château de blois here given shows it not as it is to-day, but as it was at the death of gaston d'orleans in . the constructions of the different epochs are noted on the plan as follows: erected by the comtes de chatillon . tour de donjon, château-regnault, moulins, or des oubliettes. . salle des États. . tour du foix or observatory. erected by the ducs d'orleans . portico and galerie d'orleans. (destroyed in part by the military.) . galerie des cerfs. (built in part by gaston, but made away with by the city of blois when the jardins du roi were built.) erected by louis xii. . chapelle st. calais. (destroyed in part by the military.) . la grande vis, or grand escalier of louis xi. . la petite vis, or petit escalier, in one chamber of which the corpse of the duc de guise was burned. . portico and galerie de louis xii. . portico. . salle des gardes,--of the queen on the ground floor and of the king on the first floor. . bedchamber,--of the queen on the ground floor and of the king on the first floor. . corps de garde. . kitchen. (to-day salle de réception for visitors.) erected from the time of franÇois i. to henri iii. and . portico and terrace henri ii. (in part built over by gaston.) . grand staircase. . galerie de françois i. . staircase of the salle des États. (destroyed by the military.) . first floor, salle des gardes of the queen; second floor, salle des gardes of the king. . staircase leading to the apartments of the queen mother. here also henri iii. had made the cells destined for the use of the capucins, and here were closeted "_pour s'assurer de leur discretion_," the "_quarante-cinq_" who were to kill the duc de guise. . cabinet neuf of henri iii. (second floor.) . gallery where was held the reunion of the tiers etats of . . first floor, bedchamber of the king; second floor, bedchamber of the queen. . oratory. . cabinet. . passage to the tour de moulins. . passage to the cabinet vieux, where the duc de guise was struck down. . cabinet vieux. . oratory, where the two chaplains of the king prayed during the perpetration of the murder. . garde-robe, where was first deposited the body of de guise. erected by gaston d'orleans . peristyle. (destroyed by the military.) . dome. . pavilion des jardins. . pavilion du foix. . petit pavilion of the méridionale façade. (destroyed in .) . terraces. . bastions du foix and des jardins. . l'eperon. . le jardin haut, or jardin du roi. [illustration: _the_ chÂteaux _of_ blois (diagram)] the interior court is partly surrounded by a colonnade, quite cloister-like in effect. at the right centre of the françois i. wing is that wonderful spiral staircase, concerning the invention of which so much speculation has been launched. leonardo da vinci, the protégé of françois, has been given the honour, and a very considerable volume has been written to prove the claim. [illustration: _cypher of françois premier and claude of france, at blois_] within this "_tour octagone"--"qui fait à ses huit pans hurler un gorgone_"--is built this marvellous openwork stairway,--an _escalier à jour_, as the french call it,--without an equal in all france, and for daring and decorative effect unexcelled by any of those renaissance motives of italy itself. its ascent turns not, as do most _escaliers_, from left to right, but from right to left. it is the prototype of those supposedly unique outside staircases pointed out to country cousins in the abodes of fifth avenue millionaires. it is as impossible to catalogue the various apartments and their accessories here, as it is to include a chronology of the great events which have passed within their walls. one thing should be remembered, and that is, that the architect duban restored the château throughout in recent years. in spite of this restoration one may readily enough reconstruct the scene of the murder of the duc de guise from the great fireplace on the second floor before which de guise was standing when summoned by a page to the kingly presence, from the door through which he entered to his death, and from the wall where hung the tapestry behind which he was to pass. all this is real enough, and also the "tour des oubliettes," in which the duke's brother, the cardinal, suffered, and of which many horrible tales are still told by the attendants. duban, the architect, came with his careful restorations and pictured with a most exact fidelity the decorations and the furnishings of the times of françois, of catherine, and of henri iii. the ornate chimneypieces have been furbished up anew, the walls and ceilings covered with new paint and gold; nothing could be more opulent or glorious, but it gives the impression of a city dwelling or a great hotel, "newly done up," as the house renovators express it. one contrasting emotion will be awakened by a contemplation of the two great salles des gardes and the apartments of catherine de medici; here, at least for the moment, is a relief from the intrigues, massacres, and assassinations which otherwise went on, for one recalls that, at one period, "_danses, ballets et jeux_" took place here continuously. in the apartments of catherine there is much to remind one of "the base florentine," as it has been the fashion of latter-day historians to describe the first of the medici queens. nothing could be more sumptuous than the galerie de la reine, her _cabinet de toilette_, or her _chambre à coucher_, with its secret panels, where she died on the th of january, , "adored and revered," but soon forgotten, and of no more account than "_une chèvre mort_," says one old chronicler. the apartments of catherine de medici were directly beneath the guard-room where the balafré was murdered, and that event, taking place at the very moment when the "queen-mother" was dying, cannot be said to have been conducive to a peaceful demise. here, on the first floor of the françois premier wing, the _reine-mère_ held her court, as did the king his. the great gallery overlooked the town on the side of the present place du château. it was, and is, a truly grand apartment, with diamond-paned windows, and rich, dark, wall decorations on which catherine's device, a crowned c and her monogram in gold, frequently appears. there was, moreover, a great oval window, opposite which stood her altar, and a doorway, half concealed, led to her writing-closet, with its secret drawers and wall-panels which well served her purposes of intrigue and deceit. a hidden stairway led to the floor above, and there was a _chambre à coucher_, with a deep recess for the bed, the same to which she called her son henri as she lay dying, admonishing him to give up the thought of murdering guise. "what," said henri, on this embarrassing occasion, "spare guise, when he, triumphant in paris, dared lay his hand on the hilt of his sword! spare him who drove me a fugitive from the capital! spare them who never spared me! no, mother, i will _not_." as the queen-mother drew near her end, and was lying ill at blois, great events for france were culminating at the château. henri iii. had become king of france, and the balafré, supported by rome and spain, was in open rebellion against the reigning house, and the word had gone forth that the duc de guise must die. the states general were to be immediately assembled, and de guise, once the poetic lover of marguerite, through his emissaries canvassed all france to ensure the triumph of the party of the church against henri de navarre and his queen,--the marguerite whom de guise once professed to love,--who soon were to come to the throne of france. the uncomfortable henri iii. had been told that he would never be king in reality until de guise had been made away with. the final act of the drama between the rival houses of guise and valois came when the king and his council came to blois for the assembly. the sunny city of blois was indeed to be the scene of a momentous affair, and a truly sumptuous setting it was, the roof-tops of its houses sloping downward gently to the loire, with the chief accessory, the coiffed and turreted château itself, high above all else. details had been arranged with infinite pains, the guard doubled, and a company of swiss posted around the courtyard and up and down the gorgeous staircase. every nook and corner has its history in connection with this greatest event in the history of the château of blois. as guise entered the council-chamber he was told that the king would see him in his closet, to reach which one had to pass through the guard-room below. the door was barred behind him that he might not return, when the trusty guards of the "forty-fifth," under dalahaide, already hidden behind the wall-tapestry, sprang upon the balafré and forced him back upon the closed door through which he had just passed. guise fell stabbed in the breast by malines, and "lay long uncovered until an old carpet was found in which to wrap his corpse." below, in her own apartments, lay the queen-mother, dying, but listening eagerly for the rush of footsteps overhead, hoping and praying that henri--the hitherto effeminate henri who played with his sword as he would with a battledore, and who painted himself like a woman, and put rings in his ears--would not prejudice himself at this time in the eyes of rome by slaying the leader of the church party. guise died as henri said he would die, with the words on his lips: "_a moi, mes amis!--trahison!--à moi, guise,--je me meurs_," but the revenge of the church party came when, at st. cloud, the monk, jacques clément, poignarded the last of the valois, and put the then heretical henri de navarre on the throne of france. within the southernmost confines of the château is the tour de foix, so called for the old faubourg near by. the upper story and roof of this curious round tower was the work of catherine de medici, who installed there her astrologer and maker of philtres, cosmo ruggieri. ruggieri was a most versatile person; he was astrologer, alchemist, and philosopher alike, besides being many other kinds of a rogue, all of which was very useful to the medici now that she had come to power. catherine built an outside stairway up to the platform of this tower, and a great, flat, stone table was placed there to form a foundation for ruggieri's cabalistic instruments. even this stone table itself was an uncanny affair, if we are to believe the old chronicles. it rang out in a clear sharp note whenever struck with some hard body, and on its surface was graven a line which led the eye directly toward the golden _fleur-de-lys_ on the cupola of chambord's château, some three leagues distant on the other side of the loire. what all this symbolism actually meant nobody except catherine and her astrologer knew; at least, the details do not appear to have come down to enlighten posterity. over the doorway of the observatory were graven the words, "_vraniæ sacrum_," _i. e._, consecrated to uranius. wherever catherine chose to reside, whether in touraine or at paris, her astrologer and his "_observatoire_" formed a part of her train. she had brought cosmo from italy, and never for a moment did he leave her. he was a sort of a private demon on whom catherine could shoulder her poisonings and her stabs, and, as before said, he was an exceedingly busy functionary of the court. that part of the structure built by mansart for gaston d'orleans appears strange, solemn, and superfluous in connection with the sumptuousness of the earlier portions. with what poverty the architectural art of the seventeenth century expressed itself! what an inferiority came with the passing of the sixteenth century and the advent of the following! one finds a certain grandeur in the outlines of this last wing, with its majestic cupola over the entrance pavilion, but the general effect of the decorations is one of a great paucity of invention when compared to the more brilliant renaissance forerunners on the opposite side of the courtyard. it was under the régime of gaston d'orleans that the gardens of the château de blois came to their greatest excellence and beauty. in abel brunyer, the first physician of gaston's suite, published a catalogue of the fruits and flowers to be found here in these gardens, of which he was also director. more than five hundred varieties were included, three-quarters of which belonged to the flora of france. among the delicacies and novelties of the time to be found here was the prunier de reine claude, from which those delicious green plums known to all the world to-day as "reine claudes" were propagated, also another variety which came from the prunier de monsieur, somewhat similar in taste but of a deep purple colour. the _pomme de terre_ was tenderly cared for and grown as a great novelty and delicacy long before its introduction to general cultivation by parmentier. the tomato was imported from mexico, and even tobacco was grown; from which it may be judged that gaston did not intend to lack the good things of life. all these facts are recounted in brunyer's "hortus regius blesensis," and, in addition, one morrison, an expatriate scotch doctor, who had attached himself to gaston, also wrote a competing work which was published in london in under the title of "preludia botanica," and which dealt at great length with the already celebrated gardens of the château de blois. morrison placed at the head of his work a latin verse which came in time to be graven over the gateway of the gardens. this--as well as pretty much all record of it--has disappeared, but a repetition of the lines will serve to show with what admiration this paradise was held: "hinc, nulli biferi miranda rosaria pesti, nec mala hesperidum, vigili servata dracone. si paradisiacis quicquam (sine crimine) campis conferri possit, blaesis mirabile specta. magnifici gastonis opus! qui terra capaci ... * * * * * jacobus metelanus scotus." not merely in history has the famous château at blois played its part. writers of fiction have more than once used it as an accessory or the principal scenic background of their sword and cloak novels; none more effectively than dumas in the d'artagnan series. the opening lines of "le vicomte de bragelonne" are laid here. "it should have been a source of pride to the city of blois," says dumas, "that gaston of orleans had chosen it as his residence, and held his court in the ancient château of the states." here, too, in the second volume of the d'artagnan romances, is the scene of that most affecting meeting between his majesty charles ii., king of england, and louis xiv. altogether one lives here in the very spirit of the pages of dumas. not only blois, but langeais, chambord, cheverny, amboise, and many other châteaux figure in the novels with an astonishing frequency, and, whatever the critics may say of the author's slips of pen and memory, dumas has given us a wonderfully faithful picture of the life of the times. in all the symbols and emblems of royalty were removed from the château and destroyed. the celebrated bust of gaston, the chief artistic attribute of that part of the edifice built by him, was decapitated, and the statue of louis xii. over the entrance gateway was overturned and broken up. afterward the château became the property of the "domaine" and was turned into a mere barracks. the pavilion of queen anne became a "_magasin des subsistances militaires_," the tour de l'observatoire, a powder-magazine, and all the indignities imaginable were heaped upon the château. in blois became the last capital of napoleon's empire, and the château walls sheltered the prisoners captured by the imperial army. blois's most luxurious church edifice was the old abbey church of st. sauveur, which was built from to . it lost the royal favour in , when louis xiv. made blois a city of bishops as well as of counts, and transferred the chapter of st. sauveur's to the bastard gothic edifice first known as st. solenne, but which soon took on the name of st. louis. in spite of the claims of the old church, this cold, unfeeling, and ugly mixture of tomblike renaissance became, and still remains, the bishop's church of blois. one must not neglect or forget the magnificent bridge which crosses the loire at blois. a work of - , it bears the rue denis papin across its eleven solidly built masonry piers. above the central arch is erected a memorial pyramid and tablet which states the fact that it was one of the first works of the reign of louis xv. blois altogether, then, offers a multitudinous array of attractions for the tourist who makes his first entrance to the châteaux country through its doors. the town itself has not the appeal of tours, of angers, or of nantes; but, for all that, its abundance of historic lore, the admirable preservation of its chief monument, and the general picturesqueness of its site and the country round about make up for many other qualities that may be lacking. the sologne, lying between blois, vierzon, and châteauneuf-sur-loire, is a great region of lakelets, sandy soil, and replanted corsican pines, which to-day has taken on a new lease of life and a prosperity which was unknown in the days when the comtes de blois first erected that _maison de plaisance_, on its western border which was afterward to aggrandize itself into the later château de chambord. the soil has been drained and the vine planted to a hitherto undreamed of extent, until to-day, if the land does not exactly blossom like the rose, it at least somewhat approaches it. the _chaumières_ of the sologne have disappeared to a large extent, and their mud walls and thatched roofs are not as frequent a detail of the landscape as formerly, but even now there is a distinct individuality awaiting the artist who will go down among these vineyard workers of the sologne and paint them and their surroundings as other parts have been painted and popularized. it will be hot work in the summer months, and lonesome work at all times, but there is a new note to be sounded if one but has the ear for it, and it is to be heard right here in this tract directly on the beaten track from north to south, and yet so little known. the peasant of the sologne formerly ate his _soupe au poireau_ and a morsel of _fromage maigre_ and was as content and happy as if his were a more luxurious board, as it in reality became when a stranger demanded hospitality. then out from the _armoire_--that ever present adjunct of a french peasant's home, whether it be in normandy, touraine, or the midi--came a bottle of _vin blanc_, bought in the wine-shops of romorantin or vierzon on some of his periodical trips to town. to-day all is changing, and the peasant of the sologne nourishes himself better and trims his beard and wears a round white collar on fête-days. he is proud of his well-kept appearance, but his neighbours to the north and the south will tell you that all this hides a deep malice, which is hard to believe, in spite of the well recognized saying, "_sot comme un solognat_." the women have a physiognomy more passive; when young they are fresh and lip-lively, but as they grow older their charms pass quickly. the sologne in most respects has changed greatly since the days of arthur young. then this classic land was reviled and vehement imprecations were launched upon the proprietors of its soil,--"those brilliant and ambitious gentlemen" who figure so largely in the ceremonies of versailles. to-day all is changed, and the gentleman farmer is something more than a _bourgeois parisien_ who hunts and rides and apes "_le sport_" of the english country squire. the jack-rabbit and the hare are the pests of the sologne now that its sandy soil has been conquered, but they are quite successfully kept down in numbers, and the insects which formerly ravaged the vines are likewise less offensive than they used to be, so the sologne may truly be said to have been transformed. to-day, as in the days of the royal hunt, when chambord was but a shooting-box of the counts of blois, the sologne is rife with small game, and even deer and an occasional _sanglier_. "_la chasse_" in france is no mean thing to-day, and the sologne, la beauce, and the great national forests of lyons and rambouillet draw--on the opening of the season, somewhere between the th of august and the d of september of each year--their hundreds of thousands of nimrods and disciples of st. hubert. the bearer of the gun in france is indeed a most ardent sportsman, and in no european country can one buy in the open market a greater variety of small game,--all the product of those who pay their twenty francs for the privilege of bagging rabbits, hares, partridges, and the like. the hunters of france enjoy one superstition, however, and that is that to accidentally bag a crow on the first shot means a certain and sudden death before the day is over. la motte-beuvron is celebrated in the annals of the sologne; it is, in fact, the metropolis of the region, and the centre from which radiated the influences which conquered the soil and made of it a prosperous land, where formerly it was but a sandy, arid desert. la motte-beuvron is a long-drawn-out _bourgade_, like some of the populous centres of the great plain of hungary, and there is no great prosperity or "up-to-dateness" to be observed, in spite of its constantly increasing importance, for la motte-beuvron and the country round about is one of the localities of france which is apparently not falling off in its population. la motte has a most imposing hôtel de ville, a heavy edifice of brick built by napoleon iii.--who has never been accused of having had the artistic appreciation of his greater ancestor--after the model of the arsenal at venice. this is all la motte has to warrant remark unless one is led to investigate the successful agricultural experiment which is still being carried out hereabouts. la motte's hôtels and cafés are but ordinary, and there is no counter attraction of boulevard or park to place the town among those lovable places which travellers occasionally come upon unawares. to realize the sologne at its best and in its most changed aspect, one should follow the roadway from la motte to blois. he may either go by tramway _à vapeur_, or by his own means of communication. in either case he will then know why the prosperity of the sologne and the contentment of the solognat is assured. romorantin, still characteristic of the sologne and its historic capital, is famous for its asparagus and its paternal château of françois premier, where that prince received the scar upon his face, at a tourney, which compelled him ever after to wear a beard. to-day the sous-préfecture, the courts and their prisoners, the gendarmerie, and the theatre are housed under the walls that once formed the château royal of jean d'angoulême; within whose apartments the gallant françois was brought up. [illustration: _native types in the sologne_] the sologne, like most of the other of the _petits pays_ of france, is prolific in superstitions and traditionary customs, and here for some reason they deal largely of the marriage state. when the _paysan solognais_ marries, he takes good care to press the marriage-ring well up to the third joint of his spouse's finger, "else she will be the master of the house," which is about as well as the thing can be expressed in english. it seems a simple precaution, and any one so minded might well do the same under similar circumstances, provided he thinks the proceeding efficacious. again, during the marriage ceremony itself, each of the parties most interested bears a lighted wax taper, with the belief that whichever first burns out, so will its bearer die first. it's a gruesome thought, perhaps, but it gives one an inkling of who stands the best chance of inheriting the other's goods, which is what matches are sometimes made for. the marriage ceremony in the sologne is a great and very public function. intimates, friends, acquaintances, and any of the neighbouring populace who may not otherwise be occupied, attend, and eat, drink, and ultimately get merry. but they have a sort of process of each paying his or her own way; at least a collection is taken up to pay for the entertainment, for the sologne peasant would otherwise start his married life in a state of bankruptcy from which it would take him a long time to recover. the collection is made with considerable _éclat_ and has all the elements of picturesqueness that one usually associates with the wedding processions that one sees on the comic-opera stage. a sort of nuptial bouquet--a great bunch of field flowers--is handed round from one guest to another, and for a sniff of their fragrance and a participation in the collation which is to come, they make an offering, dropping much or little into a golden (not gold) goblet which is passed around by the bride herself. in the sologne there is (or was, for the writer has never seen it) another singular custom of the marriage service--not really a part of the churchly office, but a sort of practical indorsement of the actuality of it all. the bride and groom are both pricked with a needle until the blood runs, to demonstrate that neither the man nor the woman is insensible or dreaming as to the purport of the ceremony about to take place. as every french marriage is at the mairie, as well as being held in church, this double ceremony (and the blood-letting as well) must make a very hard and fast agreement. perhaps it might be tried elsewhere with advantage. montrichard, on the cher, is on the borderland between the blaisois and touraine. its donjon announces itself from afar as a magnificent feudal ruin. the town is moreover most curious and original, the great rectangular donjon rising high into the sky above a series of cliff-dwellers' chalk-cut homes, in truly weird fashion. there is nothing so very remarkable about cliff-dwellers in the loire country, and their aspect, manners, and customs do not differ greatly from those of their neighbours, who live below them. curiously enough these rock-cut dwellings appear dry and healthful, and are not in the least insalubrious, though where a _cave_ has been devoted only to the storage of wine in vats, barrels, and bottles the case is somewhat different. montrichard itself, outside of these scores of homes burrowed out of the cliff, is most picturesque, with stone-pignoned gables and dormer-windows and window-frames cut or worked in wood or stone into a thousand amusing shapes. montrichard, with chinon, takes the lead in interesting old houses in these parts; in fact, they quite rival the ruinous lean-to houses of rouen and lisieux in normandy, which is saying a good deal for their picturesque qualities. [illustration: _donjon of montrichard_] one-third of montrichard's population live underground or in houses built up against the hillsides. even the lovely old parish church backs against the rock. everywhere are stairways and _petits chemins_ leading upward or downward, with little façades, windows, or doorways coming upon one in most unexpected and mysterious fashion at every turn. the magnificent donjon is a relic of the work of that great fortress-builder, foulques nerra, comte d'anjou, who dotted the land wherever he trod with these masterpieces of their kind, most of them great rectangular structures like the donjons of britain, but quite unlike the structures of their class mostly seen in france. richard coeur de lion occupied the fortress in , but was obliged to succumb to his rival in power, philippe-auguste, who in time made a breach in its walls and captured it. thereafter it became an outpost of his own, from whence he could menace the comte d'anjou. chapter iv. chambord chambord is four leagues from blois, from which point it is usually approached. to reach it one crosses the sologne, not the arid waste it has been pictured, but a desert which has been made to blossom as the rose. a glance of the eye, given anywhere along the road from blois to chambord, will show a vineyard of a thousand, two thousand, or even more acres, where, from out of a soil that was once supposed to be the poorest in all wine-growing france, may be garnered a crop equalling a hundred dozen of bottles of good rich wine to the acre. this wine of the sologne is not one of the famous wines of france, to be sure, but what one gets in these parts is pure and astonishingly palatable; moreover, one can drink large portions of it--as do the natives--without being affected in either his head or his pocket-book. from late september to early december there is a constant harvest going on in the vineyards, whose labourers, if not as picturesque and joyous as we are wont to see them on the comic-opera stage, are at least wonderfully clever and industrious, for they make a good wine crop out of a soil which previously gave a living only to charcoal-burners and goat-keepers. françois was indeed a rare devotee of the building mania when he laid out the wood which surrounds chambord and which ultimately grew to some splendour. the nineteenth century saw this great wood cut and sold in huge quantities, so that to-day it is rather a scanty copse through which one drives on the way from blois. the country round about is by no means impoverished,--far from it. it is simply unworked to its fullest extent as yet. as it is plentifully surrounded by water it makes an ideal land for the growing of asparagus, strawberries, and grapes, and so it has come to be one of the most prosperous and contented regions in all the loire valley. the great white château de chambord, with its turrets and its magnificent lantern, looms large from whatever direction it is approached, though mostly it is framed by the somewhat stunted pines which make up the pleasant forest. the vistas which one sees when coming toward chambord, through the drives and alleys of its park, with the château itself brilliant in the distance, are charming and fairy-like indeed. straight as an arrow these roadways run, and he who traverses one of those centring at the château will see a tiny white fleck in the sunlight a half a dozen kilometres away, which, when it finally is reached, will be admitted to be the greatest triumph of the art-loving monarch. françois premier was foremost in every artistic expression in france, and the court, as may be expected, were only too eager to follow the expensive tastes of their monarch,--when they could get the means, and when they could not, often enough françois supplied the wherewithal. françois himself dressed in the richest of italian velvets, the more brilliant the better, with a preponderant tendency toward pink and sky blue. a dozen years after françois came to the throne, a dozen years after the pleasant life of amboise, when mother, daughter, and son lived together on the banks of the loire in that "trinity of love," the monarch and his wife, queen claude of france, the daughter of louis xii. and anne of brittany, came to live at chambord on the edge of the sandy sologne waste. here, too, came marguerite d'alençon, the ever faithful and devoted sister of françois, the duke, her husband, and all the gay members of the court. the hunt was the order of the day, for the forest tract of the sologne, scanty though it was in growth, abounded in small game. chambord at this time had not risen to the grand and ornate proportions which we see to-day, but set snugly on the low, swampy banks of the tiny river cosson, a dull, gloomy mediæval fortress, whose only aspect of gaiety was that brought by the pleasure-loving court when it assembled there. in size it was ample to accommodate the court, but françois's artistic temperament already anticipated many and great changes. the loire was to be turned from its course and the future pompous palace was to have its feet bathed in the limpid loire water rather than in the stagnant pools of the morass which then surrounded it. as a triumph of the royal château-builder's art, chambord is far and away ahead of fontainebleau or versailles, both of which were built in a reign which ended two hundred years later than that which began with the erection of chambord. as an example of the arts of françois i. and his time compared with those of louis xiv. and his, chambord stands forth with glorious significance. on the low banks of the cosson, françois achieved perhaps the greatest triumph that renaissance architecture had yet known. it was either chambord, or the reconstruction by françois of the edifice belonging to the counts of blois, which resulted in the refinement of the renaissance style less than a quarter of a century after its introduction into france by charles viii.,--if he really was responsible for its importation from italy. françois lacked nothing of daring, and built and embellished a structure which to-day, in spite of numerous shortcomings, stands as the supreme type of a great renaissance domestic edifice of state. every device of decoration and erratic suggestion seems to have been carried out, not only structurally, as in the great double spiral of its central stairway, but in its interpolated details and symbolism as well. it was at this time, too, that françois began to introduce the famous salamander into his devices and ciphers; that most significant emblem which one may yet see on wall and ceiling of chambord surrounded by the motto: "_je me nourris et je meurs dans le feu._" [illustration: _arms of françois premier, at chambord_] chambord, first of all, gives one a very high opinion of françois premier, and of the splendours with which he was wont to surround himself. the apartments are large and numerous and are admirably planned and decorated, though, almost without exception, bare to-day of furniture or furnishings. to quote the opinion of blondel, the celebrated french architect: "the château de chambord, built under françois i. and henri ii., from the designs of primatice, was never achieved according to the original plan. louis xiii. and louis xiv. contributed a certain completeness, but the work was really pursued afterward according to the notions of one sertio." the masterpiece of its constructive elements is its wonderful doubly spiralled central staircase, which permits one to ascend or descend without passing another proceeding in the opposite direction at the same time. whatever may have been the real significance of this great double spiral, it has been said that it played its not unimportant part in the intrigue and scandal of the time. it certainly is a wonder of its kind, more marvellous even than that spiral at blois, attributed, with some doubt perhaps, to leonardo da vinci, and certainly far more beautiful than the clumsy round tower up which horses and carriages were once driven at amboise. at all events, it probably meant something more than mere constructive ability, and a staircase which allows one individual to mount and another to descend without knowing of the presence of the other may assuredly be classed with those other mediæval accessories, sliding panels, hidden doorways, and secret cabinets. beneath the dome which terminates the staircase in the orleans wing are three caryatides representing--it is doubtfully stated--françois premier, la duchesse d'Étampes, and madame la comtesse de châteaubriand,--a trinity of boon companions in intrigue. in reality chambord presents the curiously contrived arrangement of one edifice within another, as a glance of the eye at the plan will show. the fosse, the usual attribute of a great mediæval château--it may be a dry one or a wet one, in this case it was a wet one--has disappeared, though brantôme writes that he saw great iron rings let into the walls to which were attached "_barques et grands bateaux_," which had made their way from the loire via the dribbling cosson. the cosson still dribbles its life away to-day, its moisture having, to a great part, gone to irrigate the sandy sologne, but formerly it was doubtless a much more ample stream. from the park the ornate gables and dormer-windows loom high above the green-swarded banks of the cosson. it was so in françois's time, and it is so to-day; nothing has been added to break the spread of lawn, except an iron-framed wash-house with red tiles and a sheet-iron chimney-pot beside the little river, and a tin-roofed garage for automobiles connected with the little inn outside the gates. the rest is as it was of yore, at least, the same as the old engravings of a couple of hundreds of years ago picture it, hence it is a great shame, since the needs of the tiny village could not have demanded it, that the foreground could not have been left as it originally was. the town, or rather village, or even hamlet, of chambord is about the most abbreviated thing of its kind existent. there is practically no village; there are a score or two of houses, an inn of the frankly tourist kind, which evidently does not cater to the natives, the aforesaid wash-house by the river bank, the dwellings of the gamekeepers, gardeners, and workmen on the estate, and a diminutive church rising above the trees not far away. these accessories practically complete the make-up of the little settlement of chambord, on the borders of the blaisois and touraine. chambord has been called top-heavy, but it is hardly that. probably the effect is caused by its low-lying situation, for, as has been intimated before, this most imposing of all of the loire châteaux has the least desirable situation of any. there is a certain vagueness and foreignness about the sky-line that is almost eastern, though we recognize it as pure renaissance. perhaps it is the magnitude and lonesomeness of it all that makes it seem so strange, an effect that is heightened when one steps out upon its roof, with the turrets, towers, and cupolas still rising high above. [illustration: _plan of chambord_] the ground-plan is equally magnificent, flanked at every corner by a great round tower, with another quartette of them at the angles of the interior court. most of the stonework of the fabric is brilliant and smooth, as if it were put up but yesterday, and, beyond the occasional falling of a tile from the wonderful array of chimney-pots, but little evidences are seen exteriorly of its having decayed in the least. on the tower which flanks the little door where one meets the _concierge_ and enters, there are unmistakable marks of bullets and balls, which a revolutionary or some other fury left as mementoes of its passage. considering that chambord was not a product of feudal times, these disfigurements seem out of place; still its peaceful motives could hardly have been expected to have lasted always. the southern façade is not excelled by the elevation of any residential structure of any age, and its outlines are varied and pleasing enough to satisfy the most critical; if one pardons the little pepper-boxes on the north and south towers, and perforce one has to pardon them when he recalls the magnificence of the general disposition and sky-line of this marvellously imposing château of the renaissance. françois premier made chambord his favourite residence, and in fact endowed pierre nepveu--who for this work alone will be considered one of the foremost architects of the french renaissance--with the inspiration for its erection in . [illustration: _château de chambord_] a prodigious amount of sculpture by jean cousin, pierre bontemps, jean goujon, and germain pilon was interpolated above the doorways and windows, in the framing thereof, and above the great fireplaces. inside and out, above and below, were vast areas to be covered, and françois allowed his taste to have full sway. the presumptuous françois made much of this noble residence, perhaps because of his love of _la chasse_, for game abounded hereabouts, or perhaps because of his regard for the comtesse thoury, who occupied a neighbouring château. for some time before his death, françois still lingered on at chambord. marguerite and her brother, both now considerably aged since the happier times of their childhood in touraine, always had an indissoluble fondness for chambord. marguerite had now become queen of navarre, but her beauty had been dimmed with the march of time, and she no longer was able to comfort and amuse her kingly brother as of yore. his old pleasures and topics of conversation irritated him, and he had even tired of poetry, art, and political affairs. above all, he shamefully and shamelessly abused women, at once the prop and the undermining influence of his kingly power in days gone by. there is an existing record to the effect that he wrote some "window-pane" verse on the window of his private apartment to the following effect: "souvent femme varie; mal habile quis'y fie!" if this be not apocryphal, the incident must have taken place long years before that celebrated "window-pane" verse of shenstone's, and françois is proven again a forerunner, as he was in many other things. without doubt the revolution did away with this square of glass, which--according to piganiol de la force--existed in the middle of the eighteenth century. perhaps françois's own jealous humour prompted him to write these cynical lines, and then again perhaps it is merely one of those fables which breathe the breath of life in some unaccountable manner, no one having been present at its birth, and hearsay and tradition accounting for it all. françois, truly, was failing, and he and his sister discussed but sorrowful subjects: the death of his favourite son, charles, the inheritor of the throne, at abbeville, where he became infected with the plague, and also the death of him whom he called "his old friend," henry viii. of england, a monarch whose amours were as numerous and celebrated as his own. henri ii. preferred the attractions of anet to chambord, while catherine de medici and charles ix. cared more for blois, chaumont, and chenonceaux. louis xiii. and louis xiv. only considered it as a rendezvous for the chase, and the latter's successor, louis xv., gave it to the illustrious maurice de saxe, the victor of fontenoy, who spent his old age here, amid fêtes, pleasures, and military parades. near by are the barracks, built for the accommodation of the regiment of horse formed by the maréchal and devoted to his special guardianship and pleasure, and paid for by the king, who in turn repaid himself--with interest--from the public treasury. the exercising of this "little army" was one of the chief amusements of the illustrious old soldier. "a de feints combats lui-même en se jouant conduit les vieux soldats"-- wrote the abbé de lille in contemporary times. king stanislas of poland lived here from to , and later it was given to maréchal berthier, by whose widow it was sold in . it was bought by national subscription for a million and a half of francs and given to the duc de bordeaux, who immediately commenced its restoration, for it had been horribly mutilated by maréchal de saxe, and the surrounding wood had been practically denuded under the berthier occupancy. the duc de bordeaux died in , and his heirs, the duc de parme and the comte de bardi, are now said to spend a quarter of a million annually in the maintenance of the estate, the income of which approximates only half that sum. there are thirteen great staircases in the edifice, and a room for every day in the year. on the ground floor is the salle des gardes, from which one mounts by the great spiral to another similar apartment with a barrel-vaulted roof, which in a former day was converted into a theatre, where in - were held the first representations of "pourceaugnac" and "le bourgeois gentilhomme," and where molière himself frequently appeared. the second floor is known as the "_grandes terrasses_" and surrounds the base of the great central lantern so admired from the exterior. on this floor, to the eastward, were the apartments of françois premier. the chapel was constructed by henri ii., but the tribune is of the era of louis xiv. this tribune is decorated with a fine tapestry, made by madame royale while imprisoned in the temple. at the base of the altar is also a tapestry made and presented to the comte de chambord by the women of the limousin. the apartments of louis xiv. contain portraits of madame de maintenon and madame de lafayette, a great painting of the "bataille de fontenoy," and another of the comte de chambord on horseback. chapter v. cheverny, beauregard, and chaumont from chambord and its overpowering massiveness one makes his way to chaumont, on the banks of the loire below blois, by easy stages across the plain of the sologne. one leaves the precincts of chambord by the back entrance, as one might call it, through six kilometres of forest road, like that by which one enters, and soon passes the little townlet of bracieux. one gets glimpses of more or less modern residential châteaux once and again off the main road, but no remarkably interesting structures of any sort are met with until one reaches cheverny. just before cheverny one passes cour-cheverny, with a curious old church and a quaint-looking little inn beside it. [illustration: _château de cheverny_] cheverny itself is, however, the real attraction, two kilometres away. here the château is opened by its private owners from april to october of each year, and, while not such a grand establishment as many of its contemporaries round about, it is in every way a perfect residential edifice of the seventeenth century, when the flowery and ornate renaissance had given way to something more severely classical, and, truth to tell, far less pleasing in an artistic sense. cheverny belongs to-day to the marquis de vibraye, one of those undying titles of the french nobility which thrive even in republican france and uphold the best traditions of the _noblesse_ of other days. the château was built much later than most of the neighbouring châteaux, in , by the comte de cheverny, philippe hurault. it sits green-swarded in the midst of a beautifully wooded park, and the great avenue which faces the principal entrance extends for seven kilometres, a distance not excelled, if equalled, by any private roadway elsewhere. in its constructive features the château is more or less of rectangular outlines. the pavilions at each corner have their openings _à la impériale_, with the domes, or lanterns, so customary during the height of the style under louis xiv. an architect, boyer by name, who came from blois, where surely he had the opportunity of having been well acquainted with a more beautiful style, was responsible for the design of the edifice at cheverny. the interior decorations in cordovan leather, the fine chimneypieces, and the many elaborate historical pictures and wall paintings, by mosnier, clouet, and mignard, are all of the best of their period; while the apartments themselves are exceedingly ample, notably the appartement du roi, furnished as it was in the days of "vert galant," the salle des gardes, the library and an elaborately traceried staircase. in the chapel is an altar-table which came from the Église st. calais, in the château at blois. just outside the gates is a remarkable crotchety old stone church, with a dwindling, toppling spire. it is poor and impoverished when compared with most french churches, and has a most astonishing timbered veranda, with a straining, creaking roof running around its two unobstructed walls. the open rafters are filled with all sorts of rubbish, and the local fire brigade keeps its hose and ladders there. a most suitable old rookery it is in which to start a first-class conflagration. [illustration: _cheverny-sur-loire_] within are a few funeral marbles of the hurault family, and the daily offices are conducted with a pomp most unexpected. altogether it forms, as to its fabric and its functions, as strong a contrast of activity and decay as one is likely to see in a long journey. the town itself is a sleepy, unprogressive place, where automobilists may not even buy _essence à pétrole_, and, though boasting--if the indolent old town really does boast--a couple of thousand souls, one still has to journey to cour-cheverny to send a telegraphic despatch or buy a daily paper. between cheverny and blois is the forêt de russy, which will awaken memories of the boar-hunts of françois i., which, along with art in all its enlightening aspects, appears to have been one of the chief pleasures of that monarch. perhaps one ought to include also the love of fair women, but with them he was not so constant. on the road to blois, also, one passes the château de beauregard; that is, one usually passes it, but he shouldn't. it is built, practically, within the forest, on the banks of the little river beauvron. an iron _grille_ gives entrance to a beautiful park, and within is the château, its very name indicating the favour with which it was held by its royal owner. it was in that françois i. established it as a _rendezvous de chasse_. under his son, henri ii., it was reconstructed, in part; entirely remodelled in the seventeenth century; and "modernized"--whatever that may mean--in , and again, more lately, restored by the duc de dino. it belongs to-day to the comte de cholet, who has tried his hand at "restoration" as well. the history of this old château is thus seen to have been most varied, and it is pretty sure to have lost a good deal of its original character in the transforming process. the interior is more attractive than is the exterior. there is a grand gallery of portraits of historical celebrities, more than , executed between and by paul ardier, counsellor of state, who thus combined the accomplishment of the artist with the sagacity of the statesman. the ceilings of the great rooms are mostly elaborate works in enamel and carved oak, and there is a tiled floor (_carrelage_) in the portrait gallery, in blue faïence, representing an army in the order of battle, which must have delighted the hearts of the youthful progeny who may have been brought up within the walls of the château. this pavement is moreover an excellent example of the craftsmanship of tile-making. one gains admission to the château freely from the _concierge_, who in due course expects her _pourboire_, and sees that she gets it. but what would you, inquisitive traveller? you have come here to see the sights, and beauregard is well worth the price of admission, which is anything you like to give, certainly not less than a franc. one may return to blois through the forest, or may continue his way down the river to chaumont on the left bank. at chaumont the loire broadens to nearly double the width at blois, its pebbles and sandbars breaking the mirror-like surface into innumerable pools and _étangs_. there is a bridge which connects chaumont with the railway at onzain and the great national highway from tours to blois. the bridge, however, is so hideous a thing that one had rather go miles out of his way than accept its hospitality. it is simply one of those unsympathetic wire-rope affairs with which the face of the globe is being covered, as engineering skill progresses and the art instinct dies out. [illustration: _chaumont_] the château de chaumont is charmingly situated, albeit it is not very accessible to strangers after one gets there, as it is open to the public only on thursdays, from july to december. it is exactly what one expects to find,--a fine riverside establishment of its epoch, and in architectural style combining the well-recognized features of late gothic and the early renaissance. it is not moss-grown or decrepit in any way, which fact, considering its years, is perhaps remarkable. the park of the château is only of moderate extent, but the structure itself is, comparatively, of much larger proportions. the ideal view of the structure is obtained from midway on that ungainly bridge which spans the loire at this point. here, in the gold and purple of an autumn evening, with the placid and far-reaching loire, its pools and its bars of sand and pebble before one, it is a scene which is as near idyllic as one is likely to see. the town itself is not attractive; one long, narrow lane-like street, lined on each side by habitations neither imposing nor of a tumble-down picturesqueness, borders the loire. there is nothing very picturesque, either, about the homes of the vineyard workers round about. below and above the town the great highroad runs flat and straight between tours and blois on either side of the river, and automobilists and cyclists now roll along where the state carriages of the court used to roll when françois premier and his sons journeyed from one gay country house to another. it is to be inferred that the aspect of things at chaumont has not changed much since that day,--always saving that spider-net wire bridge. the population of the town has doubtless grown somewhat, even though small towns in france sometimes do not increase their population in centuries; but the topographical aspect of the long-drawn-out village, backed by green hills on one side and the loire on the other, is much as it always has been. [illustration: _signature of diane de poitiers_] the château at chaumont had its origin as far back as the tenth century, and its proprietors were successively local seigneurs, counts of blois, the family of amboise, and diane de poitiers, who received it from catherine in exchange for chenonceaux. this was not a fair exchange, and diane was, to some extent, justified in her complaints. chaumont was for a time in the possession of scipion sardini, one of the italian partisans of the medici, "whose arms bore _trois sardines d'argent_," and who had married isabelle de la tour, "_la demoiselle de limieul_" of unsavoury reputation. the "_demoiselle de limieul_" was related, too, to catherine, and was celebrated in the gallantries of the time in no enviable fashion. she was a member of that band of demoiselles whose business it was--by one fascination or another--to worm political secrets from the nobles of the court. one horrible scandal connected the unfortunate lady with the prince de condé, but it need not be repeated here. the huguenots ridiculed it in those memorable verses beginning thus: "puella illa nobilis quæ erat tam amabilis." after the reign of sardini and of his direct successors, the house of bullion, chaumont passed through many hands. madame de staël arrived at the château in the early years of the nineteenth century, when she had received the order to separate herself from paris, "by at least forty leagues." she had made the circle of the outlying towns, hovering about paris as a moth about a candle-flame; rouen, auxerre, blois, saumur, all had entertained her, but now she came to establish herself in this loire citadel. as the story goes, journeying from saumur to tours, by post-chaise, on the opposite side of the river, she saw the imposing mass of chaumont rising high above the river-bed, and by her good graces and winning ways installed herself in the affections of the then proprietor, m. leray, and continued her residence "and made her court here for many years." chaumont is to-day the property of the princesse de broglie, who has sought to restore it, where needful, even to reëstablishing the ancient fosse or moat. this last, perhaps, is not needful; still, a moated château, or even a moated grange has a fascination for the sentimentally inclined. at the drawbridge, as one enters chaumont to-day, one sees the graven initials of louis xii. and anne de bretagne, the arms of georges d'amboise, surmounted by his cardinal's hat, and those of charles de chaumont, as well as other cabalistic signs: one a representation of a mountain (apparently) with a crater-like summit from which flames are breaking forth, while hovering about, back to back, are two c's: [image of two joined letter 'c' positioned like this: )(]. the renaissance artists greatly affected the rebus, and this perhaps has some reference to the etymology of the name chaumont, which has been variously given as coming from _chaud mont_, _calvus mont_, and _chauve mont_. georges d'amboise, the first of the name, was born at chaumont in , the eighth son of a family of seventeen children. it was a far cry, as distances went in those days, from the shores of the shallow, limpid loire to those of the forceful, turgent seine at rouen, where in the great cathedral of notre dame, this first georges of amboise, having become an archbishop and a cardinal, was laid to rest beneath that magnificent canopied tomb before which visitors to the norman capital stand in wonder. the mausoleum bears this epitaph, which in some small measure describes the activities of the man. "pastor eram cleri, populi pater; aurea sese lilia subdebant, quercus et ipsa mihi. "martuus en jaceo, morte extinguunter honores, et virtus, mortis nescia, mort viret." his was not by any means a life of placidity and optimism, and he had the air and reputation of doing things. there is a saying, still current in touraine: "_laissez faire à georges._" the second of the same name, also an archbishop of rouen and a cardinal, succeeded his uncle in the see. he also is buried beneath the same canopy as his predecessor at rouen. the main portal of the château leads to a fine quadrilateral court with an open gallery overlooking the loire, which must have been a magnificent playground for the nobility of a former day. the interior embellishments are fine, some of the more noteworthy features being a grand staircase of the style of louis xii.; the salle des gardes, with a painted ceiling showing the arms of chaumont and amboise; the salle du conseil, with some fine tapestries and a remarkable tiled floor, depicting scenes of the chase; the chambre de catherine de medici (she possessed chaumont for nine years), containing some of the gifts presented to her upon her wedding with henri ii.; and the curious chambre de ruggieri, the astrologer whom catherine brought from her italian home, and who was always near her, and kept her supplied with charms and omens, good and bad, and also her poisons. ruggieri's observatory was above his apartment. it was at chaumont that the astrologer overstepped himself, and would have used his magic against charles ix. he did go so far as to make an image and inflict certain indignities upon it, with the belief that the same would befall the monarch himself. ruggieri went to the galleys for this, but the scheming catherine soon had him out again, and at work with his poisons and philtres. finally there is the chambre de diane de poitiers, catherine's more than successful rival, with a bed (modern, it is said) and a series of sixteenth-century tapestries, with various other pieces of contemporary furniture. a portrait of diane which decorates the apartment is supposed to be one of the three authentic portraits of the fair huntress. the chapel has a fine tiled pavement and some excellent glass. chaumont is eighteen kilometres from blois and the same distance from amboise. it has not the splendour of chambord, but it has a greater antiquity, and an incomparably finer situation, which displays its coiffed towers and their _mâchicoulis_ and cornices in a manner not otherwise possible. it is one of those picture châteaux which tell a silent story quite independent of guide-book or historical narrative. it was m. donatien le ray de chaumont, the superintendent of the forests of berry and the blaisois, under louis xvi., who gave hospitality to benjamin franklin, and turned over to the first american ambassador to france the occupancy of his house at passy, where franklin lived for nine consecutive years. of this same m. de chaumont americans cannot have too high a regard, for his timely and judicious hospitality has associated his name, only less permanently than franklin's, with the early fortunes of the american republic. besides his other offices, m. de chaumont was the intendant of the hôtel des invalides, at paris, holding confidential relations with the ministry of the young king, and was in the immediate enjoyment of a fortune which amounted to two and a half million of francs, besides owning, in addition to chaumont on the loire, another château in the blaisois. this château he afterward tendered to john adams, who declined the offer in a letter, written at passy-sur-seine, february , , in the following words: "... to a mind as much addicted to retirement as mine, the situation you propose would be delicious indeed, provided my country were at peace and my family with me; but, separated from my family and with a heart bleeding with the wounds of its country, i should be the most miserable being on earth...." the potteries, which now form the stables of the château at chaumont, are somewhat reminiscent of franklin. m. de chaumont had established a pottery here, where he had found a clay which had encouraged him to hope that he could compete with the english manufacturers of the time. here the italian nini, who was invited to chaumont, made medallions much sought for by collectors, among others one of franklin, which was so much admired as a work of art, and became so much in demand that in later years replicas were made and are well known to amateurs. the family of le ray de chaumont were extensively known in america, where they became large landholders in new york state in the early nineteenth century, and the head of the family seems to have been an amiable and popular landlord. the towns of rayville and chaumont in new york state still perpetuate his name. the two male members of the family secured american wives; le ray himself married a miss coxe, and their son a miss jahel, both of new york. from an anonymous letter to the new york _evening post_ of november , , one quotes the following: "it was in blois that i first rummaged among these shops, whose attractions are almost a rival to those of the castle, though this is certainly one of the most interesting in france. the traveller will remember the long flight of stone steps which climbs the steep hill in the centre of the town. near the foot of this hill there is a well-furnished book-shop; its windows display old editions and rich bindings, and tempt one to enter and inquire for antiquities. here i found a quantity of old notarial documents and diplomas of college or university, all more or less recently cleared out from some town hall, or unearthed from neighbouring castle, and sold by a careless owner, as no longer valuable to him. this was the case with most of the parchments i found at blois; they had been acquired within a few years from the castle of madon, and from a former proprietor of the neighbouring castle of chaumont (the _calvus mons_ of mediæval time), and most of them pertained to the affairs of the _seigneurie de chaumont_. contracts, executions, sales of vineyards and houses, legal decisions, _actes de vente_, loans on mortgages, the marriage contract of a m. lubin,--these were the chief documents that i found and purchased." the traveller may not expect to come upon duplicates of these treasures again, but the incident only points to the fact that much documentary history still lies more or less deeply buried. chapter vi. touraine: the garden spot of france "c'est une grande dame, une princesse altière, chacun de ses châteaux, marqué du sceau royal, lui fait une toilette en dentelle de pierre et son splendide fleuve un miroir de cristal." it is difficult to write appreciatively of touraine without echoing the words of some one who has gone before, and it is likely that those who come after will find the task no easier. truly, as a seventeenth-century geographer has said: "here is the most delicious and the most agreeable province of the kingdom. it has been named the garden of france because of the softness of its climate, the affability of its people, and the ease of its life." the poets who have sung the praises of touraine are many, ronsard, remy belleau, du bellay, and for prose authors we have at the head, rabelais, la fontaine, balzac, and alfred de vigny. merely to enumerate them all would be impossible, but they furnish a fund of quotable material for the traveller when he is writing home, and are equally useful to the maker of guide-books. one false note on touraine, only, has ever rung out in the world of literature, and that was from stendahl, who said: "_la belle touraine n'existe pas!_" the pages of alfred de vigny and balzac answer this emphatically, and to the contrary, and every returning traveller apparently sides with them and not with stendahl. how can one not love its prairies, gently sloping to the caressing loire, its rolling hills and dainty ravines? the broad blue loire is always vague and tranquil here, at least one seems always to see it so, but the beauty of touraine is, after all, a quiet beauty which must be seen to be appreciated, and lived with to be loved. it is a land of most singular attractions, neither too hot nor too cold, too dry nor too damp, with a sufficiency of rain, and an abundance of sunshine. its market-gardens are prolific in their product, its orchards overflowing with plenitude, and its vineyards generous in their harvest. touraine is truly the region where one may read history without books, with the very pages of nature punctuated and adorned with the marvels of the french renaissance. louis xi. gave the first impetus to the alliance of the great domestic edifice--which we have come to distinguish as the residential château--with the throne, and the idea was amplified by charles viii. and glorified by françois premier. in the brilliant, if dissolute, times of the early sixteenth century françois premier and his court travelled down through this same touraine to loches and to amboise, where françois's late gaoler, charles quint, was to be received and entertained. it was after françois had returned from his involuntary exile in spain, and while he was still in residence at the louvre, that the plans for the journey were made. to the duchesse d'Étampes françois said,--the duchess who was already more than a rival of both diane and the comtesse de châteaubriant,--"i must tear myself away from you to-morrow. i shall await my brother charles at amboise on the loire." "shall you not revenge yourself upon him, for his cruel treatment of you?" said the wily favourite of the time. "if he, like a fool, comes to touraine, will you not make him revoke the treaty of madrid or shut him up in one of louis xi.'s oubliettes?" "i will persuade him, if possible," said françois, "but i shall never force him." in due time françois did receive his brother king at amboise and it was amid great ceremony and splendour. his guest could not, or would not, mount steps, so that great inclined plane, up which a state coach and its horses might go, was built. probably there was a good reason for the emperor's peculiarity, for that worthy or unworthy monarch finally died of gout in the monastery of san juste. the meeting here at amboise was a grand and ceremonious affair and the spanish monarch soon came to recognize a possible enemy in the royal favourite, anne de pisselieu. the emperor's eyes, however, melted with admiration, and he told her that only in france could one see such a perfection of elegance and beauty, with the result that--as is popularly adduced--the susceptible, ambitious, and unfaithful duchess betrayed françois more than once in the affairs attendant upon the subsequent wars between france, england, and spain. from touraine, in the sixteenth century, spread that influence which left its impress even on the capital of the kingdom itself, not only in respect to architectural art, but in manners and customs as well. whatever may be the real value of the renaissance as an artistic expression, the discussion of it shall have no place here, beyond the qualifying statement that what we have come to know as the french renaissance--which undeniably grew up from a transplanted italian germ--proved highly tempting to the mediæval builder for all manner of edifices, whereas it were better if it had been confined to civic and domestic establishments and left the church pure in its full-blown gothic forms. curiously enough, here in touraine, this is just what did happen. the renaissance influence crept into church-building here and there--and it is but a short step from the "_gothique rayonnant_" to what are recognized as well-defined renaissance features; but it is more particularly in respect to the great châteaux, and even smaller dwellings, that the superimposed italian details were used. a notable illustration of this is seen in the cathedral of st. gatien at tours. it is very beautiful and has some admirable gothic features, but there are occasional constructive details, as well as those for decorative effect alone, which are decidedly not good gothic; but, as they are, likewise, not renaissance, they hence cannot be laid to its door, but rather to the architect's eccentricity. in the smaller wayside churches, such as one sees at cormery, at cheverny, and at cour-cheverny, there is scarcely a sign of renaissance, while their neighbouring châteaux are nothing else, both in construction and in decoration. the château de langeais is, for the most part, excellent gothic, and so is the church near by. loches has distinct and pure gothic details both in its church and its château, quite apart from the hôtel de ville and that portion of the château now used as the sous-préfecture, which are manifestly renaissance; hence here in touraine steps were apparently taken to keep the style strictly non-ecclesiastical. a glance of the eye at the topography of this fair province stamps it at once as something quite different from any other traversed by the loire. two of the great "routes nationales" cross it, the one via orleans, leading to nantes, and the other via chartres, going to bordeaux. it is crossed and recrossed by innumerable "routes secondaires," "départementales," "vicinales" and "particulières," second to none of their respective classes in other countries, for assuredly the roads of france are the best in the world. many of these great ways of communication replaced the ancient roman roads, which were the pioneers of the magnificent roadways of the france of to-day. almost invariably touraine is flat or rolling, its highest elevation above the sea being but a hundred and forty-six metres, scarce four hundred and fifty feet, a fact which accounts also for the gentle flow of the loire through these parts. all the fruits of the southland are found here, the olive alone excepted. mortality, it is said, and proved by figures, is lower than in any other part of france, and for this reason many dwellers in the large cities, if they may not all have a mediæval château, have at least a villa, far away from "the madding crowd," and yet within four hours' travel of the capital itself. [illustration: the loire in touraine] touraine, properly speaking, has no natural frontiers, as it is not enclosed by rivers or mountains. it is, however, divided by the loire into two distinct regions, the méridionale and the septentrionale; but the dress, the physiognomy, the language, and the predilections of the people are everywhere the same, though the two sections differ somewhat in temperament. in the south, the tourangeau is timid and obliging, but more or less engrossed in his affairs; in the north, he is proud, egotistical, and a little arrogant, but, above all, he likes his ease and comfort, something after the manner of "mynheer" of holland. these are the characteristics which are enumerated by stanislas bellanger of tours, in "la touraine ancienne et moderne," and they are traceable to-day, in every particular, to one who knows well the by-paths of the region. formerly the peasant was, in his own words, "_sous la main de m. le comte_," but, with the coming of the eighteenth century, all this was changed, and the conditions which, in england, succeeded feudalism, are unknown in touraine, as indeed throughout france. the two great divisions which nature had made of touraine were further cut up into five _petits pays_; les varennes, le veron, la champeigne, la brenne, and les gâtines; names which exist on some maps to-day, but which have lost, in a great measure, their former distinction. there is a good deal to be said in favour of the physical and moral characteristics of the inhabitants of touraine. just as the descendants of the phoceans, the original settlers of marseilles, differ from the natives of other parts of france, so, too, do the tourangeaux differ from the inhabitants of other provinces. the people of touraine are a mixture of romans, visigoths, saracens, alains, normans and bretons, anglais and gaulois; but all have gradually been influenced by local conditions, so that the native of touraine has become a distinct variety all by himself. the deliciousness of the "garden of france" has altered him so that he stands to-day as more distinctly french than the citizen of paris itself. touraine, too, has the reputation of being that part of france where is spoken the purest french. this, perhaps, is as true of the blaisois, for the local bookseller at blois will tell one with the most dulcet and understandable enunciation that it is at blois that one hears the best accent. at any rate, it is something found within a charmed circle, of perhaps a hundred miles in diameter, that does not find its exact counterpart elsewhere. as seville stands for the spanish tongue, florence for the italian, and dresden for the german, so tours stands for the french. the history of the loire in touraine, as is the case at le puy, at nevers, at sancerre, or at orleans, is abundant and vivid, and the monuments which line its banks are numerous and varied, from the fortress-château of amboise to the cathedral of st. gatien at tours with its magnificent bejewelled façade. the ruined towers of the castle of cinq-mars, with its still more ancient roman "pile," and the feudal châteaux of the countryside are all eloquent, even to-day, in their appeal to all lovers of history and romance. there are some verses, little known, in praise of the loire, as it comes through touraine, written by houdon des landes, who lived near tours in the eighteenth century. the following selection expresses their quality well and is certainly worthy to rank with the best that balzac wrote in praise of his beloved touraine. "la loire enorgueillit ses antiques cités, et courounne ses bords de coteaux enchantés; dans ses vallons heureux, sur ses rives aimées, les prés ont déployé leurs robes parfumées; le saule humide et souple y lance ses rameaux. ses coteaux sont peuplés, et le rocher docile a l'homme qui le creuse offre un champêtre asile. de notre vieille gaule, ô fleuve paternel! fleuve des doux climats! la vallière et sorel sur tes bords fortunés naquirent, et la gloire a l'une dût l'amour, à l'autre la victoire." again and again balzac's words echo in one's ears from his "scène de la vie de province." the following quotations are typical of the whole: "the softness of the air, the beauty of the climate, all tend to a certain ease of existence and simplicity of manner which encourages an appreciation of the arts." "touraine is a land to foster the ambition of a napoleon and the sentiment of a byron." another writer, a. beaufort, a publicist of the nineteenth century, wrote: "the tourangeaux resemble the good adam in the garden of eden. they drink, they eat, they sleep and dream, and care not what their neighbour may be doing." touraine was indeed, at one time, a veritable eden, though guarded by fortresses, _hallebardes_, and arquebuses, but not the less an eden for all that. in addition it was a land where, in the middle ages, the seigneurs made history, almost without a parallel in france or elsewhere. touraine, truly enough, was the centre of the old french monarchy in the perfection of its pomp and state; but it is also true that touraine knew little of the serious affairs of kings, though some all-important results came from events happening within its borders. paris was the law-making centre in the sixteenth century, and touraine knew only the domestic life and pleasures of royalty. etiquette, form, and ceremony were all relaxed, or at least greatly modified, and the court spent in the country what it had levied in the capital. curiously enough, the monarchs were omnipotent and influential here, though immediately they quartered themselves in paris their powers waned considerably; indeed, they seemed to lose their influence upon ministers and vassals alike. louis xiii., it is true, tried to believe that paris was france,--like the anglo-saxon tourists who descend upon it in such great numbers to-day,--and built versailles; but there was never much real glory about its cold and pompous walls. the fortunes of the old châteaux of touraine have been most varied. chambord is vast and bare, elegant and pompous; blois, just across the border, is a tourist sight of the first rank whose salamanders and porcupines have been well cared for by the paternal french government. chaumont, chenonceaux, langeais, azay-le-rideau, and half a dozen others are still inhabited, and are gay with the life of twentieth-century luxury; amboise is a possession of the orleans family; loches is, in part, given over to the uses of a sous-préfecture; and chinon's châteaux are but half-demolished ruins. besides these there are numerous smaller residential châteaux of the nobility scattered here and there in the loire watershed. there have been writers who have sought to commiserate with "the poor peasant of touraine," as they have been pleased to think of him, and have deplored the fact that his sole possession was a small piece of ground which he and his household cultivated, and that he lived in a little whitewashed house, built with his own hands, or those of his ancestors. though the peasant of touraine, as well as of other parts of the countryside, works for an absurdly small sum, and for considerably less than his brother nearer paris, he sells his produce at the nearest market-town for a fair price, and preserves a spirit of independence which is as valuable as are some of the things which are thrust upon him in some other lands under the guise of benevolent charity, really patronage of a most demeaning and un-moral sort. at night the touraine peasant returns to his own hearthstone conscious that he is a man like all of his fellows, and is not a mere atom ground between the upper and nether millstones of the landlord and the squire. he cooks his "_bouillie_" over three small sticks and retires to rest with the fond hope that on the next market-day following the prices of eggs, chickens, cauliflowers, or tomatoes may be higher. he is the stuff that successful citizens are made of, and is not to be pitied in the least, even though it is only the hundredth man of his community who ever does rise to more wealth than a mere competency. touraine, rightly enough, has been called the garden of france, but it is more than that, much more; it is a warm, soft land where all products of the soil take on almost a subtropical luxuriance. besides the great valley of the loire, there are the valleys of the tributaries which run into it, in touraine and the immediate neighbourhood, all of which are fertile as only a river-bottom can be. it is true that there are numerous formerly arid and sandy plateaux, quite unlike the abundant plains of la beauce, though to-day, by care and skill, they have been made to rival the rest of the region in productiveness. the département d'indre et loire is the richest agricultural region in all france so far as the variety and abundance of its product goes, rivalling in every way the opulence of the burgundian hillsides. above all, touraine stands at the head of the vine-culture of all the loire valley, the _territoire vinicole_ lapping over into anjou, where are produced the celebrated _vins blancs_ of saumur. the vineyard workers of touraine, in the neighbourhood of loches, have clung closely to ancient customs, almost, one may say, to the destruction of the industry, though of late new methods have set in, and, since the blight now some years gone by, a new prosperity has come. the day worker, who cares for the vines and superintends the picking of the grapes by the womenfolk and the children, works for two francs fifty centimes per day; but he invariably carries with him to the scene of his labours a couple of cutlets from a young and juicy _brebis_, or even a _poulet rôti_, so one may judge from this that his pay is ample for his needs in this land of plenty. [illustration: _the vintage in touraine_] in the morning he takes his bowl of soup and a cup of white wine, and of course huge hunks of bread, and finally coffee, and on each sunday he has his _rôti à la maison_. all this demonstrates the fact that the french peasant is more of a meat eater in these parts than he is commonly thought to be. touraine has no peculiar beauties to offer the visitor; there is nothing _outré_ about it to interest one; but, rather, it wins by sheer charm alone, or perhaps a combination of charms and excellencies makes it so truly a delectable land. the tourangeaux themselves will tell you, when speaking of rabelais and balzac, that it is the land of "_haute graisse, féconde et spirituelle_." it is all this, and, besides its spirituelle components, it will supply some very real and substantial comforts. it is the eden of the gourmandiser of such delicacies as _truffes_, _rilettes_, and above all, _pruneaux_, which you get in one form or another at nearly every meal. most of the good things of life await one here in abundance, with kitchen-gardens and vineyards at every one's back door. truly touraine is a land of good living. life runs its course in touraine, "_facile et bonne_," without any extremes of joy or sorrow, without chimerical desires or infinite despair, and the agreeable sensations of life predominate,--the first essential to real happiness. some one has said, and certainly not without reason, that every frenchman has a touch of rabelais and of voltaire in his make-up. this is probably true, for france has never been swept by a wave of puritanism such as has been manifest in most other countries, and _le gros rire_ is still the national philosophy. in a former day a hearty laugh, or at least an amused cynicism, diverted the mind of the martyr from threatened torture and even violent death. brinvilliers laughed at those who were to torture her to death, and de la barre and danton cracked jokes and improvised puns upon the very edge of their untimely graves. touraine has the reputation of being a wonderfully productive field for the book collector, though with books, like many other treasures of a past time, the day has passed when one may "pick up" for two sous a ms. worth as many thousands of francs; but still bargains are even now found, and if one wants great calf-covered tomes, filled with fine old engravings, bearing on the local history of the _pays_, he can generally find them at all prices here in old touraine. there was a more or less apocryphal story told us and the landlady of our inn concerning a find which a guest had come upon in a little roadside hamlet at which he chanced to stop. he was one of those omnipresent _commis voyageurs_ who thread the french provinces up and down, as no other country in the world is "travelled" or "drummed." he was the representative for a brandy shipper, one of those substantial houses of the cognac region whose product is mostly sold only in france; but this fact need not necessarily put the individual very far down in the social scale. indeed, he was a most amiable and cultivated person. our fellow traveller had come to a village where all the available accommodations of the solitary inn were already engaged; therefore he was obliged to put up with a room in the town, which the landlord hunted out for him. repairing to his room without any thought save that of sleep, the traveller woke the next morning to find the sun streaming through the opaqueness of a brilliantly coloured window. not stained glass here, surely, thought the stranger, for his lodging was a most humble one. it proved to be not glass at all; merely four great vellum leaves, taken from some ancient tome and stuck into the window-framing where the glass ought to have been. daylight was filtering dimly through the rich colouring, and it took but a moment to become convinced that the sheets were something rare and valuable. he learned that the pages were from an old latin ms., and that the occupant of the little dwelling had used "_the paper_" in the place of the glass which had long since disappeared. the vellum and its illuminations had stood the weather well, though somewhat dimmed in comparison with the brilliancy of the remaining folios, which were found below-stairs. there were in all some eighty pages, which were purchased for a modest forty sous, and everybody satisfied. the volume had originally been found by the father of the old dame who then had possession of it in an old château in revolutionary times. whether her honoured parent was a pillager or a protector did not come out, but for all these years the possession of this fine work meant no more to this tourangelle than a supply of "paper" for stopping up broken window-panes. "she parted readily enough with the remaining leaves," said our frenchman, "but nothing would induce her to remove those which filled the window." "no, we have no more glass, and these have answered quite well for a long time now," she said. and such is the simplicity of the french provincial, even to-day--_sometimes_. chapter vii. amboise as one approaches amboise, he leaves the comparatively insalubrious plain of the sologne and the blaisois and enters touraine. amboise! what history has been made there; what a wealth of action its memories recall, and what splendour, gaiety, and sadness its walls have held! an entire book might be written about the scenes which took place under its roof. to-day most travellers are content to rush over its apartments, gaze at its great round tower, view the loire, which is here quite at its best, from the battlements, and, after a brief admiration of the wonderfully sculptured portal of its chapel, make their way to chenonceaux, or to the gay little metropolis of tours. [illustration: _château d'amboise_] no matter whither one turns his steps from amboise, he will not soon forget this great fortress-château and the memories of the _petite bande_ of blondes and brunettes who followed in the wake of françois premier. here, and at blois, the recollections of this little band are strong in the minds of students of romance and history. some one has said that along the corridors of amboise one still may meet the wraiths of those who in former days went airily from one pleasure to another, but this of course depends upon the mood and sentiment of the visitor. amboise has a very good imitation of the climate of the south, and the glitter of the loire at midday in june is about as torrid a picture as one can paint in a northern clime. it is not that it is so very hot in degree, but that the lack of shade-trees along its quays gives amboise a shimmering resemblance to a much warmer place than it really is. the loire is none too ample here, and frets its way, as it does through most of its lower course, through banks of sand and pebbles in a more or less vain effort to look cool. amboise is old, for, under the name of ambatia, it existed in the fourth century, at which epoch st. martin, the patron of tours, threw down a pagan pyramidal temple here and established christianity; and clovis and alaric held their celebrated meeting on the ile st. jean in . it was not long after this, according to the ancient writers, that some sort of a fortified château took form here. louis-le-bègue gave amboise to the counts of anjou, and hughes united the two independent seigneuries of the château and the bourg. after the counts of anjou succeeded the counts of berry, charles vii., by appropriation, confiscation, seizure, or whatever you please to call it,--history is vague as to the real motive,--united amboise to the possessions of the crown in . louis xi. lived for a time at this strong fortress-château, before he turned his affections so devotedly to plessis-les-tours. charles viii. was born and died here, and it was he who added the renaissance details, or at least the first of them, upon his return from italy. indeed, it is to him and to the nobles who followed in his train during his italian travels that the introduction of the renaissance into france is commonly attributed. it was at amboise that charles viii., forgetful of the miseries of his italian campaign, set about affairs of state with a renewed will and vigour. he was personally superintending some alterations in the old castle walls, and instructing the workmen whom he brought from italy with him as to just how far they might introduce those details which the world has come to know as renaissance, when, in passing beneath a low overhanging beam, he struck his head so violently that he expired almost immediately (april , ). louis xii., the superstitious, lived here for some time, and here occurred some of the most important events in the life of the great françois, the real popularizer of the new architectural renaissance. it was in the old castle of amboise, the early home of louis xii., that his appointed successor, his son-in-law and second cousin, françois, was brought up. here he was educated by his mother, louise de savoie, duchesse d'angoulême, together with that bright and shining light, that marguerite who was known as the "pearl of the valois," poetess, artist, and court intriguer. here the household formed what in the early days françois himself was pleased to call a "trinity of love." throughout the structure may yet be seen the suggestions of françois's artistic instincts, traced in the window-framings of the façade, in the interior decorations of the long gallery, and on the terrace hanging high above the loire. in the park and in the surrounding forest françois and his sister marguerite passed many happy days of their childhood. marguerite, who had already become known as the "tenth muse," had already thought out her "heptameron," whilst françois tried his prentice hand at love-rhyming, an expression of sentiment which at a later period took the form of avowals in person to his favourites. one recalls those stanzas to the memory of agnes sorel, beginning: "gentille agnès plus de loz tu mérite, la cause était de france recouvrir; que ce que peut dedans un cloître ouvrir close nonnaine? ou bien dévot hermite?" françois was more than a lover of the beautiful. his appreciation of architectural art amounted almost to a passion, and one might well claim him as a member of the architectural guild, although, in truth, he was nothing more than a generous patron of the craftsmen of his day. françois was the real father of the french renaissance, the more splendid flower which grew from the italian stalk. he had no liking for the van eycks and holbeins of the dutch school, reserving his favour for the frankly languid masters from the south. he brought from italy cellini, primaticcio, and the great leonardo, who it is said had a hand in that wonderful shell-like spiral stairway in the château at blois. by just what means da vinci was inveigled from italy will probably never be known. the art-loving françois visited milan, and among its curiosities was shown the even then celebrated "last supper" of leonardo. the next we know is that, "_françois repasse les alpes ayant avec lui mon sieur lyonard, son peintre_." leonardo was given a pension of seven _ecus de france_ per year and a residence near amboise. vasari recounts very precisely how leonardo expired in the arms of his kingly patron at amboise, but on the other hand, the court chronicles have said that françois was at st. germain on that day. be this as it may, the intimacy was a close one, and we may be sure that françois felt keenly the demise of this most celebrated painter of his court. it was during those early idyllic days at amboise that the character of françois was formed, and the marvel is that the noble and endearing qualities did not exceed the baser ones. to be sure his after lot was hard, and his real and fancied troubles many, and they were not made the less easy to bear because of his numerous female advisers. in his youth at amboise his passions still slumbered, but when they did awaken, they burst forth with an unquenchable fury. meantime he was working off any excess of imagination by boar-hunts and falconry in the neighbouring forest of chanteloup, and had more than one hand-to-hand affray with resentful citizens of the town, when he encroached upon what they considered their traditional preserves. so he grew to man's estate, but the life that he lived in his youth under the kingly roof of the château at amboise gave him the benefits of all the loyalty which his fellows knew, and it helped him carry out the ideas which were bequeathed to him by his uncle. it was at a sitting of the court at amboise, when françois was still under his mother's wing,--at the age of twenty only,--that the bourbon affair finally came to its head. many notables were mixed up in it as partisans of the ungrateful and ambitious bourbon, charles de montpensier, connétable de france. it was an office only next in power to that of the sovereign himself, and one which had been allowed to die out in the reign of louis xi. the final outcome of it all was that françois became a prisoner at pavia, through the treachery of the connétable and his followers, who went over _en masse_ to françois's rival, charles v., who, as charles ii., was king of spain. of the subsequent meeting with the emperor charles on french soil, françois said to the duchesse d'Étampes: "it is with regret that i leave you to meet the emperor at amboise on the loire." and he added: "you will follow me with the queen." his queen at this time was poor eleanor of portugal, herself a spanish princess, claude of france, his first wife, having died. "these two," says brantôme, "were the only virtuous women of his household." the emperor charles was visibly affected by the meeting, though, it is true, he had no love for his old enemy, françois. perhaps it was on account of the duchess, for whom françois had put aside diane. at any rate, the emperor was gallant enough to say to her: "it is only in france that i have seen such a perfection of elegance and beauty. my brother, your king, should be the envy of all the sovereigns of europe. had i such a captive at my palace in madrid, there were no ransom that i would accept for her." françois cared not for the lonely spanish princess whom he had made his queen; but he was somewhat susceptible to the charms of his daughter-in-law, catherine de medici, the wife of his son henri, who, when at amboise, was his ever ready companion in the chase. françois was inordinately fond of the hunt, and made of it a most strenuous pastime, full of danger and of hard riding in search of the boar and the wolf, which abounded in the thick underwood in the neighbourhood. one wonders where they, or, rather, their descendants, have disappeared, since nought in these days but a frightened hare, a partridge, or perhaps a timid deer ever crosses one's path, as he makes his way by the smooth roads which cross and recross the forest behind amboise. when françois ii. was sixteen he became the nominal king of france. to amboise he and his young bride came, having been brought thither from blois, for fear of the huguenot rising. the court settled itself forthwith at amboise, where the majestic feudal castle piled itself high up above the broad, limpid loire, feeling comparatively secure within the protection of its walls. here the loire had widened to the pretensions of a lake, the river being spanned by a bridge, which crossed it by the help of the island, as it does to-day. over this old stone bridge the court approached the castle, the retinue brilliant with all the trappings of a luxurious age, archers, pages, and men-at-arms. the king and his new-found bride, the winsome mary stuart, rode well in the van. in their train were catherine, the "queen-mother" of three kings, the cardinal de lorraine, the duc de guise, the duc de nemours, and a vast multitude of gay retainers, who were moved about from place to place like pawns upon the chess-board, and with about as much consideration. the gentle mary stuart, born in , at linlithgow, in stern caledonia, of a french mother,--marie de lorraine,--was doomed to misfortune, for her father, the noble james v., prophesied upon his death-bed that the dynasty would end with his daughter. at the tender age of five mary was sent to france and placed in a convent. her education was afterward continued at court under the direction of her uncle, the cardinal de lorraine. by ten she had become well versed in french, latin, and italian, and at one time, according to brantôme, she gave a discourse on literature and the liberal arts--so flourishing at the time--before the king and his court. ronsard was her tutor in versification, which became one of her favourite pursuits. mary stuart's charms were many. she was tall and finely formed, with auburn hair shining like an aureole above her intellectual forehead, and with a skin of such dazzling whiteness--a trite saying, but one which is used by brantôme--"that it outrivalled the whiteness of her veil." in the spring of , when she was but sixteen, mary stuart was married to the dauphin, the weak, sickly françois ii., himself but a youth. he was, however, sincerely and deeply fond of his young wife. unexpectedly, through the death of henri ii. at the hands of montgomery at that ever debatable tournament, françois ii. ascended the throne of france, and mary stuart saw herself exalted to the dizzy height which she had not so soon expected. she became the queen of two kingdoms, and, had the future been more propitious, the whole map of europe might have been changed. disease had marked the unstable françois for its own, and within a year he passed from the throne to the grave, leaving his young queen a widow and an orphan. shortly afterward "_la reine blanche_" returned to her native scotland, bidding france that long, last, sad adieu so often quoted: "farewell, beloved france, to thee! best native land, the cherished strand that nursed my tender infancy! farewell my childhood's happy day! the bark, which bears me thus away, bears but the poorer moiety hence, the nobler half remains with thee, i leave it to thy confidence, but to remind thee still of me!" the young sovereigns had had a most stately suite of apartments prepared for them at amboise, the lofty windows reaching from floor to ceiling and overlooking the river and the vast terrace where was so soon to be enacted that bloody drama to which they were to be made unwilling witnesses. this gallery was wainscoted with old oak and hung with rich leathers, and the lofty ceiling was emblazoned with heraldic emblems and monograms, as was the fashion of the day. brocades and tapestries, set in great gold frames, lined the walls, and, in a boudoir or retiring-room beyond, still definitely to be recognized, was a remarkable series of embroidered wall decorations, a tapestry of flowers and fruits with an arabesque border of white and gold, truly a queenly apartment, and one that well became the luxurious and dainty mary, who came from scotland to marry the youthful françois. mary stuart knew little at the time as to why they had so suddenly removed from blois, but françois soon told her, something after this wise: "our mother," said he, "is deeply concerned with affairs of state. there is some conspiracy against her and your uncles, the guises." "tell me," she demanded, "concerning this dreadful conspiracy." "were you not suspicious," he asked, querulously, "when we left for amboise so suddenly?" "_ah, non, mon françois_, methought that we came here to hold a jousting tourney and to hunt in the forest...." "well, at any rate, we are secure here from turk, or jew, or huguenot, my queen," replied the king. within a short space a council was called in the great hall of amboise, which the huguenot chiefs, condé, coligny, the cardinal de chatillon,--who appears to have been a sort of a religious renegade,--were requested to attend. a conciliatory edict was to be prepared, and signed by the king, as a measure for gaining time and learning further the plans of the conspirators. this edict ultimately was signed, but it was in force but a short time and was a subterfuge which the youthful king deep in his heart--and he publicly avowed the fact--deeply resented. furthermore it did practically nothing toward quelling the conspiracy. through the plains of touraine and over the hills from anjou the conspirators came in straggling bands, to rendezvous for a great _coup de main_ at amboise. they halted at farms and hid in vineyards, but the royalists were on the watch and one after another the wandering bands were captured and held for a bloody public massacre when the time should become ripe. in all, two thousand or more were captured, including jean barri de la renaudie. this man was the leader, but he was merely a bold adventurer, seeking his own advantage, and caring little what cause employed his peculiar talents. this was his last affair, however, for his corpse soon hung in chains from amboise's bridge. condé, coligny, and the other calvinists soon learned that the edict was not worth the paper on which it was written. after the two thousand had been dispersed or captured the "queen-mother" threw off the mask. she led the trembling child-king and queen toward the southern terrace, where, close beneath the windows of the château, was built a scaffold, covered with black cloth, before which stood the executioner clothed in scarlet. the prisoners were ranged by hundreds along the outer rampart, guarded by archers and musketeers. the windows of the royal apartment were open and here the company placed themselves to witness the butchery to follow. speechless with horror sat the young king and queen, until finally, as another batch of mutilated corpses were thrown into the river below, the young queen swooned. "my mother," said françois, "i, too, am overcome by this horrible sight. i crave your highness's permission to retire; the blood of my subjects, even of my enemies, is too horrible to contemplate." "my son," said the bloodthirsty catherine, "i command you to stay. duc de guise, support your niece, the queen of france. teach her her duty as a sovereign. she must learn how to govern those hardy scots of hers." it was on the very terraced platform on which one walks to-day that, between two ranks of _hallebardiers_ and arquebusiers, moved that long line of bareheaded and bowed men whose prayers went up to heaven while they awaited the fate of the gallows. either the cord or the sword-blade quickly accounted for the lives of this multitude, and their blood flowed in rivulets, while above in the gallery the willing and unwilling onlookers were gay with laughter or dumb with sadness. when all this horrible murdering was over the loire was literally a reeking mass of corpses, if we are to believe the records of the time. the chief conspirators were hung in chains from the castle walls, or from the bridge, and the balustrades which overhang the street, which to-day flanks the loire beneath the castle walls, were filled with a ribald crew of jeering partisans who knew little and cared less for religion of any sort. some days after the execution of the calvinists the "protestant poet" and historian passed through the royal city with his _précepteur_ and his father, and was shown the rows of heads planted upon pikes, which decorated the castle walls, and thereupon vowed, if not to avenge, at least to perpetuate the infamy in prose and verse, and this he did most effectually. an odorous garden of roses, lilacs, honeysuckle, and hawthorn framed the joyous architecture of the château, then as now, in adorable fashion; but it could not purify the malodorous reputation which it had received until the domain was ceded by louis xiv. to the duc de penthièvre and made a _duché-pairie_. it would be possible to say much more, but this should suffice to stamp indelibly the fact that touraine, in general, and the château of amboise, in particular, cradled as much of the thought and action of the monarchy in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries as did the capital itself. at any rate the memory of it all is so vivid, and the tangible monuments of the splendour and intrigue of the court of those days are so very numerous and magnificent, that one could not forget the parts they played--once having seen them--if he would. after the assassination of the duc de guise at blois, amboise became a prison of state, where were confined the cardinal de bourbon and césar de vendôme (the sons of henri iv. and gabrielle d'estrées), also fouquet and lauzun. in the château was given by louis xv. to the duc de choiseul, and the great napoleon turned it over to his ancient colleague, roger ducos, who apparently cared little for its beauties or associations, for he mutilated it outrageously. [illustration: _sculpture from the chapelle de st. hubert_] in later times the history of the château and its dependencies has been more prosaic. the emir abd-el-kader was imprisoned here in , and louis napoleon stayed for a time within its walls upon his return from the south. to-day it belongs to the family of orleans, to whom it was given by the national assembly in , and has become a house of retreat for military veterans. this is due to the generosity of the duc d'aumale into whose hands it has since passed. the restoration which has been carried on has made of amboise an ideal reproduction of what it once was, and in every way it is one of the most splendid and famous châteaux of its kind, though by no means as lovable as the residential châteaux of chenonceaux or langeais. the chapelle de st. hubert, which was restored by louis philippe, is the chief artistic attraction of amboise; a bijou of full-blown gothic. it is a veritable architectural joy of the period of charles viii., to whom its erection was due. its portal has an adorable bas-relief, representing "la chasse de st. hubert," and showing st. hubert, st. christopher, and st. anthony, while above, in the tympanum, are effigies of the virgin, of charles viii., and of anne de bretagne. the sculpture is, however, comparatively modern, but it embellishes a shrine worthy in every way, for there repose the bones of leonardo da vinci. formerly da vinci's remains had rested in the chapel of the château itself, dedicated to st. florentin. often the chapelle de st. hubert has been confounded with that described by scott in "quentin durward," but it is manifestly not the same, as that was located in tours or near there, and his very words describe the architecture as "of the rudest and meanest kind," which this is not. over the arched doorway of the chapel at tours there was, however, a "statue of st. hubert with a bugle-horn around his neck and a leash of greyhounds at his feet," which may have been an early suggestion of the later work which was undertaken at amboise. all vocations came to have their protecting saints in the middle ages, and, since "_la chasse_" was the great recreation of so many, distinction was bestowed upon hubert as being one of the most devout. the legend is sufficiently familiar not to need recounting here, and, anyway, the story is plainly told in this sculptured panel over the portal of the chapel at amboise. in this chapel of st. hubert was formerly held "that which was called a hunting-mass. the office was only used before the noble and powerful, who, while assisting at the solemnity, were usually impatient to commence their favourite sport." the ancient salle des gardes of the château, with the windows giving on the balcony overlooking the river, became later the logis du roi. from this great chamber one passes on to the terrace near the foot of the grosse tour, called the tour des minimes. it is this tower which contains the "_escalier des voitures_." the entrance is through an elegant portico leading to the upper stories. above another portico, leading from the terrace to the garden, is to be seen the emblem of louis xii., the porcupine, so common at blois. in the fosse, which still remains on the garden side, was the universally installed _jeu-de-paume_, a favourite amusement throughout the courts of europe in the middle ages. at the base of the château are clustered numerous old houses of the sixteenth century, but on the river-front these have been replaced with pretentious houses, cafés, automobile garages, and other modern buildings. near the quai des violettes are a series of subterranean chambers known as the greniers de césar, dating from the sixteenth century. [illustration: _cipher of anne de bretagne, hôtel de ville, amboise_] even at this late day one can almost picture the great characters in the drama of other times who stalked majestically through the apartments, and over the very flagstones of the courts and terraces which one treads to-day; catherine de medici with her ruffs and velvets; henri de guise with all his wiles; condé the proud; the second françois, youthful but wise; his girl queen, loving and sad; and myriads more of all ranks and of all shades of morality,--all resplendent in the velvets and gold of the costume of their time. near the château is the clos luce, a gothic habitation in whose oratory died leonardo da vinci, on may , . immediately back of the château is the forêt d'amboise, the scene of many gay hunting parties when the court was here or at chenonceaux, which one reaches by traversing the forest route. on the edge of this forest is chanteloup, remembered by most folk on account of its atrocious chinese-like pagoda, built of the débris of the château de la bourdaisière, by the duc de choiseul, in memory of the attentions he received from the nobles and bourgeois of the ville upon the fall of his ministry and his disgrace at the hands of louis xv. and la du barry. it is a curious form to be chosen when one had such beautiful examples of architectural art near by, only equalled, perhaps, in atrociousness by the "royal pavilion" of england's george iv. la bourdaisière, near amboise, of which only the site remains, if not one of the chief tourist attractions of the château country, has at least a sentimental interest of abounding importance for all who recall the details of the life of "la belle gabrielle." here in touraine gabrielle d'estrées was born in . she was twenty-six years old when henri iv. first saw her in the château of her father at coeuvres. so charmed was he with her graces that he made her his _maîtresse_ forthwith, though the old court-life chronicles of the day state that she already possessed something more than the admiration of sebastian zamet, the celebrated financier. chapter viii. chenonceaux "the castle of chenonceaux is a fine place on the river cher, in a fine and pleasant country." franÇois premier. "the castle of chenonceaux is one of the best and most beautiful of our kingdom." henri ii. the average visitor will come prepared to worship and admire a château so praised by two luxury-loving kings of france. chenonceaux is noted chiefly for its château, but the little village itself is charming. the houses of the village are not very new, nor very old, but the one long street is most attractive throughout its length, and the whole atmosphere of the place, from september to december, is odorous with the perfume of red-purple grapes. the vintage is not the equal of that of the bordeaux region, perhaps, nor of chinon, nor saumur; but the _vin du pays_ of the cher and the loire, around tours, is not to be despised. most tourists come to chenonceaux by train from tours; others drive over from amboise, and yet others come by bicycle or automobile. they are not as yet so numerous as might be expected, and accordingly here, as elsewhere in touraine, every facility is given for visiting the château and its park. if you do not hurry off at once to worship at the abode of the fascinating diane, one of the brightest ornaments of the court of françois premier and his son henri, you will enjoy your dinner at the hôtel du bon laboureur, though most likely it will be a solitary one, and you will be put to bed in a great chamber overlooking the park, through which peep, in the moonlight, the turrets of the château, and you may hear the purling of the waters of the cher as it flows below the walls. jean jacques rousseau, like françois i., called chenonceaux a beautiful place, and he was right; it is all of that and more. here one comes into direct contact with an atmosphere which, if not feudal, or even mediæval, is at least that of several hundred years ago. chenonceaux is moored like a ship in the middle of the rapidly running cher, a dozen miles or more above where that stream enters the loire. as a matter of fact, the château practically bridges the river, which flows under its foundations and beneath its drawbridge on either side, besides filling the moat with water. the general effect is as if the building were set in the midst of the stream and formed a sort of island château. round about is a gentle meadow and a great park, which give to this turreted architectural gem of touraine a setting which is equalled by no other château. what the château was in former days we can readily imagine, for nothing is changed as to the general disposition. boats came to the water-gate, as they still might do if such boats still existed, in true, pictorial legendary fashion. to-day, the present occupant has placed a curiosity on the ornamental waters in the shape of a gondola. it is out of keeping with the grand fabric of the château, and it is a pity that it does not cast itself adrift some night. what has become of the gondolier, who was imported to keep the craft company, nobody seems to know. he is certainly not in evidence, or, if he is, has transformed himself into a groom or a _chauffeur_. the château of chenonceaux is not a very ample structure; not so ample as most photographs would make it appear. it is not tiny, but still it has not the magnificent proportions of blois, of chambord, or even of langeais. it was more a habitation than it was a fortress, a _maison de campagne_, as indeed it virtually became when the connétable de montmorency took possession of the structure in the name of the king, when its builder, thomas bohier, the none too astute minister of finances in normandy, came to grief in his affairs. françois i. came frequently here for "_la chasse_," and his memory is still kept alive by the chambre françois premier. françois held possession till his death, when his son made it over to the "admired of two generations," diane de poitiers. diane's memory will never leave chenonceaux. to-day it is perpetuated in the chambre de diane de poitiers; but the portrait by leonardo da vinci, which was supposed to best show her charms, has now disappeared from the "long gallery" at the château. this portrait was painted at the command of françois, before diane transferred her affections to his son. no one knows when or how diane de poitiers first came to fascinate françois, or how or why her power waned. at any rate, at the time françois pardoned her father, the witless comte de st. vallier, for the treacherous part he played in the bourbon conspiracy, he really believed her to be the "brightest ornament of a beauty-loving court." certainly, diane was a powerful factor in the politics of her time, though françois himself soon tired of her. undaunted by this, she forthwith set her cap for his son henri, the duc d'orleans, and won him, too. of her beauty the present generation is able to judge for itself by reason of the three well-known and excellent portraits of contemporary times. diane's influence over the young henri was absolute. at his death her power was, of course, at an end, and chenonceaux, and all else possible, was taken from her by the orders of catherine, the long-suffering wife, who had been put aside for the fascinations of the charming huntress. it must have been some satisfaction, however, to diane, to know that, in his fatal joust with montgomery, henri really broke his lance and met his death in her honour, for the records tell that he bore her colours on his lance, besides her initials set in gold and gems on his shield. catherine's eagerness to drive diane from the court was so great, that no sooner had her spouse fallen--even though he did not actually die for some days--than she sent word to diane, "who sat weeping alone," to instantly quit the court; to give up the crown jewels--which henri had somewhat inconsiderately given her; and to "give up chenonceaux in touraine," catherine's naboth's vineyard, which she had so long admired and coveted. she had known it as a girl, when she often visited it in company with her father-in-law, the appreciative but dissolute françois, and had ever longed to possess it for her own, before even her husband, now dead, had given it to "that old hag diane de poitiers, duchesse de valentinois." diane paid no heed to catherine's command. she simply asked: "is the king yet dead?" "no, madame," said the messenger, "but his wound is mortal; he cannot live the day." "tell the queen, then," replied diane, "that her reign is not yet come; that i am mistress still over her and the kingdom as long as the king breathes the breath of life." henri was more or less an equivocal character, devoted to diane, and likewise fondone says it with caution--of his wife. he caused to be fashioned a monogram (seen at chenonceaux) after this wise: [monogram depicting two capital letters "d", the second of which is inverted; the letters are interwoven in their "(" and ")" parts, and there is a horizontal bar crossing them in the middle] supposedly indicating his attachment for diane and his wife alike. the various initials of the cipher are in no way involved. diane returned the compliment by decorating an apartment for the king, at her château of anet, with the black and white of the medici arms. the château of chenonceaux, so greatly coveted by catherine when she first came to france, and when it was in the possession of diane, still remains in all the regal splendour of its past. it lies in the lovely valley of the cher, far from the rush and turmoil of cities and even the continuous traffic of great thoroughfares, for it is on the road to nowhere unless one is journeying cross-country from the lower to the upper loire. this very isolation resulted in its being one of the few monuments spared from the furies of the revolution, and, "half-palace and half-château," it glistens with the purity of its former glory, as picturesque as ever, with turrets, spires, and roof-tops all mellowed with the ages in a most entrancing manner. even to-day one enters the precincts of the château proper over a drawbridge which spans an arm of the loire, or rather, a moat which leads directly from the parent stream. on the opposite side are the bridge piers supporting five arches, the work of diane when she was the fair chatelaine of the domain. this ingenious thought proved to be a most useful and artistic addition to the château. it formed a flagged promenade, lovely in itself, and led to the southern bank of the cher, whence one got charming vistas of the turrets and roof-tops of the château through the trees and the leafy avenues which converged upon the structure. [illustration: chÂteau de chenonceaux] when catherine came she did not disdain to make the best use of diane's innovation that suggested itself to her, which was simply to build the "long gallery" over the arches of this lovely bridge, and so make of it a veritable house over the water. a covering was made quite as beautiful as the rest of the structure, and thus the bridge formed a spacious wing of two stories. the first floor--known as the "long gallery"--was intended as a banqueting-hall, and possessed four great full-length windows on either side looking up and down stream, from which was seen--and is to-day--an outlook as magnificently idyllic as is possible to conceive. jean goujon had designed for the ceiling one of those wonder-works for which he was famous, but if the complete plan was ever carried out, it has disappeared, for only a tiny sketch of the whole scheme remains to-day. [illustration: _château of chenonceaux_ (diagram)] catherine came in the early summer to take possession of her long-coveted domain. being a skilful horsewoman, she came on horseback, accompanied by a "_petite bande_" of feminine charmers destined to wheedle political secrets from friends and enemies alike,--a real "_escadron volant de la reine_," as it was called by a contemporary. it was a gallant company that assembled here at this time,--the young king charles ix., the duc de guise, and "two cardinals mounted on mules,"--lorraine, a true guise, and d'este, newly arrived from italy, and accompanied by the poet tasso, wearing a "gabardine and a hood of satin." catherine showed the italian great favour, as was due a countryman, but there was another poet among them as well, ronsard, the poet laureate of the time. the duc de guise had followed in the wake of marguerite, unbeknownst to catherine, who frowned down any possibility of an alliance between the houses of valois and lorraine. a great fête and water-masque had been arranged by catherine to take place on the cher, with a banquet to follow in the long gallery in honour of her arrival at chenonceaux. when twilight had fallen, torches were ignited and myriads of lights blazed forth from the boats on the river and from the windows of the château. music and song went forth into the night, and all was as gay and lovely as a venetian night's entertainment. the hunting-horns echoed through the wooded banks, and through the arches above which the château was built passed great highly coloured barges, including a fleet of gondolas to remind the queen-mother of her italian days,--the ancestors perhaps of the solitary gondola which to-day floats idly by the river-bank just before the grand entrance to the château. from _parterre_ and _balustrade_, and from the clipped yews of the ornamental garden, fairy lamps burned forth and dwindled away into dim infinity, as the long lines of soft light gradually lost themselves in the forest. it was a grand affair and idyllic in its unworldliness. one may not see its like to-day, for electric lights and "rag-time" music, which mostly comprise the attractions of such _al fresco_ pleasures, will hardly produce the same effect. among the great fêtes at chenonceaux will always be recalled that given by the court upon the coming of the youthful françois ii. and mary stuart, after the horrible massacres at amboise. all the renaissance skill of the time was employed in the erection of pompous accessories, triumphal arches, columns, obelisks, and altars. there were innumerable tablets also, bearing inscriptions in latin and greek,--which nobody read,--and a fountain which bore the following: "au saint bal des dryades, a phoebus, ce grand dieu, aux humides nyades, j'ai consacré ce lieu." of chenonceaux and its glories what more can be said than to quote the following lines of the middle ages, which in their quaint old french apply to-day as much as ever they did: "basti si magnifiquement ii est debout, comme un géant, dedans le lit de la rivière, c'est-à-dire dessus un pont qui porte cent toises de long." the part of the edifice which bohier erected in is that through which the visitor makes his entrance, and is built upon the piers of an old mill which was destroyed at that time. catherine bequeathed chenonceaux to the wife of henri iii., louise de vaudémont, who died here in . for a hundred years it still belonged to royalty, but in it was sold to m. dupin, who, with his wife, enriched and repaired the fabric. they gathered around them a company so famous as to be memorable in the annals of art and literature. this is best shown by the citing of such names as fontenelle, montesquieu, buffon, bolingbroke, voltaire, and rousseau, all of whom were frequenters of the establishment, the latter being charged with the education of the only son of m. and madame dupin. considering rousseau's once proud position among his contemporaries, and the favour with which he was received by the nobility, it is somewhat surprising that his struggle for life was so hard. the marquise de créquy wrote in her "souvenirs:" "rousseau left behind him his _mémoires_, which i think for the sake of his memory and fame ought to be much curtailed." and undoubtedly she was right. rousseau wrote in his "confessions:" "in we went to spend the autumn in touraine, at the château of chenonceaux, a royal residence upon the cher, built by henri ii. for diane de poitiers, whose initials are still to be seen there.... we amused ourselves greatly in this fine spot; the living was of the best, and i became fat as a monk. we made a great deal of music and acted comedies." one might imagine, from a stroll through the magnificent halls and galleries of chenonceaux, that rousseau's experiences might be repeated to-day if one were fortunate enough to be asked to sojourn there for a time. the nearest that one can get, however, to becoming personally identified with the château and its life is to sign his name in the great vellum quarto which ultimately will rest in the archives of the château. it is doubtless very wrong to be covetous; but chenonceaux is such a beautiful place and comes so near the ideal habitation of our imagination that the desire to possess it for one's own is but human. in the "galerie louis xiv." were given the first representations of many of rousseau's pieces. one gathers from these accounts of the happenings in the long gallery that it formed no bridge of sighs, and most certainly it did not. its walls resounded almost continually with music and laughter. here in these rooms henri ii. danced and made love and intrigued, while catherine, his queen, was left at blois with her astrologer and his poisons, to eat out her soul in comparative neglect. before the time of the dwelling built by bohier for himself and family on the foundations of the old mill, there was yet a manorhouse belonging to the ancient family of marques, from whom the norman financier bought the site. the tower, seen to-day at the right of the entrance to the château proper,--an expressive relic of feudal times,--was a part of the earlier establishment. to-day it is turned into a sort of _kiosque_ for the sale of photographs, post-cards, and an admirable illustrated guide to the château. the interior of the château to-day presents the following remarkable features: the dining-room of to-day, formerly the salle des gardes, has a ceiling in which the cipher of catherine de medici is interwoven with an arabesque. to the left of this apartment is the entrance to the chapel, which to-day seems a bit incongruously placed, leading as it does from the dining-room. it is but a tiny chapel, but it is as gay and brilliant as if it were still the adjunct of a luxury-loving court, and it has some glass dating from , which, if not remarkable for design or colouring, is quite choice enough to rank as an art treasure of real value. according to viollet-le-duc each feudal seigneur had attached to his château a chapel, often served by a private chaplain, and in some instances by an entire chapter of prelates. these chapels were not simple oratories surrounded by the domestic apartments, but were architectural monuments in themselves, and either entirely isolated, as at amboise, or semi-detached, as at chenonceaux. below, in the sub-basement, at chenonceaux, are the original foundations upon which bohier laid his first stones. here, too, are various chambers, known respectively as the prison, the bains de la reine, the _boulangerie_, etc. chenonceaux to-day is no whited sepulchre. it is a real living and livable thing, and, moreover, when one visits it, he observes that the family burn great logs in their fireplaces, have luxurious bouquets of flowers on their dining-table, and use great wax candles instead of the more prosaic oil-lamps, or worse--acetylene gas. chenonceaux evidently has no thoughts of descending to steam heat and electricity. all this is as it should be, for when one visits a shrine like this he prefers to find it with as much as possible of the old-time atmosphere remaining. chambord is bare and suggestive of the tomb, in spite of the splendour of its outline and proportions; pierrefonds, in the north, is more so, and so would be blois except for its restored or imitation decorations; but here at chenonceaux all is different, and breathes the spirit of other days as well as that of to-day. it is, perhaps, not exactly as diane left it, or as rousseau knew it under the régime of the dupins, since, after many changings of hands, it became the property of the _crédit foncier_, by whom it was sold in to mr. terry, an american. chenonceaux has two other architectural monuments which are often overlooked under the spell of the more magnificent château. in the village is a small renaissance church--in which the renaissance never rose to any very great heights--which is here far more effective and beautiful than usually are renaissance churches of any magnitude. there is also a sixteenth-century stone house in the same style and even more successful as an expression of the art of the time. it is readily found by inquiry, and is known as the "maison des pages de françois i." chapter ix. loches much may be written of loches, of its storied past, of its present-day quaintness, and of its wealth of architectural monuments. its church is certainly the most curious religious edifice in all france, judging from a cross-section of the vaults and walls. more than all else, however, loches is associated in our minds with the memory of agnes sorel. within the walls of the old collegiate church the lovely mistress of charles vii. was buried in ; but later her remains and tomb were removed to one of the towers of the ancient castle of loches, where they now are. she had amply endowed the church, but they would no longer give shelter to her remains, so her bones were removed five hundred years later. the statue which surmounts her tomb, as seen to-day, represents the "gentille agnes" in all her loveliness, with folded hands on breast, a kneeling angel at her head and a couchant lamb at her feet,--a reminder of her innocence, said henry james, but surely he nodded when he said it. lovely she was, and good in her way, but innocent she was not, as we have come to know the word. [illustration: _loches_] it is fitting to recall that charles vii. was not the only monarch who sang her praises, for it was françois i. who, many years later, wrote those lines beginning: "gentille agnes, plus de loz tu mérites." whether one comes to loches by road or by rail, the first impression is the same; he enters at once into a sleepy, old-world town which has practically nothing of modernity about it except the electric lights. there is but one way to realize the immense wealth of architectural monuments centred at loches, and that is to see the city for the first time, as, perhaps, françois premier saw it when he journeyed from amboise, and came upon it from the heights of the forest of loches. the city has not grown much since that day. then it had three thousand eight hundred souls, and now it has five thousand. here, in the forêt de loches, henry ii. of england built a monastery,--yet to be seen,--known as the chartreuse du liget, in repentance, or, perhaps, as a penance for the murder of becket. over the doorway of this monastery was graven: anglorum henricus rex thomÆ coede cruentus, ligeticos fundat cartusia monakos. to-day the monastery is the property of a m. de marsay, and therefore not open to the public; but the chapelle du liget, near by, is a fine contemporary church of the thirteenth century, well worth the admiration too infrequently bestowed upon it. the first view of loches must really be much as it was in françois's time, except, perhaps, that the roadway down from the forest has improved, as roads have all over france, and fruit-trees and vineyards planted out, which, however, in no way change the aspect when the town is first seen in the dim haze of an early november morning. it is the sky-line _ensemble_ of the châteaux of the renaissance period which is their most varied feature. no two are alike, and yet they are all wonderfully similar in that they cut the sky with turret, tower, and chimney in a way which suggests nothing as much as the architecture of fairy-land. the artists who illustrated the old fairy-tale books and drew castles wherein dwelt beautiful maidens could nowhere have found more real inspiration than among the châteaux of the loire, the cher, and the indre. loches is a veritable mediæval town, and it is even more than that, for its history dates back into the earliest years of feudal times. loches is one of those _soi-disant_ french towns not great enough to be a metropolis, and yet quite indifferent to the affairs of the outside world. the only false notes are those sounded by the various hawkers and cadgers for the visitor's money, who have hired various old mediæval structures, within the walls, and assure one that in the basement of their establishment there are fragments "recently discovered,"--this in english,--quite worth the price of admission which they charge you to peer about in a gloomy hole of a cellar, littered with empty wine-bottles and rubbish of all sorts. all this is delightful enough to the simon-pure antiquarian; but even he likes to dig things out for himself, and the householders can't all expect to find _cachots_ in their sub-cellars or iron cages in their garrets unless they manufacture them. the old town, in spite of its lack of modernity, is full of surprises and contrasts that must make it very livable to one who cares to spend a winter within its walls. he may walk about on the ramparts on sunny days; may fish in the indre, below the mill; and, if he is an artist, he will find, within a comparatively small area, much more that is exceedingly "paintable" than is usually found in the fishing-villages of brittany or on the sand-dunes of the pas de calais, "artist's sketching-grounds" which have been pretty well worked of late. [illustration: _loches and its church_] the history of loches is so varied and vivid that it is easy to account for the many remains of feudal and renaissance days now existing. the derivation of its name is in some doubt. loches was unquestionably the luccæ of the romans, but the armorican celts had the word _loc'h_, meaning much the same thing,--_un marais_,--which is also wonderfully like the _loch_ known to-day in the place-names of scotland and the _lough_ of ireland. partisans may take their choice. in the fifth century a monastery was founded here by st. ours, which ultimately gave its name to the collegiate church which exists to-day. a château, or more probably a fortress, appeared in the sixth century. the city was occupied by the franks in the seventh century, but by it had become united with aquitaine. pepin sacked it in , and charles le chauve made it a seat of a hereditary government which, by alliance, passed to the house of anjou in , to whom it belonged up to . jean-sans-terre gave it to france in . richard coeur de lion apparently resented this, for he retook it in the year following. in , philippe-auguste besieged chinon and loches simultaneously, and took the latter after a year, when he made it a fief, and gave it to dreux de mello, constable of france, who in turn sold it to st. louis. the château of loches became first a fortress, guarding the ancient roman highway from the blaisois to aquitaine, then a prison, and then a royal residence, to which charles vii. frequently repaired with agnes sorel, which calls up again the strangely contrasting influences of the two women whose names have gone down in history linked with that of charles vii. "louis xi. aggrandized the château," says a french authority, "and perfected the prisons," whatever that may mean. he did, we know, build those terrible dungeons far down below the surface of the ground, where daylight never penetrated. they were perfect enough in all conscience as originally built, at least as perfect as the celebrated iron cage in which he imprisoned cardinal balue. the cage is not in its wonted place to-day, and only a ring in the wall indicates where it was once made fast. charles viii. added the great round tower; but it was not completed until the reign of louis xii. françois i., in a not too friendly meeting, received charles quint here in , just previous to his visit to amboise. marie de medici, on escaping from blois, stopped at the château at the invitation of the governor, the duc d'epernon, who sped her on her way, as joyfully as possible, to angoulême. the château itself is the chief attraction of interest, just as it is the chief feature of the landscape when viewed from afar. of course it is understood that, when one speaks of the château at loches, he refers to the collective châteaux which, in more or less fragmentary form, go to make up the edifice as it is to-day. whether we admire most the structure of geoffrey grise-gonelle, the elegant edifice of the fifteenth century, or the additions of charles vii., louis xi., charles viii., louis xii., or henri iii., we must conclude that to know this conglomerate structure intimately one must actually live with it. nowhere in france--perhaps in no country--is there a château that suggests so stupendously the story of its past. the chief and most remarkable features are undoubtedly the great rectangular keep or donjon, and the tour neuf or tour ronde. the first, in its immensity, quite rivals the best examples of the kind elsewhere, if it does not actually excel them in dimensions. it is, moreover, according to de caumont, the most beautiful of all the donjons of france. as a state prison it confined jean, duc d'alençon, pierre de brézé, and philippe de savoie. the tour ronde is a great cylinder flanked with dependencies which give it a more or less irregular form. it encloses the prison where were formerly kept the famous cages, the invention of cardinal balue, who himself became their first victim. the tour ronde is reminiscent of two great female figures in the mediæval portrait gallery,--agnes sorel and anne de bretagne. the tomb of agnes sorel is here, and the duchesse anne made an oratory in this grim tower, from which she sent up her prayer for the success and unity of the political plans which inspired her marriage into the royal family of france. it is a daintily decorated chamber, with the queen's family device, the ermine with its twisted necklet, prominently displayed. in the passage which conducts to the dungeons of this great round tower, one reads this ironical invitation: "_entrés, messieurs, ches le roy nostre mestre_" (_o.f._). that portion of the collective châteaux facing to the north is now occupied by the sous-préfecture, and is more after the manner of the residential châteaux of the loire than of a fortress-stronghold or prison. before this portion stands the famous chestnut-tree, planted, it is said, by françois i., "and large enough to shelter the whole population of loches beneath its foliage," says the same doubtful authority. under a fifteenth-century structure, called the martelet, are the true dungeons of loches. here one is shown the cell occupied for nine years by the poor ludovic sforza, who died in , from the mere joy of being liberated. more deeply hidden still is the famous prison des Évêques of the era of françois i. and the dungeon of comte de st. vallier, the father of the fascinating diane, who herself was the means of securing his liberation by "fascinating the king," as one french writer puts it. this may be so. st. vallier _was_ liberated, we know, and the susceptible françois _was_ fascinated, though he soon tired of diane and her charms. she had the perspicacity, however, to transfer her affections to his son, and so kept up a sort of family relationship. like the historic "prisoner of gisors," the occupants of the dungeons at loches whiled away their lonely hours by inscribing their sentiments upon the walls. only one remains to-day, though fragmentary stone-carved letters and characters are to be seen here and there. he who wrote the following was certainly as cheerful as circumstances would allow: "malgré les ennuis d'une longue souffrance, et le cruel destin dont je subis la loy, il est encort des biens pour moy, le tendre amour et la douce espérance." most of these formidable dungeons of loches were prisons of state until well into the sixteenth century. [illustration: _sketch plan of loches_] beneath, or rather beside, the very walls of the château is the bizarre collegiate church of st. ours. one says bizarre, simply because it is curious, and not because it is unchurchly in any sense of the word, for it is not. its low nave is surmounted by an enormous tower with a stone spire, while there are two other pyramidal erections over the roof of the choir which make the whole look, not like an elephant, as a cynical frenchman once wrote, but rather like a camel with two humps. this strange architectural anomaly is, in parts, almost pagan; certainly its font, a fragment of an ancient altar on which once burned a sacred fire, _is_ pagan. [illustration: _st. ours, loches_] there is a romanesque porch of vast dimensions which is the real artistic expression of the fabric, dressed with extraordinary primitive sculptures of saints, demons, stryges, gnomes, and all manner of outré things. all these details, however, are chiselled with a masterly conception. behind this exterior vestibule the first bays of the nave form another, a sort of an inner vestibule, which carries out still further the unique arrangement of the whole edifice. this portion of the structure dates from a consecration of the year , which therefore classes it as of very early date,--indeed, few are earlier. most of the church, however, is of the twelfth century, including another great pyramid which rises above the nave and the two smaller ones just behind the spire. the side-aisles of the nave were added between the twelfth and fifteenth centuries, while only the stalls and the tabernacle are as recent as the sixteenth. the eastern end is triapsed, an unusual feature in france. from this one realizes, quite to the fullest extent possible, the antiquity and individuality of the Église de st. ours at loches. the quaint renaissance hôtel-de-ville was built by the architect jean beaudoin ( - ), from sums raised, under letters patent from françois i., by certain _octroi_ taxes. from the fact that through its lower story passes one of the old city entrances, it has come to be known also as the porte picoys. in every way it is a worthy example of renaissance civic architecture. in the rue de château is a remarkable renaissance house, known as the chancellerie, which dates from the reign of henri ii. it has most curious sculptures on its façade interspersed with the devices of royalty and the inscription: ivstitia regno, prudentia nutrisco. the tour st. antoine serves to-day as the city's belfry. it is all that remains of a church, demolished long since, which was built in - , in imitation of st. gatien's of tours. doubtless it was base in many of its details, as is its more famous compeer at tours; but, if the old tower which remains is any indication, it must have been an elaborate and imposing work of the late gothic and early renaissance era. as a literary note, lovers of dumas's romances will be interested in the fact that in the hôtel de la couroirie at loches a body of protestants captured the celebrated chicot, the jester of henri iii. and henri iv. loches has a near neighbour in beaulieu, which formerly possessed an ardent hatred for its more progressive and successful contemporary, loches. its very name has been perverted by local historians as coming from bellilocus, "the place of war," and not "_le lieu d'un bel aspect_." the abbey church at beaulieu was built by the warlike foulques nerra (in - ), who usually built fortresses and left church-building to monks and bishops. it is a remarkable romanesque example, though, since the fifteenth century, it has been mostly in ruins. foulques nerra himself, whose countenance had "_la majesté de celui d'un ange_," found his last resting-place within its walls, which also sheltered much rich ornament, to-day greatly defaced, though that of the nave, which is still intact, is an evidence of its former worth. the abbatial residence, still existent, has a curious exterior pulpit built into the wall, examples of which are not too frequent in france. agnes sorel, the belle of belles, lived here for a time in a house near the porte de guigné, which bears a great stone _panonceau_, from which the armorial bearings have to-day disappeared. it is another notable monument to "the most graceful woman of her times," and without doubt has as much historic value as many another more popular shrine of history. in connection with agnes sorel, who was so closely identified with loches and beaulieu, it is to be recalled that she was known to the chroniclers of her time as "_la dame de beauté-sur-marne_,"--a place which does not appear in the books of the modern geographers. it may be noted, too, that it was the encouragement of the "_belle des belles_" of charles vii. that, in a way, contributed to that monarch's success in politics and arms, for her sway only began with jeanne d'arc's supplication at gien and chinon. tradition has it, indeed, that it was the "gentille agnes" who put the sword of victory in his hands when he set out on his campaign of reconquest. thus does the jeanne d'arc legend receive a damaging blow. [illustration: _tours_] the château of sausac, an elegant edifice of the sixteenth century, completely restored in later days, is near by. chapter x. tours and about there tours, above all other of the ancient capitals of the french provinces, remains to-day a _ville de luxe_, the elegant capital of a land balmy and delicious; a land of which dante sung: "terra molle, e dolce e dilettosa...." it is not a very grand town as the secondary cities of france go; not like rouen or lyons, bordeaux or marseilles; but it is as typical a reflection of the surrounding country as any, and therein lies its charm. one never comes within the influence of its luxurious, or, at least, easy and comfortable appointments, its distinctly modern and up-to-date railway station, its truly magnificent modern hôtel de ville, its well-appointed hotels and cafés and its luxurious shops, but that he realizes all this to a far greater extent than in any other city of france. and again, referring to the material things of life, everything is most comfortable, and the restaurants and hotels most attractive in their fare. tours is truly one provincial capital where the _cuisine bourgeoise_ still lives. touraine, and tours in particular, besides many other things, is noted for its hotels. their praises have been sung often and loudly, not forgetting henry james's praise of the hôtel de l'univers, which is all one expects to find it and more. the same may be said of the hôtel du croissant, with the added opinion that it serves the most bountiful and excellent _déjeuner_ to be had in all provincial france. it is difficult to say just what actually causes all this excellence and abundance, except that the catering there is an easy and pleasurable occupation. the rue nationale--"_toujours et vraiment royale_"--is the great artery of tours running riverwards. on it circulates all the life of the city. to the right is the quartier de la cathédrale, where are assembled the great houses of the nobility--or such of them as are left--and of the old _bourgeoisie tourangelle_. to the left are the streets of the workers, a silk-mill or two, and the printing-offices. tours is and always has been celebrated for the number and size of its _imprimeries_, with which, in olden times, the name of the great christopher plantin, the master printer of antwerp, was connected. to-day, tours's greatest establishment is that of alfred mame et fils, known throughout the roman catholic world. [illustration: arms of the printers, _avocats_, and innkeepers, tours] the printers and booksellers of the middle ages were favoured persons, and their rank was high. in the days of solemn processions the booksellers led the way, followed by the paper-makers, the parchment-makers, the scribes,--who had not wholly died out,--the binders and the illuminators. in these days the printers were granted an emblazoned arms, which was characteristic and distinguished. the same was true of the _avocats_, who bore upon their escutcheon a gowned figure, with something very like a halo surrounding its head. the innkeepers went one better, and had a bishop with an undeniable halo. this is curious and inexplicable in the light of our modern conception of similar things, but it's better than a shield with quarterings representing half a canal-boat and half a locomotive, which was recently adopted by an enterprising watering-place which shall be nameless. in the same ancient quarter are the old towers of charlemagne and st. martin. this part of the town is the nucleus of the old foundation, the site of the _oppidum_ of the _turones_, the _cæsarodunum gallo-romain_, and of the life which centred around the old abbey of st. martin, so venerated and so powerful in the middle ages. to the inviolable refuge of this old abbey came multitudes of christian pilgrims from the world over; the merovingians to undergo the penances imposed upon them by the bishops and clerics in expiation of their crimes. under charlemagne, the abbé alcuin founded great schools of languages, history, astronomy, and music, from which founts of learning went forth innumerable and illustrious religious teachers. all but the two towers of this old religious foundation are gone. the years of the revolution saw the fall of the abbey; a street was cut through the nave of its church, and the two dismembered parts stand to-day as monuments to the sacrilege of modern times. to-day a banal faubourg has sprung up around the site of the abbey, with here and there old tumble-down houses either of wood and stone, such as one reads of in the pages of balzac, or sees in the designs of doré, or with their sides covered with overlapping slates. amid all these is an occasional treasure of architectural art, such as the graceful fountain of beaune, the work of michel colombe, and some remains of early renaissance houses of somewhat more splendid appointments than their fellows, particularly the maison de tristan l'hermite, the hôtel xaincoings, and many exquisite fragments now made over into an _auberge_ or a _cabaret_, which make one dream of rabelais and his gargantua. it is uncertain whether michel colombe, who designed this fountain and also that masterwork, the tomb of the duc françois ii. and marguerite de foix, at nantes, was a tourangeau or a breton, but tours claims him for her own, and settles once for all the spelling of his name by producing a "_papier des affaires_" signed plainly "colombe." the proof lies in this document, signed in a notary's office at tours, concerning payments which were made to him on behalf of the magnificent sepulchre which he executed for the church of st. sauveur at la rochelle. in his time--fifteenth century--colombe had no rivals in the art of monumental sculpture in france, and with reason he has been called the michel ange of france. the cathedral quarter has for its chief attraction that gorgeously florid st. gatien, whose ornate façade was likened by a certain monarch to a magnificently bejewelled casket. it is an interesting and lovable gothic-renaissance church which, if not quite of the first rank among the masterpieces of its kind, is a marvel of splendour, and an example of the "_caprices d'une guipure d'art_," as the french call it. bordering the loire at tours is a series of tree-lined quays and promenades which are the scenes, throughout the spring and summer months, of fêtes and fairs of many sorts. here, too, at the extremity of the rue nationale, are statues of descartes and balzac. the tour de guise on the river-bank recalls the domination of the plantagenet kings of england, who were counts of anjou since it formed a part of the twelfth-century château built here by henry ii. of england. [illustration: scene in the quartier de la cathÉdrale, tours] at the opposite extremity of the city is another other tower, the tour de foubert, which protected the feudal domain of the old abbey of st. martin. the history of days gone by at tours was more churchly than political. once only--during the reign of louis xii.--did the states general meet at tours (in ). then the deputies of the _bourgeoisie_ met alone for their deliberations, the chief outcome of which was to bestow upon the king the eminently fitting title of "père du peuple." one may question the righteousness of louis xii. in throwing over his wife, jeanne de france, in order to serve political ends by acquiring the estates of anne of brittany for the crown of france for ever, but there is no doubt but that he did it for the "_good of his people_." the principal literary shrine at tours is the house, in the rue nationale, where was born honoré de balzac. one could not do better than to visit tours during the "_été de st. martin_," since it was the soldier-priest of tours who gave his name to that warm, bright prolongation of summer which in france (and in england) is known as "st. martin's summer," and which finds its counterpart in america's "indian summer." the legend tells us that somewhere in the dark ages lived a soldier named martin. he was always of a charitable disposition, and none asked alms of him in vain. one november day, when the wind blew briskly and the snow fell fast, a beggar asked for food and clothing. martin had but his own cloak, and this he forthwith tore in half and gave one portion to the beggar. later on the same night there came a knocking at martin's door; the snow had ceased falling and the stars shone brightly, and one of goodly presence stood with the cloak on his arm, saying, "i was naked and ye clothed me." martin straightway became a priest of the church, and died an honoured bishop of tours, and for ever after the anniversary of his conversion is celebrated by sunny skies. we owe a double debt to st. martin. we have to thank him for the saying, "_all my eye_" and the words "_chapel_" and "_chaplain_." the full form of the phrase, "_all my eye and betty martin_," which we all of us have often heard, is an obvious corruption of "_o mihi beate martine_," the beginning of an invocation to the saint. the cloak he divided with a naked beggar, which, by the way, took place at amiens, not at tours, was treasured as a relic by the frankish kings, borne before them in battle, and brought forth when solemn oaths were to be taken. the guardians of this cloak or cape were known as "_cappellani_," whence "_chaplain_," while its sanctuary or "_cappella_" has become "_chapel_." for their descriptions of plessis-les-tours modern english travellers have invariably turned to the pages of sir walter scott. this is all very well in its way, but it is also well to remember that scott drew his picture from definite information, and it is not merely the product of his imaginary architectural skill. in this respect scott was certainly far ahead of carlyle in his estimates of french matters. "even in those days" (writing of "quentin durward"), said scott, "when the great found themselves obliged to reside in places of fortified strength, it" (plessis-les-tours) "was distinguished for the extreme and jealous care with which it was watched and defended." all this is substantiated and corroborated by authorities, and, while it may have been chosen by scott merely as a suitable accessory for the details of his story, plessis-les-tours unquestionably was a royal stronghold of such proportions as to be but meanly suggested by the scanty remains of the present day. louis xi. dreamed fondly of plessis-les-tours (plessis being from the latin _plexitium_, a name borne by many suburban villages of france), and he sought to make it a royal residence where he should be safe from every outward harm. it had four great towers, crenelated and machicolated, after the best gothic fortresses of the time. at the four angles of the protecting walls were the principal logis, and between the lines of its ramparts or fosses was an advance-guard of buildings presumably intended for the vassals in time of danger. this was the castle as louis first knew it, when it was the property of the chamberlain of the duchy of luynes, from whom the king bought it for five thousand and five hundred _écus d'or_,--the value of fifty thousand francs of to-day. its former appellation, montilz-les-tours, was changed ( ) to plessis. all the chief features have disappeared, and to-day it is but a scrappy collection of tumble-down buildings devoted to all manner of purposes. a few fragmentary low-roofed vaults are left, and a brick and stone building, flanked by an octagonal tower, containing a stairway; but this is about all of the former edifice, which, if not as splendid as some other royal residences, was quite as effectively defended and as suitable to its purposes as any. [illustration: _plessis-les-tours. in the time of louis xi_] it had, too, within its walls a tiny chapel dedicated to our lady of cléry, before whose altar the superstitious louis made his inconstant devotions. once a great forest surrounded the château, and was, as scott says, "rendered dangerous and well-nigh impracticable by snares and traps armed with scythe-blades, which shred off the unwary traveller's limbs ... and calthrops that would pierce your foot through, and pitfalls deep enough to bury you in them for ever." to-day the forest has disappeared, "lost in the night of time," as a french historian has it. the detailed description in "quentin durward" is, however, as good as any, and, if one has no reference works in french by him, he may well read the dozen or more pages which sir walter devotes to the further description of the castle. perhaps, after all, it is fitting that a scot should have written so enthusiastically of it, for the castle itself was guarded by the scottish archers, "to the number of three hundred gentlemen of the best blood of scotland." an anonymous poet has written of the ancient glory of this retreat of louis's as follows: "un imposant château se présente à la vue, par des portes de fer l'entrée est défendue; les murs en sont épais et les fossés profonds; on y voit des créneaux, des tours, des bastions, et des soldats armés veillent sur ses murailles." frame this with such details as the surrounding country supplies, the cher on one side, the loire on the other, and the fertile hills of st. cyr, of ballon, and of joué, and one has a picture worthy of the greatest painter of any time. louis xi. died at plessis, after having lived there many years. louis xii. made of it a _rendezvous de chasse_, but françois ii. confided its care to a governor and would never live in it. louis xiv. gave the governorship as a hereditary perquisite to the widow of the seigneur de sausac. in it was used as a sort of retreat for the indigent, though happily enough touraine was never overburdened with this class of humanity. under louis xv. a mademoiselle deneux, a momentary rival of la pompadour and du barry, found a retreat here. later it became a _maison de correction_, and finally a _dépôt militaire_. at the time of the revolution it was declared to be national property, and on the _nineteenth nivoise, year iv._, citizen cormeri, justice of the peace at tours, fixed its value at one hundred and thirty-one thousand francs. to-day it is as bare and uncouth as a mere barracks or as a disused flour-mill, and its ruins are visited partly because of their former historical glories, as recalled by students of french history, and partly because of the glamour which was shed over it, for english readers, by scott. sixty years ago a french writer deplored the fact that, on leaving these scanty remains of a so long gone past, he observed a notice nailed to a pillar of the _porte-cochère_ reading: la ferme du plessis o louer ou a vendre to-day some sort of a division and rearrangement of the property has been made, but the result is no less mournful and sad, and thus a glorious page of the annals of france has become blurred. it is interesting to recall what manner of persons composed the household of louis xi. when he resided at plessis-les-tours. commines, his historian, has said that habitually it consisted of a chancellor, a _juge de l'hôtel_, a private secretary, and a treasurer, each having under him various employees. in addition there was a master of the pantry, a cupbearer, a _chef de bouche_ and a _chef de cuisine_, a _fruitier_, a master of the horse, a quartermaster or master-at-arms, and, in immediate control of these domestic servants, a _seneschal_ or _grand maître_. in many respects the household was not luxuriously conducted, for the parsimonious louis lived fully up to the false maxim: "_qui peu donne, beaucoup recueille._" louis himself was fond of doing what the modern housewife would call "messing about in the kitchen." he did not dabble at cookery as a pastime, or that sort of thing; but rather he kept an eagle eye on the whole conduct of the affairs of the household. one day, coming to the kitchen _en négligé_, he saw a small boy turning a spit before the fire. "and what might you be called?" said he, patting the lad on the shoulder. "etienne," replied the _marmiton_. "thy _pays_, my lad?" "le berry." "thy age?" "fifteen, come st. martin's." "thy wish?" "to be as great as the king" (he had not recognized his royal master). "and what wishes the king?" "his expenses to become less." the reply brought good fortune for the lad, for louis made him his _valet de chambre_, and took him afterward into his most intimate confidence. louis was fond of _la chasse_, and scott does not overlook this fact in "quentin durward." when affairs of state did not press, it was the king's greatest pleasure. for the royal hunt no pains or expense were spared. the carriages were without an equal elsewhere in the courts of europe, and the hunting establishment was equipped with _chiens courants_ from spain, _levriers_ from bretagne, _bassets_ from valence, mules from sicily, and horses from naples. the attractions of the environs of tours are many and interesting: st. symphorien, varennes, the grottoes of ste. radegonde, and the site of that most famous abbey of marmoutier, also a foundation of st. martin. here, under the name martinus monasterium, grew up an immense and superb establishment. from an old seventeenth-century print one quotes the following couplet: "de quel côté que le vent vente marmoutier a cens et rente." from this one infers that the abbey's original functions are performed no more. [illustration: _environs of tours_] in the middle ages (thirteenth century) it was one of the most powerful institutions of its class, and its church one of the most beautiful in touraine. the tower and donjon are the only substantial remains of this early edifice. a curious chapel, called the "chapelle des sept dormants," is here cut in the form of a cross into the rock of the hillside, where are buried the remains of the seven sleepers, the disciples of st. martin, who, as the holy man had predicted, all died on the same day. beyond marmoutier, a stairway of steps, cut also in the rock, leads to the plateau on which stands the gaunt and ugly lanterne de rochecorbon, a fourteenth-century construction with a crenelated summit, an unlovely companion of that even more enigmatic erection known as "la pile," a few miles down the loire at cinq-mars. chapter xi. luynes and langeais below tours, and before reaching saumur, are a succession of panoramic surprises which are only to be likened to those of our imagination, but they are very real nevertheless. as one leaves tours by the road which skirts the right bank of the loire, he is once more impressed by the fact that the _cailloux de loire_ are the river's chief product, though fried fish, of a similar variety to those found in the seine, are found on the menus of all roadside taverns and restaurants. still, the effect of the uncovered bed of the loire, with its variegated pebbles and mirror-like pools, is infinitely more picturesque than if it were mud flats, and its tree-bordered banks are for ever opening great alleyed vistas such as are only known in france. the hills on either bank are not of the stupendous and magnificently scenic order of those of the seine above and below rouen; but, such as they are, they are of much the same composition, a soft talcy formation which here serves admirably the purposes of cliff-dwellings for the vineyard and wine-press workers, who form practically the sole population of the loire villages from vouvray, just above tours, to saumur far below. on the hillsides are the vineyards themselves, growing out of the thin layer of soil in shades of red and brown and golden, which no artist has ever been able to copy, for no one has painted the rich colouring of a vineyard in a manner at all approaching the original. not far below tours, on the right bank, rise the towers and turrets of the château de luynes, hanging perilously high above the lowland which borders upon the river. an unpleasant tooting tram gives communication a dozen times a day with tours, but few, apparently, patronize it except peasants with market-baskets, and vineyard workers going into town for a jollification. it is perhaps just as well, for the fine little town of luynes, which takes its name from the château which has been the residence of a comte de luynes since the days of louis xiii., would be quite spoiled if it were on the beaten track. [illustration: a vineyard of vouvray] the brusque façade of the château de luynes makes a charming interior, judging from the descriptions and drawings which are to be met with in an elaborately prepared volume devoted to its history. the stranger is allowed to enter within the gates of the courtyard, beneath the grim coiffed towers; but he may visit only certain apartments. he will, however, see enough to indicate that the edifice was something more than a mere _maison de campagne_. all the attributes of an important fortress are here, great, round, thickly built towers, with but few exterior windows, and those high up from the ground. there is nothing of luxurious elegance about it, and its aspect is forbidding, though imposing. the château belies its looks somewhat, for it was built only in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, when, in most of its neighbours, the more or less florid renaissance was in vogue. a renaissance structure in stone and brick forms a part of that which faces on the interior court, and is flanked by a fine octagonal "_tour d'escalier_." from the terrace of the courtyard one gets an impressive view of the loire, which glides by two or more kilometres away, and of the towers and roof-tops of tours, and the vine-carpeted hills which stretch away along the river's bank in either direction. the château of luynes is still in the possession of a duc de luynes, through whose courtesy one may visit such of the apartments as his servants are allowed to show. it is not so great an exhibition, nor so good a one, as is to be had at langeais; but it is satisfactory as far as it goes, and, when it is supplemented by the walks and views which are to be had on the plateau, upon which the grim-towered château sits, the memory of it all becomes most pleasurable. the former ducs de luynes were continually appearing in the historic events of the later renaissance period, but it was only with louis xiii., he who would have put france under the protection of the virgin, that the chatelain of luynes came to a position of real power. louis made albert, the gascon, both duc de luynes and connétable de france, and thereby gave birth to a tyrant whom he hated and feared, as he did his mother, his wife, and his minister, richelieu. [illustration: _mediæval stairway and the château de luynes_] the site occupied by the château of luynes is truly marvellous, though, as a matter of fact, there is no great magnificence about the proportions of the château itself. it is piled gracefully on the top of a table-land which rises abruptly from the loire and has a charmingly quaint old town nestled confidingly below it, as if for protection. one reaches the château by any one of a half-dozen methods, by the highroad which bends around in hairpin curves until it reaches the plateau above, by various paths across or around the vineyards of the hillside, or by a quaintly cut mediæval stairway, levelled and terraced in the gravelly soil until it ends just beneath the frowning walls of the château itself. from this point one gets quite the most imposing aspect of the château to be had, its towers and turrets piercing the sky high above the head, and carrying the mind back to the days when civilization meant something more--or less--than it does to-day, with the toot of a steam-tram down below on the river's bank and the midday whistles of the factories of tours rending one's ears the moment he forgets the past and recalls the present. to-day the château de luynes is modern, at least to the extent that it is lived in, and has all the refinements of a modern civilization; but one does not realize all this from an exterior contemplation, and only as one strolls through the apartments publicly shown, and gets glimpses of electrical conveniences and modern arrangements, does he wonder how far different it may have been before all this came to pass. built in early renaissance times, the château has all the peculiarities of the feudal period, when window-openings were few and far between, and high up above the level of the pavement. in feudal and warlike times this often proved an admirable feature; but one would have thought that, with the beginning of the renaissance, a more ample provision would have been made for the admission of sunshine. the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of this really great architectural monument is undoubtedly the façade of the beautiful fifteenth-century courtyard. there is nothing even remotely feudal here, but a purely decorative effect which is as charming in its way as is the exterior façade of azay-le-rideau. "a poem," it has been called, "in weather-worn timber and stone," and the simile could hardly be improved upon. the town, too, or such of it as immediately adjoins the château, is likewise charming and quaint, and sleepily indolent as far as any great activity is concerned. luynes was the seat of a seigneurie until , when it became a possession of the comte de maillé. finally it came to charles d'albert, known as "d'albert de luynes," a former page to henri iv., who afterward became the favourite and the guardian of the seals of louis xiv.; and thus the earlier foundation of maillé became known as luynes. except for its old houses of wood and stone, its old wooden market-house, and its tortuous streets of stairs, there are few features here, except the château, which take rank as architectural monuments of worth. the church is a modern structure, built after the romanesque manner and wholly without warmth and feeling. from the height on which stands the château of luynes one sees, as his eye follows the course of the loire to the southwestward, the gaunt, unbeautiful "pile" of cinq-mars. the origin of this singular square tower, looking for all the world like a factory chimney or some great ventilating-shaft, is lost far back in carlovingian, or perhaps roman, times. it is a mystery to archæologists and antiquarians, some claiming it to be a military monument, others a beacon by land, and yet others believing it to be of some religious significance. at all events, all the explanations ignore the four _pyramidions_ of its topmost course, and these, be it remarked, are quite the most curious feature of the whole fabric. to many the name of the little town of cinq-mars will suggest that of the marquis de cinq-mars, a court favourite of louis xiii. it was the ambitious but unhappy career at court of this young gallant which ultimately resulted in his death on the scaffold, and in the razing, by richelieu, of his ancestral residence, the castle of cinq-mars, "to the heights of infamy." the expression is a curious one, but history so records it. all that is left to-day to remind one of the stronghold of the d'effiats of cinq-mars are its two crumbling gate-towers with an arch between and a few fragmentary foundation walls which follow the summit of the cliff behind "la pile." the little town of not more than a couple of thousand inhabitants nestles in a bend of the loire, where there is so great a breadth that it looks like a long-drawn-out lake. the low hills, so characteristic of these parts, stretch themselves on either bank, unbroken except where some little streamlet forces its way by a gentle ravine through the scrubby undergrowth. oaks and firs and huge limestone cliffs jut out from the top of the hillside on the right bank and shelter the town which lies below. [illustration: _ruins of cinq-mars_] cinq-mars is a miniature metropolis, though not a very progressive one at first sight; indeed, beyond its long main street and its houses, which cluster about its grim, though beautiful, tenth and twelfth century church, there are few signs of even provincial importance. in reality cinq-mars is the centre of a large and important wine industry, where you may hear discussed, at the _table d'hôte_ of its not very readily found little inn, the poor prices which the usually abundant crop always brings. the native even bewails the fact that he is not blessed with a poor season or two and then he would be able to sell his fine vintages for something more than three sous a litre. by the time it reaches paris this _vin de touraine_ of commerce has aggrandized itself so that it commands two francs fifty centimes on the boulevards, and a franc fifty in the university quarter. the fall of henri cinq-mars was most pathetic, though no doubt moralists will claim that because of his covetous ambitions he deserved nothing better. he went up to paris from touraine, a boy of twenty, and was presented to the king, who was immediately impressed by his distinguished manners. from infancy cinq-mars had been a lover of life in the open. he had hunted the forests of touraine, and had angled the waters of the loire, and thus he came to give a new zest to the already sad life of louis xiii. honour after honour was piled upon him until he was made grand seneschal of france and master of the king's horse, at which time he dropped his natal patronymic and became known as "monsieur le grand." cinq-mars fell madly in love with marion delorme and wished to make her "madame la grande," but the dowager marquise de cinq-mars would not hear of it: mlle. marion delorme, the aspasia of her day, would be no honour to the ancestral tree of the effiats of cinq-mars. headstrong and wilful, one early morning, monsieur le grand and his beloved, then only thirty, took coach from her hotel in the rue des tournelles at paris for the old family castle in touraine, sitting high on the hills above the feudal village which bore the name of cinq-mars. in the chapel they were secretly married, and for eight days the proverbial marriage-bell rang true. their nemesis appeared on the ninth day in the person of the dowager, and cinq-mars told his mother that the whole affair was simply a _passe temps_, and that mlle. delorme was still mlle. delorme. his mother would not be deceived, however, and she flew for succour to richelieu, who himself was more than slightly acquainted with the charms of the fair marion. this was cinq-mars's downfall. he advised the king "by fair means or foul, let richelieu die," and the king listened. a conspiracy was formed, by cinq-mars and others, to do away with the cardinal, _and even the king_, at whose death gaston of orleans was to be proclaimed regent for his nephew, the infant louis xiv. the court went to narbonne, on the mediterranean, that it might be near aid from spain; all of which was a subterfuge of cinq-mars. the rest moves quickly: richelieu discovered the plot; cinq-mars attempted to flee disguised as a spaniard, was captured and brought as a prisoner to the castle at montpellier. richelieu had proved the more powerful of the two; but he was dying, and this is the reason, perhaps, why he hurried matters. cinq-mars, "the amiable criminal," went to the torture-chamber, and afterward to the scaffold. "then," say the old chronicles, "richelieu ordered that the feudal castle of cinq-mars, in the valley of the loire, should be blown up, and the towers razed to the height of infamy." from cinq-mars to langeais, whose château is really one of the most appealing sights of the loire, the characteristics of the country are topographically and economically the same; green hills slope, vine-covered, to the river, with here and there a tiny rivulet flowing into the greater stream. as at cinq-mars, the chief commodity of langeais is wine, rich, red wine and pale amber, too, but all of it wine of a quality and at a price which would make the city-dweller envious indeed. there are two distinct châteaux at langeais; at least, there is _the_ château, and just beyond the ornamental stone-carpet of its courtyard are the ruins of one of the earliest donjons, or keeps, in all france. it dates from the year , and was built by the celebrated comte d'anjou, foulques nerra, "_un criminel dévoyé des hommes et de dieu_," whose hobby, evidently, was building châteaux, as his "follies" in stone are said to have encumbered the land in those old days. taken and retaken, dismantled and in part razed in the fifteenth century, it gave place to the present château by the orders of louis xi. [illustration: _château de langeais_] the château de langeais of to-day is a robust example of its kind; its walls, flanked by great hooded towers, have a surrounding "_guette_," or gallery, which served as a means of communication from one part of the establishment to another and, in warlike times, allowed boiling oil or melted lead, or whatever they may have used for the purpose, to be poured down upon the heads of any besiegers who had the audacity to attack it. there is no glacis or moat, but the machicolations, sixty feet or more up from the ground, must have afforded a well-nigh perfect means of repelling a near attack. altogether langeais is a redoubtable little château of the period, and its aspect to-day has changed but very little. "it is the swan-song of expiring feudalism," said the abbé bosseboeuf. one gets a thrill of heroic emotion when he views its hardy walls for the first time: "a mountain of stone, a heroic poem of gothic art," it has with reason been called. jean bourré, the minister of louis xi., built the present château about . the chief events of its history were the drawing up within its walls of the "common law" of touraine, by the order of charles vii., and the marriage of charles viii. with anne de bretagne, on the th of december, . the land belonged, in , to pierre de brosse, the minister of philippe-le-hardi; later, to françois d'orleans, son of the celebrated _bâtard_; to the princesse de conti, daughter of the duc de guise; to the families du bellay and d'effiats, barons of cinq-mars; and, finally, to the duc de luynes, in whose hands it remained up to the revolution. honoré de balzac, who may well be called one of the historians of touraine, gave to one of his heroines the name of langeais. to-day, however, the family of langeais does not exist, and, indeed, according to the chronicles, never had any connection with either the donjon of foulques nerra or the château of the fifteenth century. the present owner is m. jacques siegfreid, who has admirably restored and furnished it after the gothic style of the middle ages. the château of langeais, like that of chenonceaux, is occupied, as one learns from a visit to its interior. a lackey of a superior order receives you; you pay a franc for an admission ticket, and the lackey conducts you through nearly, if not quite all, of the apartments. where the family goes during this process it is hard to say, but doubtless they are willing to inconvenience themselves for the benefit of "touring" humanity. the interior, no less than the exterior, impresses one as being something which has lived in the past, and yet exists to-day in all its original glory, for the present proprietor, with the aid of an admirable adviser, m. lucien roy, a parisian architect, has produced a resemblance of its former furnishings which, so far as it goes, is beyond criticism. there is nothing of bareness about it, nor is there an over-luxuriant interpolation of irrelevant things, such as a curator crowds into a museum. in short, nothing more has been done than to attempt to reconstitute a habitation of the fifteenth century. for seventeen years the work has gone on, and there have been collected many authentic furnishings contemporary with the fabric itself, great oaken beds, tables, chairs, benches, tapestries, and other articles. in addition, the decorations have been carried out after the same manner, copied in many cases from contemporary pictures and prints. to-day, the general aspect is that of a peaceful household, with all recollections of feudal times banished for ever. all is tranquil, respectable, and luxurious, and it would take a chronic faultfinder not to be content with the manner with which these admirable restorations and refurnishings have been carried out. one notes particularly the infinite variety and appropriateness of the tiling which goes to make up the floors of these great salons--modern though it is. the great chimneypieces, however, are ancient, and have not been retouched. those in the salle des gardes and the salle where was celebrated the marriage of charles viii. and anne de bretagne, with their ornamentation in the best of gothic, are especially noteworthy. this latter apartment is the chief attraction of the château and the room of which the present dwellers in this charming monument of history are naturally the most proud. to-day it forms the great dining-hall of the establishment. mementos of this marriage, so momentous for france, are exceedingly numerous along the lower loire, but this handsome room quite leads them all. this marriage, and the goods and lands it brought to the crown, had but one stipulation connected with it, and that was that the duchesse anne should be privileged to marry the elderly king's successor, should she survive her royal husband. [illustration: arms of louis xii. and anne de bretagne] louis xii. was not at all opposed to becoming the husband of la duchesse anne after charles viii. had met his death on the tennis-court, because this second marriage would for ever bind to france that great province ruled by the gentle anne. in the salle des gardes are six valuable tapestries representing such heroic figures as cæsar and charlemagne, surrounded by their companions in arms. from the towers, on a clear day, one may see the pyramids of the cathedral at tours rising on the horizon to the northward. below is the château de villandry, where philippe-auguste met henry ii. of england to conclude a memorable peace. to the right is azay-le-rideau, and to the extreme right are the ruined towers of cinq-mars and its pile. nothing could be more delicious on a bright summer's day than the view from the ramparts of langeais over the roof-tops of the charming little town in the foreground. some time after the revolution there was found, in the gardens of the château, the remains of a _chapelle romaine_ which historians, who have searched the annals of antiquity in touraine, claim to have been the chapel in honour of st. sauveur which foulques v., called le jeune, one of the five counts of anjou of that name, constructed upon his return from his voyage to palestine in the twelfth century. to-day it is overgrown with a trellised grapevine and is practically not visible, still it is another architectural monument of the first rank with which the not very ample domain of the château de langeais is endowed. from the courtyard the walls of the château take on a renaissance aspect; a tiny doorway beside the great gate is manifestly renaissance; so, too, are the polygonal towers, with their winding stairs, the pignons and gables of the roof, and what carved stone there is in evidence. three stone stairways which mount by the slender _tourelles_ serve to communicate with the various floors to-day as they did in the times of charles viii. the courtyard itself, with its formal carpet design in stone, its shaded walls, its stone seats, and its roman sarcophagus, is a pleasant retreat, but it has not the seclusion of the larger park, delightful though it is. just before the drawbridge of the old château, that mediæval gateway by which one enters to-day, one sees the maison de rabelais, who is the deity of langeais and chinon, as is balzac that of tours. it is a fine old-time house of a certain amplitude and grandeur among its less splendid fellows, now given over, on the ground floor, to a bakery and pastry-shop. enough is left of its original aspect, and the renaissance decorations of its façade are sufficiently well preserved to stamp it as a worthy abode for the "curé de chinon," who lived here for some years. two other names in literature are connected with langeais: ronsard, the poet, who lived here for a time, and césar-alexis-chichereau, chevalier de la barre, who was a poet and a troubadour of repute. the main street of langeais is still flanked with good gothic and renaissance houses, neither pretentious nor mean, but of that order which sets off to great advantage the walls and towers and porches of the château and the church. this street follows the ancient roman roadway which traversed the valley of the loire through gaul. the river is here crossed by one of those too frequent, though useful, suspension-bridges, with which the loire abounds. the guide-books call it _beau_, but it is not. one has to cross it to reach azay-le-rideau, which lies ten kilometres or more away across the indre. chapter xii. azay-le-rideau, ussÉ, and chinon from langeais, one's obvious route lies towards chinon, via azay-le-rideau and ussé. these latter are practically within the forest, though the forêt de chinon proper does not actually begin until one leaves azay behind, when for twenty kilometres or more one of the most superb forest roads in france crosses many hills and dales until it finally descends into chinon itself. like most forest roads in france, this highway is not flat; it rises and falls with a sheer that is sometimes precipitous, but always with a gravelled surface that gives little dust, and which absorbs water as the sand from the pounce-box of our forefathers dried up ink. this simile calls to mind the fact that in twentieth-century france the pounce-box is still in use, notably at wayside railway stations, where the agent writes you out your ticket and dries it off in a box, not of sand, but of sawdust. to partake of the hospitality of azay-le-rideau one must arrive before four in the afternoon, and not earlier than midday. from the photographs and post-cards by which one has become familiar with azay-le-rideau, it appears like a great country house sitting by itself far away from any other habitation. in england this is often the case, in france but seldom. clustered around the walls of the not very great park which surrounds the château are all manner of shops and cafés, not of the tourist order,--for there is very little here to suggest that tourists ever come, though indeed they do, by twos and threes throughout all the year,--but for the accommodation of the population of the little town itself, which must approximate a couple of thousand souls, all of whom appear to be engaged in the culture of the vine and its attendant pursuits, as the wine-presses, the coopers' shops, and other similar establishments plainly show. there is, moreover, the pleasant smell of fermented grape-juice over all, which, like the odour of the hop-fields of kent, is conducive to sleep; and there lies the charm of azay-le-rideau, which seems always half-asleep. the hôtel du grand monarque is a wonderfully comfortable country inn, with a dining-room large enough to accommodate half a hundred persons, but which, most likely, will serve only yourself. one incongruous note is sounded,--convenient though it be,--and that is the electric light which illuminates the hotel and its dependencies, including the stables, which look as though they might once have been a part of a mediæval château themselves. however, since posting days and tallow dips have gone for ever, one might as well content himself with the superior civilization which confronts him, and be comfortable at least. the château d'azay-le-rideau is one of the gems of touraine's splendid collection of renaissance art treasures, though by no means is it one of the grandest or most imposing. a tree-lined avenue leads from the village street to the château, which sits in the midst of a tiny park; not a grand expanse as at chambord or chenonceaux, but a sort of green frame with a surrounding moat, fed by the waters of the indre. the main building is square, with a great coiffed round tower at each corner. the abbé chevalier, in his "promenades pittoresques en touraine," called it the purest and best of french renaissance, and such it assuredly is, if one takes a not too extensive domestic establishment of the early years of the sixteenth century as the typical example. undoubtedly the sylvan surroundings of the château have a great deal to do with the effectiveness of its charms. the great white walls of its façade, with the wonderful sculptures of jean goujon, glisten in the brilliant sunlight of touraine through the sycamores and willows which border the indre in a genuinely romantic fashion. somewhere within the walls are the remains of an old tower of the one-time fortress which was burned by the dauphin charles in , after, says history, "he had beheaded its governor and taken all of the defenders to the number of three hundred and thirty-four." this act was in revenge for an alleged insult to his sacred person. there are no remains of this former tower visible exteriorly to-day, and no other bloody acts appear to have attached themselves to the present château in all the four hundred years of its existence. [illustration: _château d'azay-le-rideau_] gilles berthelot erected the present structure early in the reign of françois i. he was a man close to the king in affairs of state, first _conseiller-secrétaire_, then _trésorier-général des finances_, hence he knew the value of money. among the succeeding proprietors was guy de saint gelais, one of the most accomplished diplomats of his time. he was followed by henri de beringhem, who built the stables and ornamented the great room known as the chambre du roi from the fact that louis xiv. once slept there, with the magnificent paintings which are shown to-day. everywhere is there a rich, though not gross, display of decoration, beginning with such constructive details as the pointed-roofed _tourelles_, which are themselves exceedingly decorative. the doors, windows, roof-tops, chimneypieces, and the semi-enclosed circular stairways are all elaborately sculptured after the best manner of the time. the entrance portico is a wonder of its kind, with a strong sculptured arcade and arched window-openings and niches filled with bas-reliefs. sculptured shells, foliage, and mythological symbols combine to form an arabesque, through which are interspersed the favourite ciphers of the region, the ermine and the salamander, which go to prove that françois and other royalties must at one time or another have had some connection with the château. history only tells us, however, that gilles berthelot was a king's minister and mayor of tours. perhaps he thought of handing it over as a gift some day in exchange for further honours. his device bore the words, "_ung seul desir_," which may or may not have had a special significance. the interior of the edifice is as beautiful as is its exterior, and is furnished with that luxuriance of decorative effect so characteristic of the best era of the renaissance in france. until recently the proprietor was the marquis de biencourt, who, like his fellow proprietors of châteaux in touraine, generously gave visitors an opportunity to see his treasure-house for themselves, and, moreover, furnished a guide who was something more than a menial and yet not a supercilious functionary. within a twelvemonth this "purest joy of the french renaissance" was put upon the real estate market, with the result that it might have fallen into unappreciative hands, or, what a touraine antiquarian told the writer would be the worse fate that could possibly befall it, might be bought up by some american millionaire, who through the services of the house-breaker would dismantle it and remove it stone by stone and set it up anew on some asphalted avenue in some western metropolis. this extraordinary fear or rumour, whatever it was, soon passed away and as a "_monument historique_" the château has become the property of the french government. less original, perhaps, in plan than chenonceaux, less appealing in its _ensemble_ and less fortunate in its situation, azay-le-rideau is nevertheless entitled to the praises which have been heaped upon it. it is but a dozen kilometres from azay-le-rideau to ussé, on the road to chinon. the château d'ussé is indeed a big thing; not so grand as chambord, nor so winsome as langeais, but infinitely more characteristic of what one imagines a great residential château to have been like. it belongs to-day to the comte de blacas, and once was the property of vauban, maréchal of france, under louis xiv., who built the terrace which lies between it and the river, a branch of the indre. perched high above the hemp-lands of the river-bottom, which here are the most prolific in the valley of the indre, the château with its park of seven hundred or more acres is truly regal in its appointments and surroundings. this park extends to the boundary of the national reservation, the forêt de chinon. the renaissance château of to-day is a reconstruction of the sixteenth century, which preserves, however, the great cylindrical towers of a century earlier. its architecture is on the whole fantastic, at least as much so as chambord, but it is none the less hardy and strong. practically it consists of a series of _pavillons_ bound to the great fifteenth-century donjon by smaller towers and turrets, all slate-capped and pointed, with machicolations surrounding them, and above that a sort of roofed and crenelated battlement which passes like a collar around all the outer wall. the general effect of the exterior walls is that of a great feudal stronghold, while from the courtyard the aspect is simply that of a luxurious renaissance town house, showing at least how the two styles can be pleasingly combined. crenelated battlements are as old as pompeii, so it is doubtful if the feudality of france did much to increase their use or effectiveness. they were originally of such dimensions as to allow a complete shelter for an archer standing behind one of the uprights. the contrast to those of a later day, which, virtually nothing more than a course of decorative stonework, give no impression of utility, is great, though here at ussé they are more pronounced than in many other similar edifices. [illustration: _château d'ussé_] the interior arrangements here give due prominence to a fine staircase, ornamented with a painting of st. john that is attributed to michel ange. the chambre du roi is hung with ancient embroideries, and there is a beautiful renaissance chapel, above the door of which is a sixteenth-century bas-relief of the apostles. most of the other great rooms which are shown are resplendent in oak-beamed ceilings and massive chimneypieces, always a distinct feature of renaissance château-building, and one which makes modern imitations appear mean and ugly. to realize this to the full one has only to recall the dining-room of the pretentious hotel which huddles under the walls of amboise. in a photograph it looks like a regal banqueting-hall; but in reality it is as tawdry as stage scenery, with its imitation wainscoted walls, its imitation beamed ceiling of three-quarter-inch planks, and its plaster of paris fireplace. near ussé is the château de rochecotte which recalls the name of a celebrated chieftain of the chouans. it belongs to-day, though it is not their paternal home, to the family of castellane, a name which to many is quite as celebrated and perhaps better known. the château contains a fine collection of dutch paintings of the seventeenth century, and in its chapel there is a remarkably beautiful copy of the sistine madonna. the name of talleyrand is intimately connected with the occupancy of the château, in pre-revolutionary times, by rochecotte. on the road to chinon one passes through, or near, huismes, which has nothing to stay one's march but a good twelfth-century church, which looks as though its doors were never opened. the château de la villaumère, of the fifteenth century, is near by, and of more than passing interest are the ruins of the château de bonneventure, built, it is said, by charles vii. for agnes sorel, who, with all her faults, stands high in the esteem of most lovers of french history. at any rate this shrine of "_la belle des belles_" is worthy to rank with that containing her tomb at loches. as one enters chinon by road he meets with the usual steep decline into a river-valley, which separates one height from another. generally this is the topographic formation throughout france, and chinon, with its silent guardians, the fragments of three non-contemporary castles, all on the same site, is no exception. "we never went to chinon," says henry james, in his "little tour in france," written thirty or more years ago. "but one cannot do everything," he continues, "and i would rather have missed chinon than chenonceaux." a painter would have put it differently. chenonceaux is all that fact and fancy have painted it, a gem in a perfect setting, and chinon's three castles are but mere crumbling walls; but their environs form a _petit pays_ which will some day develop into an "artists' sketching-ground," in years to come, beside which etretat, moret, pont aven, giverny, and auvers will cease to be considered. at the base of the escarped rock on which sit the châteaux, or what is left of them, lies the town of chinon, with its old houses in wood and stone and its great, gaunt, but beautiful churches. before it flows the vienne, one of the most romantically beautiful of all the secondary rivers of france. from the _castrum romanum_ of the emperors to the feudal conquest chinon played its due part in the history of touraine. there are those who claim that chinon is a "_cité antédiluvienne_" and that it was founded by cain, who after his crime fled from the paternal malediction and found a refuge here; and that its name, at first _caynon_, became chinon. like the derivation of most ancient place-names, this claim involves a wide imagination and assuredly sounds unreasonable. _caino_ may, with more likelihood, have been a celtic word, meaning an excavation, and came to be adopted because of the subterranean quarries from which the stone was drawn for the building of the town. the annalists of the western empire give it as _castrum-caino_, and whether its origin dates from antediluvian times or not, it was a town in the very earliest days of the christian era. the importance of chinon's rôle in history and the beauty of its situation have inspired many writers to sing its praises. "... chinon petite ville, grand renom assise sur pierre ancienne au haute le bois, au bas la vienne." the disposition of the town is most picturesque. the winding streets and stairways are "foreign;" like italy, if you will, or some of the steps to be seen in the towns bordering upon the adriatic. at all events, chinon is not exactly like any other town in france, either with respect to its layout or its distinct features, and it is not at all like what one commonly supposes to be characteristic of the french. [illustration: _the roof-tops of chinon_] dungeons of mediæval châteaux are here turned into dwellings and wine-cellars, and have the advantage, for both uses, of being cool in summer and warm in winter. already, in the year , chinon's population was so considerable that st. martin, newly elected bishop of tours, longed to preach christianity to its people, who were still idolators. some years afterward st. mesme or maxime, fleeing from the barbarians of the north, came to chinon, and soon surrounded himself with many adherents of the faith, and in the year consecrated the original foundation of the church which now bears his name. clovis made chinon one of the strongest fortresses of his kingdom, and in the tenth century it came into the possession of the comtes de touraine. later, in , thibaut iii. ceded it to geoffroy martel. the plantagenets frequently sojourned at chinon, becoming its masters in the twelfth century, from which time it was held by the kings of france up to louis xi. the most picturesque event of chinon's history took place in , when charles vii. here assembled the states general, and jeanne d'arc prevailed upon him to march forthwith upon orleans, then besieged by the english. memories of charles vii., of jeanne d'arc, and of françois rabelais are inextricably mixed in the guide-book accounts of chinon; but their respective histories are not so involved as would appear. there is some doubt as to whether the pantagruelist was actually born at chinon or in the suburbs, therefore there is no "_maison natale_" before which literary pilgrims may make their devotions. all this is a great pity, for rabelais excites in the minds of most people a greater curiosity than perhaps any other mediæval man of letters that the world has known. though one cannot feast his eye upon the spot of rabelais's birth, historians agree that it took place at chinon in . much is known of the "curé de chinon;" but, in spite of his rank as the first of the mediæval satirists, his was not a wide-spread popularity, nor can one speak very highly of his appearance as a type of the tourangeau of his time. his portraits make him appear a most supercilious character, and doubtless he was. he certainly was not an adonis, nor had he the head of a god or the cleverness of a court gallant. indeed there has been a tendency of late to represent him as a buffoon, a trait wholly foreign to his real character. [illustration: rabelais] as for charles vii. and jeanne d'arc, chinon was simply the meeting-place between the inspired maid and her sovereign, when she urged him to put himself at the head of his troops and march upon orleans. chinon is of the sunny south; here the grapes ripen early and cling affectionately, not only to the hillsides, but to the very house-walls themselves. chinon's attractions consist of fragments of three castles, dating from feudal times; of three churches, of more than ordinary interest and picturesqueness; and many old timbered and gabled houses; nor should one forget the hôtel de france, itself a reminder of other days, with its vine-covered courtyard and tinkling bells hanging beneath its gallery, for all the world like the sort of thing one sees upon the stage. there is not much else about the hotel that is of interest except its very ancient-looking high-posted beds and its waxed tiled floors, worn into smooth ruts by the feet of countless thousands and by countless polishings with wax. it is curious how a waxed tiled floor strikes one as being something altogether superior to one of wood. though harder in substance, it is infinitely pleasanter to the feet, and warm and mellow, as a floor should be; moreover it seems to have the faculty of unconsciously keeping itself clean. _the château de chinon_, as it is commonly called, differs greatly from the usual loire château; indeed it is quite another variety altogether, and more like what we know elsewhere as a castle; or, rather it is three castles, for each, so far as its remains are concerned, is distinct and separate. the château de st. georges is the most ancient and is an enlargement by henry plantagenet--whom a frenchman has called "the king lear of his race"--of a still more ancient fortress. the château du milieu is built upon the ruins of the _castrum romanum_, vestiges of which are yet visible. it dates from the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries, and was restored under charles vi., charles vii., and louis xi. one enters through the curious tour de l'horloge, to which access is given by a modern bridge, as it was in other days by an ancient drawbridge which covered the old-time moat. the grand logis, the royal habitation of the twelfth to fifteenth centuries, is to the right, overlooking the town. here died henry ii. of england ( ) and here lived charles vii. and louis xi. it was in the grand salle of this château that jeanne d'arc was first presented to her sovereign (march , ). from the hour of this auspicious meeting until the hour of the departure for orleans she herself lived in the tower of the château de coudray, a little farther beyond, under guard of guillaume bélier. the meeting between the king and the "maid" is described by an old historian of touraine as follows: "the inhabitants of chinon received her with enthusiasm, the purpose of her mission having already preceded her.... she appeared at court as '_une pauvre petite bergerette_' and was received in the grande salle, lighted by fifty torches and containing three hundred persons." (this statement would seem to point to the fact that it was not the _salle_ which is shown to-day; it certainly could not be made to hold three hundred people unless they stood on each other's shoulders!) "the seigneurs were all clad in magnificent robes, but the king, on the contrary, was dressed most simply. the 'maid,' endowed with a spirit and sagacity superior to her education, advanced without hesitation. '_dieu vous donne bonne vie, gentil roi_,' said she...." [illustration: _château de chinon_] the grand logis is flanked by a square tower which is separated from the château de coudray and the tour de boissy by a moat. in the magnificent tour de boissy was the ancient salle des gardes, while above was a battlemented gallery which gave an outlook over the surrounding country. this watch-tower assured absolute safety from surprise to any monarch who might have wished to study the situation for himself. the tour du moulin is another of the defences, more elegant, if possible, than the tour de boissy. it is taller and less rotund; the french say it is "svelt," and that describes it as well as anything. it also fits into the landscape in a manner which no other mediæval donjon of france does, unless it be that of château gaillard, in normandy. the primitive château de coudray was built by thibaut-le-tricheur in , and its bastion and sustaining walls are still in evidence. the vienne, which runs by chinon to join the loire above saumur, is, in many respects, a remarkable river, although just here there is nothing very remarkable about it. it is, however, delightfully picturesque, as it washes the tree-lined quays which form chinon's river-front for a distance of upward of two kilometres. in general the waterway reminds one of something between a great traffic-bearing river and a mere pleasant stream. the bridge between chinon and its faubourg is typical of the art of bridge-building, at which, in mediæval times, the french were excelled by no other nation. to-day, in company with the americans, they build iron and steel abominations which are eyesores which no amount of utility will ever induce one to really admire. not so the french bridges of mediæval times, of the type of those at blois on the loire; at chinon on the vienne; at avignon on the rhône; or at cahors on the lot. if rabelais had not rendered popular chinon and the chinonais the public would have yet to learn of this delightful _pays_, in spite of that famous first meeting between charles vii. and jeanne d'arc. if the modern founders of "garden-cities" would only go as far back as the time of richelieu they would find a good example to follow in the little touraine town, the _chef-lieu_ of the commune, which bears the name of richelieu. when armand du plessis first became the seigneur of this "_little land_" he resolutely set about to make of the property a town which should dignify his name. accordingly he built, at his own expense, after the plans of lemercier, "a city, regular, vast, and luxurious." at the same time the cardinal-minister replaced the paternal manor with a château elaborately and prodigally royal. richelieu was a sort of "petit versailles," which was to be to chinon what the real versailles was to the capital. to-day, as in other days, it is a "_ville vaste, régulière et luxueuse_," but it is unfinished. one great street only has been completed on its original lines, and it is exactly metres long. originally the town was to have the dimensions of but six hundred by four hundred metres; modest enough in size, but of the greatest luxury. the cardinal had no desire to make it more grand, but even what he had planned was not to be. its one great street is bordered with imposing buildings, but their tenants to-day have not the least resemblance to the courtiers of the cardinal who formerly occupied them. richelieu disappeared in the course of time, and work on his hobby stopped, or at least changed radically in its plan. secondary streets were laid out, of less grandeur, and peopled with houses without character, low in stature, and unimposing. the plan of a _ville seigneuriale_ gave way to a _ville de labeur_. other habitations grew up until to-day twenty-five hundred souls find their living on the spot where once was intended to be only a life of luxury. of the monuments with which richelieu would have ornamented his town there remains a curious market-hall and a church in the pure jesuitic style of architecture, lacking nothing of pretence and grandeur. not much can be said for the vast Église notre dame de richelieu, a heavy italian structure, built from the plans of lemercier. however satisfying and beautiful the style may be in italy, it is manifestly, in all great works of church-building in the north, unsuitable and uncouth. there was also a château as well, a great mansart affair with an overpowering dome. practically this remains to-day, but, like all else in the town, it is but a promise of greater things which were expected to materialize, but never did. at the bottom of a little valley, in a fertile plain, lies fontevrault, or what there is left of it, for the old abbey is now nothing more than a matter-of-fact "_maison de détention_" for criminals. the abbey of yesterday is the prison of to-day. fontevrault is an enigma; it is, furthermore, what the french themselves call a "_triste et maussade bourg_." its former magnificent abbey was one of the few shrines of its class which was respected by the revolution, but now it has become a prison which shelters something like a thousand unfortunates. for centuries the old abbey had royal princesses for abbesses and was one of the most celebrated religious houses in all france. it is a sad degeneration that has befallen this famous establishment. in the eleventh century an illustrious man of god, a breton priest, named robert d'arbrissel, outlined the foundation of the abbey and gathered together a community of monks. he died in the midst of his labours, in , and was succeeded by the abbess petronille de chemille. for nearly six hundred years the abbey--which comprised a convent for men and another for women--grew and prospered, directed, not infrequently, by an abbess of the blood royal. it has been claimed that, as a religious establishment for men and women, ruled over by a woman, the abbey of fontevrault was unique in christendom. it is an ample structure with a church tower of bistre which forms a most pleasing note of colour in the landscape. the basilica was begun in , and consecrated by pope calixtus ii. in . its interior showed a deep vaulting, with graceful and hardy arches supported by massive columns with quaint and curiously sculptured capitals. the twelfth-century cloister was indeed a masterwork among those examples, all too rare, existing to-day. its arcade is severely elegant and was rebuilt by the abbess renée de bourbon, sister of françois i., after the best of decorative renaissance of that day. the chapter-house, now used by the director of the prison, has in a remarkable manner retained the mural frescoes of a former day. there are depicted a series of groups of mystical and real personages in a most curious fashion. the refectory is still much in its primitive state, though put to other uses to-day. its tribune, where the lectrice entertained the sisters during their repasts, is, however, still in its place. [illustration: _cuisines, fontevrault_] the curious, bizarre, kilnlike pyramid, known as the tour d'evrault, has ever been an enigma to the archæologist and antiquarian. doubtless it formed the kitchens of the establishment, for it looks like nothing else that might have belonged to a great abbey. it has a counterpart at the abbey of marmoutier near tours, and of st. trinité at vendôme; from which fact there would seem to be little doubt as to its real use, although it looks more like a blast furnace or a distillery chimney. this curious pyramidal structure is like the collegiate church of st. ours at loches, one of those bizarre edifices which defy any special architectural classification. at fontevrault the architect played with his art when he let all the light in this curious "_tour_" enter by the roof. at the extreme apex of the cone he placed a lantern from which the light of day filtered down the slope of the vaulting in a weird and tomblike manner. it is a most surprising effect, but one that is wholly lost to-day, since the tour d'evrault has been turned into the kitchen for the "_maison de détention_" of which it forms a part. the nave of the church of the old abbey of fontevrault has been cut in two and a part is now used as the dormitory of the prison, but the choir, the transepts, and the towers remain to suggest the simple and beautiful style of their age. in the transepts, behind an iron grille, are buried henry ii., king of england and count of anjou, Éléanore of guienne, richard coeur de lion, and isabeau of angoulême, wife of jean-sans-terre. four polychromatic statues, one in wood, the others in stone, lying at length, represent these four personages so great in english history, and make of fontevrault a shrine for pilgrims which ought to be far less ignored than it is. the cemetery of kings has been shockingly cared for, and the ludicrous kaleidoscopic decorations of the statues which surmount the royal tombs are nothing less than a sacrilege. it is needless to say they are comparatively modern. at bourgueil, near fontevrault, are gathered great crops of _réglisse_, or licorice. it differs somewhat in appearance from the licorice roots of one's childhood, but the same qualities exist in it as in the product of spain or the levant, whence indeed most of the commercial licorice does come. it is as profitable an industry in this part of france as is the saffron crop of the gâtinais, and whoever imported the first roots was a benefactor. at the juncture of the vienne and the loire are two tiny towns which are noted for two widely different reasons. these two towns are montsoreau and candes, the former noted for the memory of that bloodthirsty woman who gave a plot to dumas (and some real facts of history besides), and the other noted for its prunes, candes being the chief centre of the industry which produces the _pruneaux de tours_. descending the vienne from chinon, one first comes to candes, which dominates the confluence of the vienne with the loire from its imposing position on the top of a hill. candes was in other times surrounded by a protecting wall, and there are to-day remains of a château which had formerly given shelter to charles vii. and louis xi. it has, moreover, a twelfth-century church built upon the site of the cell in which died st. martin in the fourth century. the native of the surrounding country cares nothing for churches or châteaux, but assumes that the prune industry of candes is the one thing of interest to the visitor. be this as it may, it is indeed a matter of considerable importance to all within a dozen kilometres of the little town. all through the region round about candes one meets with the fruit-pickers, with their great baskets laden with prunes, pears, and apples, to be sent ultimately to the great ovens to be desiccated and dried. fifty years ago, you will be told, the cultivators attended to the curing process themselves, but now it is in the hands of the middle-man. at montsoreau much the same economic conditions exist as at candes, but there is vastly more of historic lore hanging about the town. in the fourteenth century, after a shifting career the fief passed to the vicomtes de châteaudun; then, in the century following, to the chabots and the family of chambes, of which jean iv., prominent in the massacre of st. bartholomew's night, was a member. it was he who assassinated the gallant bussy d'amboise at the near-by château of coutancière (at brain-sur-allonnes), who had made a rendezvous with his wife, since become famous in the pages of dumas and of history as "la dame de montsoreau." to-day the old bourg is practically non-existent, and there is a smugness of prosperity which considerably discounts the former charm that it once must have had. but for all that, there is enough left to enable one to picture what the life here under the renaissance must have been. the parish church--that of the ancient paroisse de retz--still exists, though in ruins, and there are very substantial remains of an old priory, an old-time dependency of the abbey of st. florent, now converted into a farm. beside the highroad is the fifteenth-century château. it has a double façade, one side of which is ornamented with a series of _mâchicoulis_, great high window-openings, and flanking towers; and, in spite of its generally frowning aspect, looks distinctly livable even to-day. the ornamental façade of the courtyard is somewhat crumbled but still elegant, and has incorporated within its walls a most ravishing renaissance turret, smothered in exquisite _moulures_ and _arabesques_. on the terminal gallery and on the panels which break up the flatness of this inner façade are a series of allegorical bas-reliefs, representing monkeys, surmounted with the inscription, "_il le feray_." the interior of this fine edifice is entirely remodelled, and has nothing of its former fitments, furnishings, or decorations. near port boulet, almost opposite candes, is the great farm of a certain m. cail. communication is had with the orleans railway by means of a traction engine, which draws its own broad-wheeled wagons on the regular highway between the _gare d'hommes_ and the tall-chimneyed manor or château which forms the residence of this enterprising agriculturist. the property consists of nearly two thousand acres, of which at least twelve hundred are under the process of intensive cultivation, and is divided into ten distinct farms, having each an overseer charged directly with the control of his part of the domain. these farms are wonderfully well kept, with sanded roadways like the courtyard of a château. there are no trees in the cultivated parts, and the great grain-fields are as the western prairies. the estate bears the generic name of "la briche." on one side it is bordered by the railroad for a distance of nearly forty kilometres, and it gives to that same railway an annual freight traffic of two thousand tons of merchandise, which would be considerably more if all the cattle and sheep sent to other markets were transported by rail. as might be expected, this domain of "la briche" has given to the neighbouring farmers a lesson and an example, and little by little its influence has resulted in an increased activity among the neighbouring landholders, who formerly gave themselves over to "_la chasse_," and left the conduct of their farms to incompetent and more or less ignorant hirelings. chapter xiii. anjou and bretagne as one crosses the borderland from touraine into anjou, the whole aspect of things changes. it is as if one went from the era of the renaissance back again into the days of the gothic, not only in respect to architecture, but history and many of the conditions of every-day life as well. most of the characteristics of anjou are without their like elsewhere, and opulent anjou of ancient france has to-day a departmental etiquette in many things quite different from that of other sections. a magnificent agricultural province, it has been further enriched by liberal proprietors; a land of aristocracy and the church, it has ever been to the fore in political and ecclesiastical matters; and to-day the spirit of industry and progress are nowhere more manifest than here in the ancient province of anjou. the loire itself changes its complexion but little, and its entrance into saumur, like its entrance into tours, is made between banks that are tinged with the rainbow colours of the growing vine. what hills there are near by are burrowed, as swallows burrow in a cliff, by the workers of the vineyards, who make in the rock homes similar to those below saumur, in the vallée du vendomois, and at cinq-mars near tours. anjou has a marked style in architecture, known as angevin, which few have properly placed in the gamut of architectural styles which run from the byzantine to the renaissance. the romanesque was being supplanted everywhere when the angevin style came into being, as a compromise between the heavy, flat-roofed style of the south and the pointed sky-piercing gables of the north. all europe was attempting to shake off the romanesque influence, which had lasted until the twelfth century. germany alone clung to the pure style, and, it is generally thought, improved it. the angevin builders developed a species that was on the borderland between the romanesque and the gothic, though not by any means a mere transition type. the chief cities of anjou are not very great or numerous, angers itself containing but slightly over fifty thousand souls. cholet, of thirteen thousand inhabitants, is an important cloth-manufacturing centre, while saumur carries on a great wine trade and was formerly the capital of a "_petit gouvernement_" of its own, and, like many other cities and towns of this and neighbouring provinces, was the scene of great strife during the wars of the vendée. in ancient times the _andecavi_, as the old peoples of the province were known, shared with the _turonii_ of touraine the honour of being the foremost peoples of western gaul, though each had special characteristics peculiarly their own, as indeed they have to-day. after one passes the junction of the cher, the indre, and the vienne, he notices no great change in the conduct of the loire itself. it still flows in and out among the banks of sand and those little round pebbles known all along its course, nonchalantly and slowly, though now and then one fancies that he notes a greater eddy or current than he had observed before. at saumur it is still more impressed upon one, while at the ponts de cé--a great strategic spot in days gone by--there is evidence that at one time or another the loire must be a raging torrent; and such it does become periodically, only travellers never seem to see it when it is in this condition. when candes and montsoreau are passed and one comes under the frowning walls of saumur's grim citadel, a sort of provincial bastille in its awesomeness, he realizes for the first time that there is, somewhere below, an outlet to the sea. he cannot smell the salt-laden breezes at this great distance, but the general appearance of things gives that impression. from tours to saumur by the right bank of the loire--one of the most superb stretches of automobile roadway in the world--lay the road of which madame de sévigné wrote in "lettre ccxxiv." (to her mother), which begins: "_nous arrivons ici, nous avons quitté tours ce matin._" it was a good day's journey for those times, whether by _malle-post_ or the private conveyance which, likely enough, madame de sévigné used at the time ( ). to-day it is a mere morsel to the hungry road-devouring maw of a twentieth-century automobile. it's almost worth the labour of making the journey on foot to know the charms of this delightful river-bank bordered with historic shrines almost without number, and peopled by a class of peasants as picturesque and gay as the neapolitan of romance. [illustration: _château de saumur_] "_saumur est, ma foi! une jolie ville_," said a traveller one day at a _table d'hôte_ at tours. and so indeed it is. its quays and its squares lend an air of gaiety to its proud old _hôtel de ville_ and its grim château. old habitations, commodious modern houses, frowning machicolations, church spires, grand hotels, innumerable cafés, and much military, all combine in a blend of fascinating interest that one usually finds only in a great metropolis. the chief attraction is unquestionably the old château. to-day it stands, as it has always stood, high above the quai de limoges, with scarce a scar on its hardy walls and never a crumbling stone on its parapet. the great structure was begun in the eleventh century, replacing an earlier monument known as the tour du tronc. it was completed in the century following and rebuilt or remodelled in the sixteenth. outside of its impressive exterior there is little of interest to remind one of another day. to literary pilgrims saumur suggests the homestead of the father of eugenie grandet, and the _bon-vivant_ reveres it for its soft pleasant wines. others worship it for its wonders of architecture, and yet others fall in love with it because of its altogether delightful situation. below saumur are the cliff-dwellers, who burrow high in the chalk cliff and stow themselves away from light and damp like bottles of old wine. the custom is old and not indigenous to france, but here it is sufficiently in evidence to be remarked by even the traveller by train. here, too, one sees the most remarkable of all the _coiffes_ which are worn by any of the women along the loire. this angevin variety, like angevin architecture, is like none of its neighbours north, east, south, or west. students of history will revere saumur for something more than its artistic aspect or its wines, for it was a favourite residence of the angevin princes and the english kings, as well as being the capital of the _pape des huguenots_. while nantes is the real metropolis of the loire, and angers is singularly up-to-date and well laid out, neither of these fine cities have a great thoroughfare to compare with the broad, straight street of saumur, which leads from the gare d'orleans on the left bank and crosses the two bridges which span the branches of the loire, to say nothing of the island between, and finally merges into the great national highway which runs south into poitou. fine houses, many, if not most of them, dating from centuries ago, line the principal streets of the town, which, when one has actually entered its confines, presents the appearance of being too vast and ample for its population. and, in truth, so it really is. its population barely reaches fifteen thousand souls, whereas it would seem to have the grandeur and appointments of a city of a hundred thousand. the revocation of the edict of nantes cut its inhabitants down to the extent of twenty or twenty-five thousand, and it has never recovered from the blow. in the neighbourhood of saumur, for a considerable distance up and down the loire, the hills are excavated into dwelling-houses and wine-caves, producing a most curious aspect. one continuous line of these cliff villages--like nothing so much as the habitations of the cliff-dwelling indians of america--extends from the juncture of the vienne with the loire nearly up to the ponts de cé. the most curious effect of it all is the multitude of openings of doorways and windows and the uprising of chimney-pots through the chalk and turf which form the roof-tops of these settlements. in many of these caves are prepared the famous _vin mousseux_ of saumur, of which the greater part is sold as champagne to an unsuspecting and indifferent public, not by the growers or makers, but by unscrupulous middlemen. saumur, like angers, is fortunate in its climate, to which is due a great part of the prosperity of the town, for the "rome of the huguenots" is more prosperous--and who shall not say more content?--than it ever was in the days of religious or feudal warfare. near saumur is one shrine neglected by english pilgrims which might well be included in their itineraries. in the château de moraines at dampierre died margaret of anjou and lancaster, queen of england, as one reads on a tablet erected at the gateway of this dainty "_petit castel à tour et creneaux_." manoir de la vignole-souzay autrefois dampierre asile et dernière demure de l'heroine de la guerre des deux roses marguerite d'anjou de lancastre, reine d'angleterre la plus malheureuse des reines, des éspouses, et des mères qui morut le aout agée de ans. the salvus murus of the ancients became the saumur of to-day in the year , when the monk absalom built a monastery here and surrounded it with a protecting wall. up to the thirteenth century the city belonged to the "angevin kings of angleterre," as the french historians proudly claim them. the city passed finally to the kings of france, and to them remained constantly faithful. under henri iv. the city was governed by duplessis-mornay, the "_pape des huguenots_," becoming practically the metropolis of protestantism. up to this time the chief architectural monument was the château, which was commenced in the eleventh century and which through the next five centuries had been aggrandized and rebuilt into its present shape. the church of notre dame de nantilly dates from the twelfth century and was frequently visited by louis xi. the oratory formerly made use of by this monarch to-day contains the baptismal fonts. one of the columns of the nave has graven upon it the epitaph composed by king rené of anjou for his foster-mother, dame thiephanie. throughout, the church is beautifully decorated. the hôtel de ville may well be called the chief artistic treasure of saumur, as the châtteau is its chief historical monument. it is a delightful _ensemble_ of the best of late gothic, dating from the sixteenth century, flanked on its façade by turrets crowned with _mâchicoulis_, and lighted by a series of elegant windows _à croisillons_. above all is a gracious campanile, in its way as fine as the belfry of bruges, to which, from a really artistic standpoint, rhapsodists have given rather more than its due. the interior is as elaborate and pleasing as is the outside. in the salle des mariages and salle du conseil are fine fifteenth-century chimneypieces, such as are only found in their perfection on the loire. the library, of something over twenty thousand volumes, many of them in manuscript, is formed in great part from the magnificent collection formerly at the abbeys of fontevrault and st. florent. doubtless these old tomes contain a wealth of material from which some future historian will perhaps construct a new theory of the universe. this in truth may not be literally so, but it is a fact that there is a vast amount of contemporary historical information, with regard to the world in general, which is as yet unearthed, as witness the case of pompeii alone, where the area of the discoveries forms but a small part of the entire buried city. at saumur numerous prehistoric and _gallo-romain_ remains are continually being added to the museum, which is also in the hôtel de ville. a recent acquisition--discovered in a neighbouring vineyard--is a roman "_trompette_," as it is designated, and a more or less complete outfit of tools, obviously those of a carpenter. the notorious madame de montespan--"the illustrious penitent," though the former description answers better--stopped here, in a house adjoining the church of st. john, to-day a _maison de retrait_, on her way to visit her sister, the abbess, at fontevrault. from saumur to angers the loire passes an almost continuous series of historical guide-posts, some in ruins, but many more as proudly environed as ever. at treves-cunault is a dignified romanesque church which would add to the fame of a more popular and better known town. it is not a grand structure, but it is perfect of its kind, with its crenelated façade and its sturdy arcaded towers curiously placed midway on the north wall. here one first becomes acquainted with _menhirs_ and _dolmens_, examples of which are to be found in the neighbourhood, not so remarkable as those of brittany, but still of the same family. the ponts de cé follow next, still in the midst of vine-land, and finally appear the twin spires of angers's unique cathedral of st. maurice. here one realizes, if not before, that he is in anjou; no more is the atmosphere transparent as in touraine, but something of the grime of the commercial struggle for life is over all. here the maine joins the loire, at a little village called la pointe: "the charenton of angers," it was called by a paris-loving boulevardier who once wandered afield. much has been written, and much might yet be written, about the famous ponts de cé, which span the loire and its branches for a distance considerably over three kilometres. this ancient bridge or bridges (which, with that at blois, were at one time, the only bridges across the loire below orleans) formerly consisted of arches, but the reconstruction of the mid-nineteenth century reduced these to a bare score. [illustration: _the ponts de cé_] as a vantage-point in warfare the ponts de cé were ever in contention, the gauls, the romans, the franks, the normans, and the english successively taking possession and defending them against their opponents. the ponts de cé is a weirdly strange and historic town which has lost none of its importance in a later day, though the famous _ponts_ are now remade, and their antique arches replaced by more solid, if less picturesque piers and piling. they span the shallow flow of the loire water for three-quarters of a league and produce a homogeneous effect of antiquity, coupled with the city's three churches and its château overlooking the fortified isle in mid-river, which looks as though it had not changed since the days when marie de medici looked upon it, as recalled by the great rubens painting in the louvre. since the beginning of the history of these parts, battles almost without number have taken place here, as was natural on a spot so strategically important. there is a tale of the vendean wars, connected with the "roche-de-murs" at the ponts de cé, to the effect that a battalion, left here to guard any attack from across the river, was captured by the vendeans. many of the "_bleus_" refused to surrender, and threw themselves into the river beneath their feet. among these was the wife of an officer, to whom the vendeans offered life if she surrendered. this was refused, and precipitately, with her child, she threw herself into the flood beneath. on the largest isle, that lying between the louet and the loire, is one vast garden or orchard of cherry-trees, which produce a peculiarly juicy cherry from which large quantities of _guignolet_, a sort of "cherry brandy," is made. the angevins will tell you that this was a well-known refreshment in the middle ages, and was first made by one of those monkish orders who were so successful in concocting the subtle liquors of the commerce of to-day. it is with real regret that one parts from the ponts de cé, with la fontaine's couplet on his lips: "... ce n'est pas petite gloire que d'être pont sur la loire." some one has said that the provinces find nothing to envy in paris as far as the transformation of their cities is concerned. this, to a certain extent, is so, not only in respect to the modernizing of such grand cities as lyons, marseilles, or lille, but in respect to such smaller cities as nantes and angers, where the improvements, if not on so magnificent a scale, are at least as momentous to their immediate environment. for the most part these second and third class cities are to-day transformed in exceedingly good taste, and, though many a noble monument has in the past been sacrificed, to-day the authorities are proceeding more carefully. angers, in spite of its overpowering château and its unique cathedral, is of a modernity and luxuriousness in its present-day aspect which is all the more remarkable because of the contrast. formerly the angevin capital, from the days of king john up to a much later time angers had the reputation of being a town "_plus sombre et plus maussade_" than any other in the french provinces. in shakespeare's "king john" one reads of "black angers," and so indeed is its aspect to-day, for its roof-tops are of slate, while many of the houses are built of that material entirely. in the olden time many of its streets were cut in the slaty rock, leaving its sombre surface bare to the light of day. one sees evidences of all this in the massive walls of the great black-banded castle of angers, and, altogether, this magpie colouring is one of the chief characteristics of this grandly historic town. both the new and the old town sit proudly on a height crowned by the two slim spires of the cathedral. in front, the gentle curves of the river maine enfold the old houses at the base of the hillside and lap the very walls of the grim fortress-château itself, or did in the days when the counts of anjou held sway, though to-day the river has somewhat receded. beyond the ancient ramparts, up the hill, have been erected the "_quartiers neufs_," with houses all admirably planned and laid out, with gardens forming a veritable girdle, as did the retaining walls of other days which surrounded the old château and its faubourg. to-day angers shares with nantes the title of metropolis of the west, and the loire flows on its ample way between the two in a far more imposing manner than elsewhere in its course from source to sea. angers does not lie exactly at the juncture of the maine and loire, but a little way above, but it has always been considered as one of the chief loire cities; and probably many of its visitors do not realize that it is not on the loire itself. the marvellous fairy-book château of angers, with its fourteen black-striped towers, is just as it was when built by st. louis, save that its chess-board towers lack, in most cases, their coiffes, and all vestiges have disappeared of the _charpente_ which formerly topped them off. [illustration: _château d'angers_] beyond the rocky formation of the banks of the loire, which crop out below the juncture of the maine and the loire, below angers, are savennières and la possonière, whence come the most famous vintages of anjou, which, to the wines of these parts, are what château margaux and château yquem are to the bordelais, and the clos vougeot is to the bourguignons. the peninsula formed by the loire and the maine at angers is the richest agricultural region in all france, the nurseries and the kitchen-gardens having made the fortune of this little corner of anjou. angers is the headquarters for nursery-garden stock for the open air, as orleans is for ornamental and woodland trees and shrubs. the trade in living plants and shrubs has grown to very great proportions since , when an agent went out from here on behalf of the leading house in the trade and visited america for the purpose of searching out foreign plants and fruits which could be made to thrive on french soil. both the soil and climate are very favourable for the cultivation of many hitherto unknown fruits, the neighbourhood of the sea, which, not far distant, is tempered by the gulf stream, having given to anjou a lukewarm humidity and a temperature of a remarkable equality. some of the nurseries of these parts are enormous establishments, the maison andré leroy, for example, covering an extent of some six hundred acres. a catalogue of one of these establishments, located in the suburbs of angers, enumerates over four hundred species of pear-trees, six hundred varieties of apple-trees, one hundred and fifty varieties of plums, four hundred and seventy-five of grapes, fifteen hundred of roses, and two hundred and nineteen of rhododendrons. each night, or as often as fifty railway wagons are loaded, trains are despatched from the _gare_ at angers for all parts. when the _choux-fleurs_ are finished, then come the _petits pois_, and then the _artichauts_ and other _légumes_ in favour with the paris _bon-vivants_. near angers is one of those cæsar's camps which were spread thickly up and down gaul and britain alike. one reaches it by road from angers, and, until it dawns upon one that the vast triangle, one of whose equilateral sides is formed by the loire, another by the maine, and the third by a ridge of land stretching between the two, covers about fourteen kilometres square, it seems much like any other neck or peninsula of land lying between two rivers. one hundred thousand of the roman legion camped here at one time, which is not so very wonderful until it is recalled that they lived for months on the resources of this comparatively restricted area. before coming to nantes, ancenis and oudon should claim the attention of the traveller, though each is not much more than a typically interesting small town of france, in spite of the memories of the past. ancenis has an ancient château, remodelled and added to in the nineteenth century, which possesses some remarkably important constructive details, the chief of which are a great tower-flanked doorway and the _corps de logis_, each the work of an angevin architect, jean de lespine, in the sixteenth century. within the walls of this château françois ii., duc de bretagne, and louis xi. signed one of the treaties which finally led up to the union of the duché de bretagne with the crown of france. oudon possesses a fine example of a mediæval donjon, though it has been restored in our day. one does not usually connect brittany with the loire except so far as to recollect that nantes was a former political and social capital. as a matter of fact, however, a very considerable proportion of brittany belongs to the loire country. anjou of the counts and kings and bretagne of the dukes and duchesses embrace the whole of the loire valley below saumur, although the river-bed of the loire formed no actual boundary. anjou extended nearly as far to the southward as it did to the north of the vine-clad banks, and bretagne, too, had possession of a vast tract south of nantes, known as the pays de retz, which bordered upon the vendée of poitou. all the world knows, or should know, that nantes and st. nazaire form one of the great ports of the world, not by any means so great as new york, london, or hamburg, nor yet as great as antwerp, bordeaux, or marseilles, but still a magnificent port which plays a most important part with the affairs of france and the outside world. nantes, la brette, is tranquil and solid, with the life of the laborious bourgeois always in the foreground. it is of bretagne, to which province it anciently belonged, only so far as it forms the bridge between the vendée and the old duchy; literally between two opposing feudal lords and masters, both of whom were hard to please. the memoirs of this corner of the province of bretagne of other days are strong in such names as the duchesse anne, the monk abelard, the redoubtable clisson, the infamous gilles de retz, the warrior lanoue, surnamed "bras de fer," and many others whose names are prominent in history. "_ventre saint gris! les ducs de bretagne n'étaient pas de petits compagnons!_" cried henri quatre, as he first gazed upon the château de nantes. at that time, in , this fortress was defended by seven curtains, six towers, bastions and caponieres, all protected by a wide and deep moat, into which poured the rising tide twice with each round of the clock. to-day the aspect of this château is no less formidable than of yore, though it has been debased and the moat has disappeared to make room for a roadway and the railroad. it was in the château of nantes, the same whose grim walls still overlook the road by which one reaches the centre of the town from the inconveniently placed station, that mazarin had henri de gondi, cardinal de retz and co-adjutor of the archbishop of paris, imprisoned in , because of his offensive partisanship. fouquet, too, after his splendid downfall, was thrown into the donjon here by louis xiv. de gondi recounts in his "mémoires" how he took advantage of the inattention of his guards and finally evaded them by letting himself over the side of the bastion de mercoeur by means of a rope smuggled into him by his friends. the feat does not look a very formidable one to-day, but then, or in any day, it must have been somewhat of an adventure for a portly churchman, and the wonder is that it was performed successfully. at any rate it reads like a real adventure from the pages of dumas, who himself made a considerable use of nantes and its château in his historical romances. landais, the minister and favourite of françois ii. of bretagne, was arrested here in , in the very chamber of the prince, who delivered him up with the remark: "_faites justice, mais souvenez-vous que vous lui êtes redevable de votre charge._" there is no end of historical incident connected with nantes's old fortress-château of mediæval times, and, in one capacity or another, it has sheltered many names famous in history, from the kings of france, from louis xii. onward, to madame de sévigné and the duchesse de berry. nantes's place de la bouffai (which to lovers of dumas will already be an old friend) was formerly the site of a château contemporary with that which stands by the waterside. the château de bouffai was built in by conan, first duc de bretagne, and served as an official residence to him and many of his successors. in nantes's great but imperfect and unfinished cathedral of st. pierre one comes upon a relic that lives long in the memory of those who have passed before it: the tomb of françois ii., duc de bretagne, and marguerite de foix. the cathedral itself is no mean architectural work, in spite of its imperfections, as one may judge from the following inscription graven over the sculptured figure of st. pierre, its patron: "l'an mil quatre cent trente-quatre, a my-avril sans moult rabattre: an portail de cette église, fut la première pierre assise." within, the chief attraction is that masterwork of michel colombe, the before-mentioned tomb, which ranks among the world's art-treasures. the beauty of the emblematic figures which flank the tomb proper, the fine chiselling of the recumbent effigies themselves, and the general _ensemble_ is such that the work is bound to appeal, whatever may be one's opinion of renaissance sculpture in france. the tomb was brought here from the old Église des carmes, which had been pillaged and burned in the revolution. the mausoleum was--in its old resting-place--opened in , and a small, heart-shaped, gold box was found, supposed to have contained the heart of the duchesse anne. the coffer was surmounted by a royal crown and emblazoned with the order of the cordelière, but within was found nothing but a scapulary. on the circlet of the crown was written in relief: "cueur de vertus orné dignement couronné." and on the box beneath one read: "en ce petit vaisseau, de fin or pur et munde, repose un plus grand cueur que oncque dame eut au monde. anne fut le nom d'elle, en france deux fois royne * * * * * et ceste parte terrestre en grand deuil nos demure. ix. janvier m.v.xiii." in one respect only has nantes suffered through the march of time. its magnificent quai de la fosse has disappeared, a long façade which a hundred or more years ago was bordered by the palatial dwellings of the great ship-owners of the nantes of a former generation. the whole, immediately facing the river where formerly swung many ships at anchor, has disappeared entirely to make way for the railway. [illustration: _environs of nantes_] * * * * * the islands of the loire opposite nantes are an echo of the life of the metropolis itself. the ile feydeau is monumental, the ile gloriette hustling and nervous with "_affaires_," and prairie-au-duc busy with industries of all sorts. couëron, below nantes on the right bank, is sombre with gray walls surrounding its numberless factories, and chimney-stacks belching forth clouds of dense smoke. behind are great walls of chalky-white rock crowned with verdure. nearly opposite is the little town of le pellerin graciously seated on the river's bank and marking the lower limit of the loire nantaise. another hill, belonging to the domain of bois-tillac and la martinière, where was born fouché, the future duc d'otranta, comes to view, and the basin of the loire enlarges into the estuary, and all at once one finds himself in the true "loire maritime." at martinière is the mouth of the canal maritime à la loire, which, from paimboeuf to le pellerin, is used by all craft ascending the river to nantes, drawing more than four metres of water. at the entrance of the acheneau is the canal de buzay, which connects that stream with the more ambitious loire, and makes of the lac de grand lieu a public domain, instead of a private property as claimed by the "marquis" who holds in terror all who would fish or shoot over its waters. all this immediate region formerly belonged to the monks of the ancient abbey of buzay, and it was they who originally cut the waterway through to the loire. about half-way in its length are the ruins of the ancient monastery, clustered about the tower of its old church. it is a most romantically sad monument, and for that very reason its grouping, on the bank of the busy canal, suggests in a most impressive manner the passing of all great works. the prosperity of nantes as a deep-sea port is of long standing, but recent improvements have increased all this to a hitherto unthought-of extent. progress has been continuous, and now nantes has become, like rouen, a great deep-water port, one of the important seaports of france, the realization of a hope ever latent in the breast of the nantais since the days and disasters of the edict and its revocation. below nantes, in the actual "loire maritime," the aspect of all things changes and the green and luxuriant banks give way to sand-dunes and flat, marshy stretches, as salty as the sea itself. this gives rise to a very considerable development of the salt industry which at bourg de batz is the principal, if not the sole, means of livelihood. st. nazaire, the real deep-water port of nantes, dates from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, when it was known as port nazaire. it is a progressive and up-to-date seaport of some thirty-five thousand souls, but it has no appeal for the tourist unless he be a lover of great smoky steamships and all the paraphernalia of longshore life. pornichet, a "_station de bains de mer très fréquentée_;" batz, with its salt-works; le croisic, with its curious waterside church, and the old walled town of guérande bring one to the mouth of the loire. the rest is the billowy western ocean whose ebb and flow brings fresh breezes and tides to the great cities of the estuary and makes possible that prosperity with which they are so amply endowed. chapter xiv. south of the loire the estuary of the loire belongs both to brittany and to the vendée, though, as a matter-of-fact, the southern bank, opposite nantes, formed a part of the ancient pays de retz, one of the old seigneuries of bretagne. it was henri de gondi, cardinal de retz, who was the bitter rival of mazarin. french historians have told us that when the regency under anne of austria began, mazarin, who had been secretary to the terrible richelieu, was just coming into his power. he was a subtle, insidious italian, plodding and patient, but false as a spring-time rainbow. gondi was bold, liberal, and independent, a mover of men and one able to take advantage of any turn of the wind, a statesman, and a great reformer,--or he would have been had he but full power. it was cromwell who said that de retz was the only man in europe who saw through his plans. gondi had entered the church, but he had no talents for it. his life was free, too free even for the times, it would appear, for, though he was ordained cardinal, it was impossible for him to supplant mazarin in the good graces of the court. as he himself had said that he preferred to be a great leader of a party rather than a partisan of royalty, he was perhaps not so very greatly disappointed that he was not able to supplant the wily italian successor of richelieu in the favour of the queen regent. gondi was able to control the parliament, however, and, for a time, it was unable to carry through anything against his will. mazarin rose to power at last, barricaded the streets of paris, and decided to exile gondi--as being the too popular hero of the people. gondi knew of the edict, but stuck out to the last, saying: "to-morrow, i, henri de gondi, before midday, will be master of paris." noon came, and he _was_ master of paris, but as he was still archbishop-coadjutor of paris his hands were tied in more ways than one, and the plot for his supremacy over mazarin, "the plunderer," fell through. the whole neighbouring region south of the loire opposite nantes, the ancient pays de retz, is unfamiliar to tourists in general, and for that reason it has an unexpected if not a superlative charm. it was the bloodiest of the battle-grounds of the vendean wars, and, though its monumental remains are not as numerous or as imposingly beautiful as those in many other parts, there is an interest about it all which is as undying as is that of the most ornate or magnificent château or fortress-peopled land that ever existed. not a corner of this land but has seen bloody warfare in all its grimness and horror, from the days when clisson was pillaged by the normans in the ninth century, to the guerilla warfare of the vendean republicans in the eighteenth century. the advent of the railway has changed much of the aspect of this region and brought a twentieth-century civilization up to the very walls of the ruins of clisson and maulévrier, the latter one of the many châteaux of this region which were ruined by the wars of stofflet, who, at the head of the insurgents, obliged the nobility to follow the peasants in their uprising. now and then, in these parts, one comes upon a short length of railway line not unlike that at which our forefathers marvelled. the line may be of narrow gauge or it may not, but almost invariably the two or three so-called carriages are constructed in the style (or lack of style) of the old stage-coach, and they roll along in much the same lumbering fashion. the locomotive itself is a thing to be wondered at. it is a pigmy in size, but it makes the commotion of a modern decapod, or one of those great flyers which pull the southern express on the main line via poitiers and angoulême, not fifty kilometres away. there is a little tract of land lying just south of the loire below angers which is known as "le bocage vendéen." one leaves the loire at chalonnes and, by a series of gentle inclines, reaches the plateau where sits the town of cholet, the very centre of the region, and a town whose almost only industry is the manufacture of pocket-handkerchiefs. the aspect of the loire has changed rapidly and given way to a more vigorous and varied topography; but, for all that, cholet and the surrounding country depend entirely upon the great towns of the loire for their intercourse with the still greater markets beyond. like angers, cholet and all the neighbouring villages are slate-roofed, with only an occasional red tile to give variety to the otherwise gray and sombre outlook. _en route_ from chalonnes one passes chemillé almost the only market-town of any size in the district. it is very curious, with its romanesque church and its old houses distributed around an amphitheatre, like the _loges_ in an opera-house. this is the very centre of the bocage, where, in revolutionary times, the republican armies so frequently fought with the bands of vendean fanatics. the houses of cholet are well built, but always with that grayness and sadness of tone which does not contribute to either brilliancy of aspect or gaiety of disposition. save the grand street which traverses the town from east to west, the streets are narrow and uncomfortable; but to make up for all this there are hotels and cafés as attractive and as comfortable as any establishments of the kind to be found in any of the smaller cities of provincial france. the handkerchief industry is very considerable, no less than six great establishments devoting themselves to the manufacture. cholet is one of the greatest cattle markets, if not the greatest, in the land. the farmers of the surrounding country buy _boeufs maigres_ in the southwest and centre of france and transform them into good fat cattle which in every way rival what is known in england as "best english." this is accomplished cheaply and readily by feeding them with cabbage stalks. on saturdays, on the champ de foire, the aspect is most animated, and any painter who is desirous of emulating rosa bonheur's "horse fair" (painted at the great cattle market of bernay, in normandy) cannot find a better vantage-ground than here, for one may see gathered together nearly all the cattle types of poitou, the vendée, anjou, bas maine, and of bretagne nantaise. in earlier days cholet was far more sad than it is to-day; but there remain practically no souvenirs of its past. the wars of the vendée left, it is said, but three houses standing when the riot and bloodshed was over. two of the greatest battles of this furious struggle were fought here. on the site of the present railroad station kleber and moreau fought the royalists, and the heroic bonchamps received the wound of which he died at st. florent, just after he had put into execution the order of release for five thousand republican prisoners. this was on the th october, . five months later stofflet possessed himself of the town and burned it nearly to the ground. not much is left to remind one of these eventful times, save the public garden, which was built on the site of the old château. [illustration: _donjon of the château de clisson_] la moine, a tiny and most picturesque river, still flows under the antique arches of the old bridge, which was held in turn by the vendeans and the republicans. to the west of cholet runs another line of railway, direct through the heart of the sèvre-nantaise, one of those _petits pays_ whose old-time identity is now all but lost, even more celebrated in bloody annals than is that region lying to the eastward. here was a country entirely sacked and impoverished. mortagne was completely ruined, though it has yet left substantial remains of its fourteenth and fifteenth century château. torfou was the scene of a bloody encounter between the vendean hordes and kleber's two thousand _héroiques de mayence_. the able vendean chiefs who opposed him, bonchamps, d'elbée, and lescure, captured his artillery and massacred all the wounded. at the extremity of this line was the stronghold of clisson, which itself finally succumbed, but later gave birth to a new town to take the place of that which perished in the vendean convulsion. throughout this region, in the valleys of the moine and the sèvre-nantaise, the rocks and the verdure and the admirable, though ill preserved, ruins, all combine to produce as unworldly an atmosphere as it is possible to conceive within a short half-hundred kilometres of the busy world-port of nantes and the great commercial city of angers. one continually meets with ruins that recall the frightful struggle of revolutionary times; hence the impression that one gets from a ramble through or about this region is well-nigh unique in all france. the coast southward, nearly to la rochelle, is a vast series of shallow gulfs and salt marshes which form weirdly wonderful outlooks for the painter who inclines to vast expanses of sea and sky. pornic is a remarkably picturesque little seaside village, where the inflowing and outflowing tides of the bay of biscay temper the southern sun and make of it--or would make of it if the tide of fashion had but set that way--a watering-place of the first rank. it is an entrancing bit of coast-line which extends for a matter of fifty kilometres south of the juncture of the loire with the ocean, with an aspect at times severe with a waste of sand, and again gracious with verdure and tree-clad and rocky shores. the great bay of bourgneuf and its enfolding peninsula of noirmoutier form an artist's sketching-ground that is not yet overrun with mere dabblers in paint and pencil, and is accordingly charming. the bay of bourgneuf has most of the characteristics of the morbihan, without that severity and sternness which impress one so deeply when on the shores of the great breton inland sea. the little town of bourgneuf-en-retz, with its little port of colletis, is by no means a city of any artistic worth; indeed it is nearly bare of most of those things which attract travellers who are lovers of old or historic shrines; but it is a delightful stopping-place for all that, provided one does not want to go farther afield, to the very tip of the vendean "land's end" at noirmoutier across the bay. three times a day a steamer makes the journey to the little island town which is a favourite place of pilgrimage for the nantais during the summer months. once it was not even an island, but a peninsula, and not so very long ago either. the alluvial deposits of the loire made it in the first place, and the sea, backing in from the north, made a strait which just barely separates it to-day from the mainland. on this out-of-the-way little island there are still some remains of prehistoric monuments, the dolmen of chiron-tardiveau, the menhirs of pinaizeaux and pierre-levée, and some others. in the speech of the inhabitants the isle is known as noirmoutier, a contraction of "_nigrum monasterium_," a name derived from the monastery founded here in the seventh century by st. philibert. in the town is an old château, the ancient fortress-refuge of the abbé of her. it is a great square structure flanked at the angles with little towers, of which two are roofed, one uncovered, and the fourth surmounted by a heliograph for communicating with the ile de yeu and the pointe de chenoulin. the view from the heights of these château towers is fascinating beyond compare, particularly at sundown on a summer's evening, when the golden rays of the sinking sun burnish the coast of the vendée and cast lingering shadows from the roof-tops and walls of the town below. to the northwest one sees the ilot du pilier, with its lighthouse and its tiny coast-guard fortress; to the north is clearly seen pornic and the neighbouring coasts of the pays de retz and of bouin with its encircling dikes,--all reminiscent of a little holland. to the south is the narrow neck of fromentin, the jagged marguerites, which lift their fangs wholly above the surface of the sea only at low water, and the towering cliffs of the ile de yeu, which rise above the mists. just south of the loire, between nantes and bourgneuf, is the lac de grand-lieu, in connection with which one may hear a new rendering of an old legend. at one time, it is said, it was bordered by a city, whose inhabitants, for their vices, brought down the vengeance of heaven upon them, even though they cried out to the powers on high to avert the threatened flood which rose up out of the lake and overflowed the banks and swallowed the city and all evidences of its past. in this last lies the flaw in the legend; but, like the history of sodom, of the ville d'ys in bretagne, and of ars in dauphiné, tradition has kept it alive. this wicked place of the loire valley was called _herbauge_ or _herbadilla_, and, from st. philibert at the southern extremity of the lake, one looks out to-day on a considerable extent of shallow water, which is as murderous-looking and as uncanny as a swamp of the everglades. from the central basin flow two tiny rivers, the ognon and the boulogne, which are charming enough in their way, as also is the route by highroad from nantes, but the gray monotonous lake, across which the wind whistles in a veritable tempest for more than six months of the year, is most depressing. there are various hamlets, with some pretence at advanced civilization about them, scattered around the borders of the lake, st. leger, st. mars, st. aignan, st. lumine, bouaye, and la chevrolière; but in the whole number you will not get a daily paper that is less than forty-eight hours old, and nothing but the most stale news of happenings in the outside world ever dribbles through. st. philibert is the metropolis of these parts, and it has no competitors for the honour. at the entrance of the ognon is the little village of passay, built at the foot of a low cliff which dominates all this part of the lake. it is a picturesque little village of low houses and red roofs, with a little sandy beach in the foreground, through which little rivulets of soft water trickle and go to make up the greater body. chapter xv. berry and george sand's country whether one enters berry through the valley of the cher or the indre or through the gateway of sancerre in the mid-loire, the impression is much the same. the historic province of berry resounds again and again with the echoes of its past, and no province adjacent to the loire is more prolific in the things that interest the curious, and none is so little known as the old province which was purchased for the crown by philippe i. in . [illustration: berry (map)] with the interior of the province, that portion which lies away from the river valleys, this book has little to do, though the traveller through the region would hardly omit the episcopal city of bourges, and its great transeptless cathedral, with its glorious front of quintupled portals. with the cathedral may well be coupled that other great architectural monument, the maison de jacques coeur. at paris one is asked, "_avez-vous vu le louvre?_" but at bourges it is always, "_Êtes-vous allé à jacques coeur?_" even before one is asked if he has seen the cathedral. from the hill which overlooks sancerre, and forms a foundation for the still existing tower of the château belonging to the feudal counts of sancerre, one gets one of the most wonderfully wide-spread views in all the loire valley. the height and its feudal tower stand isolated, like a rock rising from the ocean. from cosne and beyond, on the north, to la charité, on the south, is one vast panorama of vineyard, wheat-field, and luxuriant river-bottom. at a lesser distance, on the right bank, is the line of the railroad which threads its way like a serpent around the bends of the river and its banks. below the hill of sancerre is a huge overgrown hamlet--and yet not large enough to be called a village--surrounding a most curious church (st. satur), without either nave or apse. the old abbey of st. satur once possessed all the lands in the neighbourhood that were not in the actual possession of the counts of sancerre, and was a power in the land, as were most of the abbeys throughout france. the church was begun in - , on a most elaborate plan, so extensive in fact (almost approaching that great work at la charité) that it has for ever remained uncompleted. the history of this little churchly suburb of sancerre has been most interesting. the great benedictine church was never finished and has since come to be somewhat of a ruin. in the english sacked the abbey and stole its treasure to the very last precious stone or piece of gold. a dozen flatboats were anchored or moored to the banks of the river facing the abbey, and the monks were transported thither and held for a ransom of a thousand crowns each. as everything had already been taken by their captors, the monks vainly protested that they had no valuables with which to meet the demand, and accordingly they were bound hand and foot and thrown into the river, to the number of fifty-two, eight only escaping with their lives. a bloody memory indeed for a fair land which now blossoms with poppies and roses. sancerre, in spite of the etymology of its name (which comes down from roman times--sacrum cæsari), is of feudal origin. its fortress, and the comté as well, were under the suzerainty of the counts of champagne, and it was the stronghold and refuge of many a band of guerilla warriors, adventurers, and marauding thieves. at the end of the twelfth century a certain comte de sancerre, at the head of a coterie of bandits called brabaçons, marched upon bourges and invaded the city, killing all who crossed their path, and firing all isolated dwellings and many even in the heart of the city. sancerre was many times besieged, the most memorable event of this nature being the attack of the royalists in against the frondeurs who were shut up in the town. the defenders were without artillery, but so habituated were they to the use of the _fronde_ that for eight months they were able to hold the city against the foe. from this the _fronde_ came to be known as the "_arquebuse de sancerre_." [illustration: _la tour, sancerre_] sancerre is to-day a ruined town, its streets unequal and tortuous, all up and down hill and blindly rambling off into _culs-de-sac_ which lead nowhere. above it all is the fine château, built in a modern day after the renaissance manner, of mlle. de crussol, proudly seated on the very crest of the hill. within the grounds, the only part of the domain which is free to the public, are the ruins of the famous citadel which was bought by st. louis, in , from the comte thibaut. the only portion of this feudal stronghold which remains to-day is known as the "tour des fiefs." one may enter the grounds and, in the company of a _concierge_, ascend to the platform of this lone tower, whence a wonderful view of the broad "_ruban lumineux_" of the loire spreads itself out as if fluttering in the wind, northward and southward, as far as the eye can reach. beside it one sees another line of blue water, as if it were a strand detached from the broader band. this is the canal latéral de la loire, one of those inland waterways of france which add so much to the prosperity of the land. above sancerre is gien, another gateway to berry, through which the traveller from paris through the orléannais is bound to pass. [illustration: _château de gien_] at a distance of five kilometres or more, coming from the north, one sees the towers of the château of gien piercing the horizon. the château is a most curious affair, with its chainbuilt blocks of stone, and its red and black--or nearly black--_brique_, crossed and recrossed in quaint geometrical designs. it was built in for dame anne de beaujeau, who was regent of the kingdom immediately after the death of charles viii. this building replaced another of a century before, built by jean-sans-peur, where was celebrated the marriage of his daughter with the comte de guise. gien's château, too, may be said to be a landmark on jeanne d'arc's route to martyrdom and fame, for here she made her supplication to charles vii. to march on reims. in charlemagnian times this old castle had a predecessor, which, however, was more a fortress than a habitable château; but all remains of this had apparently disappeared before the later structure made its appearance. louis xiv. and anne of austria, regent, held a fugitive, impoverished court in this château, and heard with fear and trembling the cannon-shots of the armies of turenne and condé at bleneau, five leagues distant. at nevers or at la charité one does not get the view of the loire that he would like, for, in one case, the waterway is masked by a row of houses, and in the other by a series of walled gardens; but at gien, where everything is splendidly theatrical, there is a tree-bordered quay and innumerable examples of those coquettish little houses of brick which are not beautiful, but which set off many a french riverside landscape as nothing else will. in gien's main street there are a multitude of rare mellowed old houses with sculptured fronts and high gables. this street twists and turns until it reaches the old stone and brick château, with its harmoniously coloured walls, making a veritable symphony of colour. each turn in this old high-street of gien gives a new vista of mediævalism quite surprising and eerielike, as fantastic as the weird pictures of doré. gien and its neighbour briare are chiefly noted commercially for their pottery. gien makes crockery ware, and briare inundates the entire world with those little porcelain buttons which one buys in every land. crossing the sologne and entering berry from the capital of the orléannais, or coming out from tours by the valley of the cher, one comes upon the little visited and out-of-the-way château of valençay, in the charming dainty valley of the nahon. there is some reason for its comparative neglect by the tourist, for it is on a cross-country railway line which demands quite a full day of one's time to get there from tours and get away again to the next centre of attraction, and if one comes by the way of the orléannais, he must be prepared to give at least three days to the surrounding region. this is the gateway to george sand's country, but few english-speaking tourists ever get here, so it may be safely called unknown. it is marvellous how france abounds in these little corners all but unknown to strangers, even though they lie not far off the beaten track. the spirit of exploration and travel in unknown parts, except the arctic regions, thibet, and the australian desert, seems to be dying out. the château of valençay was formerly inhabited by talleyrand, after he had quitted the bishopric of autun for politics. it is seated proudly upon a vast terrace overlooking one of the most charming bits of the valley of the nahon, and is of a thoroughly typical renaissance type, built by the great philibert delorme for jacques d'Étampes in , and only acquired by the minister of napoleon and louis xviii. in . the architect, in spite of the imposing situation, is not seen at his best here, for in no way does it compare with his masterwork at anet, or the tuileries. the expert recognizes also the hands of two other architects, one of the blaisois and the other of anjou, who in some measure transformed the edifice in the reign of françois i. the enormous donjon,--if it is a donjon,--with its great, round corner tower with a dome above, which looks like nothing so much as an observatory, is perhaps the outgrowth of an earlier accessory, but on the whole the edifice is fully typical of the renaissance. the court unites the two widely different terminations in a fashion more or less approaching symmetry, but it is only as a whole that the effect is highly pleasing. beyond a _balustrade à jour_ is the jardin de la duchesse, communicating with the park by a graceful bridge over an ornamental water. in general the apartments are furnished in the style of the first empire, an epoch memorable in the annals of valençay. [illustration: _château de valençay_] by the orders of napoleon many royalties and ambassadors here received hospitality, and in - it became a gilded cage--or a "golden prison," as the french have it--for the prince of the asturias, afterward ferdinand vii. of spain, who consoled himself during his captivity by constructing wolf-traps in the garden and planting cauliflowers in the great urns and vases with which the terrace was set out. there is a great portrait gallery here, where is gathered a collection of portraits in miniature of all the sovereigns who treated with talleyrand during his ministerial reign, among others one of the sultan selim, painted from life, but in secret, since the reproduction of the human form is forbidden by the koran. in the maison de charité, in the town, beneath the pavement of the chapel, is found the tomb of the family of talleyrand, where are interred the remains of talleyrand and of marie thérèse poniatowska, sister of the celebrated king of poland who served in the french army in . in this chapel also is a rare treasure in the form of a chalice enriched with precious stones, originally belonging to pope pius vi., the gift of the princess poniatowska. the pavillon de la garenne,--what in england would be called a "shooting-box,"--a rendezvous for the chase, built by talleyrand, is some distance from the château on the edge of the delightful little forêt de gatine. varennes, just above valençay, is thought by the average traveller through the long gallery of charms in the château country to be wholly unworthy of his attention. as a matter of fact, it does not possess much of historical or artistic interest, though its fine old church dates from the twelfth century. ascending the cher from its juncture with the loire, one passes a number of interesting places. st. aignan, with its magnificent gothic and renaissance château; selles; romorantin, a dead little spot, dear as much for its sleepiness as anything else; vierzon, a rich, industrial town where they make locomotives, automobiles, and mechanical hay-rakes, copying the most approved american models; and mehun-sur-yevre, all follow in rapid succession. mehun-sur-yevre, which to most is only a name and to many not even that, is possessed of two architectural monuments, a grand ruin of a gothic fortress of the time of charles vii. and a feudal gateway of two great rounded cone-roofed towers, bound by a ligature through which a port-cullis formerly slid up and down like an act-drop in a theatre. [illustration: gateway of mehun-sur-yevre] wonderfully impressive all this, and the more so because these magnificent relics of other days are unspoiled and unrestored. [illustration: _le carrior dore, romorantin_] charles vii. was by no means constant in his devotions, it will be recalled, though he seems to have been seriously enamoured of agnes sorel--at any rate while she lived. afterward he speedily surrounded himself with a galaxy of "_belles demoiselles vêtues comme reines_." they followed him everywhere, and he spent all but his last sou upon them, as did some of his successors. one day charles vii. took refuge in the strong towers of the château of mehun-sur-yevre, which he himself had built and which he had frequently made his residence. here he died miserable and alone,--it is said by history, of hunger. thus another dark chapter in the history of kings and queens was brought to a close. if one has the time and so desires, he may follow the indre, the next confluent of the loire south of the cher, from loches to "george sand's country," as literary pilgrims will like to think of the pleasant valleys of the ancient province of berry. the history of the province before and since philippe i. united it with the crown of france was vivid enough to make it fairly well known, but on the whole it has been very little travelled. it is essentially a pastoral region, and, remembering george sand and her works, one has refreshing memories of the idyls of its prairies and the beautiful valleys of the indre and the cher, which join their waters with the loire near tours. if one would love berry as one loves a greater and more famous haunt of a famous author, and would prepare in advance for the pleasure to be received from threading its highways and byways, he should read those "_petits chefs-d'oeuvre_ of sentiment and rustic poesy", the romances of george sand. if he has done this, he will find almost at every turning some long familiar spot or a peasant who seems already an old friend. châteauroux is the real gateway to the country of george sand. nohant is the native place of the great authoress, madame dudevant, whom the world best knows as george sand; a little by-corner of the great busy world, loved by all who know it. far out in the open country is the little station at which one alights if he comes by rail. opposite is a "_petite route_" which leads directly to the banks of the indre, where it joins the highway to la châtre. nohant itself, as a dainty old-world village, is divine. has not george sand expressed her love of it as fervidly as did marie antoinette for the trianon? the french call it a "_bon et honnête petit village berrichon_." nude of artifice, it is deliciously unspoiled. a delightful old church, with a curious wooden porch and a parvise as rural as could possibly be, not even a cobblestone detracting from its rustic beauty, is the principal thing which strikes one's eye as he enters the village. chickens and geese wander about, picking here and there on the very steps of the church, and no one says them nay. the house of george sand is just to the right of the church, within whose grounds one sees also the pavilion known to her as the "_théâtre des marionettes_." in a corner of the poetic little cemetery at nohant, one sees among the humble crosses emerging from the midst of the verdure, all weather-beaten and moss-grown, a plain, simple stone, green with mossy dampness, which marks the spot where reposes all that was mortal of george sand. here, in the midst of this land which she so loved, she still lives in the memory of all; at the house of the well-lettered for her abounding talent--second only to that of balzac--and in the homes of the peasants for her generous fellowship. through her ancestry she could and did claim relationship with charles x. and louis xviii.; but her life among her people had nought of pretence in it. she was born among the roses and to the sound of music, and she lies buried amid all the rusticity and simple charm of what may well be called the greenwood of her native land. chapter xvi. the upper loire the gateway to the upper valley may be said to be through the nivernais, and the capital city of the old province, at the juncture of the allier and the loire. after leaving gien and briare, the loire passes through quite the most truly picturesque landscape of its whole course, the great height of sancerre dominating the view for thirty miles or more in any direction. cosne is the first of the towns of note of the nivernais, and is a gay little bourg of eight or nine thousand souls who live much the same life that their grandfathers lived before them. as a place of residence it might prove dull to the outsider, but as a house of call for the wearied and famished traveller, cosne, with its charming situation, its tree-bordered quays, and its hôtel du grand cerf, is most attractive. [illustration: _Église s. aignan, cosne_] pouilly-sur-loire is next, with three thousand or more inhabitants wholly devoted to wine-growing, pouilly being to the upper river what vouvray is to touraine. it is not a tourist point in any sense, nor is it very picturesque or attractive. some one has said that the pleasure of contemplation is never so great as when one views a noble monument, a great work of art, or a charming french town for the first time. never was it more true indeed than of the two dissimilar towns of the upper loire, nevers, and la charité-sur-loire. the old towers of la charité rise up in the sunlight and give that touch to the view which marks it at once as of the nivernais, which all archæologists tell one is italian and not french, in motive as well as sentiment. it is remarkable, perhaps, that the name la charité is so seldom met with in the accounts of english travellers in france, for in france it is invariably considered to be one of the most picturesque and famous spots in all mid-france. it is an unprogressive, sleepy old place, with streets mostly unpaved, whose five thousand odd souls, known roundabout as les caritates, live apparently in the past. [illustration: _pouilly-sur-loire_] below, a stone's throw from the windows of your inn, lies the loire, its broad, blue bosom scarcely ruffled, except where it slowly eddies around the piers of the two-century-old _dos d'ane_ bridge; a lovely old structure, built, it is recorded, by the regiment known as the "royal marine" in the early years of the eighteenth century. the town is terraced upon the very edge of the river, with views up and down which are unusually lovely for even these parts. below, almost within sight, is nevers, while above are the heights of sancerre, still visible in the glowing western twilight. beyond the bridge rises a giant column of blackened stone, festooned by four ranges of arcades, the sole remaining relic of the ancient church standing alone before the present structure which now serves the purposes of the church in la charité. the walls which surrounded the ancient town have disappeared or have been built into house walls, but the effect is still of a self-contained old burg. in the fourteenth century, during the hundred years' war, the town was frequently besieged. in jeanne d'arc, coming from her success at st. pierre-le-moutier, here met with practically a defeat, as she was able to sustain the siege for only but a month, when she withdrew. la charité played an important part in the religious wars of the sixteenth century, and protestants and catholics became its occupants in turn. virtually la charité-sur-loire became a protestant stronghold in spite of its catholic foundation. in it bade defiance to the royal arms of the duc d'alençon, as is recounted by the following lines: "ou allez-vous, hélas! furieux insensés cherchant de charité la proie et la ruine, qui sans l'ombre de foy abbatre la pensez! * * * * * le canon ne peut rien contre la charité, plus tot vous détruira la peste et la famine, car jamais sans foy n'aurez la charité." in spite of this defiance it capitulated, and, on the th of may, at the château of plessis-les-tours on the loire, henri iii. celebrated the victory of his brother by a fête "_ultra-galante_," where, in place of the usual pages, there were employed "_des dames vestues en habits d'hommes...._" surely a fantastic and immodest manner of celebrating a victory against religious opponents; but, like many of the customs of the time, the fête was simply a fanatical debauch. [illustration: _porte du croux, nevers_] at nevers one meets the canal du nivernais, which recalls daudet's "la belle nivernaise" to all readers of fiction, who may accept it without question as a true and correct guide to the region, its manners, and customs. the chief characteristic of nevers is that it is italian in nearly, if not quite all, its aspects; its monuments and its history. its ancient ducal château, part of which dates from the feudal epoch, was the abode of the italian dukes who came in the train of mazarin, the last of whom was the nephew of the cardinal, "who himself was french if his speech was not." nevers has also a charming gothic cathedral (st. cyr) with a double romanesque apse (in itself a curiosity seldom, if ever, seen out of germany), and, in addition to the cathedral, can boast of st. etienne, one of the most precious of all the romanesque churches of france. the old walls at nevers are not very complete, but what remain are wonderfully expressive. the tour gouguin and the tour st. eloi are notable examples, but they are completely overshadowed by the porte du croux, which is one of the best examples of the city gates which were so plentiful in the france of another day. above nevers, decize, bourbon-lancy, gilly, and digoin are mere names which mean nothing to the traveller by rail. they are busy towns of central france, where the bustle of their daily lives is of quite a different variety from that of the ile de france, of normandy, or of the pas de calais. from digoin to roanne the loire is followed by the canal latéral. roanne is a not very pleasing, overgrown town which has become a veritable _ville des ouvriers_, all of whom are engaged in cloth manufacture. virtually, then, roanne is not much more than a guide-post on the route to le puy--"the most picturesque place in the world"--and the wonderfully impressive region of the cevennes and the vivaris, where shepherds guard their flocks amid the solitudes. far above le puy, in a rocky gorge known as the gerbier-de-jonc, near ste. eulalie, in the ardeche, rises the tiny liger, which is the real source of the mighty loire, that natural boundary which divides the north from the south and forms what the french geographers call "_la bassin centrale de france_." the end. index abbeville, . _abd-el-kader, emir_, . _abelard_, . _absalom_, . acheneau, the, . _adams, john_, . _alaric_, . _alcuin, abbé_, . _alençon, ducs d'_, , . _alençon, marguerite d'_, , , - . allier, the, . amboise and its château, , , , , , , - , , , - , , , , , . _amboise, family of_, , - . amboise, forêt d', . amiens, . ancenis and its château, , - , . _andrelini, fausto_, . anet, château d', , , . _ange, michel_, , . angers and its château, , - , , - , , , , , , - , - , , . angoulême, , . _angoulême, isabeau d'_, . _angoulême, jean d'_, . _angoulême, louise de savoie, duchesse d'_ (see _savoie, louise de_). anjou, , , , , , , , - , , , . _anjou, counts of_, , , , , , , . _anjou, foulques nerra, comte d'_ (see _foulques nerra_). _anjou, margaret of_, . _anne of austria_, - , . aquitaine, , . _arbrissel, robert d'_, . _arc, jeanne d'_, , - , - . _ardier, paul_, . arques, château d', . _aumale, duc d'_, . _aussigny, thibaut d'_, . authion, the, . autun, . auvergne, . auvers, . auxerre, , . avignon, , . azay-le-rideau and its château, , , , , , - . bacon, . ballon, . _balue, cardinal_, , . _balzac, honoré de_, , , , - , - , , - , , , . _bardi, comte de_, . _barre, de la_, , . _barry, madame du_, , . _beaudoin, jean_, . _beaufort, a._, . beaugency and its château, , , - . _beaujeau, anne de_, . beaulieu, - . beauregard, château de, - . beauvron, the, . _becket_, . _bélier, guillaume_, . _bellanger, stanislas_, . _bellay family, du_, , , . _belleau, remy_, . _beringhem, henri de_, . bernay, . _bernier_, . berry, , , , , - , , , - . _berry, counts of_, . _berry, duchesse de_, . _berthelot, gilles_, , . _berthier, maréchal_, . beuvron, - . _biencourt, marquis de_, . _blacas, comte de_, . blaisois, the, , , - , , - , , , , . bleneau, . blésois, the (_see_ blaisois, the). blois and its château, , , , , , - , - , , - , , , , - , - , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , . _blois, comtes de_, - , , , , , . blois, forêt de, . _blondel_, . bocage, the, - . _bohier, thomas_, , , - . bois-tillac, . _bolingbroke_, , . _bonchamps_, - . _bonheur, rosa_, . bonneventure, château de, . _bontemps, pierre_, . bordeaux, , , , . _bordeaux, duc de_, . _bosseboeuf, abbé_, . bouaye, . bouin, . boulogne, the, . _bourbon, cardinal de_, . _bourbon, renée de_, . bourbon-lancy, . bourbonnais, . bourdaisière, château de la, . bourg de batz, . bourges, , , . bourgneuf-en-retz, , . bourgogne, , , . bourgueil, . _bourré, jean_, . _boyer_, . bracieux, . brain-sur-allonnes, . _brantôme_, , , , . brenne, . bretagne, , , - , , , , , - , . _bretagne, anne de_, , , , , , , , - , , . _bretagne, conan, duc de_, . _bretagne, françois ii., duc de_, , - . _brézé, pierre de_, . briare, , . _briçonnet, cardinal_, . _brinvilliers_, . brittany (_see_ bretagne). _broglie, princesse de_, . _brosse, pierre de_, . bruges, . _brunyer, abel_, , . _buffon_, , . _bullion_, . _bussy d'amboise, de_, . buzay, abbey of, . _byron_, . _cæsar_, , . cahors, . _cail, m._, - . _cain_, . _calixtus ii._, . canal de brest à nantes, . canal de buzay, . canal d'orleans, - . canal du nivernaise, , . canal lateral, , , , . canal maritime, . candes, - , . _castellane family_, . _caumont, de_, . _cellini_, . chalonnes, , . chambord and its château, - , , , , , , , - , , , , , , - . _chambord, comte de_, . chambris, . _champagne, counts of_, . champeigne, . champtocé, . chanteloup, , . _charlemagne_, . _charles i. (the bald)_, , . _charles ii. of england_, . _charles v., emperor_, - , , . _charles vi._, . _charles vii._, , - , - , , , , - , - , , , , . _charles viii._, , , , , , - , , , - , . _charles ix._, , , . _charles x._, . _charles martel_, . _charles the bold of burgundy_, . chartres, , . chartreuse du liget, . _châteaubriand, comtesse de_, , . château chevigné, . château de la fontaine, . château de la source, - . châteaudun and its castle, - . _châteaudun, vicomtes de_, . château gaillard, . château l'epinay, . châteauneuf-sur-loire, , . châteauroux, . château serrand, . chatillon, , , . _chatillon, cardinal de_, . _chatillon, comtes de_, , . chaumont and its château, , , , , - , . _chaumont, charles de_, . _chaumont, donatien le ray de_, - . chemillé, - . _chemille, petronille de_, . chenonceaux and its château, , , , , , , , , - , , , , . cher, the, , , , - , - , , , , , , , , , - . _chevalier, abbé_, . cheverny and its château, , - , . _cheverny, philippe hurault, comte de_, . _chicot_, . chinon and its châteaux, , , , , , , , , , - , . chinon, forêt de, , . chiron-tardiveau, . _choiseul, duc de_, , . cholet, , - . _cholet, comte de_, . cinq-mars and its ruins, , , , , - , , . _cinq-mars, henri, marquis de_, , - , . _cinq-mars, marquise de_, , . _claude of france_, , , , . _clément, jacques_, . clermont-ferrand, . cléry, , , - , . clisson and its château, , , . _clisson_, . _clopinel, jehan_ (see _jean de meung_). _clouet_, . _clovis_, , , . coeuvres, . _coligny_, - . colletis, . _colombe, michel_, - , . _commines, de_, . _condé, prince de_, , - , , . _conti, princesse de_, . _cormeri, citizen_, . cormery, . cosne, , , . cosson, the, , - , . coteau de guignes, . couëron, . _coulanges, m. de_, . coulmiers, . cour-cheverny, , , . _cousin, jean_, . coutancière, château of, . _coxe, miss_, . _créquy, marquise de_, . croix de monteuse, . _cromwell_, . _crussol, mlle. de_, . _dalahaide_, . dampierre, . _dante_, . _danton_, . _daudet_, , . decize, . _delavigne, casimir_, . _delorme, marion_, - . _delorme, philibert_, . _deneux, mlle._, . _descartes_, , . digoin, . dijon, . _dino, duc de_, . dive, the, . domfront, château de, . _doré_, , . _duban_, . _ducos, roger_, - . _dudevant, madame_ (see _sand, george_). _duguesclin_, . _dumas_, , , , , , - , - . dunois, the, . _dupin, m. and mme._, , . _duplessis-mornay_, . _eckmühl, prince_, . _effiats family, d'_ (see _cinq-mars_). _elbée, d'_, . _eleanor of portugal_, . _Éléanore of guienne_, . embrun, , . _epernon, duc d'_, . _este, cardinal d'_, . _estrées, gabrielle d'_, , - . _Étampes, duchesse d'_, , - , . _Étampes, jacques d'_, . etretat, . eure et loir, department of, . falaise, château de, . _ferdinand vii. of spain_, . finistère, . _flaubert_, . _foix, marguerite de_, - . folie-siffait, . fontainebleau, . fontaine des sables mouvants, . _fontenelle_, . fontenoy, . fontevrault, abbey of, , - , . _force, piganiol de la_, . forez, plain of, . _fouché_, . _foulques nerra_, , , , . _foulques v._, . _fouquet_, , . _françois i._, - , - , - , , , - , , - , , , , , , - , - , - , - , , - , , - , , . _françois ii._, - , , , . _franklin, benjamin_, - , . freiburg, . fromentin, . _galles, prince de_, . _gaston of orleans_, - , , - , - . gatanais, the, . gatine, forêt de, . _george iv._, . gerbier-de-jonc, , . gien and its château, , , , , - , . gilly, . giverny, . _gondi, henri de_, - , - . _goujon, jean_, , , . _gregory of tours_, . _grise-gonelle, geoffroy_, . grottoes of ste. radegonde, . guérande, . _guise, henri, duc de (le balafré)_, , - , - , , , , , , , . haute loire, department of, . _henri ii._, , , , , , , , - , - , - , , . _henri iii._, - , , - , , , , . _henri iv. (de navarre)_, , , , , , . _henry ii. of england_, , , , - , . _henry viii. of england_, . _holbein_, . _hugo, victor_, . huismes, . _hurault, philippe_, , . ile de yeu, - . ile feydeau, . ile gloriette, . ile st. jean, . ilot du pilier, . indre, the, , , - , , - , , , , - . indre et loire, département d', . _jahel, miss_, . _james v. of scotland_, . _james, henry_, , , , . jargeau, . _jean de meung_, - . _jean-sans-peur_, . _jean-sans-terre_, , . _jeanne d'arc_, - , , , , . _jeanne of france_, . _john, king_, . joué, . _juvenet_, . _kleber_, , . la beauce, , , , , . "la briche," - . lac de grand lieu, - , - . lac d'issarles, . la chapelle, . la charité, - , - , , - . la châtre, . la chevrolière, . _lafayette, madame de_, . _la fontaine_, , . la martinière, . la motte, - . _landais_, . _landes, houdon des_, . langeais and its château, , , , , , , , , - , . languedoc, . _lanoue_, . lanterne de rochecorbon, . la pointe, , - , . la possonière, . larçay, . la rochelle, , . _lauzun_, . _lavedan_, - . layon, the, . le croisic, . le havre, . _lemaitre, jules_, . _lemercier_, - . _lenoir_, . _lenôtre_, . _lepage_, . le pellerin, . le puy, - , , , , . _leray, m._, . les andelys, château de, . _lescure_, . _lespine, jean de_, . liger, the, . lille, . _lille, abbé de_, . "_limieul, la demoiselle de_" (see _tour, isabelle de la_). limousin, the, . lisieux, . loches and its châteaux, , - , , , , , - , , , . loches, forêt de, . loir, the, , . loir et cher, department of the, , . loire, the, , - , , - , - , , - , - , , , - , , , - , - , , - , - , , , , , , - , - , , , , , - , , , , , - , , - , , , , , - , , , - , - , - , - , - , - , , - , , - , - , , - , , - , . loiret, the, - . loiret, department of the, - . _lorraine, cardinal de_, , . _lorraine, marie de_, . lorris, . _lorris, guillaume de_, , . lot, the, . louet, the, . _louis ii. (le bègue)_, . _louis ix._ (see _st. louis_). _louis xi._, , , , - , , , - , , , , , - , - , - , , - , , , . _louis xii._, - , , , , , , , , , - , , , , . _louis xiii._, , , , , , , , - . _louis xiv._, , - , - , , , , , , , , , , , . _louis xv._, , , , , , . _louis xvi._, , . _louis xviii._, , . _louis philippe_, . louvre, the, , . _lubin, m._, . luynes and its château, , - . _luynes family_, , , , . lyonnais, . lyons, , , . lyons, forêt de, . madon, . _maillé, comte de_, . maine, the, - , - , , - . _maintenon, madame de_, . _malines_, . _mame et fils, alfred_, . _mansart_ (elder), , . marguerites, the, . _marie antoinette_, . _marigny, de_, . marmoutier, abbey of, - , . _marques, family of_, . _marsay, m. de_, . marseilles, , , , , . _martel, geoffroy_, . maulévrier, château of, . mauves, plain of, . mayenne, . mayenne, the, . _mazarin_, , , - , . _medici, catherine de_, - , , - , - , - , - , , - , - . _medici, marie de_, , . mehun-sur-yevre and its château, - . _mello, dreux de_, . menars and its château, - . mer, - . metz, . meung-sur-loire, , , - . micy, abbaye de, . _mignard_, . moine, the, - . _molière_, . montbazon, . _montespan, madame de_, . _montesquieu_, . _montgomery_, , . montjean, . montlivault, . _montmorency, connétable de_, . montpellier, castle of, . _montpensier, charles de_, - . montrichard and its donjon, - , - . montsoreau, - , . moraines, château de (_see_ dampierre). _moreau_, . moret, . _morrison_, . mortagne, . _mosnier_, . moulins, . muides, . nahon, the, - . nantes and its château, , - , - , , - , , , , , , - , , , - , , - . _napoleon i._, , , , - . _napoleon iii._, . _napoleon, louis_, . narbonne, . _navarre, marguerite of_ (see _alençon, marguerite d'_). _nemours, duc de_, . _nepveu, pierre_, . nevers, , , , , , , , - , - . _nini_, . nivernais, the, , , . nohant, - . noirmoutier, - . normandy, , , . ognon, the, . onzain, . orléannais, the, , , , , , - , , - . orleans, - , - , , , , - , - , , , , , , , , , . _orleans family_, , - , , , , , (see also _gaston of orleans_). orleans, forêt d', - . oudon, - , . paimboeuf, . paris, , , , , , , , , - , - , , , . _parme, duc de_, . _parmentier_, . pas de calais, . passay, . passy-sur-seine, . pays de retz, , - , . _penthièvre, duc de_, . _pepin_, . _philippe i._, , . _philippe ii. (auguste)_, , , . _philippe iii. (le hardi)_, . _philippe iv. (le bel)_, . pierrefonds, château of, . pierre-levée, . _pilon, germain_, . pinaizeaux, . _pius vi._, . _plantagenet, henry_ (see _henry ii. of england_). _plantin, christopher_, . _plessis, armand du_ (see _richelieu, cardinal_). plessis-les-tours, , , - , . pointe de chenoulin, . poitiers, . _poitiers, diane de_, , , , , , - , , , . poitou, , , . _pompadour, la_, . _poniatowska, marie thérèse_, . pont aven, . ponts de cé, - , , , - . pornic, , . pornichet, . port boulet, . pouilly, , - . prairie-au-duc, . _primaticcio_, . _primatice_, . puy-de-dôme, . _rabelais, françois_, , , - , - , - , . rambouillet, forêt de, . reims, . _renaudie, jean barri de la_, . _rené, king_, , . rennes, . _retz, cardinal de_ (see _gondi, henri de_). _retz, gilles de_, , . rhine, the, , . rhône, the, , , . _richard coeur de lion_, , , . richelieu, - . _richelieu, cardinal_, , , - , - , - . roanne, , - , . _rochecotte_, . rochecotte, château de, - . romorantin and its château, , - , . _ronsard_, , , , . rouen, , , - , , , . _rousseau, jean jacques_, , - , . _roy, lucien_, . _royale, madame_, . _rubens_, . _ruggieri, cosmo_, - , - . russy, forêt de, . _saint gelais, guy de_, . sancerre and its châteaux, , , - , , . _sancerre, counts of_, - . _sand, george_, , , - . san juste, monastery of, . saône, the, . _sardini, scipion_, . sarthe, the, , . saumur and its château, , - , , , - , , - , . sausac, château of, . _sausac, seigneur de_, . savennières, . _savoie, louise de_, . _savoie, philippe de_, . _saxe, maurice de_, - . _scott, sir walter_, , , , . sedan, . seine, the, , , , , , . selles, , . _sertio_, . _sévigné, madame de_, , , . _sforza, ludovic_, . _shenstone_, . _siegfreid, jacques_, . sologne, the, , - , , - , , , , , . _sorel, agnes_, , - , , , - , , . _staël, madame de_, - . st. aignan and its château, , , . _stanislas of poland, king_, - . st. ay, - . st. benoit-sur-loire, , . st. claude, . st. cyr, . st. die, . ste. eulalie, . _stendahl_, . st. etienne, , . st. florent, abbey of, , . st. galmier, . st. georges-sur-loire, . st. leger, . _st. liphard_, . _st. louis_, , , , . st. lumine, . st. mars, . _st. martin_, , , - , , , , . _st. mesme_, . st. mesmin, , . st. nazaire, , , , . _stofflet_, , . _st. ours_, . st. philibert, - . _st. philibert_, . st. pierre-le-moutier, . st. rambert, . _st. sauveur_, . strasburg, . st. symphorien, . st. trinité, abbey of, . _stuart, mary_, - , , . _st. vallier, comte de_, , . suèvres, . sully, . _talleyrand_, , , . _tasso_, . tavers, . _terry, mr._, . _texier_, . thézée, . _thibaut-le-tricheur_, . _thibaut iii._, . _thiephanie, dame_, . thouet, the, . _thoury, comtesse_, . torfou, . toulouse, . _tour, isabelle de la_, . touraine, - , - , , - , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , - , , , , , , - , - , , - , , , , , , , . _touraine, comtes de_, . tours, , , , , - , - , , , , - , , - , , - , , - , , - , , - , - , - , , , , , - , - , . treves-cunault, - . _turenne_, . _turner_, . ussé and its château, , - . valençay and its château, - . _valentine de milan_, . _valentinois, duchesse de_ (see _poitiers, diane de_). vallée du vendomois, . _valois, marguerite de_ (_sister of françois i._) (see _alençon, marguerite d'_). _valois, marguerite de (de navarre)_, . _van eyck_, . varennes, , . varennes, the, . _vasari_, . _vauban_, . _vaudémont, louise de_, . vendôme, , . _vendôme, césar de_, . vendomois, the, - . veron, . versailles, , , , , , . _vibraye, marquis de_, . vienne, the, , , , - , - , , . vierzon, - , . _vigny, alfred de_, - . villandry, château de, . villaumère, château de la, . _villon, françois_, . _vinci, leonardo da_, , , , - , , , . _viollet-le-duc_, . vivarais mountains, . _voltaire_, , , . vorey, , . vouvray, , . yonne, the, . _young, arthur_, . _zamet, sebastian_, . * * * * * transcriber's notes . replaced chateau(x) with château(x) throughout the text (title pages and pp. xi, , , , , ). . p. : added quotes after a verse. . p. : replaced "três" with "très" ("très beau et très agréable ainsy que tous ses portraits l'ont représenté..."). . p. : added quotes after the phrase "magasin des subsistances militaires". . p. : added quotes after a phrase "those brilliant and ambitious gentlemen". . p. : "potions" are replaced with "portions" ("... moreover, one can drink large portions of it..."). . p. : "know" is replaced with "known" ("the second floor is known as the..."). . all instances of "francois" are replaced with "françois" (pp. , , , , ). . p. : "credit foncier" is replaced by "crédit foncier". . p. : replaced "irrelevent" with "irrelevant" ("...an over-luxuriant interpolation of irrelevant things..."). . p. : replaced "andre" with "andré" ("maison andré leroy"). . p. : added quotes after a verse "cueur de vertus orné dignement couronné." . p. : replaced "etes-vous" with "Êtes-vous" ("Êtes-vous allé à..."). . p. : replaced "valencay" with "valençay" ("château de valençay"). . replaced "eglise" with "Église" (illustration caption: "Église s. aignan, cosne"). . innkeepers, manorhouse, sandbar, bellilocus, seaside, harbourside, headwaters, stairway, and waterways are chosen to be written without a hyphen. . dining-table, wine-shops, and quatre-vingzt are chosen to be written with a hyphen. . p. : replaced "bréze" with "brézé" (brézé, pierre de). . p. : replaced "chateaudun" with "châteaudun" ("... the fief passed to the vicomtes de châteaudun..."). . pp. , , and : replaced "canal lateral" with "canal latéral". . p. : replaced "orléans" with "orleans". . p. : quotes after the verse added ("... sur la loire."). . p. : the (missing) closing quotes are added ("_petits chefs-d'oeuvre_ of sentiment and rustic poesy"). . added a description of a monogram on p. . . p. : an image description is added. provided by the internet archive the popular story of blue beard embellished with neat engravings by anonymous [illustration: ] [illustration: ] [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the popular story of blue-beard |a long time ago, and at a considerable distance from any town, there lived a gentleman, who was not only in possession of great riches, but of the largest estates in that part of the country. although he had some very elegant neat mansions on his estates, he generally resided in a magnificent castle, beautifully situated on a rising ground, surrounded with groves of the finest evergreens, and other choice trees and shrubs. the inside of this fine castle was even more beautiful than the outside; for the rooms were all hung with the richest damask, curiously ornamented; the chairs and sofas were covered with the finest velvet, fringed with gold; and his table-dishes and plates were either of silver or gold, finished in the most elegant style. his carriages and horses might have served a king, and perhaps were finer than any monarch's of the present day. the gentleman's appearance, however, did not altogether correspond to his wealth; for, to a fierce disagreeable countenance, was added an ugly blue beard, which made him an object of fear and disgust in the neighbourhood, where he usually went by the name of blue beard. there resided, at some considerable distance from blue beard's castle, an old lady and her two daughters, who were people of some rank, but by no means wealthy. the two young ladies were very pretty, and the fame of their beauty having reached blue beard, he determined to ask one of them in marriage. having ordered a carriage, he called at their house, where he saw the two young ladies, and was very politely received by their mother, with whom he begged a few moments conversation. [illustration: ] |after the two young ladies left the room, he began by describing his immense riches, and then told her the purpose of his visit, begging she would use her interest in his favour. they were both so lovely, he said, that he would be happy to get either of them for his wife, and would therefore leave it to their own choice to determine upon the subject, and immediately took his leave. when the proposals of blue beard were mentioned to the young ladies by their mother, both miss anne and her sister fatima protested, that they would never marry an ugly man, and particularly one with such a frightful blue beard; because, although he possessed immense riches, it was reported in the country, that he had married several beautiful ladies, and nobody could tell what had become of them. their mother said, that the gentleman was agreeable in his conversation and manners; that the ugliness of his facs, and the blue beard, were defects which they would soon be reconciled to from habit: that his immense riches would procure them every luxury their heart could desire; and he was so civil, that she was certain the scandalous reports about his wives must be entirely without foundation. the two young ladies were as civil as they possibly could be, in order to conceal the disgust they felt at blue beard, and, to soften their refusal, replied to this effect,--that, at present, they had no desire to change their situation; but if they had, the one sister could never think of depriving the other of so good a match, and that they did not wish to be separated. |blue beard having called next day, the old lady told him what her daughters had said; on which he sighed deeply, and pretended to be very much disappointed; but as he had the mother on his side, he still continued his visits to the family. blue beard, knowing the attractions that fine houses, fine furniture, and fine entertainments, have on the minds of ladies in general, invited the mother, her two daughters, and two or three other ladies who were then on a visit to them, to spend a day or two with him at his castle. [illustration: ] blue beard's invitation was accepted, and having spent a considerable time in arranging their wardrobe, and in adorning their persons, they all set out for the splendid mansion of blue beard. on coming near the castle, although they had heard a great deal of the taste and expense that had been employed in decorating it, they were struck with the beauty of the trees that overshadowed the walks through which they passed, and with the fragrancy of the flowers which perfumed the air. when they reached the castle, blue beard, attended by a number of his servants in splendid dresses, received them with the most polite courtesy, and conducted them to a magnificent drawing-room. an elegant repast was ready in the dining-room, to which they adjourned. here they were again astonished by the grandeur of the apartment and the elegance of the entertainment, and the rooms that were open, and were truly astonished at the magnificence that everywhere met their view. the time rolled pleasantly away a-midst a succession of the most agreeable felt so happy, that the evening passed away before they were aware. [illustration: ] |next day, after they had finished breakfast, the ladies proceeded to examine the pictures and furniture of the amusements, consisting of hunting, music, dancing, and banquets, where the richest wines, and most tempting delicacies, in most luxurious profusion, presented themselves in every direction. the party felt so agreeable amidst these scenes of festivity, that they continued at the castle several days, during which the cunning blue beard, by every obsequious service, tried to gain the favour of his fair guests. personal attentions, even although paid us by an ugly creature, seldom fail to make a favourable impression; it was therefore no wonder that fatima, the youngest of the two sisters, began to think blue beard a very polite, pleasant, and civil gentleman; and that the beard, which she and her sister had been so much afraid of, was not so very blue. a short time after her return home, fatima, who was delighted with the attention which had been paid her at the castle, told her mother that she did not now feel any objections to accept of blue beard as a husband. the old lady immediately communicated to him the change in her daughter's sentiments. [illustration: ] |blue beard, who lost no time in paying the family a visit, was in a few days privately married to the young lady, and soon after the ceremony, fatima, accompanied by her sister, returned to the castle the wife of blue beard. on arriving there, they were received at the entrance by all his retinue, attired in splendid dresses, and blue beard after saluting his bride, led the way to an elegant entertainment, where, every thing that could add to to their comfort being prepared, they spent the evening in the most agreeable manner. |the next day, and every succeeding day, blue beard always varied the amusements, and a month had passed away imperceptibly, when he told his wife that he was obliged to leave her for a few weeks, as he had some affairs to transact in a distant part of the country, which required his personal attendance. "but," said he, "my dear fatima, you may enjoy yourself in my absence in any way that will add to your happiness, and you can invite your friends to make the time pass more agreeably, for you are sole mistress in this castle, here are the keys of the two large wardrobes; this is the key of the great box that contains the best plate, which we use for company; this of my strong box, where i keep my money; and this belongs to the casket, in which are all my jewels. here also is a master-key to all the rooms in the house; but this small key belongs to the blue closet at the end of the long gallery on the ground floor. i give you leave," he continued, "to open, or do what you like with all the rest of the castle except this closet: now, my dear, remember you must not enter it, nor even put the key into the lock. if you do not obey me in this, expect the most dreadful of punishments." [illustration: ] she promised him implicit obedience to his orders, and then accompanied him to the gate, where blue beard, after sa luting her in a tender manner, stepped into the coach, and drove away. |when blue beard was gone, fatima sent a kind invitation to her friends to come immediately to the castle, and ordered a grand entertainment to be prepared for their reception. she also sent a messenger to her two brothers, both officers in the army, who were quartered about forty miles distant, requesting they would obtain leave of absence, and spend a few days with her. so eager were her friends to see the apartments and the riches of blue beard's castle, of which they had heard so much, that in less than two hours after receiving notice, the whole company were assembled, with the exception of her brothers, who were not expected till the following day. as her guests had arrived long before the time appointed them for the entertainment. fatima took them thro' every apartment in the castle, and displayed all the wealth she had acquired by her marriage with blue beard. they went from room to room, and from wardrobe to wardrobe, expressing fresh wonder and delight at every new object they came to; but their surprise was increased when they entered the drawing-rooms, and saw the grandeur of the furniture. during the day, fatima was so much engaged, that she never once thought of the blue closet, which blue beard had ordered her not to open; but when all the visitors were gone, she felt a great curiosity to know its contents. she took out the key, which was made of the finest gold, and went to consult with her sister on the subject. anne used every argument she could think of to dissuade fatima from her purpose, and reminded her of the threats of blue beard; but all in vain, for fatima was now bent on gratifying her curiosity. she therefore, in spite of all her sister could do, seized one of the candles, and hurried down stairs to the fatal closet. on reaching the door she stopped, and began to reason with herself on the propriety of her conduct; but her curiosity at length overcame every other consideration, and, with a trembling hand, she applied the key to the lock, and opened the door. she had only advanced a few steps, when the most frightful scene met her view, and, struck with horror and dismay, she dropped the key of the closet. [illustration: ] |she was in the midst of blood, and the heads, bodies, and mutilated limbs of murdered ladies lay scattered on the floor. these ladies had all been married to blue beard, and had suffered for their imprudent curiosity, the key, which was the gift of a fairy, always betraying their fatal disobedience. the terror of fatima was not diminished on observing these dreadful words on the wall--"_the reward of disobedience and imprudent curiosity!_" she trembled violently; but, on recovering a little, she snatched up the key, and having again locked the door, left this abode of horror. as soon as she reached her sister's chamber, she related the whole of her horrid adventure. they then examined the key, but it was all covered with blood, and they both turned pale with fear. they spent a good part of the night in trying to clean off the blood from the key, but it was without effect, for though they washed and scoured it with brick dust and sand, no sooner was the blood removed from one side, than it appeared on the other. fatigued with their exertions, they at last retired to bed, where they passed a sleepless and anxious night. |fatima rose at a late hour next day, and consulted with her sister how she ought to proceed. she thought first of escaping from the castle, but as her brothers were expected in an hour or two, she resolved to wait their arrival. a loud knock at the gate made her almost leap for joy, and she cried, "they are come! they are come!" but what was her consternation when blue beard hastily opened the door, and entered. it was impossible for fatima to conceal her agitation, although she pretended to be very happy at his sudden and unexpected return. blue beard, who guessed what she had been about, requested the keys, in order, as he said, that he might change his dress. she went to her chamber, and soon returned with the keys, all except the one belonging to the blue closet he took the keys from her with seeming indifference, and after glancing at them minutely, said, rather sternly, "how is this, fatima! i do not see the key of the blue closet here! go and bring it to me instantly." [illustration: ] the poor girl, feeling the crisis of her fate approaching, said, "i will go and search for it," and left the apartment in tears. she went straight to her sister's chamber, where they again tried, but in vain, to remove the blood from the key. the voice of blue beard again calling for her, she was forced to return, and reluctantly to give him the fatal key. on examining the key, blue beard burst into a terrible rage. "pray madam," said he, "how came this blood to be here?" "i am sure i do not know," replied she, trembling, and turning pale. "what! do you not know!" cried blue beard, in a voice like thunder, which made poor fatima start with fear; "but i know well! you have been in the forbidden blue closet! and since you are so fond of prying into secrets, you shall take up your abode with the ladies you saw there." [illustration: ] almost expiring with fear and terror, the trembling fatima sunk upon her knees, and implored him in the most piteous manner to forgive her. but the cruel blue beard, deaf to her intreaties, drew his dreadful scymetar, and bid her prepare for immediate death. blue beard had raised his arm to give the fatal blow, when a dreadful shriek from her sister, who at that moment entered the apartment, arrested his attention. she entreated him to spare the life of fatima, but he was deaf to her intercession, and would only grant her one quarter of an hour, that she might make her peace with heaven, before he put her to death. blue beard then dragged her up to a large hall in the top of the tower of the castle, to prevent her groans being heard, to which they were followed by her sister. he then told her to make the best use of the time, as she might expect his return the moment it elapsed, and immediately left the place. |when alone with her sister, fatima felt her dreadful situation, and again burst into tears. only fifteen minutes between her and the most cruel death, without the least chance of escape; for blue beard had secured the door when he retired, and the staircase they saw only led to the battlements. fatima's thoughts were now turned to her brothers, whom she expected that day; and she requested her sister to ascend to the top of the tower, to see if there was any appearance of them. fatima's sister immediately ascended to the top of the battlements, while the poor trembling girl below, every minute, cried out, "sister anne, my dear sister anne, do you see any one coming yet?" her sister always replied, "there is not a human being in view, and i see nothing but the sun and the grass." she was upon her knees bewailing her fate, when blue beard, in a tremendous voice, cried out, "are you ready?" the time is expired and she heard the sound of his footsteps approaching. she again supplicated him to allow her five minutes longer to finish her prayers, which he, knowing she was completely within his power, granted her, and again left her. fatima again renewed her inquiries to her sister "do you see any one coming yet?" her sister replied, "there is not a human being within sight." when the five minutes were elapsed, "i see," said her sister, "a cloud of dust rising a little to the left." in breathless agitation, she cried, "do you think it is my brothers?" the voice of blue beard was heard bawling out, "are you ready yet?" she again beseeched him to allow her only two minutes more, and then addressed her sister, "dear anne, do you see any one coming yet?" [illustration: ] "alas! no, my dearest fatima," returned her sister, "it is only a flock of sheep." again the voice of blue beard was heard, and she begged for one minute longer. she then called out for the last time, "sister anne, do you see no one coming yet?" |her sister quickly answered, "i see two men on horseback, but they are still a great way off." "thank heaven," exclaimed fatima, "i shall yet be saved, for it must be my two brothers! my dearest sister, make every signal in your power to hasten them forward, or they will be too late." blue beard's patience being now exhausted, he burst open the door in a rage, and made a blow at the wretched fatima, with the intention of striking off her head; but she sprang close to him and evaded it. furious at being foiled in his aim, he threw her from him, and then seizing her by the hair of the head, was in the act of striking her a blow with his scymetar, when the noise of persons approaching, with hasty steps, arrested the progress of his sanguinary arm. blue beard had not time to conjecture who the intruders might be, when the door opened, and two officers, with their swords drawn, rushed into the apartment. struck with terror, the guilty wretch released his wife from his grasp, and without attempting to resist, he tried to effect his escape from the resentment of her brothers; but they pursued and seized him before he had got above twenty paces from the place. [illustration: ] after reproaching blue beard with his cruelty, they dragged him back to the spot where he intended to have murdered their sister; and there, stabbing him to the heart with their swords, he expired, uttering the most horrid oaths and execrations. |fatima, who had fallen to the ground at the time blue beard quitted his hold of her, still lay in the same situation insensible; for the appearance of her brothers, at the moment she expected certain death, had thrown her into a faint, which continued during the whole of the time they were engaged in despatching her husband. the two young officers now turned their attention to their sister, whom they raised from the ground; but she could hardly be persuaded of her safety, till they pointed to where blue beard lay extended and lifeless. fatima, on recovering a little, tenderly embraced her deliverers; and the appearance of their sister anne, who had come down from the top of the battlements, added to their happiness. [illustration: ] as all those horrid murders which had been committed by blue beard, were unknown to his domestics, on whose credulity he imposed by falsehoods, which they had no means of detecting, fatima and her brothers thought the most prudent way to act, was to assemble them together, and then disclose the wickedness of their late master. by the direction of fatima, her two brothers conducted all the servants to the dreadful scene of her husband's cruelties, and then showing them his dead body, related the whole occurrences which had taken place. they all said that his punishment was not adequate to what he deserved, and begged that they might be continued in the service of their mistress. as blue beard had no relations, fatima was sole heir to the whole of his immense property, and mistress of the castle, in the possession of which she was confirmed by the laws of the country. she then sent notice to all the families in the neighbourhood of the death of her husband, and the horrid proofs of his cruelty were laid open for two days to all who chose to inspect them. he was then buried privately, along with all the bodies of the ladies he had murdered, and the fatal closet underwent a complete repair, which removed every trace of his barbarity. soon after this, fatima gave a magnificent entertainment to all her friends, where happiness was seen in every face; and on this occasion the poor, who were assembled for many miles round, partook most liberally of her bounty. though possessed of riches almost inexhaustible, fatima disposed of them with so much discretion, that she gained the esteem of every one who knew her. she bestowed handsome fortunes on her two brothers; and to her sister, who was married about two months after, she gave a very large dowry. the beauty, riches, and amiable conduct of fatima, attracted a number of admirers, and among others, a young nobleman of very high rank, who, to a handsome person, added every quality calculated to make a good husband; and after a reasonable time spent in courtship, their marriage was celebrated with great rejoicings. finis sir toady lion [illustration: "as the highlanders had clung to the cavalry stirrups at balaclava."] the surprising adventures of sir toady lion with those of general napoleon smith an improving history for old boys, young boys, good boys, bad boys, big boys, little boys, cow boys, and tom-boys by s. r. crockett author of "sweetheart travellers", "the raiders", &c. illustrated by gordon browne new york frederick a. stokes company copyright, by frederick a. stokes company [illustration: too good boys not allowed to read this book by order field marshal napoleon smith] contents i. prissy, hugh john, and sir toady lion, ii. the gospel of dasht-mean, iii. how hugh john became general napoleon, iv. castle perilous, v. the declaration of war, vi. first blood, vii. the poor wounded hussar, viii. the familiar spirit, ix. put to the question, x. a scouting adventure, xi. enemy's country, xii. mobilisation, xiii. the army of windy standard, xiv. the battle of the black sheds, xv. toady lion plays a first lone hand, xvi. the smoutchy boys, xvii. before the inquisition, xviii. the castle dungeon, xix. the drop of water, xx. the secret passage, xxi. the return from the bastile, xxii. mutiny in the camp, xxiii. cissy carter, boys' girl, xxiv. charity begins at home--and ends there, xxv. love's (very) young dream, xxvi. an imperial birthday, xxvii. the bantam chickens, xxviii. the gipsy camp, xxix. toady lion's little ways, xxx. saint prissy, peacemaker, xxxi. prissy's picnic, xxxii. plan of campaign, xxxiii. toady lion's second lone hand, xxxiv. the crowning mercy, xxxv. prissy's compromise, xxxvi. hugh john's way-going, xxxvii. the good conduct prize, xxxviii. hugh john's blighted heart, xxxix. "girls are funny things," illustrations "as the highlanders had clung to the cavalry stirrups at balaclava," sir toady lion, hugh john had a sister, the highway lies deserted, mr. dick turpin, late of york and tyburn, he stood on the roadside, it could not have been better done for a field-marshal, castle perilous, at the end of the stepping-stones, janet sheepshanks awaited this sorry procession with a grim tightening of the lips, "i couldn't help getting beaten," success often bred envy, sambo, a fearful black countenance nodded at him, hugh john took his way down the avenue, "wait till the next time," he was obliged to climb a tree, hugh john tugged her hair, deposited general-field-marshal smith in the horse-pond, generals of division, equal in rank, the army was finally mustered, the black sheds, the battle of the black sheds, cautiously he returned through the hedge, "oh, the bonnie laddie!" "surrender!" cried nipper donnan, the head smoutchy, "got you at last!" "will ye say now that the castle is your father's?" "but i won't cry--even to myself," he bent the weight of his body this way and that, the pining captive, the secret passage, he saw a stretch of rippled river, he floundered through, "i create you general of the comm'sariat," "don't you speak against my father," sammy carter mutinous, "one, two, three--and a tiger," "look at him, madam," said mrs. baker, toady lion sat plump down, "let me look at him," she said, love's young dream, "hit hard, brave soldier," "wasn't it splendid?" toady lion preferred to sleep in the most curious positions, bantam chickens, the gipsies' wood, she carried a back load of tinware, the oldest implements invented for the purpose, she went on her way, "oh, please don't, sir!" welcomed by the enemy, the return of the two swift footmen, hydraulic pressure, the plan of campaign, trotting steadily through the town, the bounding brothers, the living chain, sixpence for admission, "then," said prissy, "i think it can be managed," toady lion stood looking on, a slim bundle of limp woe, the good conduct prize, "smell that," a blighted being, he sprang over the stile, "it looks like half of a sixpence which somebody has stepped upon. how quaint!" as if her heart were light within her, sir toady lion. chapter i. prissy, hugh john, and sir toady lion. it is always difficult to be great, but it is specially difficult when greatness is thrust upon one, as it were, along with the additional burden of a distinguished historical name. this was the case with general napoleon smith. yet when this story opens he was not a general. that came later, along with the cares of empire and the management of great campaigns. but already in secret he was napoleon smith, though his nurse sometimes still referred to him as johnnie, and his father--but stay. i will reveal to you the secret of our soldier's life right at the start. though a napoleon, our hero was no buonaparte. no, his name was smith--plain smith; his father was the owner of four large farms and a good many smaller ones, near that celebrated border which separates the two hostile countries of england and scotland. neighbours referred to the general's father easily as "picton smith of windy standard," from the soughing, mist-nursing mountain of heather and fir-trees which gave its name to the estate, and to the large farm he had cultivated himself ever since the death of his wife, chiefly as a means of distracting his mind, and keeping at a distance loneliness and sad thoughts. hugh john smith had never mentioned the fact of his imperial descent to his father, but in a moment of confidence he had told his old nurse, who smiled with a world-weary wisdom, which betrayed her knowledge of the secrets of courts--and said that doubtless it was so. he had also a brother and sister, but they were not, at that time, of the race of the corporal of ajaccio. on the contrary, arthur george, the younger, aged five, was an engine-driver. there was yet another who rode in a mail-cart, and puckered up his face upon being addressed in a strange foreign language, as "was-it-then? a darling--goo-goo--then it was!" this creature, however, was not owned as a brother by hugh john and arthur george, and indeed may at this point be dismissed from the story. the former went so far as stoutly to deny his brother's sex, in the face of such proofs as were daily afforded by baby's tendency to slap his sister's face wherever they met, and also to seize things and throw them on the floor for the pleasure of seeing them break. arthur george, however, had secret hopes that baby would even yet turn out a satisfactory boy whenever he saw him killing flies on the window, and on these occasions hounded him on to yet deadlier exertions. but he dared not mention his anticipations to his soldier brother, that haughty scion of an imperial race. for reasons afterwards to be given, arthur george was usually known as toady lion. then hugh john had a sister. her name was priscilla. priscilla was distinguished also, though not in a military sense. she was literary, and wrote books "on the sly," as hugh john said. he considered this secrecy the only respectable part of a very shady business. specially he objected to being made to serve as the hero of priscilla's tales, and went so far as to promise to "thump" his sister if he caught her introducing him as of any military rank under that of either general or colour-sergeant. "look here, pris," he said on one occasion, "if you put me into your beastly girl books all about dolls and love and trumpery, i'll bat you over the head with a wicket!" "hum--i dare say, if you could catch me," said priscilla, with her nose very much in the air. "catch you! i'll catch and bat you now if you say much." "much, much! can't, can't! there! 'fraid cat! um-m-um!" "by jove, then, i just will!" it is sad to be obliged to state here, in the very beginning of these veracious chronicles, that at this time prissy and napoleon smith were by no means model children, though prissy afterwards marvellously improved. even their best friends admitted as much, and as for their enemies--well, their old gardener's remarks when they chased each other over his newly planted beds would be out of place even in a military periodical, and might be the means of preventing a book with mr. gordon browne's nice pictures from being included in some well-conducted sunday-school libraries. general napoleon smith could not catch priscilla (as, indeed, he well knew before he started), especially when she picked up her skirts and went right at hedges and ditches like a young colt. napoleon looked upon this trait in prissy's character as degrading and unsportsmanlike in the extreme. he regarded long skirts, streaming hair, and flapping, aggravating pinafores as the natural handicap of girls in the race of life, and as particularly useful when they "cheeked" their brothers. it was therefore wicked to neutralise these equalising disadvantages by strings tied round above the knees, or by the still more scientific device of a sash suspended from the belt before, passed between prissy's legs, and attached to the belt behind. but, then, as napoleon admitted even at ten years of age, girls are capable of anything; and to his dying day he has never had any reason to change his opinion--at least, so far as he has yet got. * * * * * "all right, then, i will listen to your old stuff if you will say you are sorry, and promise to be my horse, and let me lick you for an hour afterwards--besides giving me a penny." it was thus that priscilla, to whom in after times great lights of criticism listened with approval, was compelled to stoop to artifice and bribery in order to secure and hold her first audience. whereupon the authoress took paper from her pocket, and as she did so, held the manuscript with its back to napoleon smith, in order to conceal the suspicious shortness of the lines. but that great soldier instantly detected the subterfuge. "it's a penny more for listening to poetry!" he said, with sudden alacrity. "i know it is," replied prissy sadly, "but you might be nice about it just this once. i'm dreadfully, dreadfully poor this week, hugh john!" "so am i," retorted napoleon smith sternly; "if i wasn't, do you think i would listen at all to your beastly old poetry? drive on!" thus encouraged, priscilla meekly began-- "_my love he is a soldier bold, and my love is a knight; he girds him in a coat of mail, when he goes forth to fight._" "that's not quite so bad as usual," said napoleon condescendingly, toying meanwhile with the lash of an old dog-whip he had just "boned" out of the harness-room. priscilla beamed gratefully upon her critic, and proceeded-- "_he rides him forth across the sand_----" "who rides whom?" cried napoleon. "didn't the fool ride a horse?" "it means himself," said priscilla meekly. "then why doesn't _it_ say so?" cried the critic triumphantly, tapping his boot with the "boned" dog-whip just like any ordinary lord of creation in presence of his inferiors. "it's poetry," explained priscilla timidly. "it's silly!" retorted napoleon, judicially and finally. priscilla resumed her reading in a lower and more hurried tone. she knew that she was skating over thin ice. "_he rides him forth across the sand, upon a stealthy steed._" "you mean 'stately,' you know," interrupted napoleon--somewhat rudely, priscilla thought. yet he was quite within his rights, for priscilla had not yet learned that a critic always knows what you mean to say much better than you do yourself. "no, i don't mean 'stately,'" said priscilla, "i mean 'stealthy,' the way a horse goes on sand. you go and gallop on the sea-shore and you'll find out." "i shan't. i haven't got any sea-shore," said napoleon. "but do hurry. i've listened quite a pennyworth now." "_he rides him forth across the sand, upon a stealthy steed, and when he sails upon the sea, he plays upon a reed!_" "great soft _he_ was," cried napoleon smith; "and if ever i hear you say that i did such a thing----" priscilla hurried on more quickly than ever. "_in all the world there's none can do the deeds that he hath done: when he hath slain his enemies, then he comes back alone._" "that's better!" said napoleon, nodding encouragement. "at any rate it isn't long. now, give me my penny." "shan't," said priscilla, the pride of successful achievement swelling in her breast; "besides, it isn't saturday yet, and you've only listened to three verses anyway. you will have to listen to ever so much more than that before you get a penny." "hugh john! priscilla!" came a voice from a distance. the great soldier napoleon smith instantly effected a retreat in masterly fashion behind a gooseberry bush. "there's jane calling us," said priscilla; "she wants us to go in and be washed for dinner." "course she does," sneered napoleon; "think she's out screeching like that for fun? well, let her. i am not going in to be towelled till i'm all over red and scurfy, and get no end of soap in my eyes." "but jane wants you; she'll be _so_ cross if you don't come." "_i_ don't care for jane," said napoleon smith with dignity, but all the same making himself as small as possible behind his gooseberry bush. "but if you don't come in, jane will tell father----" "_i_ don't care for father--" the prone but gallant general was proceeding to declare in the face of priscilla's horrified protestations that he mustn't speak so, when a slow heavy step was heard on the other side of the hedge, and a deep voice uttered the single syllable, "_john!_" "yes, father," a meek young man standing up behind the gooseberry bush instantly replied: he was trying to brush himself as clean as circumstances would permit. "yes, father; were you calling me, father?" incredible as it seems, the meek and apologetic words were those of that bold enemy of tyrants, general napoleon smith. priscilla smiled at the general as he emerged from the hands of jane, "red and scurfy," just as he had said. she smiled meaningly and aggravatingly, so that napoleon was reduced to shaking his clenched fist covertly at her. "wait till i get you out," he said, using the phrase time-honoured by such occasions. priscilla smith only smiled more meaningly still. "first catch your hare!" she said under her breath. napoleon smith stalked in to lunch, the children's dinner at the house of windy standard, with an expression of fixed and byronic gloom on his face, which was only lightened by the sight of his favourite pigeon-pie (with a lovely crust) standing on the side-board. "say grace, hugh john," commanded his father. and general napoleon smith said grace with all the sweet innocence of a budding angel singing in the cherub choir, aiming at the same time a kick at his sister underneath the table, which overturned a footstool and damaged the leg of a chair. chapter ii. the gospel of dasht-mean. it was on the day preceding a great review near the border town of edam, that hugh john picton smith first became a soldier and a napoleon. his father's house was connected by a short avenue with a great main road along which king and beggar had for a thousand years gone posting to town. now the once celebrated highway lies deserted, for along the heights to the east run certain bars of metal, shining and parallel, over which rush all who can pay the cost of a third-class ticket--a roar like thunder preceding them, white steam and sulphurous reek wreathing after them. the great highway beneath is abandoned to the harmless impecunious bicyclist, and on the north road the sweeping cloud dust has it all its own way. but hugh john loved the great thoroughfare, deserted though it was. to his mind there could be no loneliness upon its eye-taking stretches, for who knew but out of the dust there might come with a clatter mr. dick turpin, late of york and tyburn; robert the bruce, charging south into england with his galloway garrons, to obtain some fresh english beef wherewithal to feed his scurvy scots; or (best of all) his majesty king george's mail-coach highflyer, the picture of which, coloured and blazoned, hung in his father's workroom. people told him that all these great folks were long since dead. but hugh john knew better than to believe any "rot" grown-ups might choose to palm off on him. what did grown-ups know anyway? they were rich, of course. unlimited shillings were at their command; and as for pennies--well, all the pennies in the world lived in their breeches' pockets. but what use did they make of these god-like gifts? did you ever meet them at the tuck-shop down in the town buying fourteen cheese-cakes for a shilling, as any sensible person would? did they play with "real-real trains," drawn by locomotives of shining brass? no! they preferred either one lump of sugar or none at all in their tea. this showed how much they knew about what was good for them. so if such persons informed him that robert the bruce had been dead some time, or showed him the rope with which turpin was hung, coiled on a pedestal in a horrid dull museum (free on saturdays, to ), hugh john picton looked and nodded, for he was an intelligent boy. if you didn't nod sometimes as if you were taking it all in, they would explain it all over again to you--with abominable dates and additional particulars, which they would even ask you afterwards if you remembered. [illustration: "mr. dick turpin, late of york and tyburn."] for many years hugh john had gone every day down to the porter's lodge at the end of the avenue, and though old betty the rheumaticky warder was not allowed to let him out, he stared happily enough through the bars. it was a white gate of strong wood, lovely to swing on if you happened to be there when it was opened for a carriageful of calling-folk in the afternoon, or for hugh john's father when he went out a-riding. but you had to hide pretty quick behind the laurels, and rush out in that strictly limited period before old betty found her key, and yet after the tail of agincourt, his father's great grey horse, had switched round the corner. if you were the least late, betty would get ahead of you, and the gates of paradise would be shut. if you were a moment too soon, it was just as bad--or even worse. for then the voice of "he-whom-it-was-decidedly-most-healthy-to-obey" would sound up the road, commanding instant return to the sandheap or the high garden. so on these occasions hugh john mostly brought sir toady lion with him--otherwise arthur george the sturdy, and at yet other times variously denominated prince murat, the old guard, the mob that was scattered with the whiff of grapeshot, and (generally) the whole grand army of the first empire. toady lion (his own first effort at the name of his favourite hero richard coeur-de-lion) had his orders, and with guile and blandishments held betty in check till the last frisk of agincourt's tail had disappeared round the corner. then hugh john developed his plans of assault, and was soon swinging on the gate. "out of the way with you, betty," he would cry, "or you will get hurt--sure." for the white gate shut of itself, and you had only to push it open, jump on, check it at the proper place on the return journey, and with your foot shove off again to have scores and scores of lovely swings. then betty would go up the avenue and shout for her husband, who was the aforesaid crusty old gardener. she would have laid down her life for toady lion, but by no means even a part of it for hugh john, which was unfair. old betty had once been upset by the slam of the gate on a windy day, and so was easily intimidated by the shouts of the horseman and the appalling motion of his white five-barred charger. such bliss, however, was transient, and might have to be expiated in various ways--at best with a slap from the hand of betty (which was as good as nothing at all), at worst, by a visit to father's workroom--which could not be thought upon without a certain sense of solemnity, as if sunday had turned up once too often in the middle of the week. but upon this great day of which i have to tell, hugh john had been honourably digging all the morning in the sand-hole. he had on his red coat, which was his most secret pride, and he was devising a still more elaborate system of fortification. bastion and trench, scarp and counter-scarp, lunette and ravelenta (a good word), hugh john had made them all, and he was now besieging his own creation with the latest thing in artillery, calling "boom!" when he fired off his cannon, and "bang-whack!" as often as the projectile hit the wall and brought down a foot of the noble fortification, lately so laboriously constructed and so tenderly patted into shape. suddenly there came a sound which always made the heart of hugh john beat in his side. it was the low thrilling reverberation of the drum. he had only time to dash for his cap, which he had filled with sand and old nails in order to "be a bomb-shell"; empty it, put it on his head, gird on his london sword-with-the-gold-hilt, and fly. as he ran down the avenue the shrill fifes kept stinging his ears and making him feel as if needles were running up and down his back. it was at this point that hugh john had a great struggle with himself. priscilla and toady lion were playing at "house" and "tea-parties" under the weeping elm on the front lawn. it was a debasing taste, certainly, but after all blood was thicker than water. and--well, he could not bear that they should miss the soldiers. but then, on the other hand, if he went back the troops might be past before he reached the gate, and betty, he knew well, would not let him out to run after them, and the park wall was high. in this desperate strait hugh john called all the resources of religion to his aid. "it would," he said, "be dasht-mean to go off without telling them." hugh john did not know exactly what "dasht-mean" meant. but he had heard his cousin fred (who was grown up, had been a year at school, and wore a tall hat on sundays) tell how all the fellows said that it was better to die-and-rot than to be "dasht-mean"; and also how those who in spite of warnings proved themselves "dasht-mean" were sent to a place called coventry--which from all accounts seemed to be a "dasht-mean" locality. so hugh john resolved that he would never get sent there, and whenever a little thing tugged down in his stomach and told him "not to," hugh john said, "hang it! i won't be dasht-mean."--and wasn't. grown-ups call these things conscience and religion; but this is how it felt to hugh john, and it answered just as well--or even better. so when the stinging surge of distant pipes sent the wild blood coursing through his veins, and he felt his face grow cold and prickly all over, napoleon smith started to run down the avenue. he could not help it. he must see the soldiers or die. but all the same _tug-tug_ went the little string remorselessly in his stomach. "i must see them. i must--i must!" he cried, arguing with himself and trying to drown the inner voice. "_tug-tug-tug!_" went the string, worse than that which he once put round his toe and hung out of the window, for tom cannon the under-keeper to wake him with at five in the morning to go rabbit-ferreting. hugh john turned towards the house and the weeping elm. "it's a blooming shame," he said, "and they won't care anyway. but i _can't_ be dasht-mean!" and so he ran with all his might back to the weeping elm, and with a warning cry set prissy and sir toady lion on the alert. then with anxious tumultuous heart, and legs almost as invisible as the twinkling spokes of a bicycle, so quickly did they pass one another, hugh john fairly flung himself in the direction of the white gate. chapter iii. how hugh john became general napoleon. even dull betty had heard the music. the white gate was open, and with a wild cry hugh john sprang through. betty had a son in the army, and her deaf old ears were quickened by the fife and drum. "come back, master hugh!" she cried, as he passed through and stood on the roadside, just as the head of the column, marching easily, turned the corner of the white road and came dancing and undulating towards him. hugh john's heart danced also. it was still going fast with running so far; but at sight of the soldiers it took a new movement, just like little waves on a lake when they jabble in the wind, so nice and funny when you feel it--tickly too--down at the bottom of your throat. the first who came were soldiers in a dark uniform with very stern, bearded officers, who attended finely to discipline, for they were about to enter the little town of edam, which lay just below the white gates of windy standard. so intently they marched that no one cast a glance at hugh john standing with his drawn sword, giving the salute which his friend sergeant steel had taught him as each company passed. not that hugh john cared, or even knew that they did not see him. they were the crack volunteer regiment of the grey city beyond the hills, and their standard of efficiency was something tremendous. then came red-coats crowned with helmets, red-coats tipped with glengarry bonnets, and one or two brass bands of scattering volunteer regiments. hugh john saluted them all. no one paid the least attention to him. he did not indeed expect any one to notice him--a small dusty boy with a sword too big for him standing at the end of the road under the shadow of the elms. why should these glorious creations deign to notice him--shining blades, shouldered arms, flashing bayonets, white pipe-clayed belts? were they not as gods, knowing good and evil? but all the same he saluted every one of them impartially as they came, and the regiments swung past unregarding, dust-choked, and thirsty. then at last came the pipes and the waving tartans. something cracked in hugh john's throat, and he gave a little cry, so that his old nurse, janet sheepshanks, anxious for his welfare, came to take him away. but he struck at her--his own dear janet--and fled from her grasp to the other side of the road, where he was both safer and nearer to the soldiers. swinging step, waving plumes, all in review order on came the famous regiment, every man stepping out with a trained elasticity which went to the boy's heart. thus and not otherwise the black watch followed their pipers. hugh john gave a long sigh when they had passed, and the pipes dulled down the dusky glade. then came more volunteers, and yet more and more. would they never end? and ever the sword of hugh john picton flashed to the salute, and his small arm waxed weary as it rose and fell. then happened the most astonishing thing in the world, the greatest event of hugh john's life. for there came to his ear a new sound, the clatter of cavalry hoofs. a bugle rang out, and hugh john's eyes watched with straining eagerness the white dust rise and swirl behind the columns. perhaps--who knows?--this was his reward for not being dasht-mean! but now hugh john had forgotten prissy and toady lion, father and nurse alike, heaven, earth--and everything else. there was no past for him. he was the soldier of all time. his dusty red coat and his flashing sword were the salute of the universal spirit of man to the god of war--also other fine things of which i have no time to write. for the noble grey horses, whose predecessors napoleon had watched so wistfully at waterloo, came trampling along, tossing their heads with an obvious sense of their own worth as a spectacle. hugh john paled to the lips at sight of them, but drew himself more erect than ever. he had seen foot-soldiers and volunteers before, but never anything like this. on they came, a fine young fellow leading them, sitting carelessly on the noblest charger of all. perhaps he was kindly by nature. perhaps he had a letter from his sweetheart in his breastpocket. perhaps--but it does not matter, at any rate he was young and happy, as he sat erect, leading the "finest troop in the finest regiment in the world." he saw the small dusty boy in the red coat under the elm-trees. he marked his pale twitching face, his flashing eye, his erect carriage, his soldierly port. the fate of hugh john stood on tiptoe. he had never seen any being so glorious as this. he could scarce command himself to salute. but though he trembled in every limb, and his under lip "wickered" strangely, the hand which held the sword was steady, and went through the beautiful movements of the military salute which sergeant steel of the welsh fusiliers had taught him, with exactness and decorum. the young officer smiled. his own hand moved to the response almost involuntarily, as if hugh john had been one of his own troopers. the boy's heart stood still. could this thing be? a real soldier had saluted him! but there was something more marvellous yet to come. a sweet spring of good deeds welled up in that young officer's breast. heaven speed him (as doubtless it will) in his wooing, and make him ere his time a general, with the victoria cross upon his breast. but though (as i hope) he rise to be commander-in-chief, he will never do a prettier action than that day, when the small grimy boy stood under the elm-trees at the end of the avenue of windy standard. this is what he did. he turned about in his saddle. [illustration: "it could not have been better done for a field-marshal."] "_attention, men, draw swords!_" he cried, and his voice rang like a trumpet, so grand it was--at least so hugh john thought. there came a glitter of unanimous steel as the swords flashed into line. the horses tossed their heads at the stirring sound, and jingled their accoutrements as the men gathered their bridle reins up in their left hands. "_eyes right! carry swords!_" came again the sharp command. and every blade made an arc of glittering light as it came to the salute. it could not have been better done for a field-marshal. no fuller cup of joy was ever drunk by mortal. the tears welled up in hugh john's eyes as he stood there in the pride of the honour done to him. to be knighted was nothing to this. he had been acknowledged as a soldier by the greatest soldier there. hugh john did not doubt that this glorious being was he who had led the greys in the charge at waterloo. who else could have done that thing? he was no longer a little dusty boy. he stood there glorified, ennobled. the world was almost too full. "_eyes front! slope swords!_" rang the words once more. the pageant passed by. only the far drum-throb came back as he stood speechless and motionless, till his father rode up on his way home, and seeing the boy asked him what he was doing there. then for all reply a little clicking hitch came suddenly in his throat. he wanted to laugh, but somehow instead the tears ran down his cheeks, and he gasped out a word or two which sounded like somebody else's voice. "i'm not hurt, father," he said, "i'm not crying. it was only that the scots greys saluted me. and i _can't_ help it, father. it goes _tick-tick_ in my throat, and i can't keep it back. but i'm not crying, father! i'm not indeed!" then the stern man gathered the great soldier up and set him across his saddle--for hugh john was alone, the others having long ago gone back with janet sheepshanks. and his father did not say anything, but let him sit in front with the famous sword in his hands which had brought about such strange things. and even thus rode our hero home--hugh john picton no more, but rather general napoleon smith; nor shall his rank be questioned on any army roster of strong unblenching hearts. but late that night hugh john stole down the hushed avenue, his bare feet pattering through the dust which the dew was making cool. he climbed the gate and stood under the elm, with the wind flapping his white nightgown like a battle flag. then clasping his hands, he took the solemn binding oath of his religion, "_the scots greys saluted me. may i die-and-rot if ever i am dasht-mean again!_" chapter iv. castle perilous. in one corner of the property of hugh john's father stood an ancient castle--somewhat doubtfully of it, however, for it was claimed as public property by the adjoining abbey town, now much decayed and fallen from its high estate, but desirous of a new lease of life as a tourist and manufacturing centre. the castle and the abbey had for centuries been jealous neighbours, treacherous friends, embattled enemies according to the fluctuating power of those who possessed them. the lord of the castle harried the abbot and his brethren. the abbot promptly retaliated by launching, in the name of the church, the dread ban of excommunication against the freebooter. the castle represented feudal rights, the abbey popular and ecclesiastical authority. and so it was still. mr. picton smith had, indeed, only bought the property a few years before the birth of our hero; but, among other encumbrances, he had taken over a lawsuit with the town concerning the castle, which for years had been dragging its slow length along. edam abbey was a show-place of world-wide repute, and the shillings of the tourist constituted a very important item in the finances of the overburdened municipality. if the council and magistrates of the good town of edam could add the castle of windy standard to their attractions, the resultant additional sixpence a head would go far towards making up the ancient rental of the town parks, which now let for exactly half of their former value. but mr. picton smith was not minded thus tamely to hand over an ancient fortress, secured to him by deed and charter. he declared at once that he would resist the claims of the town by every means in his power. he would, however, refuse right-of-way to no respectable sightseer. the painter, all unchallenged, might set up his easel there, the poet meditate, even the casual wanderer in search of the picturesque and romantic, have free access to these gloomy and desolate halls. the townspeople would be at liberty to conduct their friends and visitors thither. but mr. smith was resolved that the ancient fortalice of the windy standard should not be made a vulgar show. sandwich papers and ginger-beer bottles would not be permitted to profane the green sward of the courtyard, across which had so often ridden all the chivalry of the dead lorraines. "those who want sixpenny shows will find plenty at edam fair," was mr. picton smith's ultimatum. and when he had once committed himself, like most of his stalwart name, mr. smith had the reputation of being very set in his mind. but in spite of this the town asserted its right-of-way through the courtyard. a footpath was said to have passed that way by which persons might go to and fro to kirk and market. "i have no doubt a footpath passed through my dining-room a few centuries ago," said mr. smith, "but that does not compel me to keep my front and back doors open for all the rabble of edam to come and go at their pleasure." and forthwith he locked his lodge gates and bought the largest mastiff he could obtain. the castle stood on an island rather more than a mile long, a little below the mansion house. a wooden bridge led over the deeper, narrower, and more rapid branch of the edam river from the direction of the abbey and town. across the broader and shallower branch there could be traced, from the house of windy standard, the remains of an ancient causeway. this, in the place where the stream was to be crossed, had become a series of stepping-stones over which hugh john and priscilla could go at a run (without falling in and wetting themselves more than once in three or four times), but which still constituted an impregnable barrier to the short fat legs of toady lion--who usually stood on the shore and proclaimed his woes to the world at large till somebody carried him over and deposited him on the castle island. affairs were in this unsettled condition when, at twelve years of age, hugh john ceased to be hugh john, and became, without, however, losing his usual surname of smith, one of the august and imperial race of the buonapartes. it was a clear june evening, the kind of night when the whole landscape seems to have been newly swept, washed down, and generally spring-cleaned. all nature spoke peace to janet sheepshanks, housekeeper, nurse, and general responsible female head of the house of windy standard, when a procession came towards her across the stepping-stones over the broad edam water from the direction of the castle island. never had such a disreputable sight presented itself to the eyes of janet sheepshanks. at once douce and severe, sharp-tongued and covertly affectionate, she represented the authority of a father who was frequently absent from them, and the memory of a dead mother which remained to the three children in widely different degrees. to priscilla her mother was a loving being, gracious alike by the tender sympathy of her voice and by the magic of a touch which healed all childish troubles with the kiss of peace upon the place "to make it well." to hugh john she had been a confidant to whom he could rush, eager and dishevelled, with the tale of the glorious defeat of some tin enemy (for even in those prehistoric days hugh john had been a soldier), and who, smoothing back his ruffled hair, was prepared to join as eagerly as himself in all his tiny triumphs. but to toady lion, though he hushed the shrill persistence of his treble to a reverent murmur when he talked of "muvver," she was only an imagination, fostered mostly by priscilla--his notion of motherhood being taken from his rough-handed loving janet sheepshanks; while the tomb in the village churchyard was a place to which he had no desire to accompany his mother, and from whose gloomy precincts he sought to escape as soon as possible. chapter v. the declaration of war. but, meanwhile, janet sheepshanks stands at the end of the stepping-stones, and janet is hardly a person to keep waiting anywhere near the house of windy standard. over the stepping-stones came as leader priscilla smith, her head thrown back, straining in every nerve with the excitement of carrying sir toady lion, whose scratched legs and shoeless feet dangled over the stream. immediately beneath her, and wading above the knee in the rush of the water, there staggered through the shallows hugh john, supporting his sister with voice and hand--or, as he would have said, "boosting her up" whenever she swayed riverward with her burden, pushing her behind when she hesitated, and running before to offer his back as an additional stepping-stone when the spaces were wide between the boulders. janet sheepshanks waited grimly for her charges on the bank, and her eyes seemed to deceive her, words to fail her, as the children came nearer. never had such a sight been seen near the decent house of windy standard. miss priscilla and her pinafore were represented by a ragged tinkler's lass with a still more ragged frill about her neck. her cheeks and hands were as variously scratched as if she had fallen into a whole thicket of brambles. her face, too, was pale, and the tatooed places showed bright scarlet against the whiteness of her skin. she had lost a shoe, and her dress was ripped to the knee by a great ragged triangular tear, which flapped wet about her ankles as she walked. sir toady lion was somewhat less damaged, but still showed manifold signs of rough usage. his lace collar, the pride of janet sheepshanks' heart, was torn nearly off his shoulders, and now hung jagged and unsightly down his back. several buttons of his well-ordered tunic were gone, and as to his person he was mud as far above the knees as could be seen without turning him upside down. but hugh john--words are vain to describe the plight of hugh john. one eye was closed, and began to be discoloured, taking on above the cheekbone the shot green and purple of a half-ripe plum. his lip was cut, and a thin thread of scarlet stealing down his brow told of a broken head. what remained of his garments presented a ruin more complete, if less respectable, than the ancient castle of the windy standard. neither shoe nor shoe-string, neither stocking nor collar, remained intact upon him. on his bare legs were the marks of cruel kicks, and for ease of transport he carried the _débris_ of his jacket under his arm. he had not the remotest idea where his cap had gone to. [illustration: "no wonder that janet sheepshanks awaited this sorry procession with a grim tightening of the lips."] no wonder that janet sheepshanks awaited this sorry procession with a grim tightening of the lips, or that her hand quivered with the desire of punishment, even while her kind and motherly heart yearned to be busy repairing damages and binding up the wounded. of this feeling, however, it was imperative that for the present, in the interests of discipline, she should show nothing. it was upon priscilla, as the eldest in years and senior responsible officer in charge, that janet first turned the vials of her wrath. "eh, priscilla smith, but ye are a ba-a-ad, bad lassie. ye should ha'e your bare back slashit wi' nettles! where ha'e ye been, and what ha'e ye done to these twa bairns? ye shall be marched straight to your father, and if he doesna gar ye loup when ye wad raither stand still, and claw where ye are no yeuky, he will no be doing his duty to the almichty, and to your puir mither that's lang syne in her restin' grave in the kirk-yaird o' edom." by which fervent address in her native tongue, janet meant that mr. smith would be decidedly spoiling the child if on this occasion he spared the rod. janet could speak good enough formal english when she chose, for instance to her master on sabbath, or to the minister on visitation days; but whenever she was excited she returned to that vigorous ancient early english which some miscall a dialect, and of which she had a noble and efficient command. to janet's attack, priscilla answered not a word either of explanation or apology. she recognised that the case had gone far beyond that. she only set sir toady lion on his feet, and bent down to brush the mud from his tunic with her usual sisterly gesture. janet sheepshanks thrust her aside without ceremony. "my wee man," she said, "what have they done to you?" toady lion began volubly, and in his usual shrill piping voice, to make an accusation against certain bad boys who had "hit him," and "hurted him," and "kicked him." and now when at last he was safely delivered and lodged in the well-proven arms of janet sheepshanks his tears flowed apace, and made clean furrows down the woebegone grubbiness of his face. priscilla walked by janet's side, white and silent, nerving herself for the coming interview. at ordinary times janet sheepshanks was terrible enough, and her word law in all the precincts of windy standard. but priscilla knew that she must now face the anger of her father; and so, with this in prospect, the railing accusations of her old nurse scarcely so much as reached her ears. hugh john, stripped of all military pomp, limped behind--a short, dry, cheerless sob shaking him at intervals. but in reality this was more the protest of ineffectual anger than any concession to unmanly weakness. chapter vi. first blood. ten minutes later, and without, as jane sheepshanks said, "so muckle as a sponge or a brush-and-comb being laid upon them," the three stood before their father. silently janet had introduced them, and now as silently she stood aside to listen to the evidence--and, as she put it, "keep the maister to his duty, and mind him o' his responsibilities to them that's gane." janet sheepshanks never forgot that she had been maid for twenty years to the dead mother of the children, nor that she had received "the bits o' weans" at her hand as a dying charge. she considered herself, with some reason, to be the direct representative of the missing parent, and referred to priscilla, toady lion, and hugh john as "my bairns," just as, in moments of affection, she would still speak to them of "my bonnie lassie your mither," as if the dead woman were still one of her flock. for a full minute mr. picton smith gazed speechless at the spectacle before him. he had been writing something that crinkled his brow and compressed his lips, and at the patter of the children's feet in the passage outside his door, as they ceremoniously marshalled themselves to enter, he had turned about on his great office chair with a smile of expectation and anticipation. the door opened, and janet sheepshanks pushed in first sir toady lion, still voluble and calling for vengeance on the "bad, bad boys at the castle that had striked him and hurted his dear prissy." priscilla herself stood white-lipped and dumb, and through the awful silence pulsed the dry, recurrent, sobbing catch in the throat of hugh john. mr. picton smith was a stern man, whose great loss had caused him to shut up the springs of his tenderness from the world. but they flowed the sweeter and the rarer underneath; and though his grave and dignified manner daunted his children on the occasion of any notable evil-doing, they had no reason to be afraid of him. "well, what is the meaning of this?" he said, his face falling into a greyer and graver silence at the sound of hugh john's sobs, and turning to priscilla for explanation. meanwhile sir toady lion was pursuing the subject with his usual shrill alacrity. "be quiet, sir," said his father. "i will hear you all one by one, but let priscilla begin--she is the eldest." "we went to the castle after dinner, over by the stepping-stones," began priscilla, fingering nervously the frill of the torn pinafore about her throat, "and when we got to the castle we found out that our pet lamb donald had come after us by the ford; and he was going everywhere about the castle, trying to rub his bell off his neck on the gate-posts and on the stones at the corners." "yes, and i stooded on a rock, and donald he butted me over behind!" came the voice of sir toady lion in shrill explanation of his personal share in the adventure. "and then we played on the grass in the inside of the castle. toady lion and i were plaiting daisy-chains and garlands for donald, and hugh john was playing at being the prisoner of chillyon: he had tied himself to the gate-post with a rope." "'twasn't," muttered hugh john, who was a stickler for accuracy; "it was a plough-chain!" "and it rattled," added sir toady lion, not to be out of the running. "and just when we were playing nicely, a lot of horrid boys from the town came swarming and clambering in. they had run over the bridge and climbed the gate, and then they began calling us names and throwing mud. so hugh john said he would tell on them." "didn't," interrupted hugh john indignantly. "i said i'd knock the heads off them if they didn't stop and get out; and they only laughed and said things about father. so i hit one of them with a stone." "then," continued priscilla, gaining confidence from a certain curious spark of light which began to burn steadily in her father's eyes, "after hugh john threw the stone, the horrid boys all came and said that they would kill us, and that we had no business there anyway." "they frowed me down the well, and i went splass! yes, indeedy!" interrupted toady lion, who had imagination. "then donald, our black pet lamb, that is, came into the court, and they all ran away after him and caught him. first he knocked down one or two of them, and then they put a rope round his neck and began to take rides on his back." "yes, and he bleated and 'kye-kyed' just feeful!" whimpered toady lion, beginning to weep all over again at the remembrance. but the smith of the imperial race only clenched his torn hands and looked at his bruised knuckles. "so hugh john said he would kill them if they did not let donald go, and that he was a soldier. but they only laughed louder, and one of them struck him across the lip with a stick--i know him, he's the butch----" "shut up, pris!" shouted hugh john, with sudden fierceness, "it's dasht-mean to tell names." "be quiet, sir," said his father severely; "let your sister finish her story in her own way." but for all that there was a look of some pride on his face. at that moment mr. picton smith was not sorry to have hugh john for a son. "well," said priscilla, who had no such scruples as to telling on her enemies, "i won't tell if you say not. but that was the boy who hurt donald the worst." "well, i smashed him for that!" muttered napoleon smith. "and then when hugh john saw them dragging donald away and heard him bleating----" "and 'kye-kying' big, big tears, big as cherries!" interjected toady lion, who considered every narrative incomplete to which he did not contribute. "he was overcome with rage and anger"--at this point priscilla began to talk by the book, the dignity of the epic tale working on her--"and he rushed upon them fearlessly, though they were ten to one; and they all struck him and kicked him. but hugh john fought like a lion." "yes, like wichard toady lion," cried the namesake of that hero, "and i helpted him and bited a bad boy on the leg, and didn't let go though he kicked and hurted feeful! yes, indeedy!" "and i went to their assistance and fought as hugh john showed me. and--i forget the rest," said priscilla, her epic style suddenly failing her. also she felt she must begin to cry very soon, now the strain was over. so she made haste to finish. "but it was dreadful, and they swore, and said they would cut donald's throat. and one boy took out a great knife and said he knew how to do it. he was the butch----" "shut up, pris! now don't you dare!" shouted hugh john, in his most warning tones. "and when hugh john rushed in to stop him, he hit him over the head with a stick, and hugh john fell down. and, oh! i thought he was dead, and i didn't know what to do" (priscilla was crying in good earnest now); "and i ran to him and tried to lift him up. but i could not--he was so wobbly and soft." "i bited the boy's leg. it was dood. i bited hard!" interrupted toady lion, whose mission had been vengeance. "and when i looked up again they had taken away p-p-poor donald," priscilla went on spasmodically between her tears, "and i think they killed him because he belonged to you, and--they said he had no business there! oh, they were such horrid cruel boys, and much bigger than us. and i can't bear that don should have his throat cut. i was promised that he should never be sold for mutton, but only clipped for wool. and he had such a pretty throat to hang daisy-chains on, and was such a dear, dear thing." "i don't think they would dare to kill him," said mr. smith gravely; "besides, they could not lift him over the gate. i will send at once and see. in fact i will go myself!" there was only anger against the enemy now, and no thought of chastisement of his own in the heart of mr. picton smith. he was rising to reach out his hand to his riding-whip, when general napoleon smith, who, like most great makers of history, had taken little part in the telling of it, created a diversion which put all thought of immediate action out of his father's head. he had been standing up, shoulders squared, arms dressed to his side, head erect, as he had seen sergeant steel do when he spoke to his colonel. once or twice he had swayed slightly, but the heart of the buonapartes, which beat bravely in his bosom, brought him up again all standing. nevertheless he grew even whiter and whiter, till, all in a moment, he gave a little lurch forward, checked himself, and again looked straight before him. then he sobbed out once suddenly and helplessly, said "i couldn't help getting beaten, father--there were too many of them!" and fell over all of a piece on the hearthrug. at which his father's face grew very still and angry as he gathered the great general gently in his arms and carried him upstairs to his own little white cot. chapter vii. the poor wounded hussar. it is small wonder that mr. picton smith was full of anger. his castle had been invaded and desecrated, his authority as proprietor defied, his children insulted and abused. as a magistrate he felt bound to take notice both of the outrage and of the theft of his property. as a father he could not easily forget the plight in which his three children had appeared before him. but in his schemes of vengeance he reckoned without that distinguished military officer, general-field-marshal napoleon smith. for this soldier had been promoted on his bed of sickness. he had read somewhere that in his profession (as in most others) success quite often bred envy and neglect, but that to the unsuccessful, promotion and honour were sometimes awarded as a sort of consolation sweepstakes. so, having been entirely routed and plundered by the enemy, it came to hugh john in the watches of the night--when, as he put it, "his head was hurting like fun" that it was time for him to take the final step in his own advancement. so on the next morning he announced the change in his name and style to his army as it filed in to visit him. the army was on the whole quite agreeable. "but i'm afraid i shall never remember all that, mr. general-field-marshal napoleon smith!" said priscilla. "well, you'd better!" returned the wounded hero, as truculently as he could for the bandages and the sticking-plaster, in which he was swathed after the fashion of an egyptian mummy partially unwrapped. "what a funny smell!" piped toady lion. "do field-marshals _all_ smell like that?" "get out, silly!" retorted the wounded officer. "don't you know that's the stuff they rub on the wounded when they have fought bravely? that's arnicay!" "and what do they yub on them when they don't fight bravely?" persisted toady lion, who had had enough of fighting, and who in his heart was resolved that the next time he would "yun away" as hard as he could, a state of mind not unusual after the _zip-zip_ of bullets is heard for the first time. "first of all they catch them and kick them for being cowards. then they shoot at them till they are dead; and may the lord have mercy on their souls! amen!" said general smith, mixing things for the information and encouragement of sir toady lion. presently the children were called out to go and play, and the wounded hero was left alone. his head ached so that he could not read. indeed, in any case he could not, for the room was darkened with the intention of shielding his damaged eyes from the light. general napoleon could only watch the flies buzzing round and round, and wish in vain that he had a fly-flapper at the end of a pole in order to "plop" them, as he used to do all over the house in the happy days before janet sheepshanks discovered what made the walls and windows so horrid with dead and dying insects. "yes; the squashy ones _were_ rather streaky!" had been the words in which hugh john admitted his guilt, after the pole and leathern flapper were taken from him and burned in the washhouse fire. thus in the semi-darkness hugh john lay watching the flies with the stealthy intentness of a red indian scalper on the trail. it was sad to lie idly in bed, so bewrapped and swathed that (as he mournfully remarked), "if one of the brutes were to settle on your nose, you could only wait for him to crawl up, and then snatch at him with your left eyelid." suddenly the disabled hero bethought himself of something. first, after listening intently so as to be quite sure that "the children" were outside the bounds of the house, the wounded general raised himself on his elbow. but the effort hurt him so much that involuntarily he said "outch!" and sank back again on the pillow. "crikey, but don't i smell just!" he muttered, when, after one breath of purer air, he sank back into the pool of arnica vapour. "i suppose i'll have to howl out for janet. what a swot!" "janet!--ja-a-a-a-net!" he shouted, and sighed a sigh of relief to find that at least there was one part of him neither bandaged nor drowned in arnica. "deil tak' the laddie!" cried janet, who went about her work all day with one ear cocked toward the chamber of her brave sick soldier; "what service is there in taking the rigging aff the hoose wi' your noise? did ye think i was doon at edam cross? what do ye want, callant, that ye deafen my auld lugs like that? i never heard sic a laddie!" but general smith did not answer any of these questions. he well knew janet's tone of simulated anger when she was "putting it on." "go and fetch _it_!" he said darkly. chapter viii. the familiar spirit. now there was a skeleton in the cupboard of general napoleon smith. no distinguished family can be respectable without at least one such. but that of the new field-marshal was particularly dark and disgraceful. very obediently janet sheepshanks vanished from the sick-room, and presently returned with an oblong parcel, which she handed to the hero of battles. "thank you," he said; "are you sure that the children are out?" "they are sailing paper boats on the mill-dam," said janet, going to the window to look. hugh john sighed a sigh. he wished he could sail boats on the mill-dam. "i hope every boat will go down the mill lade, and get mashed in the wheel," he said pleasantly. "for shame, master hugh!" replied janet sheepshanks, shaking her head at him, but conscious that he was exactly expressing her own mind, if she had been lying sick a-bed and had been compelled to listen to some other housekeeper jingling keys that once were hers, ransacking her sacredest repositories, and keeping in order the menials of the house. hugh john proceeded cautiously to unwrap his family skeleton. presently from the folds of tissue paper a very aged and battered "sambo" emerged. now a "sambo" is a black woolly-haired negro doll of the fashion of many years ago. this specimen was dressed in simple and airy fashion in a single red shell jacket. as to the rest, he was bare and black from head to foot. janet called him "that horrid object"; but, nevertheless, he was precious in the eyes of hugh john, and therefore in hers. though twelve years of age, he still liked to carry on dark and covert intercourse with his ancient "sambo." in public, indeed, he preached, in season and out of season, against the folly and wickedness of dolls. no one but a lassie or a "lassie-boy" would do such a thing. he laughed at priscilla for cleaning up her doll's kitchen once a week, and for organising afternoon tea-parties for her quiet harem. but secretly he would have liked very well to see sambo sit at that bounteous board. nevertheless, he instructed toady lion every day with doctrine and reproof that it was "only for girls" to have dolls. and knowing well that none of his common repositories were so remote and sacred as long to escape priscilla's unsleeping eye, or the more stormy though fitful curiosity of sir toady lion, hugh john had been compelled to take his ancient nurse and ever faithful friend janet into his confidence. so sambo dwelt in the housekeeper's pantry and had two distinct odours. one side of him smelt of paraffin, and the other of soft soap, which, to a skilled detective, might have revealed the secret of his dark abode. but let us not do our hero an injustice. it was not exactly as a doll that general smith considered sambo. by no means so, indeed. sometimes he was a distinguished general who came to take orders from his chief, sometimes an awkward private who needed to be drilled, and then knocked spinning across the floor for inattention to orders. for, be it remembered, it was the custom in the army of field-marshal-general smith for the commander-in-chief to drill the recruits with his own voice, and in the by no means improbable event of their proving stupid, to knock them endwise with his own august hand. but it was as familiar spirit, and in the pursuit of occult divination, that general napoleon most frequently resorted to sambo. he had read all he could find in legend and history concerning that gruesomely attractive goblin, clothed all in red, which the wicked lord soulis kept in an oaken chest in a castle not so far from his own father's house of windy standard. and hugh john saw no reason why sambo should not be the very one. spirits do not die. it is a known fact that they are fond of their former haunts. what, then, could be clearer? sambo was evidently lord soulis' red imp risen from the dead. was sambo not black? the devil was black. did sambo not wear a red coat? was not the demon of the oaken chest attired in flaming scarlet, when all cautiously he lifted the lid at midnight and looked wickedly out upon his master? yet the general was conscious that sambo soulis was a distinct disappointment in the part of familiar spirit. he would sit silent, with his head hanging idiotically on one side, when he was asked to reveal the deepest secrets of the future, instead of toeing the line and doing it. nor was it recorded in the chronicles of soulis that the original demon of the chest had had his nose "bashed flat" by his master, as hugh john vigorously expressed the damaged appearance of his own familiar. worse than all, hugh john had tried to keep sambo in his rabbit-box. but not only did he utterly fail to put his "fearful head, crowned with a red night-cap" over the edge of the hutch at the proper time--as, had he been of respectable parentage, he would not have failed to do, but, in addition, he developed in his close quarters an animal odour so pungent and unprofitable that janet sheepshanks refused to admit him into the store-cupboard till he had been thoroughly fumigated and disinfected. so for a whole week sambo soulis swung ignominiously by the neck from the clothes line, and hugh john went about in fear of the questioning of the children or of the confiscation by his father of his well-beloved but somewhat unsatisfactory familiar spirit. it was in order to consult him on a critical point of doctrine and practice that hugh john had now sent for sambo soulis. he propped him up before him against a pillow, on which he sat bent forward at an acute angle from the hips, as if ready to pounce upon his master and rend him to pieces so soon as the catechism should be over. "look here," said general-field-marshal smith to the oracle, "supposing the governor tells me to split on nipper donnan, the butcher boy, will it be dasht-mean if i do?" sambo soulis, being disturbed by the delicacy of the question or perhaps by the wriggling of hugh john upon his pillow, only lurched drivellingly forward. "sit up and answer," cried his master, "or else i'll hike you out of that pretty quick, for a silly old owl!" and with his least bandaged hand he gave sambo a sound cuff on the side of his venerable battered head, before propping him up at a new angle with his chin on his knees. "now speak up, soulis," said general smith; "i ask you would it be dasht-mean?" the oracle was understood to joggle his chin and goggle his eyes. he certainly did the latter. "i thought so," said soulis' master, as is usual in such cases, interpreting the reply oracular according to his liking. "but look here, how are we to get back donald unless we split? would it not be all right to split just to get donald back?" sambo soulis waggled his head again. this time his master looked a little more serious. "i suppose you are right," he said pensively, "but if it would be dasht-mean to split, we must just try to get him back ourselves--that is, if the beasts have not cut his throat, as they said they would." chapter ix. put to the question. in the chaste retirement of his sick room the field-marshal had just reached this conclusion, when he heard a noise in the hall. there was a sound of the gruff unmirthful voices of grown-ups, a scuffling of feet, a planting of whips and walking-sticks on the zinc-bottomed hall-stand, and then, after a pause which meant drinks, heavy footsteps in the passage which led to the hero's chamber. hugh john snatched up sambo soulis and thrust him deep beneath the bedclothes, where he could readily push him over the end with his toes, if it should chance to be "the doctor-beast" come to uncover him and "fool with the bandages." i have said enough to show that the general was not only frankly savage in sentiment, but resembled his great imperial namesake in being grateful only when it suited him. before general napoleon had his toes fairly settled over the back of sambo soulis' neck, so as to be able to remove him out of harm's way on any sudden alarm, the door opened and his father came in, ushering two men, the first of whom came forward to the bedside in an easy, kindly manner, and held out his hand. "do you know me?" he said, giving hugh john's second sorest hand such a squeeze that the wounded hero was glad it was not the very sorest one. "yes," replied the hero promptly, "you are sammy carter's father. i can jolly well lick----" "hugh john," interrupted his father severely, "remember what you are saying to mr. davenant carter." "well, anyway, i _can_ lick sammy carter till he's dumb-sick!" muttered the general between his teeth, as he avoided the three pairs of eyes that were turned upon him. "oh, let him say just what he likes!" said mr. davenant carter jovially. "sammy is the better of being licked, if that is what the boy was going to say. i sometimes try my hand at it myself with some success." the other man who had come in with mr. smith was a thick-set fellow of middle height, with a curious air of being dressed up in somebody else's clothes. yet they fitted him very well. he wore on his face (in addition to a slight moustache) an expression which somehow made hugh john think guiltily of all the orchards he had ever visited along with toady lion and sammy carter's sister cissy, who was "no end of a nice girl" in hugh john's estimation. "this, hugh," said his father, with a little wave of his hand, "is mr. mant, the chief constable of the county. mr. carter and he have come to ask you a few questions, which you will answer at once." "i won't be dasht-mean!" muttered napoleon smith to himself. "what's that?" ejaculated mr. smith, catching the echo of his son's rumble of dissent. "only my leg that hurted," said the hypocritical hero of battles. "don't you think we should have the other children here?" said mr. chief constable mant, speaking for the first time in a gruff, move-on-there voice. "certainly," assented mr. smith, going to the door. "janet!" "yes, sir!" the answer came from immediately behind the door. the field-marshal's brow darkened, or rather it would have done so if there had been no white bandages over it. this is the correct expression anyhow--though ordinary brows but seldom behave in this manner. "prissy's all right," he thought to himself, "but if that little fool toady lion----" and he clenched his second sorest hand under the clothes, and kicked sambo soulis to the foot of the bed in a way which augured but little mercy to sir toady lion if, after all his training, he should turn out "dasht-mean" in the hour of trial. presently the other two children were pushed in at the door, toady lion trying a bolt at the last moment, which janet sheepshanks easily foiled by catching at the slack of his trousers behind, while prissy stood holding her hands primly as if in sunday-school class. both afforded to the critical eye of hugh john complete evidence that they had only just escaped from the greater pain of the comb and soaped flannel-cloth of janet sheepshanks. prissy's curls were still wet and smoothed out, and toady lion was trying in vain to rub the yellow soap out of his eyes. so at the headquarters of its general, the army of windy standard formed up. sir toady lion wished to get within supporting distance of prissy, and accordingly kept snuggling nearer all the time, so that he could get a furtive hold of her skirts at awkward places in the examination. this he could do the more easily that general field-marshal smith was prevented by the bandages over his right eye, and also by the projecting edges of the pillow, from seeing toady lion's left hand. "now, priscilla," began her father, "tell mr. davenant carter and mr. mant what happened in the castle, and the names of any of the bad boys who stole your pet lamb." "wasn't no lamb--donald was a sheep, and he could fight," began toady lion, without relevance, but with his usual eagerness to hear the sound of his own piping voice. in his zeal he took a step forward and so brought himself on the level of the eye of his general, who from the pillow darted upon him a look so freezing that sir toady lion instantly fell back into the ranks, and clutched prissy's skirt with such energy as almost to stagger her severe deportment. "now," said the chief constable of bordershire, "tell me what were the names of the assailants." he was listening to the tale as told by prissy with his note-book ready in his hand, occasionally biting at the butt of the pencil, and anon wetting the lead in his mouth, under the mistaken idea that by so doing he improved its writing qualities. "i think," began prissy, "that they were----" "_a-chew!_" came from the bed and from under the bandages with a sudden burst of sound. field-marshal napoleon smith had sneezed. that was all. but prissy started. she knew what it meant. it was the well-known signal not to commit herself under examination. her father looked round at the open windows. "are you catching cold with the draught, hugh john?" he asked kindly. "i think i have a little cold," said the wily general, who did not wish all the windows to be promptly shut. "don't know all their names, but the one that hurted me was----" began toady lion. but who the villain was will never be known, for at that moment the bedclothes became violently disturbed immediately in front of sir toady lion's nose. a fearful black countenance nodded once at him and disappeared. "black sambo!" gasped toady lion, awed by the terrible appearance, and falling back from the place where the wizard had so suddenly appeared. "what did i understand you to say, little boy?" said mr. mant, with his pencil on his book. "ow--it was black sambo!" toady lion almost screamed. mr. mant gravely noted the fact. "what in the world does he mean?" asked mr. mant, casting his eyes searchingly from prissy to general napoleon and back again. "he means 'black sambo'!" said prissy, devoting herself strictly to facts, and leaving the chief constable to his proper business of interpreting them. "what is his other name?" said mr. mant. "soulis!" said general smith from the bed. the three gentlemen looked at each other, smiled, and shook their heads. "what did i tell you?" said mr. davenant carter. "try as i will, i cannot get the simplest thing out of my sammy and cissy if they don't choose to tell." nevertheless mr. smith, being a sanguine man and with little experience of children, tried again. "there is no black boy in the neighbourhood," said mr. smith severely; "now tell the truth, children--at once, when i bid you!" he uttered the last words in a loud and commanding tone. "us is telling the troof, father dear," said toady lion, in the "coaxy-woaxy" voice which he used when he wanted marmalade from janet or a ride on the saddle from mr. picton smith. "perhaps the boy had blackened his face to deceive the eye," suggested mr. mant, with the air of one familiar from infancy with the tricks and devices of the evil-minded of all ages. "was the ringleader's face blackened?--answer at once!" said mr. smith sternly. the general extracted his bruised and battered right hand from under the clothes and looked at it. "i think so," he said, "leastways some has come off on my knuckles!" mr. davenant carter burst into a peal of jovial mirth. "didn't i tell you?--it isn't a bit of use badgering children when they don't want to tell. let's go over to the castle." and with that the three gentlemen went out, while napoleon smith, prissy, and sir toady lion were left alone. the general beckoned them to his bedside with his nose--quite an easy thing to do if you have the right kind of nose, which hugh john had. "now look here," he said, "if you'd told, i'd have jolly well flattened you when i got up. 'tisn't our business to tell p'leecemen things." "that wasn't a p'leeceman," said sir toady lion, "hadn't no shiny buttons." "that's the worst kind," said the general in a low, hissing whisper; "all the same you stood to it like bricks, and now i'm going to get well and begin on the campaign at once." "don't you be greedy-teeth and eat it all yourself!" interjected toady lion, who thought that the campaign was something to eat, and that it sounded good. "what are you going to do?" said prissy, who had a great belief in the executive ability of her brother. "i know their secret hold," said general-field-marshal smith grandly, "and in the hour of their fancied security we will fall upon them and----" "and what?" gasped prissy and toady lion together, awaiting the revelation of the horror. "destroy them!" said general smith, in a tone which was felt by all parties to be final. he laid himself back on his pillow and motioned them haughtily away. prissy and sir toady lion retreated on tiptoe, lest janet should catch them and send them to the parlour--prissy to read her chapter, and her brother along with her to keep him out of mischief. and so the great soldier was left to his meditations in the darkened hospital chamber. chapter x. a scouting adventure. general smith, having now partially recovered, was mustering his forces and arranging his plans of campaign. he had spoken no hasty word when he boasted that he knew the secret haunt of the robbers. for, some time before, during a brief but glorious career as a pirate, he had been brought into connection with nipper donnan, the strongest butcher's boy of the town, and the ringleader in all mischief, together with joe craig, nosie cuthbertson, and billy m'robert, his ready followers. hugh john had once been a member of the comanche cowboys, as nipper donnan's band was styled; but a disagreement about the objects of attack had hastened a rupture, and the affair of the castle was but the last act in a hostility long latent. in fact the war was always simmering, and was ready to boil over on the slightest provocation. for when hugh john found that his father's orchards, his father's covers and hencoops were to be the chief prey (being safer than the farmers' yards, where there were big dogs always loose, and the town streets, where "bobbies" mostly congregated), he struck. he reflected that one day all these things would belong to himself. he would share with prissy and sir toady lion, of course; but still mainly they would belong to him. why then plunder them now? the argument was utilitarian but sufficient. though he did not mention the fact to prissy or sir toady lion, hugh john was perfectly well acquainted with the leaders in the fray at the castle. he knew also that there were motives for the enmity of the comanche cowboys other and deeper than the town rights to the possession of the castle of windy standard. it was night when hugh john cautiously pushed up the sash of his window and looked out. a few stars were high up aloft wandering through the grey-blue fields of the summer night, as it were listlessly and with their hands in their pockets. a corn-crake cried in the meadow down below, steadily, remorselessly, like the aching of a tooth. a white owl passed the window with an almost noiseless whiff of fluffy feathers. hugh john sniffed the cool pungent night smell of the dew on the near wet leaves and the distant mown grass. it always went to his head a little, and was the only thing which made him regret that he was to be a soldier. whenever he smelt it, he wanted to be an explorer of far-off lands, or an honest poacher--even a gamekeeper might do, in case the other vocations proved unattainable. hugh john got out of the window slowly, leaving sir toady lion asleep and the door into prissy's room wide open. he dropped easily and lightly upon the roof of the wash-house, and, steadying himself upon the tiles, he slid down till he heard cæsar, the black newfoundland, stir in his kennel. then he called him softly, so that he might not bark. he could not take him with him to-night, for though cæsar was little more than a puppy his step was like that of a cow, and when released he went blundering end on through the woods like a festive avalanche. hugh john's father, for reasons of his own, persisted in calling him "the potwalloping elephant." so, having assured himself that cæsar would not bark, the boy dropped to the ground, taking the roof of the dog-kennel on the way. cæsar stirred, rolled himself round, and came out breathing hard, and thump-thumping hugh john's legs with his thick tail, with distinctly audible blows. then when he understood that he was not to be taken, he sat down at the extremity of his chain and regarded his master wistfully through the gloom with his head upon one side; and as hugh john took his way down the avenue, cæsar moaned a little, intoning his sense of injury and disappointment as the parson does a litany. at the first turn of the road hugh john had just time to dart aside into the green, acrid-scented, leathery-leaved shrubbery, where he lay crouched with his hands on his knees and his head thrust forward, while tom the keeper went slowly by with his arm about jane housemaid's waist. [illustration: "wait till the next time you won't lend me the ferret, tom cannon! o-ho, jane housemaid, will you tell my father the next time i take your dust scoop?"] "aha!" chuckled hugh john; "wait till the next time you won't lend me the ferret, tom cannon! o-ho, jane housemaid, will you tell my father the next time i take your dust scoop out to the sand-hole to help dig trenches? i think not!" and hugh john hugged himself in his pleasure at having a new weapon so admirably double-barrelled. he looked upon the follies of love, as manifested in the servants' hall and upon the outskirts of the village, as so much excellent material by which a wise man would not fail to profit. janet sheepshanks was very severe on such delinquencies, and his father--well, hugh john felt that tom cannon would not wish to appear before his master in such a connection. he had a vague remembrance of a certain look he had once seen on his father's face when allan chestney, the head-keeper, came out from mr. picton smith's workroom with these words ringing in his ear, "now, sir, you will do as i tell you, or i will give you a character--_but_, such a character as you will carry through the world with you, and which will be buried with you when you die." allan was now married to jemima, who had once been cook at the house of windy standard. hugh john went over to their cottage often to eat her delicious cakes; and when allan came in from the woods, his wife ordered him to take off his dirty boots before he entered her clean kitchen. then allan chestney would re-enter and play submissively and furtively with patty pans, their two-year-old child, shifting his chair obediently whenever cook jemima told him. but all the same, hugh john felt dimly that these things would not have happened, save for the look on his father's face when allan chestney went in to see him that day in the grim pine-boarded workroom. so, much lightened in his mind by his discovery, hugh john took his way down the avenue. at the foot of it, and before he came to the locked white gate and the cottage of betty, he turned aside through a copse, over a little green patch of sward on which his feet slid smooth as velvet. a hare sat on the edge of this, with her fore-feet in the air. she was for the moment so astonished at hugh john's appearance that it was an appreciable period of time before she turned, and with a quick, sidelong rush disappeared into the wood. he could hear the soughing rush of the river below him, which took different keys according to the thickness of the tree copses which were folded about it; now singing gaily through the thin birches and rowans; anon humming more hoarsely through the alders; again rustling and whispering mysteriously through the grey shivery poplars; and, last of all, coming up, dull and sullen, through the heavy oak woods, whose broad leaves cover all noises underneath them as a blanket muffles speech. hugh john skirted the river till he came to the stepping-stones, which he crossed with easy confidence. he knew them--high, low, jack, and game, like the roofs of his father's outhouses. he could just as easily have gone across blindfold. then he made his way over the wide, yellowish-grey spaces of the castle island, avoiding the copses of willow and dwarf birch, and the sandy-bottomed "bunkers," which ever and anon gleamed up before him like big tawny eyes out of the dusky grey-green of the short grass. after a little the walls of the old castle rose grimly before him, and he could hear the starlings scolding one another sleepily high up in the crevices. a black-cap piped wistfully among the sedges of the watermarsh. hugh john had often heard that the ruin was haunted, and certainly he always held his breath as he passed it. but now he was on duty, and, if need had been, he would that night have descended to the deepest dungeon, and faced a full banquo-board of blood-boltered ghosts. chapter xi. enemy's country. he presently came to the wooden bridge and crossed it. he was now on the outskirts of the town, and in enemy's country. so, more from etiquette than precaution, he took the shelter of a wall, glided through a plantation, among the withy roots of which his foot presently caught in a brass "grin," or rabbit's snare. hugh john grubbed it up gratefully and pocketed it. he had no objections whatever to spoiling the egyptians. he was now in butcher donnan's pastures, where many fore-doomed sheep, in all the bliss of ignorance, waited their turns to be made into mutton. very anxiously hugh john scrutinised each one. he wandered round and round till he had made certain that donald was not there. at the foot of the pasture were certain black-pitched wooden sheds set in a square, with a little yard like a church pew in the midst. somewhere here, he knew, slept donnan's slaughterman, and it was possible that in this place donald might be held in captivity. now it was an accomplishment of our hero's that he could bleat like any kind of sheep--except perhaps an old tup, for which his voice was as yet too shrill. in happy, idle days he had elaborated a code of signals with donald, and was well accustomed to communicating with him from his bedroom window. so now he crouched in the dusk of the hedge, and said "maa-aaa!" in a tone of reproach. instantly a little answering bleat came from the black sheds, a sound which made hugh's heart beat faster. still he could not be quite sure. he therefore bleated again more pleadingly, and again there came back the answer, choked and feeble indeed, but quite obviously the voice of his own dear donald. hugh john cast prudence to the winds. he raced round and climbed the bars into the enclosure, calling loudly, "donald! donald!" but hardly had his feet touched the ground when a couple of dogs flew at him from the corner of the yard, and he had scarcely time to get on the top of a stone wall before they were clamouring and yelping beneath him. hugh john crouched on his "hunkers" (as he called the posture in which one sits on a wall when hostile dogs are leaping below), and seizing a large coping-stone he dropped it as heavily as he could on the head of the nearer and more dangerous. a howl most lamentable immediately followed. then a man's voice cried, "down, towser! what's the matter, grip? sic' them! good dogs!" it was the voice of the slaughterman, roused from his slumbers, and in fear of tramps or other midnight marauders upon his master's premises. hugh ran on all fours along the wall to the nearest point of the woods, dropped over, and with a leaping, anxious heart sped in the direction of home. he crossed the bridge in safety, but as he ran across the island he could hear the dogs upon the trail and the encouraging shouts of his pursuer. the black looming castle fell swiftly behind him. now he was at the stepping-stones, over which he seemed to float rather than leap, so completely had fear added to his usual strength wings of swiftness. but at the farther side the dogs were close upon him. he was obliged to climb a certain low tree, where he had often sat dangling his legs and swinging in the branches while he allowed prissy to read to him. the dogs were soon underneath, and he could see them leaping upward with snapping white teeth which gleamed unpleasantly through the darkness. but their furious barking was promptly answered. hugh john could hear a heavy tread approaching among the dense foliage of the trees. a dark form suddenly appeared in the glade and poised something at its shoulder.--flash! there came a deafening report, the thresh of leaden drops, a howl of pain from the dogs, and both of them took their way back towards the town with not a few bird shot in their flanks. hugh john's heart stood still as the dark figure advanced. he feared it might prove to be his father. instead it was tom cannon, and the brave scout on the tree heaved a sigh of relief. "who's up there?" cried the under-keeper gruffly; "come down this moment and show yourself, you dirty poacher, or by heaven i'll shoot you sitting!" "all right, tom, i'm coming as fast as i can," said hugh john, beginning to clamber down. "heavens and earth, master hugh--what be you doing here? whatever will master say?" "he won't say anything, for he won't know, tom cannon." said hugh john confidently. "oh yes, he will," said the keeper. "i won't have you bringing a pack of dogs into my covers at twelve of the clock--blow me if i will!" "well, you won't tell my father, anyway!" said hugh john calmly, dusting himself as well as he could. "and why not?" asked the keeper indignantly. "'cause if you do, i'll tell where i saw you kissing jane housemaid an hour ago!" now this was at once a guess and an exaggeration. hugh john had not seen all this, but he felt rather than knew that the permitted arm about jane housemaid's waist could have no other culmination. also he had a vague sense that this was the most irritating thing he could say in the circumstances. at any rate tom cannon fairly gasped with astonishment. a double-jointed word slipped between his teeth, which sounded like "hang that boy!" at last his seething thoughts found utterance. "you young imp of satan--it ain't true, anyway." "all right, you can tell my father that!" said hugh john coolly, feeling the strength of his position. tom cannon was not much frightened for himself, but he did not wish to get jane housemaid into any trouble, for, as he well knew, that young woman had omitted to ask for leave of absence. so he only said, "all right, it's none of my business if you wander over every acre, and break your neck off every tree on the blame estate. but you'd better be getting home before master comes out and catches you himself! then you'd eat strap, my lad!" so having remade the peace, tom escorted hugh john back to the dog kennel with great good nature, and even gave him a leg up to the roof above the palace of cæsar. hugh john paused as he put one foot into the bedroom, heavy and yet homelike with the night smell of a sleeping house. toady lion had fallen out of bed and lay, still with his blanket wrapped round him like a martial cloak, half under his cot and half on the floor. but this he did every other night. prissy was breathing quietly in the next room. all was safe. hugh john called softly down, "tom, tom!" "what now?" returned the keeper, who had been spying along the top windows to distinguish a certain one dear to his heart. "i say, tom--i'll tell jane housemaid to-morrow that you're a proper brick." "thank'ee, sir!" said tom, saluting gravely and turning off across the lawn towards the "bothy," where among the pine woods he kept his owl-haunted bachelor quarters. chapter xii. mobilisation. generally speaking, hugh john despised sammy carter--first, because he could lick him with one hand, and, secondly, because sammy carter was a clever boy and could discover ways of getting even without licking him. clever boys are all cheeky and need hammering. besides, sammy carter was in love with prissy, and every one knew what that meant. but then sammy carter had a sister, cissy by name, and she was quite a different row of beans. furthermore, sammy carter read books--a degrading pursuit, unless they had to do with soldiering, and especially with the wars of napoleon, hugh john's great ancestor. in addition, sammy knew every date that was, and would put you right in a minute if you said that bannockburn happened after waterloo, or any little thing like that. a disposition so perverse as this could only be cured with a wicket or with hugh john's foot, and our hero frequently applied both corrections. but cissy carter--ah! now there was a girl if you like. she never troubled about such things. she could not run so fast as prissy, but then she had a perfect colt's mane of hair, black and glossy, which flew out behind her when she did. moreover, she habitually did what hugh john told her, and burned much incense at his shrine, so that modest youth approved of her. it was of her he first thought when he set about organising his army for the assault upon the black sheds, where, like hofer at mantua, the gallant donald lay in chains. but it was written in the chronicles of oaklands that cissy carter could not be allowed over the river without sammy, so sammy would have to be permitted to join too. hugh john resolved that he would keep his eye very sharply upon prissy and sammy carter, for the abandoned pair had been known to compose poetry in the heat of an engagement, and even to read their compositions to one another on the sly. for this misdemeanour prissy would certainly have been court-martialled, only that her superior officer could not catch her at the time. but the wicked did not wholly escape, for hugh john tugged her hair afterwards till she cried; whereat janet sheepshanks, coming suddenly upon him and cornering him, spanked him till _he_ cried. he cried solely as a measure of military necessity, because it was the readiest way of getting janet to stop, and also because that day janet wore a new pair of slippers, with heels upon which hugh john had not been counting. so he cried till he got out of janet's reach, when he put out his tongue at her and said, "hum-m! thought you hurt, didn't you? well, it just didn't a bit!" and sir toady lion, who was feeding his second-best wooden horses with wild sand-oats gathered green, remarked, "when i have childwens i sail beat them wif a big boot and tackets in the heel." which voiced with great precision janet sheepshanks' mood at that moment. the army of windy standard, then, when fully mustered, consisted of general-field-marshal napoleon smith, commander-in-chief and regimental sergeant-major (also, on occasions of parade, big big-drummer); adjutant-general cissy carter, promoted to her present high position for always agreeing with her superior officer--a safe rule in military politics; commissariat-sergeant sir toady lion, who declined any other post than the care of the provisions, and had to be conciliated; together with privates sammy carter and prissy smith. sammy carter had formerly been adjutant, because he had a pony, but gallantly resigned in order to be of the same rank as prissy, who was the sole member of the force wholly without military ambition. at the imposing review which was held on the plains of windy standard, the commander-in-chief insisted on carrying the blue banner himself, as well as the big-big drum, till sammy carter, who had not yet resigned, offered him his pony to ride upon. this he did with guile and malice aforethought, for on the drum being elevated in front of the mounted officer, polo promptly ran away, and deposited general-field-marshal smith in the horse pond. [illustration: "deposited general-field-marshal smith in the horse pond."] but this force, though officered with consummate ability, was manifestly insufficient for the attack upon the black sheds. this was well shown by sammy carter, who also pointed out that the armies of all ages had never been exclusively composed of those of noble birth. there were, for example, at bannockburn, the knights, the esquires, the sturdy yeomanry, the spearmen, the bowmen, and the camp-followers. he advised that the stable boys, mike and peter, should be approached. now the head stable boy, mike o'donelly by name, was a scion of the noblest bourbon race. his father was an exile, who spoke the language with a strong foreign accent, and drove a fish cart--which also had a pronounced accent, reputed deadly up to fifty yards with a favourable wind. "foine frish hirrings--foive for sixpince!" was the way he said it. this proved to demonstration that he came from a far land, and was the descendant of kings. when taxed directly with being the heir to a crown, he did not deny it, but said, "yus, masther smith, wanst i had a crown, but i lost it. 'twas the red lion, bad scran to ut, that did the deed!" now this was evidently only a picturesque and regal way of referring to the bloody revolution by which king michael o'donowitch had been dethroned and reduced to driving a fish-cart--the old, old story, doubtless, of royal license and popular ingratitude. but there was no such romantic mystery about peter greg. he was simply junior stable boy, and his father was general utility man--or, as it was more generally called, "odd man," about the estate of windy standard. peter occupied most of his time in keeping one eye on his work and the other on his father, who, on general utility principles, "welted" him every time that he caught him. this exercise, and his other occupation of perpetual fisticuffs with prince mike o'donelly, had so developed his muscles and trained his mind, that he could lick any other two boys of his size in the parish. he said so himself, and he usually had at least one black eye to show for it. so no one contradicted him, and, indeed, who had a better right to know? prince michael o'donowitch (the improvement in style was sammy carter's) put the matter differently. he said, "i can lick peter greg till he can't stand" ("shtand" was how the royal exile pronounced it), "but peter an' me can knock the stuffin' out of any half-dozen spalpeens in this dirthy counthry." both mike and peter received commissions in the army at the same moment. the ceremony took place at the foot of the great hay mow at the back of the stable yard. in view of his noble ancestry, prince michael o'donowitch was made a major-general, and peter a lieutenant of marines. the newly appointed officers instantly clinched, fell headlong, rolled over and over one another, pommelled each other's heads, bit, scratched, and kicked till the hay and straw flew in all directions. when the dust finally cleared away, peter was found sitting astride of prince michael, and shouting, "are you the general-major, or am i?" then when they had risen to their feet and dusted themselves, it was found that the distinguished officers had exchanged commissions, and that peter greg had become major-general, while prince michael o'donowitch was lieutenant of marines, with a new and promising black eye! [illustration: "generals of division, equal in rank."] but at the first drill, upon general peter issuing some complicated order, such as "attention! eyes right!" lieutenant o'donowitch remarked, "me eyes is as roight as yours, ye dirthy baste av a scotchy!" whereupon, as the result of another appeal to arms, the former judgment was reversed, and prince michael regained his commission at the price of another black eye. indeed he would have had three, but for the fact that the number of his eyes was somewhat strictly limited to two. now it was felt by all parties that in a well-disciplined army such transitions were altogether too sudden, and so a compromise was suggested--as usual by sammy carter. prince michael and peter greg were both made generals of division, equal in rank, under field-marshal smith. the division commanded by general peter was composed of cissy and sir toady lion. the command of this first division proved, however, to be purely nominal, for cissy was much too intimate with the commander-in-chief to be ordered about, and as for toady lion he was so high minded and irresponsible that he quite declined to obey anybody whatsoever. still, the title was the thing, and "the division of general peter greg" sounded very well. the other division was much more subordinate. prissy and sammy carter were the only genuine privates, and they were quite ready to be commanded by general mike, prissy upon conscientious non-resistance principles, and sammy with a somewhat humorous aside to his fellow-soldier that it wouldn't be very bad, because mike's father (the royal fish-hawker) lived on sammy's ancestral domain, and owed money to mr. davenant carter. thus even the iron discipline of a british army is tempered to the sacred property holder. the immediate advance of the army of windy standard upon the black sheds was only hindered by a somewhat serious indisposition which suddenly attacked the commander-in-chief. the facts were these. attached to the castle, but lying between it and the stepping-stones on the steep side of the hill, was an ancient enclosed orchard. it had doubtless been the original garden of the fortress, but the trees had gone back to their primitive "crabbiness" (as hugh john put it), and in consequence the children were forbidden to eat any of the fruit--an order which might just as well not have been issued. but on a day it was reported to janet sheepshanks that prissy and hugh john were in the crab orchard. on tip-toe she stole down to catch them. she caught hugh john. prissy was up in one of the oldest and leafiest trees, and hugh john, as in honour bound, persistently made signals in another direction to distract attention, as he was being hauled off to condign punishment. he had an hour to wait in the study for his father, who was away at the county town. during this time hugh john suffered strange qualms, not of apprehension, which presently issued in yet keener and more definitely located agony. at last mr. picton smith entered. "well, sir, and what is this i hear?" he said severely, throwing down his riding-whip on the couch as if he meant to pick it up again soon. hugh john was silent. he saw that his father knew all there was to know about his evil doings from janet sheepshanks, and he was far too wise to plead guilty. "did i not tell you not to go to the orchard?" hugh john hung his head, and made a slight grimace at the pattern on the carpet, as a severer pang than any that had gone before assailed him. "now, look here, sir," said his father, shaking his finger at him in a solemnising manner, "if ever i catch you again in that orchard, i'll--i'll give you as sound a thrashing, sir, as ever you got in your life." hugh john rubbed his hand across his body just above the second lowest button of his jacket. "oh, father," he said plaintively, "i wish dreadfully that you had caught me before the last time i was in the orchard." the treatment with pills and rhubarb which followed considerably retarded the operations of the army of windy standard. it was not the first time that the stomach of a commander-in-chief has had an appreciable effect on the conduct of a campaign. chapter xiii. the army of windy standard. at last, however, all was ready, in the historical phrase of napoleon the little, "to the last gaiter-button." it was the intention of the commander-in-chief to attack the citadel of the enemy with banners flying, and after due notice. he had been practising for days upon his three-key bugle in order to give the call of childe roland. but private sammy carter, who was always sticking his oar in, put him upon wiser lines, and (what is more) did it so quietly and suggestively that general napoleon was soon convinced that sammy's plan was his own, and on the second day boasted of its merits to its original begetter, who did not even smile. the like has happened in greater armies with generals as distinguished. sammy carter advised that the assault should be delivered between eight and nine in the morning, for the very good reasons that at that hour both the butcher's apprentice, tommy pratt, and the slaughterman would be busy delivering the forenoon orders, while the butcher's son, nipper donnan, would be at school, and the black sheds consequently entirely deserted. at first hugh john rebelled, and asserted that this was not a sportsmanlike mode of proceeding, but sammy carter, who always knew more about everything than was good for anybody, overwhelmed his chief with examples of strategies and surprises from the military history of thirty centuries. "besides," said he, somewhat pertinently, "let's get donald back first, and then we can be chivalrous all you want. perhaps they are keeping him to fatten him up for the odd coons' bank holiday feast." this, as the wily sammy knew, was calculated to stir up the wrath of his general more than anything else he could say. for at the annual bean feast of the honourable company of odd coons, a benefit secret society of convivial habits, a sheep was annually roasted whole. it said an ox on the programme, but the actual result, curiously enough, was mutton and not beef. "we attack to-morrow at daybreak," said field-marshal smith grandly, as soon as sammy carter had finished speaking. this, however, had subsequently to be modified to nine o'clock, to suit the breakfast hour of the carters. moreover saturday was substituted for tuesday, both because cissy and sammy could most easily "shirk" their governess on that day, and because mr. picton smith was known to be going up to london by the night train on friday. on such trivial circumstances do great events depend. when the army was finally mustered for the assault, its armament was found to be somewhat varied, though generally efficient. but then even in larger armies the weapons of the different arms of the service are far from uniform. there are, for example, rifles and bayonets for the line, lances for the light horse, carbines, sabres, and army biscuits, all deadly after their kind. so it was in the campaigning outfit of the forces of windy standard. the historian can only hint at this equipment, so strange were the various kits. the commander-in-chief wished to insist on a red sash and a long cut-and-thrust sword, with (if possible) a kettle-drum. but this was found impracticable as a general order. for not only did the two divisional commanders decline to submit to the sash, but there were not enough kettle-drums intact to go more than half round. so general smith was the only soldier who carried a real sword. he had also a pistol, which, however, obstinately refused to go off, but formed a valuable weapon when held by the barrel. cissy was furnished with a pike, constructed by prince michael's father, the dethroned monarch of o'donowitch-dom, out of a leister or fish-spear--which, strangely enough, he had carried away with him from his palace at the time of his exile. this constituted a really formidable armament, being at least five feet long, and so sharp that if you ran very hard against a soft wooden door with it, it made a mark which you could see quite a yard off in a good light. prissy had a carpet-broom with a long handle, which at a distance looked like a gun, and as prissy meant to do all her fighting at a distance this was quite sufficient. in addition she had three pieces of twine to tie up her dress, so that she would be ready to run away untrammelled by flapping skirts. sir toady lion was equipped for war with a thimble, three sticky bull's-eyes, the haft of a knife (but no blade), a dog-whistle, and a go-cart with one shaft, all of which proved exceedingly useful. the two generals of division were attired in neat stable clothes with buttoned leggings, and put their trust in a pair of "catties" (otherwise known as catapults), two stout shillelahs, the national batons of the exiled prince, manufactured by himself; and, most valuable of all, a set a-piece of horny knuckles, which they had kept in constant practice against each other all through the piping times of peace. both mike and peter knowingly chewed straws in opposite corners of their mouths. the forces on the other side were quite unknown, both as to number and quality. hugh john maintained that there were at least twenty, and toady lion stoutly proclaimed that there were a million thousand, and that he had seen and counted them every one. but a stricter census, instituted upon evidence led by private sammy carter, could not get beyond half-a-dozen. so that the disproportion was not so great as might have been supposed. still the siege of the sheds was felt to be of the nature of a forlorn hope. it was arranged that all who distinguished themselves for deeds of valour were to receive the victoria cross, a decoration which had been cut by hugh john out of the tops of ginger-beer bottles with a cold chisel. as soon, however, as sir toady lion heard this, he sat down in the dust of the roadside, and simply refused to budge till his grievances were redressed. "i wants victowya cyoss _now_!" he remarked, with his father's wrinkle of determination between the eyes showing very plain, as it always did when he wanted anything very much. for when toady lion asked for a thing, like the person in the advertisement, he saw that he got it. in vain it was pointed out to him that this ill-advised action constituted rank mutiny, and that he was liable to be arrested, tried by court-martial, and ignominiously shot. toady lion knew all about mutiny, and cared nothing about courts-martial. besides, he had had some experience, and he knew the value of "making oneself a nuisance" in army matters. equally in vain was sammy carter's humorously false information that he had better run, for here was janet coming up the road with an awful biggy stick. "don't care for janet," reiterated toady lion. "i wants victowya cyoss--i wants it _now!_" so there upon the roadside, at the very outset of the campaign, sir toady lion was decorated with the much coveted "for valour" cross. and he would be a bold man who would say that he did not deserve it. chapter xiv. the battle of the black sheds. this much being settled, the army of windy standard advanced upon the enemy's entrenchments. prissy was the only soldier in the force with any religious convictions of a practical kind. on this occasion she actually wanted to send a mission to the foe with an offer of peace, on condition of their giving up donald to his rightful owners. she instanced as an example of the kind of thing she meant, the verses about turning the other cheek. but general napoleon had his answer ready. "well," he said, "that's all right. that's in the bible, so i s'pose you have got to believe it. but i was looking at it last sunday in sermon time, and it doesn't say what you are to do _after_ you turn the other cheek. so yesterday i tried it on tommy pratt to see how it worked, and he hit me on the other cheek like winking, and made my eyes water. so then i took off my coat, and, jove!--didn't i just give him billy-o! texts aren't so bad. they are mostly all right, if you only read on a bit!" "but," said prissy, "perhaps you forgot that a soft answer turneth away wrath?" "don't, nother," contradicted sir toady lion, whose pronunciation of "wrath" and "horse" was identical, and who persistently misunderstood the scriptural statement which janet sheepshanks had once made him learn without explanation. "tried soft answer on big horse in the farm-yard, yesterday, and he didn't turn away a little bit, but comed right on, and tried to eat me _all_ up!" toady lion always had at least one word in italics in each sentence. prissy looked towards her ally and fellow-private for assistance. "love your----" suggested sammy, giving her a new cue. prissy thanked him with a look. "well," she said, "at least you won't deny that it says in the new testament that you are to love your enemies!" "i don't yike the new test'ment," commented toady lion in his shrill high pipe, which cuts through all other conversation as easily as a sharp knife cleaves a bar of soap; "ain't never nobody killed dead in the new test'ment!" "hush, arthur george," said prissy in a shocked voice, "you must not speak like that about the new testament. it says 'love your enemies!' 'do good to them that hate you!' now then!" hugh john turned away with a disgusted look on his face. "oh," he said, "of course, if you were to go on like that, there would never be any soldiers, nor bloody wars, nor nothing nice!" which of course would be absurd. * * * * * during this discussion the two generals of division had been wholly silent. to them the new testament was considerably outside the sphere of practical politics. peter greg indeed had one which he had got from his mother on his birthday with his name on the first page; and mike, who was of the contrary persuasion as to the advisability of circulating the written word in the vulgar tongue, could always provoke a fight by threatening to burn it, to which peter greg invariably replied by a hasty and ungenerous expression of hope as to the future welfare of the head of the catholic religion. but all this was purely academical discussion. neither of them knew nor cared one jot about the matter. prissy alone was genuinely distressed, and so affected was she that two big tears of woe trickled down her cheeks. these she wiped off with her pinafore, turning away her eyes so that hugh john might not see them. there was, however, no great danger of this, for that warrior preoccupied himself with shouting "right-left, right-left," as if he were materially assisting the success of the expedition by doing so. at the entrance to the pastures tenanted by butcher donnan, the army divided into its two divisions under their several commanders. the commander-in-chief placed himself between the wings as a central division all by himself. it was peter greg who first reached the door, and with his stout cudgel knocked off the padlock. he had already entered in triumph, and was about to be followed by his soldiery, when a loud shout was heard from the edge of the park. "here they are--go at them! give them fits, boys! we'll learn them to come sneaking into our field." and over the stone dikes, from the direction of the town of edam, came an overpowering force of the enemy led by nipper donnan. they seemed to arrive from all parts at once, and with sticks and stones they advanced upon the slender array of the forces of windy standard. their rude language, their threatening gestures, and their loud shouts intimidated but did not daunt the assailants. field-marshal napoleon smith called on his men to do or die; and everyone resolved that that was just what they were there for--all except prissy, who promptly pulled up her skirts and went down the meadow towards the stepping-stones like a jenny-spinner driven by the wind, and sir toady lion, who, finding an opening in the hedge about his size in holes, crept quietly through and was immediately followed by cæsar, the "potwalloping" newfoundland pup. the struggle which raged around those who remained staunch to the colours was grim and deadly. general-field-marshal napoleon smith threw himself into the thickest of the fray, and the cry, "a smith for merry england," alternated with the ringing "scotland for ever!" which had so often carried terror into the hearts of the foe. prince michael o'donowitch performed prodigies of valour, and personally "downed" three of the enemy with his national weapon. peter greg fought a pitched battle with nipper donnan, in which double-jointed words were as freely used as tightly clenched fists. cissy carter "progged" at least half-a-dozen of the enemy with her pike, before it was wrested from her by the united efforts of several town lads who were not going to stand being punched by a girl. sammy carter stood well out of the heady fray, and contented himself with stinging up the enemy with his vengeful catapult till they howled again. [illustration: "the battle of the black sheds."] but the struggle of the many against the few, the strong against the weak, could only end in one way. in ten minutes the forces of law and disorder were scattered to the four quarters of heaven, and the standard that had streamed so rarely on the braes of edam was in the hands of the exulting foe. prince michael was wounded on the nose to the effusion of blood, general peter greg was a fugitive with a price on his head, and, most terrible of all--field-marshal napoleon smith was taken prisoner. * * * * * but sir toady lion was neither among the slain, nor yet among the wounded or the captives. what then of toady lion? chapter xv. toady lion plays a first lone hand. sir toady lion had played a lone hand. we left him sitting behind the hedge, secure as the gods above the turmoil of battle. but he could not be content to stay there. he thought of richard coeur-de-lion, his great namesake and hero; and though he wanted to do nothing rash, he was resolved to justify the ginger-beer label victoria cross which he wore so proudly on his breast. so he waited till the forces of the town had swept those of windy standard from the field. he saw on the edge of the wood hugh john, resisting manfully to the death, and striking out in all directions. but toady lion knew that he had no clear call to such very active exertions. cautiously he returned through his hole in the hedge, and crawling round the opposite side of the black sheds, he entered the door which peter greg had forced with his cudgel, before he had been interrupted by the arrival of the enemy. toady lion ran through a slippery byre in which calves had been standing, and came to an inner division with a low door and a causewayed floor like a pig-pen. he opened this gate by kicking up the hasp with the toe of his boot, and found himself at once in the inmost sanctuary. and there, right before him, with a calf's halter of rope about his neck, all healthy and alive, was donald, his own dear, black, pet lamb donald, who gave a little bleat of pure delight upon seeing him, and pulled vigorously at the rope to get loose. "quiet now, donald! or they will come back. stand still, 'oo horrid little beast 'oo, till i get the rope off!" and so, easing the noose gradually, toady lion slipped it over donald's head and he was free. then, very cautiously, his deliverer put his head round the door to see that the coast was clear. not a soul was to be seen anywhere on the pastures; so toady lion slid out and made for the gap in the hedge, sure that donald would follow him. donald did follow, but, as luck would have it, no sooner was he through than cæsar, who had been scraping for imaginary rabbits at the other side of the field, came barking and rushing about over the grass like a runaway traction engine. now donald hated big dogs--they rugged and tugged his wool so; as soon therefore as he saw cæsar he took down the lea towards the island as hard as he could go. he thundered across the wooden bridge, breaking through the fleeing forces of windy standard, which were scattered athwart the castle island. he sprinted over the short turf by the orchard, cæsar lying off thirty yards on his flank. at the shallows by the stepping-stones donald sheepfully took the water, and was not long in swimming to the other side, the edam being hardly deep enough anywhere at this point to take him off his feet. in a minute more he was delightedly nuzzling his wet nose into the hand of janet sheepshanks, on the terrace of windy standard house. "wi beast, whaur hae ye come frae?--i declare i am _that_ glad to see ye!" but had she known the price which had been paid for donald's liberty, her rejoicing would quickly have given place to sorrow. it was mid-afternoon on the day of battle and defeat when toady lion straggled home, so wet and dirty that he could only be slapped, bathed and sent to bed--which, in the absence of his father, was felt to be an utterly inadequate punishment. prissy had long ago fled home with a terrible tale of battle, murder, and sudden death. but she knew nothing of her brother hugh john, though she had nerved herself to go back to the black sheds, suffering grinding agonies of fear and apprehension the while, as also of reproach for deserting him in his hour of need. mike and peter were quietly at work in the stable, in momentary dread of being called upon to give evidence. the carters, sammy and cissy, had run straight home, and were at that moment undoubtedly smelling of arnica and slimy with vaseline. but there was no trace of the commander-in-chief anywhere. general-field-marshal napoleon smith had vanished from the face of the earth. [illustration: "oh, the bonny laddie!"] tea-time came and went. he had been known to be absent from tea. supper-time arrived and overpassed, and then the whole house grew anxious. ten o'clock came, and in the clear northern twilight all the household were scattered over the countryside seeking for him. midnight, and no hugh john! where could he be? drowned in the edam water--killed by a chance blow in the great battle--or simply hiding from fear of punishment and afraid to venture home? it must have been some stranger entirely unacquainted with general napoleon smith who advocated the last explanation. the inmates of windy standard cherished no such foolish hopes. the sun rose soon after two on as glorious a summer morning as ever shone upon the hills of the border. as his beams overshot brown gattonside to the east they fell on janet sheepshanks. her decent white cap was green-moulded with the moss of the woods; the drip of waterside caves had grimed it, the cobwebs of murky outhouses festooned it. her abundant grey hair hung down in untended witch locks. she had not shut an eye nor lain down all night. now she leaned her head on her hands and sobbed aloud. "oh, the bonny laddie! whatever will i say to his faither when he comes hame? his auldest son and the aipple o' his e'e! my certie, if the ill-set loon were to come up the road the noo, i wad thresh the very skin aff his banes! to think that he should bide awa' like this. oh, the dear, dear lamb that he is; and will thae auld e'en never mair rest on his bonnie face? cauld, cauld noo it looks up frae the bottom o' some pool in the edam water!" and janet sheepshanks, like one of the mothers in ramah, lifted up her voice and wept with the weeping which will not be comforted; for oft-times bairns' play brings that which is not bairns' play to those who love them. chapter xvi. the smoutchy boys. general napoleon smith had been taken captive by the comanche cowboys. now it is fair to say in this place that they also had their side of the question. their fathers were, in their own opinion, striving for the ancient rights of the town against an interloping smith. why should not they against the son of that smith and his allies? the denunciations of the edam town council were only transformed into the blows which rained down so freely upon hugh john's bare and curly head, as he stood at bay that saturday morning in the corner of the dike. "surrender!" cried nipper donnan, whose father had moved that the town of edam take the case up to the house of lords. "'a smith dies but does not surrender'!" replied the son of the man who had declared his intention of fighting the matter out though it took his last copper. in the calm atmosphere of the law-courts this was very well, and the combatants stood about an equal chance; but not so when translated into terms to suit the black sheds of edam and the links of the castle island. so the many-headed swarmed over the wall from behind; they struck down the last brave defender of privilege, and hugh john picton smith was borne away to captivity. now there are many tongues and many peoples on the face of the earth, and doubtless the one lord made them all. but there is one variety which appears among all nations, and commentators disagree as to what particular power is responsible for his creation. he is the smoutchy boy. this universal product of the race is indeed the chief evidence that we are lineally connected with the brutes that perish; for there is no doubt that the smoutchy boy is a brute among brutes. he is at once cruel and cowardly, boastful and shy, ready to strike a weaker, and equally ready to cry out when a stronger strikes him. he is not peculiar to any one class of society. he frequents the best public-schools, and is responsible for the under-current of cruelty which ever and anon rises to the surface there and supplies a month's free copy to enterprising journals in want of a sensation for the dull season. he makes some regiments of the service a terror. he understands all about "hazing" in the navy. happily, however, among such large collections of human beings there is generally some clear-eyed, upstanding, able-bodied, long-armed other product who, by way of counterpoise, has been specially created to be the defender of the oppressed, and the scourge of the smoutchy boy. i have seen one such scatter a dozen smoutchies, who were employed after their kind in stoning to death a nestful of fluffy, gaping, yellow-billed young blackbirds. i have heard the sound of his fists striking most compactly and satisfactorily against smoutchy flesh. also i know the jar with which a foot stops suddenly in mid-air, as the scourge pursues and kicks the fleeing smoutchy--kicks him "for keeps" too. yet for all this smoutchy boy is a man and a brother. his smoutchiness generally passes off with the callowness of hobble-de-hoyhood. the condition is indeed rather one for the doctor than for the police court. it is pathological rather than criminal; for when the smoutchy is thrown for some time into the society of men of the world--drilled for instance in barrack yards, licked and clouted into shape by the regiment or the ship's crew, he sheds his smoutchiness from him like a garment. it is on record that smoutchies ere now have led forlorn hopes, pierced africa to its centre, navigated strange seas, and trodden trackless polar snows. the worst smoutchy of my time, the bully who, till the biceps and _tendo achilles_ muscles hardened to their office, made life at a certain school a terror and an agony, afterwards sprang from a steamer in order to save the life of a man who had fallen overboard in a high-running sea. [illustration: "the head smoutchy."] but of all smoutchies the worst variety is that reared in the vicinity of the small manufacturing town. he thrives on wages too early and too easily earned. foul language, a tobacco pipe with the bowl turned down, and the rotten fagends of association football, are the signs by which you may know him. in such a society there is always one smoutchy who sets the fashion, and a crowd who imitate. in edam the head smoutchy of the time was nipper donnan. he was the son of a fighting butcher, who in his day, and before marrying the widow of the deceased publican of the "black bull," had been a yet more riotous drover, and had almost met the running expenses of the sheriff court by his promptly paid fines. the only things nipper donnan feared were the small, round, deep-set eyes of his father. the police were a sport to him. the well-brought-up children of the grammar school trembled at his name. the rough lads at work in the mills on the edam water almost worshipped him; for it was known that his father gave him lessons in pugilism. he sported a meerschaum pipe; a spotted handkerchief was always knotted knowingly round his throat, and a white bull-dog, with red sidelong eyes and lips drawn up at the corners, followed close at his heel. great in edam and on all the banks of the edam water was nipper donnan, the king of the smoutchies. and it was into his hard, rough, unclean hands that our brave general napoleon had fallen. now nipper had been reared in special hatred of the smiths of windy standard. mr. picton smith it was who, long ago at edam fair, as a young man, had interfered with drover donnan, when he was just settling to "polish off" a soft, good-natured shepherd of the hills, whom he had failed to cheat out of the price of his "blackfaces." mr. picton smith it was who on the same occasion had sentenced the riotous drover to "thirty days without the option of a fine." he it was in times more recent who had been the means of getting the black bull shut up, upon the oft-repeated complaint of the chief constable. and so all this heritage of hatred was now to be worked off on the son of the gentleman by the son of the bully. of course it might just as well have been the other way about, for there is no absolute heredity in smoutchydom. the butcher might easily have been the gentleman, and the landlord's son the smoutchy bully; only to hugh john's cost, on this occasion it happened to be the other way about. the lads who followed nipper donnan were mostly humble admirers--some more cruel, some less, but sworn smoutchies to a man, and all afraid to interfere with the fierce pleasures of their chief. indeed, so absolute was captain nipper donnan, that there never was a time when some of his band did not bear the marks of his attentions. chapter xvii. before the inquisition. with this excursion into the natural history of the smoutchy boy, which perhaps ought to have come somewhat earlier in the history, we continue the tale of the adventures of general napoleon smith. beaten down by numbers, the hero lay on the ground at the corner of the butcher's parks. nipper donnan stood over him and held him down with his foot. they were just the right ages for bully and bullied. hugh john smith was twelve, slim, and straight as an arrow; nipper donnan sixteen, short, hard, and thick set, with large solid hands and prominent knuckles. "got you at last, young prig! now i'll do you to rights!" remarked nipper, genially kicking hugh john in the ribs with his hobnailed boots. hugh john said not a word, for he had fought till there was no more breath left in him anywhere. "sulky, hey?" said nipper, with another kick in a more tender spot. hugh john winced. "ah, lads, i thought that would wake the young swell up. oh, our father is the owner of this property, is he? so nice! he owns the town, does he? nasty pauper he is! too poor to keep a proper carriage, but thinks us all dirt under his feet. yaw, yaw, we aw-w so fine, we aw-w, we a-aw!" and nipper donnan imitated, amid the mean obsequious laughter of his fighting tail, the erect carriage of his father's enemy, mr. picton smith, as he was accustomed to stride somewhat haughtily down the high street of edam. then he came back and kicked hugh john again. "you wouldn't dare to do this if my father were here!" said general napoleon, now sitting up on his elbow. "_your_ father, i'll show you!" shouted furiously nipper the tyrant. "who asked you to come here anyway to meddle with us? who invited you into our parks? what business have you in our castle? fetch him along, boys; we'll show him something that neither he nor his father know anything about. they and the likes of them used to shut up people in the castle dungeons, so they say. we are just the boys to give 'em a taste of what it is like theirselves." "hooray," shouted the smoutchy fighting tail; "fetch him along, lads!" so with no gentle hands hugh john was seized and hurried away. he was touched up with ironbound clogs in the rear, his arms were pinched underneath where the skin is tender, as well as nearly dragged from their sockets. a useless red cravat was thrust into his mouth by way of a gag--useless, for the prisoner would sooner have died than have uttered one solitary cry. and all the time hugh john was saying over and over to himself the confession of his faith: "i'm glad i didn't tell--i'm glad i wasn't 'dasht-mean.' i'm a soldier. the scots greys saluted me; and these fellows _shan't_ make me cry." and they didn't. for the spirit of many generations of stalwart smiths and fighting pictons was in him, and perhaps also a spark from the ancestral anvil of the first smith had put iron into his boyish blood. so all through the scene which followed--the slow mock trial, the small ingenious tortures, pulling back middle fingers, hanging up by thumbs to a beam with his toes just touching the ground, tying a string about his head and tightening it with a twisted stick--hugh john never cried a tear, which was the bitterest drop in the cup of nipper donnan. they removed the gag in order that they might question him. "say this is not your father's castle, and we'll let you down!" cried nipper. "it _is_ my father's and nobody else's! and when it is mine, i shan't let one of you beasts come near it." the smoutchies tried another tack. "promise you won't tell on us if we let you go!" "i shan't promise; i will tell every one of your names to the policeman, and get you put in jail--so there! my father has gone to london to see the queen, and have you all put into prison--yes, and whipped with a cat-o'-nine-tails as soon as ever he comes back!" answered hugh john, shamelessly belying both his father and his own intentions. but he comforted himself and excused the lie, by saying to himself, "it is none of their business whether i tell on them or not. they shan't think that i don't tell because i am afraid of them!" and the great heart of the hero (aged twelve) stood high and unshaken. at last even nipper donnan tired of the cruel sport. it was no great fun when the victim could not be made to cry or appeal for mercy. and even the fighting tail grew vaguely restive, perhaps becoming indistinctly conscious, in spite of their blind admiration for their chief, that by comparison with the steadfast defiance and upright mien of their solitary victim, the slouching, black-pipe-smoking smoutchiness of nipper donnan did not appear the truly heroic figure. "let's put him in the dungeon, and leave him there! i can come and let him out after, and then kick the beggar home the way he came! that will learn him to let us alone for ever and ever!" the fighting tail shouted agreement, and hugh john was promptly haled to the mouth of the prison-house; a rope was rove about his waist, his hands were tied behind his back, and he was lowered down into the ancient dungeon of the castle of windy standard. this place of confinement had last been used a hundred and fifty years ago for the stragglers of the bonny prince's army after the retreat northward. the dungeon was bottle-necked above, and spread out beneath into a circular vault of thirty or forty feet in diameter. its depth was about twelve feet; and as the boys had not rope enough to lower their prisoner all the way, they had perforce to let hugh john drop, and he lighted on his feet, taking of course the rope with him. "come on, lads," cried nipper donnan, "let's go and have a smoke at the black sheds, and then go up to the market hill to see the shows. the proud swine will do well enough down there till his father comes back from london with the cat-o'-nine-tails!" he looked over the edge and spat into the dungeon. "that for you!" he cried. "will ye say now that the castle is your father's, and that we have no right here!" hugh john tried to give the required information as to ownership, but it was choked in the folds of the red cravat. nipper went on tauntingly, all unchallenged. [illustration: "'will ye say now that the castle is your father's, and that we have no right here!' said nipper donnan."] "there's ethers (adders) down there--and weasels and whopper rats that eat off your fingers and toes. yes, and my father saw a black beast like an otter, but as big as a calf, run in there out of the edam water; and they'll bite ye and stang ye and suck your blood! and we are never coming back no more, so ye'll die of starvation besides." with this pleasing speech by way of farewell and benediction, nipper donnan drew off his forces, and hugh john was left alone. chapter xviii. the castle dungeon. for some time after hugh john was thus imprisoned, he stood looking up with a face of set defiance through the narrow aperture above, where he had last seen the triumphant countenances of his foes. "who's afraid? they shan't say hugh john picton smith is afraid!" were the words in his proud and angry heart, which kept him from feeling insult and pain, kicks and buffetings. gradually, however, as the sound of retreating footsteps died away, the rigid attitude of the hero relaxed. he began to be conscious that he was all one great ache, that the ropes were drawn exceedingly tight about his wrists, that the gag in his mouth hurt his cheeks, that he was very tired--and, oh! shame for a hero of battles and martyr in secret torture-chambers, that he wanted badly to sit down and cry. "but i won't cry--even to myself!" said hugh john. yet all the same he sat mournfully down to consider his position. he did not doubt that he had been left there for altogether, and he began at once (perhaps to keep himself from crying) to argue out the chances. "first," he said, "i must wriggle my hands loose, then i can get the gag out of my mouth easy enough. after that i've got to count my stores, and see if i can find a rusty nail to write my name on the wall and the date of my captivity." (hugh john wanted to do everything decently and in order.) "then i must find a pin or a needle (a needle if possible--a pin is poisonous, and besides it is so much more easy to prick blood from your thumb with a needle), and then i have got to write an account of my sufferings on linen like the abbé, or on tablets of bread like latude. as i have no bread, except the lump that was left over at breakfast, i suppose it will need to be written on linen; but bread tablets are much the more interesting. of course i could make one or two tablets, write secret messages on them, and eat them after." general smith would have gone on to make still further arrangements for the future, but the present pain of the blood in his hands and the tightness of the rope at his wrists warned him that he had better begin the practical work of effecting his release. now general smith was not one of that somewhat numerous class of persons who take all day to do nothing, and as soon as he was convinced by indisputable logic of the wisdom of any course, he threw himself heart and soul into the accomplishment of it. on his hands and knees he went half round the circuit of the wall of his prison, but encountered nothing save the bare clammy stones--with the mortar loose and crumbly in the joints, and the moist exudations of the lime congealed into little stony blobs upon the surface which tasted brackish when he put his lips to them. so hugh john stood up and began a new search on another level. this time he did find something to the purpose. about three feet from the ground was a strong nail driven firmly into a joint of the masonry. probably it owed its position to one of the highland prisoners of the forty-five, who had used it to hang his spare clothes on, or for some other purpose. but in his heart hugh john dated it from the days of the black douglas at least. either way it proved most useful. standing with his back to the wall, the boy could just reach it with his wrists. he had long thin hands with bones which, when squeezed, seemed to have a capacity for fitting still more closely into one another. so it was not difficult for him to open the palms sufficiently to let the head of the nail in. then biting his teeth upon his lip to keep the pain at a bearable point, he bent the weight of his body this way and that upon the iron pin, so that in five or six minutes he had worked nipper donnan's inartistic knots sufficiently loose to slip over his wrists. his hands were free. [illustration: "he bent the weight of his body this way and that."] his first act was to take the red cravat out of his mouth, and the next after that to lie down with all his weight upon his hands, holding them between the floor of the dungeon and his breast, for the tingling pain of the blood returning into the fingers came nearer to making the hero cry than all that had happened that day. but he still refrained. "no, i won't, i am a napoleon--smith!" he added as an afterthought, as if in loyalty to the father, whose legal and territorial claims he had that day so manfully upheld. but suddenly what was due to his dignified position as a state prisoner occurred to him. casanova had struck at the wall till his fingers bled. latude had gnashed his teeth, howled with anguish, and gnawed the earth. "i have not done any of these things," said hugh john; "i don't like it. but i suppose i've got to try!" however, one solid rap of his knuckles upon the hard limestone of the dungeon wall persuaded him that there were things more amusing in the world than to imitate casanova in that. and as at the first gnaw his mouth encountered a tiny nettle, he leaped to his feet and declared at the pitch of his voice that both latude and casanova were certainly "dasht fools!" the sound of his own words reminded him that after all he was within a mile of home. he wondered what time it might be. he began to feel hungry, and the cubic capacity of his internal emptiness persuaded him that it must be at least quite his usual dinner-time. so hugh john decided that, all things being considered, it would be nothing against his manhood if he called for help, and took his chance of any coming. but he remembered that the mouth of the dungeon was in a very retired part of the castle, in the wing nearest to the river, and shut off from the road across the island by a flanking tower and a thirteen-foot wall. so he was not very sanguine of success. still he felt that in his perilous position he could not afford to neglect any chance, however slight. so he shouted manfully, "help! help! murder! police! fire!" as loud as he could bawl. then he tried the "coo-ee" which sergeant steel had taught him, under the impression that it would carry farther. but the keep of a fourteenth century castle and thirteen feet of shell lime and rubble masonry are proof against the most willing boyish voice in the world. so general napoleon made no more impression upon his friends than his great original would have done had he summoned the old guard from the cliffs of st. helena. but the younger warrior was not discouraged. he had tried one plan and it had failed. he sat down again to think what was the next thing to be done. he remembered the thick "hunk" of bread he had put in the pocket of his jacket in the morning. he could not eat it at breakfast, so greatly had he been excited by the impending conflict; so, to prevent waste, and to make all safe, he had put it in his pocket. besides, in the absence of his father, it was not always possible to be in for meals. and--well, one never knew what might happen. it was best to be prepared for all emergencies. with trembling hand he felt for the "hunk." alas! the jacket pocket was empty, and hung flat and limp against his side. the staff of life must have fallen out in the progress of the fray, or else one of the enemy had despoiled him of his treasure. a quick thought struck his military mind, accustomed before all else to deal with questions of commissariat. it was just possible that the bread might have fallen out of his pocket when the smoutchies were letting him down so roughly into the dungeon of the castle. he went directly underneath the aperture, from which a faint light was distributed over the uneven floor of hard trampled earth whereon a century's dry dust lay ankle deep. there--there, almost under his feet, was his piece of bread! hugh john picked it up, blew the dust carefully off, and wiped the surface with his handkerchief. it was a good solid piece of bread, and would have served cæsar the potwalloper for at least two mouthfuls. with care it might sustain life for an indefinite period--perhaps as much as twenty-four hours. so, in accordance with the best traditions, the prisoner divided his provision with his pocketknife, as accurately as possible under the circumstances. he cut it into cubes of about an inch square, exactly as if he had been going to lay down rat poison. napoleon smith was decidedly beginning to recover his spirits. for one thing, he thought how very few boys had ever had his chances. a latude of twelve was somewhat unusual in the united kingdom of great britain and ireland, and even in the adjacent islands. he began at once to write his memoirs in his head, but found that he could not get on very well, because he could not remember which one of his various great-grandmothers had danced with bonny prince charlie at edinburgh. this for a loyal prisoner was insuperable, so he gave the memoirs up. chapter xix. the drop of water. from fruitless genealogy he turned to the further consideration of his supplies. he wanted water, and in a dungeon surrounded by lime-stone walls and founded upon a rock, it seemed likely he would continue to want it. but at the farthest corner, just where the roof approached most closely to the floor, hugh john could hear a _pat_, _pat_ at regularly recurring intervals. he put his hand forward into the darkness, and immediately a large drop of water fell on the back of it. he set his tongue to it, and it tasted cool and good after the fustiness of the woollen gag. hugh john thrust forward his hand again, palm upwards this time, and was rewarded by finding that every time he counted ten slowly a large drop, like those in the van of a thunder storm, splashed into the hollow. it was tedious work, but then a dungeon is a slow place, and he had plenty of time. he crawled forward to be nearer to the source of supplies, and while trying to insinuate his head sideways underneath like a dog at a spout, to catch the drop in his mouth without the intervention of a warm hand, he felt that his knee was wet. he had inadvertently placed it in a small natural basin into which the drop had been falling for ages. hugh john set his lips to it, and never did even soda-water-and-milk, that nectar of the meagre and uncritical gods of boyhood, taste sweeter or more refreshing. after he had taken a good solid drink he cleaned the sand from the bottom carefully, and there, ready to his hand, was a stone cup hollowed out of a projecting piece of the rock on which the castle was built. this well-anchored drinking-cup was shaped like the pecten-shell of pilgrimage, and set with the broad fluted end towards him. thus fortified with meat and drink, for he had devoured the first of his rat-poison squares, or rather bolted it like a pill, general napoleon sat down to reckon up his resources. he found himself in possession of some ten feet of fairly good cord, which had evidently been used for bringing cattle to the fatal black sheds of butcher donnan. the prisoner carefully worked out all the knots, in order to get as much length as possible. he did not, indeed, see how such a thing could help him to escape, but that was not his business, for in the authorities a rope was always conveyed into the cell of the pining captive, generally in an enormous pie. hugh john felt that he was indeed a pining captive, but it was the pie and not the rope he pined for. his dungeon was downstairs, and he did not see how a rope could possibly help him to get out, unless there was somebody at the top of the bottle ready to haul him up. he tried his voice again, and made the castle ring in vain. alas! only the echoes came back, the pert jackdaws cried out insolently far above him and mocked him in a clamorous crowd from the ruined gables. then his mind went off all of itself to the pleasant dining-room of the house of windy standard, where prissy and sir toady lion would even now be sitting down to tea. he could smell the nice refreshing bouquet of the hot china pot as janet sheepshanks poured the tea into the cups in a golden brown jet, and then "doused" in the cream with a liberal hand. "i declare i could drink up the whole tea-pot full without ever stopping," said hugh john aloud, and then started at the sound of his own voice. he waited as long as possible, and then ate the second of his squares of bread. then he drank the mouthful of water which had gathered in the stone shell. while he was in there underneath the dungeon eaves, he put out his hand to feel how far off the wall was. he expected easily to reach it, but in this he failed entirely. his hand was merely stretched out into space, while the drop fell upon his head, and then upon his neck, as he leaned farther and farther over in his efforts to find a boundary wall. he had noticed from the first that the floor immediately beneath the cup was quite dry all round, but it had not occurred to him before that if the drop fell constantly and regularly the basin must overflow in some direction. hugh john was not logical. it is true that he liked finding out things by his five senses, but then that is a very different affair. sammy carter tried to argue with him sometimes, and make matters clear to him by pure reason. the first time hugh john usually told him to "shut it." the second he simply hammered the logician. finally, to solve the mystery, hugh john crawled completely over his drinking fountain and kneeled in the damp sand at the back of the basin. still he could discover no wall. next, he put his hand forward as far as it would reach out, and--he _could feel no floor_. very gingerly he put his foot over the edge, and at once found himself on the top step of a steep, narrow, and exceedingly uneven stair. the explorer's heart beat fast within him. he knew what it was now that he had found--a secret passage, perhaps ending in an enchanted cave; perhaps (who knew) in a pirate's den. he thought of nipper donnan's last words about the beast as big as a calf which his father had seen going down into the dungeon. it was a lie, of course; it must be, because nipper donnan said it; but still it was certainly very dark and dismal down there. hugh john listened with his ear pointed down the stair, and his mouth open. he certainly did hear a low, rushing, hissing sound, which might be the edam water surrounding the old tower, or--the breathing of the black beast. if hugh john had had even toady lion with him, he would have felt no fears; but to be alone in silence and darkness is fitted to shake stronger nerves than those of a twelve-year-old boy. it was getting late, as he knew by the craving ache in his stomach, and also by the gradual dusking of the hole twelve feet above his head, through whose narrow throat he had been let down in the forenoon. * * * * * now at first the smoutchy boys had not meant to leave hugh john in the dungeon all night, but only to give him a thorough fright for his hardihood in daring to attack their citadel. but nipper donnan's natural resolution was ever towards cruelty of all sorts, and it was turned to adamant upon discovering that donald, the captured hostage and original cause of conflict, had in some mysterious way escaped. this unexpected success of the attacking party he attributed, of course, to hugh john, whom, in spite of his youth, he well knew to be the leading spirit. sir toady lion was never so much as suspected--a fact which would have pleased that doughty warrior but little had he known it. in the afternoon nipper had gone to halkirk tryst to bring home two bullocks, which butcher donnan had bought there the day before; but his father becoming involved in some critical cattle-dealing transaction, for which he was unable to obtain satisfaction in cash, resolved that nipper should wait till the next day, when he hoped to be able to accompany him home in person. so engrossed was nipper with the freaks of the fair, the aunt-sallies, the shooting-galleries, and miscellaneous side-shows and ghost illusions, that he quite forgot all about our hero immured in the dungeon of the castle of windy standard. even had he remembered, he would certainly have said to himself that some of the other boys would be sure to go and let him out (for which interference with his privileges he would assuredly punch their heads to-morrow!)--and that in any case it served the beggar right. probably, however, his father (had nipper thought fit to mention the matter to him), would have taken quite a different view of the situation; for the butcher, with all his detestation of the owner of the windy standard estate, held mr. picton smith in a wholesome awe which almost amounted to reverence. so it came about that none approached the castle all that afternoon; for the boys of nipper's band were afraid to venture upon the castle island in the absence of their redoubtable chief, while the servants of windy standard house sought for the vanished in quite other directions, being led astray by the innocent assertions of toady lion, who had last seen hugh john defending himself gallantly against overwhelming numbers in the corner of the field nearest to the town, and at least half a mile as the crow flies from the castle on the island. chapter xx. the secret passage. for a full hour hugh john sat on the top step of the stairs, or went back and forward between these and the narrow circular opening so high above his head, which was now filled with a sort of ruddy haze, the sign that the sun was setting comfortably and sedately outside, behind the smooth green hills in which the cheviots broke down into the solway marshes. it was not so much that the boy dared not descend into the secret passage. rather he did not wish to confront the blankness of disappointment. the steps might lead nowhere at all. they might drop off suddenly into the depths of a well. to prove to himself that he was quite calm, and also that he was in no hurry, hugh john ate the third of his bread-squares and drank the water which had meantime collected in the stone shell. heroes always refreshed themselves thus before an adventure. "'none knoweth when our lips shall touch the blessed bread again!' this prog's too hanged dry for anything!"--that was what hugh john said, quoting (partly) from the "life and death of arthur the king." then feeling that mere poetry was off and that the time for action had definitely come, he tied to his rope a large fallen stone which lay in a corner, and crawling over the shell to the head of the steps, he threw it down. it did not go far, appearing to catch in some projection. he tried again with a like result. he pulled it up. the stone was dry. the opening was not, then, a well with water at the bottom. so hugh john cautiously put his foot upon the threshold of the secret passage, and commenced the perilous descent. he clutched the edge of the top step as he let himself down. it was cold, wet, and clammy, but the stones beneath seemed secure enough. so he continued to descend till he found himself in a narrow staircase which went down and down, gradually twisting to the left away from the light. his heart beat fast, and there was a curious heavy feeling about his nostrils, which doubtless came from the damp mists of a confined place so close to the river. the adventurous general had descended quite a long way when he came to a level stone-flagged passage. he advanced twenty yards along it, and then put out his hands. he found himself in a narrow cell, dripping with wet and ankle deep in mud. the cell was so small, that by making a couple of steps hugh john could feel it from side to side. at the farther end of it there was evidently a door or passage of some sort, but it was blocked up with fallen stones and rubbish; yet through it came the strangest muffled noises. something coughed like a man in pain. there was also a noise as of the feet of animals moving about stealthily and restlessly, and he seemed even to hear voices speaking. a wild unreasoning fear suddenly filled the boy's heart. he turned and fled, stumbling hastily up the stairs by which he had so cautiously descended. the thought of the black beast, great as a calf, of which nipper donnan had spoken, came upon him and almost mastered him. yet all the time he knew that nipper had only said it to frighten him. but it was now dark night, even in the upper dungeon. he was alone in a haunted castle, and, as the gloaming settled down, hugh john cordially agreed with sir david brewster, who is reputed to have said, "i do not believe in ghosts, but i am afraid of them." in spite of all his gallantry of the day, and the resolutions he had made that his prison record should be strictly according to rule, hugh john's sudden panic took complete hold of him. he sat down under the opening of the dungeon, and for the first time cried bitter tears, excusing himself on the ground that there was no one there to see him, and anyway he could easily leave that part out when he came to write his journal. about this time he also slipped in a surreptitious prayer. he thought that at least it could do no harm. prissy had induced him to try this method sometimes, but mostly he was afraid to let her know about it afterwards, because it made prissy so unbearably conceited. but after all this was in a dungeon, and many very respectable prisoners quite regularly said their prayers, as any one may see for themselves in the books. "you see," said hugh john, explanatorily afterwards, "it's very easy for them. they have nothing else to do. they haven't to wash, and take baths, and comb their hair, and be ordered about! it's easy to be good when you're leading a natural life." this was hugh john's prayer, and a model for any soldier's pocket-book. "our father witch-charta-nevin" (this he considered a christian name and surname, curious but quite authoritative), "help me to get out of this beastly hole. help me to lick nipper donnan till he can't stand, and bust sammy carter for running away. for we are all miserable sinners. god bless father and prissy, arthur george (i wonder where the little beast went to--guess he sneaked--just wait!), janet sheepshanks, mary jane housemaid, and everybody about the house and down at the stables, except bella murdoch, that is a clash-bag and a tell-tale-tit. and make me a good boy. for jesus' sake. aymen." that the last petition was by no means a superfluous one every reader of this history will agree. hugh john very carefully said "ay-men" now, because he had said "a-men" in the morning. he noticed that his father always said "ay-men" very solemnly at the end of a prayer, while prissy, who liked going to church even on week days (a low dodge!), insisted upon "a-men." so hugh john used "ay-men" and "a-men" time about, just to show that there was no ill-feeling. thus early in life does the leaven of gallio (who "cared for none of these things") begin to show itself. hugh john was obviously going to be a very pronounced broad churchman. the prayer did the captive general much good. he was not now nearly so much afraid of the beasts. the hole did not seem to yawn so black beneath him; and though he kept his ear on the cock for anything that might come at him up the stairs, he could with some tolerable composure sit still and wait for the morning. he decided that so soon as it was even a little light, he would try again and find out if he could not remove the rubbish from the further door. the midsummer morn was not long in coming--shorter far indeed to hugh john than to the anxious hearts that were scattered broadcast over the face of the country seeking for him. scarcely had the boy sat down to wait for the daylight when his head sank on his breast. presently he swayed gently to the side, and turning over with a contented little murmur, he curled himself up like a tired puppy and went fast asleep. when he awoke, a fresher pink radiance than that of eventide filled the aperture above his head--the glow of the wide, sweet, blushful dawn which flooded all the eastern sky outside the tall grey walls of the castle of windy standard. hugh john rose, stretched himself, yawned, and looked about him in surprise. there was no toady lion in a little white ship on four iron legs, moored safe alongside him; no open door through into prissy's room; no birch-tree outside the window, glimmering purest white and delicatest pink in the morning light--nothing, in short, that had greeted his waking eyes every morning of his life hitherto. but there were compensations. he was a prisoner. he had endured a night in a dungeon. his hair would almost certainly have turned pure white, or at least streaky. what boy of his age had ever done these things since the little dauphin, about whom he was so sorry, and over whose fate he had shed such bitter tears? had sammy carter? hugh john smiled a sarcastic and derisive smile. sammy carter indeed! he would just like to see sammy carter try it once! _he_ would have been dead by this time, if he had had to go through the tenth of what he (hugh john) had undergone. had mike or peter? they were big and strong. they smoked pipes. but they had never been tortured, never shut up in a dungeon with wild beasts in the next compartment, and no hasp on the door. the staircase--the secret passage! hugh john's heart fluttered wildly. he might even yet get back in time for breakfast. there would be porridge--and egg-and-bacon--oh! crikey, yes, and it was kidney morning. hugh john's mouth watered. there was no need of the cool fluid in the shell of limestone now! could there indeed be such dainties in the world? it did not seem possible. and yet that very morning--he meant the morning before--no, surely it must have been in some other life infinitely remote, he had grumbled because he had not had cream instead of milk to his porridge, and because the bacon was not previously crisp enough. he felt that if ever he were privileged to taste as good bacon again, he would become religious like prissy--or take some such extreme measure as that. [illustration: "over the closely packed woolly backs he saw a stretch of rippled river."] hugh john had no appetite for the "poison squares" now. he tried one, and it seemed to be composed in equal parts of sawdust and the medicament called "rough-on-rats!" he tried the water in the shell, and that was somewhat better; but just to think of tea from the urn--soft ivory cream floating on the top, curded a little but light as blown sea-foam! ah, he could wait no longer. the life of a prisoner was all very well, but he could not even get materials with which to write up his diary till he got home. for this purpose it was necessary that he should immediately make his escape. also it was kidney morning, and if he did not hurry that little wretch toady lion would have eaten up every snatch. he resolved to lose no time. so with eager steps he descended the steep wet stairs into the little stone chamber, which smelt fearfully damp and clammy, just as if all the snails in the world had been crawling there. "i bet the poor chap down here had toothache," said hugh john, shivering as he went forward to attack the pile of fallen stones in front of the arched doorway. for an hour he worked most manfully, pulling out such as he could manage to loosen, and tossing others aside. thus he gradually undercut the mass which blocked up the door, till, with a warning creak or two the whole pitched forward and inward, giving the daring pioneer just time to leap aside before it came toppling into the narrow cell, which it more than half filled. as soon as the avalanche had settled, hugh john staggered over the top of the fallen stones and broken _débris_ to the small door. as his head came on a level with the opening he saw a strange sight. he looked into a little ruined turret, the floor of which was of smoothest green sward--or, rather, which would have been of green sward had it not been thickly covered with sheep, all lying placidly shoulder to shoulder, and composedly drawing in the morning air through their nostrils as if no such word as "mutton" existed in the vocabularies of any language. beyond and over the closely packed woolly backs he saw a stretch of rippled river, faceted with diamond and ruby points, where the rising sun just touched the tips of the little chill wavelets which were fretted by the wind of morning, that gust of cooler air which the dawn pushes before it round the world. hugh john was free! chapter xxi. the return from the bastile. he stepped down easily and lightly among the sheep. they rose without surprise or disorder, still with strict attention to business continuing to munch at the grass they had plucked as they lay, for all the world as if a famous adventure-seeking general had been only the harmless but boresome shepherd who came to drive them out to pastures new. for all the surprise they showed they might have been accustomed from their fleeciest infancy to small, dirty, scratched, bruised, infinitely tattered imps of imperial descent arriving suddenly out of unexplored secret passages in ancient fortresses. the great commander's first instinct was to rush for home and so make sure that cook mary the second had done enough kidneys for breakfast. his second idea, and one more worthy of his military reputation, was carefully to conceal the entrance to the doorway, by which he had emerged from the passage he had so wonderfully discovered. no one knew how soon the knowledge might prove useful to him. as a matter of attack and defence the underground passage was certainly not to be neglected. then hugh john drove the sheep before him out of the fallen tower. as he did so one of them coughed, stretching its neck and holding its head near the ground. he now knew the origin of the sound which had--no, not frightened him (of course not!), but slightly surprised him the evening before. and, lo! there, immediately in front of him as he emerged, was the edam water, sliding and rippling on under its willows, the slim, silvery-grey leaves showing their white under-sides just as usual. there, across the river, were the cattle, standing already knee-deep in the shallows, their tails nervy and switchy on the alert for the morning's crop of flies. there was mike going to drive them in to be milked. yonder in the far distance was a black speck which must be peter polishing straps and buckles hung on a pin by the stable door. "horrid beasts every one of them!" said hugh john indignantly to himself, "going on all as comfortable as you please, just as if i had not been pining in a dungeon cell for years and years." then setting his cramped wet legs in motion, general napoleon commenced a masterly retreat in the direction of home. he dashed for the stepping-stones, but he was in too much of a hurry to make sure of hitting them. he slipped from the first and went above the knee into the clear cool edam water. after that he simply floundered through, and presently emerged dripping on the other side. along the woodland paths he scurried and scampered. he dashed across glades, scattering the rabbits and kicking up the dew in the joy of recovered freedom. he climbed a stone dyke into the home park, because he had no time to go round by the stile. he brought half of the fence down in his haste, scraping his knee as he did so. but so excited was he that he scarcely felt the additional bruise. he ran up the steps. the front door was standing wide open, with the disreputable and tell-tale air of a reveller who has been out all night in evening dress. all doors have this look which have not been decently shut and locked during the dark hours. there was no one in the hall--no one in the dining-room--no one in the schoolroom, where the children's tea of the night before had never been cleared away. hugh john noticed that his own place had been set, and the clean cup and plate and the burnished unused knife struck him as infinitely pathetic. but he was hungry, and had no time to waste on mere feelings. his inner man was too insistent. he knew well where the pantry was (trust him for that!), and he went towards it at the rate of twenty miles an hour. he wished he had remembered to add a petition to his prayer that it might be unlocked. but it was now too late for this, so he must just trust in an unjogged providence and take his chances. the gods were favourable. they had evidently agreed that for one small boy he had suffered enough for that day. the pantry was unlocked. there was a lovely beefsteak pie standing on a shelf. hugh john lifted it off, set it on the candle box, ungratefully throwing sambo soulis on the floor in order to make elbow room, and then with a knife and fork he proceeded to demolish the pie. the knife and fork he first put his hands on had obviously been used. but did general napoleon stop to go to the schoolroom for clean ones? no--several thousand times no! those who can, for a single moment, entertain such thoughts, are very far from having yet made the acquaintance of general smith. why, he did not even wait to say grace--though he usually repeated half-a-dozen the first thing in the morning, so as to have the job well over for the day. it is all right to say grace, but it is such a fag to have to remember before every meal. so hugh john went into the wholesale business. he was half through the pie before he looked about for something to drink. lemonade, if it could be found, would meet the case. hugh john felt this keenly, and, lo! the friendly fates, with a smile, had planted a whole case of it at his feet. he knocked in the patent stopper with the handle of his knife (all things must yield to military necessity), and, after the first draught, what more was there left to live for--except a second bottle and the rest of the pie? he was just doing his best to live up to the nice cool jelly, which melted in a kind of lingering chill of delight down his throat, when janet sheepshanks appeared in the doorway. wearily and disheartenedly, she had come in to prepare for a breakfast which no one in all windy standard would eat. something curious about the feeling of the house had struck her as she entered. she had gone from room to room, divided between hope and apprehension, and, lo! there before her, in her own ravished pantry, tuck-full of beefsteak pie and lemonade, sat the boy for whom they were even then dragging the deepest pools of the edam. "oh, thank the lord, laddie!" cried janet, clasping her hands in devout thankfulness, "that he hath spared ye to your widowed faither--and to me, your auld unworthy nurse!" the tears were running down her cheeks. somehow her face had quite suddenly grown grey and worn. she looked years older than she had done yesterday. hugh john paused and looked at her marvelling. he had a heavily laden fork half-way to his mouth. he wondered what all the fuss was about. "do get me some mustard, janet," he said, swinging his wet legs; "and where on earth have you put the pickles?" * * * * * in the cross-examination which naturally followed, hugh john kept his own counsel, like the prudent warrior he was. he left janet and the others to suppose that, in trying to escape from his foes, he had "fallen" into the castle dungeon, and none of the household servants knew enough of the topography of the ancient stronghold to know that, if he had done so, he would probably have broken his neck. he said nothing about nipper donnan or any of the band by name. simply and truthfully he designated them as "some bad boys," which certainly was in no way overstating the case. perhaps if his father had been at home he could not have hoodwinked his questioners so easily and completely. mr. picton smith would certainly have gone deeper into the business than janet sheepshanks, who alternately slapped and scolded, petted and spoilt our hero all day long. for some time hugh john smelt of araby the blest and spicy ind; for he had ointments and liniments, rags and plasters innumerable scattered over his person in all directions. he borrowed a cigarette (it was a very old and dry one) from the mantelpiece of his father's workroom, and retired to the shelter of the elm-tree to hold his court and take private evidence upon the events of yesterday. as he went across the yard black donald ran bleating to him, and playfully butted at his leg. hugh john stopped in astonishment. "who found him?" he asked. sir toady lion proudly stepped forward. he had a garden rake in his hand, with which the moment before he had been poking donald in the ribs, and making his life a burden to him generally. [illustration: "i create you general of the comm'sariat."] he began to speak, but hugh john stopped him. "salute, you little beast!" he said sternly. slowly toady lion's hand went up. he did not object to salute, but he had a vague sense that, as a matter of personal dignity, not even a general had a right to speak to a private thus--much less to a commissariat sergeant. however, what he had to say was so triumphant and overpowering that he waived the point and touched his forehead in due form. "_i_ did--nobody but me. i d'livered him, all by mineself. i cutted the rope and d'livered donald. yes, i did--prissy will tell 'oo. i wented into the black sheds all alone-y--and d'livered him!" his words came tumbling over each other in his haste. but he laid strong emphasis upon the word "delivered," which he had just learned from prissy. he meant to use it very often all that day, because it was a good word, and nobody knew the meaning of it except quite-grown-ups. general napoleon smith put on his most field-marshalish expression, and summoned sir toady lion to approach. he tapped him on the shoulder and said in a grand voice, "i create you general of the comm'sariat for distinguished conduct in the field. from this time forth you can keep the key of the biscuit box, but i know just how many are in. so mind out!" this was good, and toady lion was duly grateful; but he wished his good fortune put into a more concrete form. "can i have the biggest and nicerest saucer of the scrapings of the preserving-pan to-night?" hugh john considered a moment. an impulse of generosity swept over him. "yes, you can," he said nobly. then a cross wave of caution caused him to add--"that is, if it isn't rasps!" now the children of the house of windy standard were permitted to clean out the boiling-pan in the fruit-preserving season with worn horn spoons, in order not to scratch the copper or crack the enamel. and rasp was hugh john's favourite. "huh," said toady lion, turning up a contemptuous nose. "thank 'oo for nuffin! i like wasps just as much as 'oo, hugh john picton smiff!" "don't answer me back, sir!"--hugh john was using his father's words and manner. "sall if i like," said toady lion, beginning to whimper. "sall go and tell janet sheepshanks, and she'll give me yots of wasps! not scrapin's neither, but weal-weal wasps--so there!" "toady lion, i shall degrade you to the ranks. you are a little pig and a disgrace to the army." "don't care, i wants wasps--and i d'livered donald," reiterated the disgrace of the army. hugh john once more felt the difficulty of arguing with toady lion. he was altogether too young to be logical. so he said, "toady lion, you little ass, stop snivelling--and i'll give you a bone button and the half of a knife." "let's see them," said toady lion, cautiously uncovering one eye by lifting up the edge of the covering palm. his commanding officer produced the articles of peace, and toady lion examined them carefully, still with one eye. they proved satisfactory. "all yight!" said he, "i won't cry no more--but i wants three saucers full of the wasps too!" chapter xxii. mutiny in the camp. hugh john was holding his court under the weeping-elm, and was being visited in detail by his army. the carters had come over, and, after a vigorous engagement and pursuit, he had even forgiven sammy for his lack of hardihood in not resisting to the death at the great battle of the black sheds. "but it hurts so confoundedly," argued sammy; "if it didn't, i shouldn't mind getting killed a bit!" "look at me," said hugh john; "i'm all over peels and i don't complain." "oh! i dare say--it's all very well for you," retorted sammy, "you like to fight, and it was you that began the fuss, but i only fight because you'd jolly-well-hammer me if i didn't!" "course i would," agreed his officer, "don't you know that's what generals are for?" "well," concluded sammy carter, summing the matter up philosophically, "'tain't my castle anyway." * * * * * the review was over. in the safe quiet of the elm-tree shelter general napoleon might have been seen taking his well-earned repose. he was surrounded by his entire following--except, of course, the two generals of division, who were engaged in sweeping out the stable-yard. but these were considered socially supernumerary at any rate, except (a somewhat important exception) when there was fighting to be done. "i don't see that we've done so very much to make a brag about anyhow," began sammy carter. general smith dexterously caught him on the ear with a young turnip, which in company with several friends had wandered in of its own accord from the nearest field on the home farm. "i should say _you_ didn't do much!" he sneered pointedly; "you hooked it as hard as you could after the first skirmish. why, you haven't got a single sore place about you to show for it." "yes, i have!" retorted sammy in high indignation. [illustration: "sammy carter mutinous."] "well, let's see it then!" commanded his general in a kindlier tone. "can't--ladies present!" said sammy succinctly, into the retreating rear-guard of whose division the triumphant enemy had charged with the pike snatched from his sister's hands. "all _my_ wounds are in front. _i_ fought and died with my face to the foe!" said hugh john in his noblest manner. "and i d'livered donald!" contributed toady lion complacently. "oh, _that_ ain't anything," sneered sammy carter, who was not in a good humour. his tone roused general napoleon, who had the strong family feelings of all the buonapartes. "shut up, sammy, or i'll come and kick you. none of us did anything except toady lion. you ran away, and i got taken prisoner. toady lion is the only man among us!" "i runned away too--at first," confessed the candid toady lion, who felt that he had so much real credit that he did not need to take a grain more than he deserved. "but i comed back quick--and i d'livered donald out of prison, anyway--i did!" sammy carter evidently had a sharp retort ready on the tip of his tongue, but he knew well the price he would have to pay for uttering it. hugh john's eye was upon him, his right hand was closing on a bigger turnip--so sammy forbore. but he kicked his feet more discontentedly than ever into the turf. "well," he said, changing the venue of the argument, "i don't think much of your old castle anyway. my father could have twice as good a castle if he liked----" "oh, 'course he could"--hugh john's voice was distinctly ironical--"he might plant it on a peaty soil, and grow it from seed in two years; or perhaps he would like a cutting off ours!" mr. davenant carter was a distinguished agriculturist and florist. "don't you speak against my father!" cried sammy carter, glowering at general napoleon in a way in which privates do not often look at their commanders-in-chief. "who's touching your father?" the latter said, a little more soothingly. "see here, sammy, you've got your coat on wrong side out to-day. go home and sleep on it. 'tisn't my fault if you did run away, and got home before your sister--with a blue place on your back." sammy carter flung out from under the shelter of the elm and went in search of prissy, from whom in all his moods he was sure of comfort and understanding. he was a somewhat delicate boy, and generally speaking hated quarrelling as much as she did; but he had a clever tongue, which often brought him into trouble, and, like most other humorists, he did not at all relish a jest at his own expense. as he went, he was pursued and stung by the brutally unrefined taunts of hugh john. "yes, go on to prissy; i think she has a spare doll. go and play at 'house'! it's all you're good for!" thus encouraged by their general, the rest of the company--that is, cissy and sir toady lion, joined in singing a certain stirring and irritating refrain popular among the youth of bordershire. "_lassie-boy, lassie-boy, fie for shame! coward's your nature, and jennie's your name!_" sammy carter stood poised for flight with his eyes blazing with anger. "you think a lot of your old tumble-down castle; but the town boys have got it in spite of you; and what's more, they've a flag flying on it with 'down with smith!' on it. i saw it. hooray for the town boys!" and with this parthian arrow he disappeared at full speed down the avenue. for a moment hugh john was paralysed. he tried to pooh-pooh the matter, but he could not but admit that it might very well be true; so he instantly despatched toady lion for prissy, who, as we know, was the fleetest runner of them all. upon her reporting for duty, the general sent her to bring back word if the state of affairs was as reported. it was. a large red flag was flying, with the inscription in white upon it, "down with smith!" while above the inscription there was what looked like a rude attempt at a death's head and crossbones. hugh john knew this ensign in a moment. once upon a time, in his wild youth, he had served under it as a pirate on the high seas; but of this he now uttered no word. * * * * * it was in such moments that the true qualities of the born leader came out in general napoleon smith. instantly he dismissed his attendants, put his finger to his forehead, and sat down to draw a map of the campaign in the genuine napoleonic manner. at last, after quite a while, he rapped upon the table. "i have it," he cried, "we must find an ally." the problem was solved. chapter xxiii. cissy carter, boys' girl. now prissy smith was a girls' girl, while cissy carter was a boys' girl. that was mainly the difference between them. not that prissy did not love boys' play upon occasion, for which indeed her fleetness of foot particularly fitted her. also if hugh john teased her she never cried nor told on him, but waited till he was looking the other way and then gave him something for himself on the ear. but on the whole she was a girls' girl, and her idea of the way to fight was slapping her dolls when they were naughty. now, mr. picton smith said that most religion was summed up in two maxims, "don't tell lies," and "don't tell tales." to these hugh john added a third, at least equal in canonicity, "don't be dasht-mean." in these you have briefly comprehended all the law and the prophets of the house of windy standard. cissy carter, however, was a tom-boy: you could not get over that. there was no other word for her. she never played with girls if she could better herself. she despised dolls; she hated botany and the piano. her governess had a hard but lively time of it, and had it not been for her brother sammy coaching her in short cuts to knowledge, she would have been left far behind in the exact sciences of spelling and the multiplication-table. as it was, between a tendency to scramble for scraps of information and the run of a pretty wide library, cissy knew more than any one gave her credit for. on one memorable occasion it was cissy's duty to take her grandmother for a walk. now the dowager mrs. davenant carter was the dearest and most fairy-like old lady in the world, and cissy was very proud to walk into edam with her. for her grandmother had not forgotten how good confections tasted to girls of thirteen, and there was quite a nice shop in the high street. their rose-drops especially were almost as good as doing-what-you-were-told-not-to, and their peppermints for use in church had quite the force of a religious observance. but mrs. davenant carter had a weak eye, and whenever she went out, she put a large green shade over it. so one day it happened that cissy was walking abroad with her grandmother, with a vision of rose-drop-shop in the offing. as they were passing one of the villas nearest to their house, a certain rude boy, wedgwood baker the name of him, seeing the lame old lady tripping by on her stick like a fairy godmother, called out loudly "go it, old blind patch!" he was sorry the minute after, for in one moment cissy carter had pulled off her white thread gloves, climbed the fence, and had landed what hugh john would have called "one, two, three--and a tiger" upon the person of master wedgwood baker. i do not say that all cissy carter's blows were strictly according to queensberry rules. but at any rate the ungallant youth was promptly doubled up, and retreated yelling into the house, as it were falling back upon his reserves. that same evening the card of mrs. baker, laurel villa, edam, was brought to the diningtable of mrs. davenant carter. "the lady declines to come in, m'am. she says she must see you immediately at the door," said the scandalised housemaid. cissy's mother went into the hall with the card in her hand, and a look of gentle surprised inquiry on her face. there, on the doorstep was mrs. baker, with a young and hopeful but sadly damaged wedgwood tagging behind her, like a weak-minded punt in tow of an ancient threedecker. [illustration: "'look at him, madam,' said mrs. baker."] the injured lady began at once a voluble complaint. "look at him, madam. that is the handiwork of your daughter. the poor boy was quietly digging in the garden, cultivating a few unpretending flowers, when your daughter, madam, suddenly flew at him over the railings and struck him on the face so furiously that, if i had not come to the rescue, the dear boy might have lost the use of both his eyes. but most happily i heard the disturbance and went out and stopped her." "dear me, this is _very_ sad," faltered little mrs. carter; "i'm sure i don't know what can have come over cissy. are you sure there is no mistake?" "mistake! no, indeed, madam, there is no mistake, i saw her with my own eyes--a great girl twice wedgwood's size." at this point mr. davenant carter came to the door with his table-napkin in his hand. "what's this--what's this?" he demanded in his quick way--"cissy and your son been fighting?" "no indeed, sir," said the complainant indignantly; "this dear boy never so much as lifted a hand to her. ah, here she comes--the very--ahem, young lady herself." all ignorant of the trouble in store for her, cissy came whistling through the laurels with half-a-dozen dogs at her heels. at sight of her mrs. baker bridled and perked her chin with indignation till all her black bugles clashed and twinkled. "come here, cissy," said her father sternly. "did you strike this boy to-day in front of his mother's gate?" "yes, i did," quoth the undaunted cissy, "and what's more, i'll do it again, and give him twice as much, if he ever dares to call _my_ grandmother 'old blind patch' again--i don't care if he is two years and three months older than me!" "did you call names at my mother?" demanded cissy's father, towering up very big, and looking remarkably stern. master wedgwood had no denial ready; but he had his best boots on and he looked very hard at them. "come, wedgwood dear, tell them that you did not call names. you know you could not!" "i never called nobody names. it was her that hit me!" snivelled wedgwood. "now, you hear," said his mother, as if that settled the question. "oh, you little liar! wait till i catch you out!" said cissy, going a step nearer as if she would like to begin again. "i'll teach you to tell lies on me." mrs. baker of laurel villa held up her hands so that the lace mitts came together like the fingers of a figure of grief upon a tomb. "what a dreadful girl!" she said, looking up as if to ask heaven to support her. mr. davenant carter remembered his position as a county magistrate. also he desired to stand well with all his neighbours. "madam," he said to mrs. baker, in the impressive tone in which he addressed public meetings, "i regret exceedingly that you should have been put to this trouble. i think that for the future you will have no reason to complain of my daughter. will you allow me to conduct you across the policies by the shorter way? cissy, go to bed _at once_, and stop there till i bid you get up! that will teach you to take the law into you own hands when your father is a justice of the peace!" this he said in such a stern voice that mrs. baker was much flattered and quite appeased. he walked with the lady to the small gate in the boundary wall, opened it with his private key, and last of all shook hands with his visitor with the most distinguished courtesy. some day he meant to stand for the burgh and her brothers were well-to-do grocers in the town. "sir," she said in parting, "i hope you will not be too severe with the young lady. perhaps after all she was only a trifle impulsive!" "discipline must be maintained," said mr. davenant carter sternly, closing, however, at the same time the eyelid most remote from mrs. baker of laurel villa. "it shows what a humbug pa is," muttered cissy, as she went upstairs; "he knows very well it is bed-time anyway. i don't believe he is angry one bit!" when her father came in, he looked over at his wife. i am afraid he deliberately winked, though in the interests of morality i trust i may be mistaken. for how could a justice of the peace and a future member of parliament demean himself to wink? "jane," he said to mrs. carter, "what does cissy like most of all for supper?" "a little bit of chicken and bread-sauce done with broiled bacon--at least i think so, dear--why do you ask?" he called the tablemaid. "walbridge," he said sternly, "take that disgraceful girl up the breast and both wings of a chicken, also three nice pieces of crisp bacon, four new potatoes with butter-sauce, some raspberrytart with thick cream and plenty of sugar--and a whole bottle of zoedone. but mind you, _nothing else_, as you value your place--not another bite for such a bold bad girl. this will teach her to go about the country thrashing boys two years older than herself!" he looked over across the table at his son. "let this be a lesson to you, sir," he said, frowning sternly at him. "yes, sir," said sammy meekly, winking in his turn very confidentially at a fly which was having a free wash and brush-up on the edge of the fingerbowl, after completing the round of the dishes on the dinner table. chapter xxiv. charity begins at home--and ends there. now all this has nothing to do with the story, except to show what sort of a girl cissy carter was, and how she differed from prissy smith--who in these circumstances would certainly have gone home and prayed that god would in time make wedgwood baker a better boy, instead of tackling missionary work on the spot with her knuckles as cissy carter did. it was several days later, and the flag of the smoutchy boys still flew defiantly over the battlements of the castle. the great general was growing discouraged, for in little more than a week his father might return from london, and would doubtless take up the matter himself. then, with the coming of policemen and the putting up of fences and notice-boards, all romance would be gone forever. besides which, most of the town boys would have to go back to school, and the carters' governess and their own would be returning to annoy them with lessons, and still more uncalled for aggravations as to manners. cissy carter had given sammy the slip, and started to come over by herself to windy standard. it was the afternoon, and she came past the gipsy encampment which mr. picton smith had found on some unenclosed land on the other side of the edam water, and which, spite of the remonstrances of his brother-landlords, he had permitted to remain there. the permanent ishmaelitish establishment consisted of about a dozen small huts, some entirely constructed of rough stone, others of turf with only a stone interposed here and there; but all had mud chimneys, rough doorways, and windows glazed with the most extraordinary collection of old glass, rags, wisps of straw, and oiled cloth. dogs barked hoarsely and shrilly according to their kind, ragged clothes fluttered on extemporised lines, or made a parti-coloured patch-work on the grass and on the gorse bushes which grew all along the bank. there were also a score of tents and caravans dotted here and there about the rough ground. half-a-dozen swarthy lads rose silently and stared after cissy as she passed. a tall limber youth sitting on a heap of stones examining a dog's back, looked up and scowled as she came by. cissy saw an unhealed wound and stopped. "let me look at him," she said, reaching out her hand for the white fox-terrier. "watch out, miss," said the lad, "he's nasty with the sore. he'll bite quick as mustard!" "he won't bite me," said cissy, taking up the dog calmly, which after a doubtful sniff submitted to be handled without a murmur. "this should be thoroughly washed, and have some boracic ointment put on it at once," said cissy, with the quick emphasis of an expert. "ain't got none o' the stuff," said the youth sullenly, "nor can't afford to buy it. besides, who's to wash him first off, and him in a temper like that?" "come over with me to oaklands and i'll get you some ointment. i'll wash him myself in a minute." the boy whistled. "that's a good 'un," he said, "likely thing me to go to oaklands!" "and why?" said cissy; "it's my father's place. i've just come from there." "then your father's a beak, and i ain't going a foot--not if i know it," said the lad. "a what--oh! you mean a magistrate--so he is. well, then, if you feel like that about it i'll run over by myself, and sneak some ointment from the stables." and with a careless wave of the hand, a pat on the head and a "poo' fellow then" to the white fox-terrier, she was off. the youth cast his voice over his shoulders to a dozen companions who were hiding in the broom behind. his face and tone were both full of surprise and admiration. [illustration: "'let me look at him,' she said."] "say, chaps, did you hear her? she said she'd 'sneak' the ointment from the stables. i tell 'ee what, she'll be a rare good plucked one that. and her a beak's daughter! her mother mun ha' been a piece!" it was half-an-hour before cissy got back with the pot of boracic dressing and some lint. "i had to wait till the coachman had gone to his tea," she explained, "and then send the stable boy with a message to the village to get him out of the way." the youth on the stone heap secretly signalled his delight to the appreciative audience hiding in the broom bushes. then cissy ordered him to get her some warm water, which he brought from one of the kettles swinging on the birchen tripods scattered here and there about the encampment. whereupon, taking the fox-terrier firmly on her knee and turning up the skirt of her dress, she washed away all the dirt and matted hair, cleansing the wound thoroughly. the poor beast only made a faint whining sound at intervals. then she applied the antiseptic dressing, and bound the lint tightly down with a cincture about the animal. she fitted his neck with a neat collar of her own invention, made out of the wicker covering of a chianti wine flask which she brought with her from oaklands. "there," she said, "that will keep him from biting at it, and you must see that he doesn't scratch off the bandage. i'll be passing to-morrow and will drop in. here's the pot of ointment. put some more on in the morning and some again at night, and he will be all right in a day or two." "thank'ee, miss," said the lad, touching his cap with the natural courtesy which is inherent in the best blood of his race. "i don't mean to forget, you be sure." cissy waved her hand to him gaily, as she went off towards windy standard. then all at once she stopped. "by the way, what is your name? whom shall i ask for if you are not about to-morrow?" "billy blythe," he said, after a moment's pause to consider whether the daughter of a magistrate was to be trusted; "but i'll be here to-morrow right enough!" "why did you tell the beak's daughter your name, bill, you blooming johnny?" asked a companion. "you'll get thirty days for that sure!" "shut up, fish lee," said the owner of the dog; "the girl is main right. d'ye think she'd ha' said 'sneaked' if she wasn't. g'way, bacon-chump!" cissy carter took the road to windy standard with a good conscience. she was not troubled about the "sneaking," though she hoped that the coachman would not miss that pot of ointment. at the foot of the avenue, just where it joined the dusty road to the town of edam, she met sir toady lion. he had his arms full of valuable sparkling jewellery, or what in the distance looked like it as the sun shone upon some winking yellow metal. toady lion began talking twenty to the dozen as soon as ever he came within cissy's range. "oo!" he cried, "what 'oo fink? father sented us each a great big half-crown from london--all to spend. and we have spended it." "well," said cissy genially, "and what did you buy?" "us all wented down to edam and boughted--oh! yots of fings." "show me what you've bought, toady lion! i want to see! how much money had you, did you say?" toady lion sat plump down in the thickest dust of the road, as he always did just wherever he happened to be at the time. if there chanced to be a pool there or a flower-bed--why, so much the worse. but whenever toady lion wanted to sit down, he sat down. here, however, there was only the dry dust of the road and a brown smatter of last year's leaves. the gallant knight was in a meditative mood and inclined to moralise. "money," said toady lion thoughtfully, "well, dere's the money that you get gived you, and wot janet sez you muss put in your money-box. that's no good! money-box locked! janet keeps money-box. 'get money when you are big,' she sez--rubbage, i fink--shan't want it then--lots and lots in trowsies' pocket then, gold sixpences and fings." toady lion's eyes were dreamy and glorious, as if the angels were whispering to him, and he saw unspeakable things, "then there's miss'nary money in a round box wif a slit on the top. that's lots better! sits on mantlepiece in dining-room. can get it out wif slimmy-jimmy knife when nobody's looking. hugh john showed me how. prissy says boys who grab miss'nary's pennies won't not go to heaven, but hugh john, he says--yes. 'cause why miss'nary's money is for bad wicked people to make them good. then if it is wicked to take miss'nary money, the money muss be meaned for us--to do good to me and hugh john. hugh john finks so. me too!" toady lion spoke in short sentences with pauses between, cissy meantime nodding appreciation. "yes, i know," she said meditatively, "a thinbladed kitchen knife is best." but sir toady lion had started out on the track of right and wrong, and was intent on running them down with his usual slow persistence. "and then the miss'nary money is weally-weally our money, 'cause janet _makes_ us put it in. onst hugh john tried metal buttons off of his old serge trowsies. but janet she found out. and he got smacked. an' nen, us only takes a penny out when us is _tony-bloke_!" "is which? oh, stone-broke," laughed cissy carter, sitting down beside toady lion; "who taught you to say that word?" "hugh john," said the small boy wistfully; "him and me tony-bloke all-ee-time, all-ee-ways, all-ee-while!" "does prissy have any of--the missionary money?" said cissy; "i should!" "no," said toady lion sadly; "don't you know? our prissy's awful good, juss howwid! she likes goin' to church, an' washing, an' having to wear gloves. girls is awful funny." "they are," said cissy carter promptly. the funniness of her sex had often troubled her. "but tell me, toady lion," she went on, "does hugh john like going to church, and being washed, and things?" "who? hugh john--him?" said toady lion, with slow contempt. "'course he don't. why, he's a boy. and once he told mr. burnham so--he did." mr. burnham was the clergyman of both families. he had recently come to the place, was a well-set up bachelor, and represented a communion which was not by any means the dominant one in bordershire. "yes, indeedy. it was under the elm. us was having tea. an' mist'r burnham, he was having tea. and father and prissy. and, oh! such a lot of peoples. and he sez, mist'r burnham sez to hugh john, 'you are good little boy. i saw you in church on sunday. do you like to go to church?' he spoke like this-a-way, juss like i'm tellin' oo, down here under his silk waistcoat--kind of growly, but nice." "hugh john say that he liked to go to church--'cos father was there listenin', you see. then mist'r burnham ask hugh john why he like to go to church, and of course, he say wight out that it was to look at sergeant steel's wed coat. an' nen everybody laugh--i don't know why. but mist'r burnham he laughed most." cissy also failed to understand why everybody should have laughed. toady lion took up the burden of his tale. "yes, indeedy, and one sunday _i_ didn't have to go to church--'cos i'd yet up such a yot of gween gooseb----" "all right, toady lion, i know!" interrupted cissy quickly. "of gween gooseberries," persisted toady lion calmly; "so i had got my tummy on in front. it hurted like--well, like when you get sand down 'oo trowsies. did 'oo ever get sand in 'oo trowsies, cissy?" "hush--of course not!" said cissy carter; "girls don't have trowsers--they have----" but any injudicious revelations on cissy's part were stopped by toady lion, who said, "no, should juss fink not. girls is too great softs to have trowsies. "onst though on the sands at a seaside, when i was '_kye-kying_' out loud an' kickin' fings, 'cos i was not naughty but only fractious, dere was a lady wat said 'be dood, little boy, why can't you be dood?' "an' nen i says, 'how can i be dood? could 'oo be dood wif all that sand in 'oo trowsies?' "an' nen--the lady she wented away quick, so quick--i can't tell why. p'raps _she_ had sand in her trowsies! does 'oo fink so, cissy?" "that'll do--i quite understand," said cissy carter, somewhat hastily, in dread of toady lion's well-known license of speech. "an' nen 'nother day after we comed home i went into the park and clum up a nice tree. an' it was ever so gween and scratchy. 'an it was nice. nen father he came walking his horse slow up the road, n' i hid. but father he seen me. and he say, 'what you doing there, little boy? you break you neck. nen i whip you. come down, you waskal!' he said it big--down here, (toady lion illustrated with his hand the place from which he supposed his father's voice to proceed). an' it made me feel all queer an' trimbly, like our guinea pig's nose when father speak like that. an' i says to him, 'course, father, you never clumb up no trees on sundays when _you_ was little boy!' an' nen he didn't speak no more down here that trimbly way, but laughed, and pulled me down, and roded me home in front of him, and gived me big hunk of pie--yes, indeedy!" toady lion felt that now he had talked quite enough, and began to arrange his brass cannons on the dust, in a plan of attack which beleaguered cissy carter's foot and turned her flank to the left. "where did you get all those nice new cannons? you haven't told me yet," she said. "boughted them!" answered toady lion promptly, "least i boughted some, and hugh john boughted some, an' prissy she boughted some." "and how do you come to have them all?" asked cissy, watching the imposing array. as usual it was the battle of bannockburn and the english were getting it hot. "well," said toady lion thoughtfully, "'twas this way. 'oo sees prissy had half-a-crown, an' she boughted a silly book all about a 'lamplighter' for herself--an' two brass cannons--one for hugh john an' one for me. and hugh john he had half-a-crown, an' he boughted three brass cannon, two for himself and one for me." "and what did you buy with your half-crown?" said cissy, bending her brows sweetly upon the small gunner. "wif my half-a-crown? oh, i just boughted three brass cannons--_dey was all for mine-self_!" "toady lion," cried cissy indignantly, "you are a selfish little pig! i shan't stop with you any more." "little pigs is nice," said toady lion, unmoved, arranging his cannon all over again on a new plan after the removal of cissy's foot; "their noses----" "don't speak to me about their noses, you selfish little boy! blow your own nose." "no use," said toady lion philosophically; "won't stay blowed. 'tis too duicy!" cissy set off in disgust towards the house of windy standard, leaving toady lion calmly playing with his six cannon all alone in the white dust of the king's highway. chapter xxv. love's (very) young dream. cissy found our hero in a sad state of depression. prissy had gone off to evening service, and had promised to introduce a special petition that he might beat the smoutchy boys; but gen'l smith shook his head. "with prissy you can't never tell. like as not she may go and pray that nipper donnan may get converted, or die and go to heaven, or something like that. she'd do it like winking, without a thought for how i should feel! that's the sort of girl our priss is!" "oh, surely not so bad as that," said cissy, very properly scandalised. "she would, indeed," said hugh john, nodding his head vehemently; "she's good no end, our prissy is. and never shirks prayers, nor forgets altogether, nor even says them in bed. i believe she'd get up on a frosty night and say them without a fire--she would, i'm telling you. and she doats on these nasty smoutchies. she'd just love to have been tortured. she'd have regularly spread herself on forgiving them too, our priss would." "i wouldn't have forgived them," cried the piping voice of toady lion, suddenly appearing through the shrubbery (his own more excellent form was "scrubbery"), with his arms full of the new brass cannons; "i wouldn't have forgived them a bit. i'd have cutted off all their heads." "go 'way, little pig!" cried cissy indignantly. "toady lion isn't a little pig," said hugh john, with dignity; "he is my brother." "but he kept all the cannons to himself," remonstrated cissy. "'course he did; why shouldn't he? he's only a little boy, and can't grow good all at once," said hugh john, with more christian charity than might have been expected of him. "you've been growing good yourself," said cissy, thrusting out her upper lip with an expression of bitter reproach and disappointment; "i'd better go home." "i'll hit you if you say that, cissy," cried hugh john, "but anyway you shan't call toady lion a little pig." "i like being little pig," said toady lion impassively; "little piggie goes '_grunt-grunt!_'" and he illustrated the peculiarities of piglings by pulling the air up through his nostrils in various keys. "little pigs is nice," he repeated at the end of this performance. cissy was very angry. things appeared to be particularly horrid that afternoon. she had started out to help everybody, and had only managed to quarrel with them. even her own familiar hugh john had lifted up his heel against her. it was the last straw. but she was resolved to not give in now. "good little boy"--she said tauntingly--"it is such a mother's pet! it will be good then, and go and ask nipper's pardon, and send back donald to make nice mutton pies; it shall then----!" hugh john made a rush at this point. there was a wild scurry of flight, and the gravel flew every way. cissy was captured behind the stable, and hugh john was about to administer punishment. his hand was doubled. it was drawn back. "yes," cried cissy, "hit a girl! any boy can beat you. but you can hit a girl! hit hard, brave soldier!" hugh john's hand dropped as if struck by lightning. "i never did!" he said; "i fought ten of them at once and never even cried when they--when they----" and the erstwhile dauntless warrior showed unmistakable signs of being perilously near a descent into the vale of tears. "when they what?" queried cissy softly, suddenly beginning to be sorry. "well, when they tortured me," said hugh john. [illustration: "'hit hard, brave soldier.'"] cissy went up suddenly and kissed him. it was only a peck which reached land at the top corner of his ear; but it made hugh john crimson hotly, and fend cissy off with his elbow as if she had been a big boy about to strike. "there, now," she said, "i've done it. i promised i would, and what's more, i'll say it out loud--'i love you!' there! and if you don't mind and behave, i'll tell people. i will, now then. but all the same, i'm sorry i was a beast to you." "well, don't do it again," said hugh john, somewhat mollified, slightly dropping the point of his defensive elbow. "anybody might have seen you, and then what would they think?" "all right," said cissy soothingly, "i won't any more." "say 'hope-you-may-die!'" cissy promptly hoped she might come to an early grave in the event of again betraying, even in private, the exuberance of her young affection. "now, hugh john," said cissy, when peace had been restored in this manner, and they were wandering amicably across the back meadow where they could not be seen from the house windows, taking alternate sucks at a stick of brown toffee with crumbs stuck firmly on it, the property of cissy, "i've something to tell you. i've found the allies for you; and we can whop the smoutchies and take the castle now--any time." the eyes of general napoleon smith glistened. "if that's true," he said, "you can kiss me again--no, not now," he added hastily, moving off a little, "but after, when it's all over, you know. there's a good place behind the barn. you can do it there if you like." "will _you_ say 'i love you, cissy'?" but this was more than hugh john had bargained for. he asked time for consideration. "it won't be till the smoutchy boys are beaten and the castle ours for good," pleaded cissy. hugh john felt that it was a great price to pay, but after all he did want dreadfully to beat the smoutchy boys. "well, i'll try," he said, "but you must say, 'hope-you'll-die and double-die,' if you ever tell!" again cissy took the required oath. "well?" said he expectantly, his mind altogether on the campaign. cissy told him all about the gipsy encampment and the history of the meeting with billy blythe. hugh john nodded. of course he knew all about that, but would they join? were they not rather on the side of the smoutchies? they looked as if they would be. "oh, you can't never tell a bit beforehand," said cissy eagerly. "they just hate the town boys; and bill blythe says that nipper donnan's father said, that when the town got the castle they would soon clear the gipsies off your common--for that goes with the castle." hugh john nodded again more thoughtfully. there was certainly something in that. he had heard his father say as much to his lawyer when he himself was curled up on the sofa, pretending to read froissart's "chronicles," but really listening as hard as ever he could. "you are a brick," he cried, "you are indeed, cissy. come on, let's go at once and see billy blythe." and he took her hand. she held back a moment. they were safe behind the great ivy bush at the back of the stables. "couldn't you say it now?" she whispered, with a soft light in her eyes; "i wish you could. try." hugh john's face darkened. he unshipped his elbow from his side to be ready for action. "well, i won't ask you till after," she said regretfully. "'tain't fair, i know; but--" she looked at him again yet more wistfully, still holding him by the hand which had last passed over the mutual joint-stock candy-stick; "don't you think you could do the other--just once?" "what other?" grumbled hugh john, sulking. he felt that cissy was taking an unfair advantage. "oh, _you_ know," said cissy, "what i did to you a little while ago." "'twasn't to be till after," urged our hero, half relenting. like a woman, cissy was quick to see her advantage. "just a little one to be going on with?" she pleaded. hugh john sighed. girls were incomprehensible. prissy liked church and being washed. cissy, of whom he had more hopes, liked kissing. "well," he said, "goodness knows why you like it. i'm sure i don't and never shall. but--" he ran to the corner and looked round into the stable-yard. all was quiet along the potomac. he walked more sternly to the other corner, and glanced into the orchard. peace reigned among the apple-trees. he came slowly and dejectedly back. in the inmost corner of the angle of the stable, and behind the thickest of the ivy bush, he straightened himself up and compressed his lips, as he had done when the smoutchies were tying him up by the thumbs. he felt however that to beat nipper donnan he was ready to undergo anything--even this. no sacrifice was too great. "all right," he said. "come on, cissy, and get it over--only don't be too long." cissy was thirteen, and tall for her age, but though fully a year younger, hugh john was tall also, so that when she came joyously forward and put her hands on his shoulders, their eyes were exactly on a level. "you needn't go shutting your eyes and holding your breath, as if it were medicine. 'tisn't so very horrid," said cissy, with her hands still on his shoulder. "go on!" said hugh john in a muffled voice, nerving himself for the coming crisis. cissy's lips just touched his, rested a moment, and were gone. hugh john let out his breath with a sigh of relief like an explosion; then he stepped back, and promptly wiped off love's gage with the sleeve of his coat. "hold on," cried cissy; "that isn't fair. you know it ain't!" hugh john knew it and submitted. cissy swept the tumbled hair from about her eyes. she had a very red spot on either cheek; but she had made up her mind, and was going through with it properly now. [illustration: "'wasn't it splendid?'"] "oh, i don't mind," she said; "i can easily do it over again--for keeps this time, mind!" then she kissed him once, twice, and three times. it was nicer than kissing janet sheepshanks, he thought; and as for prissy--well, that was different too. a little hammer thumped in his heart, and made it go "jumpetty-jump," as if it were lame, or out of breath, or had one leg shorter than the other. after all ciss was the nicest girl there was, if she did behave stupidly and tiresomely about this. "just once?" he would do it after all. it wasn't much to do--to give cissy such a treat. so he put his arms about her neck underneath her curls, pulled her close up to him, and kissed her. it felt funny, but rather nice. he did not remember doing that to any one since he was a little boy, and his mother used to come and say "good-night" to him. then he opened his arms and pushed cissy away. they walked out through the orchard yards apart, as if they had just been introduced. cissy's eyes were full of the happiness of love's achievement. as for hugh john, he was crimson to the neck and felt infinitely degraded in his own estimation. they came to the orchard wall, where there was a stile which led in the direction of oaklands. cissy ran up the rude steps, but paused on the top instead of going over. hugh john was looking the other way. somehow, do what he would, his eyes could not be brought to meet hers. "are you not coming?" she said coaxingly. "no," he answered, gruffly enough; "to-morrow will do for billy." "good-night," she said softly. her voice was almost a whisper. hugh john grunted inarticulately. "look here!" she said, bending down till her eyes were on a level with his chin. he could not help glancing up once. there was a mischievous smile in them. it had never struck him before that cissy was very pretty. but somehow now he was glad that she was. prissy was nice-looking too--but, oh! quiet different. he continued to look at cissy carter standing with the stile between them. "wasn't it splendid!" she said, still keeping her shining eyes on his. "oh, middling," said hugh john, and turning on his heel he went into the stable without even saying "good-bye." cissy watched him with a happy smile on her face. love was her fetish--her sambo soulis--and she had worshipped long in secret. till now she had let the worm concealment prey upon her cheek. true, it had not as yet affected her appetite nor kept her a moment awake. but now all was different. her heart sang, and the strangest thing was that all the landscape, the fields and woods, and everything seemed to be somehow painted in brighter colours. in fact, they looked just as they do when you bend down and look at them through between your legs. you know the way. chapter xxvi. an imperial birthday. the next day was general napoleon smith's birthday. outwardly it looked much like other days. there were not, as there ought to have been, great, golden imperial capital n's all over the sky. nature indeed was more than usually calm; but, to strike a balance, there was excitement enough and to spare in and about the house of windy standard. very early, when it was not yet properly light, but only sort of misty white along the wet grass and streaky combed-out grey up above in the sky, prissy waked sir toady lion, who promptly rolled over to the back of his cot, and stuck his funny head right down between the wall and the edge of the wire mattress, so that only his legs and square sturdy back could be seen. toady lion always preferred to sleep in the most curious positions. in winter he usually turned right round in bed till his head was far under the bed-clothes, and his fat, twinkly, pink toes reposed peacefully on the pillow. nothing ever mattered to toady lion. he could breathe through his feet just as well as through his mouth, and (as we have seen) much better than through his nose. the attention of professors of physiology is called to this fact, which can be established upon the amplest evidence and the most unimpeachable testimony. in summer he generally rolled out of bed during the first half hour, and slept comfortably all the rest of the night on the floor. "get up, toady lion," said his sister softly, so as not to waken hugh john; "it is the birthday." "ow don' care!" grumbled toady lion, turning over and over three or four times very fast till he had all the bed-clothes wrapped about him like a cocoon; "don' care wat it is. i'se goin' to sleep some more. don't go 'prog' me like that!" "come," said prissy gently, to tempt him; "we are going to give hugh john a surprise, and sing a lovely hymn at his door. you can have my ivory prayer-book----" "for keeps?" asked toady lion, opening his eyes with his first gleam of interest. "oh, no, you know that was mother's, and father gave it to me to take care of. but you shall have it to hold in your hand while we are singing." "well, then, can i have the picture of the anzel michael castin' out the baddy-baddy anzels and hittin' the bad black man o-such-a-whack on the head?" prissy considered. the print was particularly dear to her heart, and she had spent a happy wet saturday colouring it. but she did want to make the birthday hymn a success, and toady lion had undeniably a fine voice when he liked to use it--which was not often. "all right," she said, "you can have my 'michael and the bad angels,' but you are not to spoil it." "shan't play then," grumbled toady lion, who knew well the strength of his position, and was as troublesome as a _prima donna_ when she knows her manager cannot do without her--"shan't sing, not unless 'michael and the bad angels' is mine to spoil if i like." "but you won't--will you, dear toady lion?" pleaded prissy. "you'll keep it so nice and careful, and then next saturday, when i have my week's money and you are poor, i'll buy it off you again." "shan't promise," said the obstinate brat--as janet, happily inspired, had once called him after being worsted in an argument, "p'rhaps yes, and p'rhaps no." "come on then, toady lion," whispered prissy, giving him a hand and deciding to trust to luck for the preservation of her precious print. toady lion was often much better than his word, and she knew from experience that by saturday his financial embarrassments would certainly be such that no reasonable offer was likely to be refused. toady lion rose, and taking his sister's hand they went into her room, carefully shutting the door after them. here prissy proceeded to equip toady lion in one of her own "nighties," very much against that chorister's will. "you see, pink flannel pyjams are not proper to sing in church in," she whispered: "now--you must hold your hymn-book so, and look up at the roof when you sing--like the 'child samuel' on the nursery wall." "mine eyes don't goggle like his," said toady lion, who felt that nature had not designed him for the part, and who was sleepy and cross anyway. birthdays were no good--except his own. it happened that janet sheepshanks was going downstairs early to set the maids to their morning work, and this is what she saw. at the closed door of hugh john's chamber stood two quaint little figures, clad in lawny white, one tall and slim, the other short and chubby as a painted cherub on a ceiling. they had each white hymn-books reverently placed between their hands. their eyes were raised heavenwards and their lips were red and parted with excitement. the stern scotswoman felt something suddenly strike her heart. "eh, sir," she said, telling the tale afterwards, "the lassie priscilla was sae like her mither, my puir bairn that is noo singing psalms wi' the angels o' god, that i declare, my verra heart stood still, for i thocht that she had come back for yin o' the bairns. and, oh! i couldna pairt wi' ony o' them noo. it wad fairly break my heart. and there the twa young things stood at the door, but when they began to sing, i declare i juist slippit awa' doon to the closet and grat on the tap o' a cask o' paraffeen!" and this is what janet sheepshanks heard them sing. it was not perhaps very appropriate, but it was one of the only two hymns of which toady lion knew the words; and i think even mr. charles wesley, who wrote it, would not have objected if he had seen the angelic devotion on prissy's face or the fraudulent cherub innocence shining from that of sir toady lion. "now, mind, your eyes on the crack of the door above," whispered prissy; "and when i count three under my breath--sing out for your very life." toady lion nodded. "one--two--three!" counted prissy. "_hark! the herald angels sing, glory to the new-born king, peace on earth and mercy mild, god and sinners reconciled._" "what is 'weconciled'?" asked toady lion, who must always ask something on principle. "oh, never mind now," whispered prissy hastily; "keep your eyes on the top crack of the door and open your mouth wide." "don't know no more!" said toady lion obstinately. "oh yes, you do," said prissy, almost in tears; "go on. sing _la-la_, if you don't, and we'll soon be at the chorus, and you know that anyway!" then the voice of prissy escaped, soaring aloft in the early gloom, and if any human music can, reaching the seventh sphere itself, where, amid the harmonies of the universe, the eternal ear hearkens for the note of sinful human praise. the sweet shrill pipe of toady lion accompanied her like a heavenly lute of infinite sweetness. it was at this point that janet made off in the direction of the paraffin barrel. "_joyful all ye nations rise, join the triumph of the skies: universal nature, say, 'christ the lord is risen to-day!'_" the door opened, and the head of hugh john appeared, his hair all on end and his pyjama jacket open at the neck. he was hitching up the other division of the suit with one hand. "'tain't christmas, what's the horrid row? shut it!" growled he sleepily. prissy made him the impatient sign of silence so well understood of children, and which means that the proceedings are not to be interrupted. "your birthday, silly!" she said; "chorus now!" and hugh john himself, who knew the value of discipline, lined up and opened his mouth in the loud rejoicing refrain:-- "_hark! the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king!_" a slight noise behind made them turn round, and there the children beheld with indignation the whole body of the servants grouped together on the landing, most of them with their handkerchiefs to their eyes; while jane housemaid who had none, was sobbing undisguisedly with the tears rolling down her cheeks, and vainly endeavouring to express her opinion that "it was just beautiful--they was for all the world like little angels a-praisin' god, and--_a-hoo!_ i can't help it, no more i can't! and their mother never to see them growed up--her bein' in her grave, the blessed lamb!" "_i_ don't see nuffin to kye for," said toady lion unsympathetically, trying to find pockets in prissy's night-gown; "it was a nice sing-song!" at this moment janet sheepshanks came on the scene. she had been crying more than anybody, but you would never have guessed it. and now, perhaps ashamed of her own emotion, she pretended great scandal and indignation at the unseemly and irregular spectacle, and drove the servants below to their morning tasks, being specially severe with jane housemaid, who, for some occult reason, found it as difficult to stop crying as it had been easy to begin--so that, as hugh john said, "it was as good as a watering-can, and useful too, for it laid the dust on jane's carpets ready for sweeping, ever so much better than tea-leaves." chapter xxvii. the bantam chickens. when hugh john met cissy carter the first time after the incident of the stile, it was in the presence of the young lady's father and mother. cissy smiled and shook hands with the most serene and chilling dignity; but hugh john blushed, and wore on his countenance an expression of such deep and ingrained guilt and confusion, that, upon catching sight of him, mr. davenant carter called out, in his jolly stand-before-the-fire-with-his-hands-in-his-pockets' manner, "hillo, boy! what have you been up to--stealing apples, eh? come! what is it? out with it!" which, when you think of it, was not exactly fitted to make our hero any more self-possessed. mr. davenant carter always considered children as a rather superior kind of puppy dogs, which were specially created to be condescended to and teased, in order to see what they would say and do. they might also be taught tricks--like monkeys and parrots, only not so clever. "oh, davenant," said his wife, "do let the boy alone. don't you see he is bashful before so many people?" now this was the last thing which ordinarily could be laid with justice to the charge of our hero; yet now he only mumbled and avoided everybody's eye, particularly cissy's. but apparently that young lady had forgotten all about the ivy bush at the back of the stable, for she said quite loud out, so that all the room could hear her, "what a long time it is since we saw you at oaklands, hugh john--isn't it?" this sally added still more to hugh john's confusion, and he could only fall back upon his favourite axiom (which he was to prove the truth of every day of his life as he grew older), that "girls are funny things." presently cissy said, "have you seen sammy, mother; i wonder if he has fallen into the mill-dam. he went over there more than an hour ago to sail his new boat." mild mrs. carter started up so violently that she upset all her sewing cotton and spools on the floor, to the delight of her wicked little pug, which instantly began pulling them about, shaking them, growling at them, and pretending they were rats that had been given him to worry. "oh, do you think so?--run cissy, run hugh, and find him!" whereat cissy and hugh john removed themselves. as soon as they were outside our hero found his tongue. "how could you tell such a whopper? of course he would not fall into the water like a baby!" "goos-ee gander," said cissy briskly; "of course not! i knew that very well. but if i had not said something we should have had to stay there moping among all those grown-ups, and doing nothing but talking proper for hours and hours." "but i thought you liked it, cissy," said hugh john, who did not know everything. "like it!" echoed cissy; "i've got to _do_ it. and if they dreamed i didn't like it, they'd think i hadn't proper manners, and make me stop just twice as long. mother wants me to acquire a good society something-or-other, so that's why i've to stop and make tea, and pretend to like to talk to mr. burnham." "oh--him," said hugh john; "he isn't half bad. and he's a ripping good wicket-keep!" "i dare say," retorted cissy, "that's all very well for you. he talks to you about cricket and w. g.'s scores--i've heard him. but he speaks to me in that peeky far-away voice from the back of his throat, like he does in the service when he comes to the bit about 'young children'--and what do you think the _creature_ says?" "i dunno," said hugh john, with a world-weary air, as if the eccentricities of clergymen in silk waistcoats were among the things that no fellow could possibly find out. "well, he said that he hoped the time would soon come when a young lady of so much decision of character (that's me!) would be able to assist him in his district visiting." "what's 'decision of character' when he's at home?" asked hugh john flippantly. "oh, nothing--only one of the things parsons say. it doesn't mean anything--not in particular!" replied the widely informed cissy. "but did you ever hear such rot?" and for the first time her eyes met his with a quaintly questioning look, which somehow carried in it a reminiscence of the stile and the ivy bush. cissy's eyes were never quite (hugh john has admitted as much to me in a moment of confidence)--never quite the same after the incident of the orchard. on this occasion hugh john instantly averted his own, and looked stolidly at the ground. "perhaps mr. burnham has heard that you went with medicine and stuff to the gipsy camp," he said after a pause, trying to find an explanation of the apparently indefensible folly of his cricketing hero. cissy had not thought of this before. "well, perhaps he had," she said, "but that was quite different." "how different?" queried hugh john. "well, that was only dogs and billy blythe," said cissy, somewhat shamefacedly; "that doesn't count, and besides i like it. doing good has got to be something you don't like--teaching little brats their duty to their godfathers and godmothers, or distributing tracts which only make people stamp and swear and carry on." "isn't there something somewhere about helping the fatherless and the widow?" faltered hugh john. he hated "talking good," but somehow he felt that cissy was doing herself less than justice. "well, i don't suppose that the fox-terrier's pa does much for him," she said gaily; "but come along and i'll 'interjuce' you to your ally billy blythe." so they walked along towards the camp in silence. it was a still, sunday-like evening, and the bell of edam town steeple was tolling for the six o'clock stay of work, as it had done every night at the same hour for over five hundred years. the reek of the burgesses' supper-fires was going up in a hundred pillar-like "pews" of tall blue smoke. homeward bound humble bees bumbled and blundered along, drunk and drowsy with the heady nectar they had taken on board--strayed revellers from the summer-day's feast of flowers. delicate little blue butterflies rose flurriedly from the short grass, flirted with each other a while, and then mounted into a yet bluer sky in airy wheels and irresponsible balancings. "this is my birthday!" suddenly burst out hugh john. cissy stopped short and caught her breath. "oh no--it can't be;" she said, "i thought it was next week, and they aren't nearly ready." whereat cissy cartar began most incontinently and unexpectedly to cry. hugh john had never seen her do this before, though he was familiar enough with prissy's more easy tears. "now don't you, ciss," he said; "i don't want anything--presents and things, i mean. just let's be jolly." "hu-uh-uh!" sobbed cissy; "and janet sheepshanks told me it was next week. i'm sure she did; and i set them so nicely to be ready in time--more than two months ago, and now they aren't ready after all." "what aren't ready?" said hugh john. "the bantam chickens," sobbed cissy; "and they are lovely as lovely. and peck--you should just see them peck." "i'd just as soon have them next week, or the next after that--rather indeed. shut up now, ciss. stop crying, i tell you. do you hear?" he was instinctively adopting that gruff masculine sternness which men consider to be on the whole the most generally effective method of dealing with the incomprehensible tears of their women-kind. "_i_ don't care if you cry pints, but i'll hit you if you won't stop! so there!" cissy stopped like magic, and assumed a distant and haughty expression with her nose in the air, the surprising dignity of which was marred only by the recurring spasmodic sniff necessary to keep back the moisture which was still inclined to leak from the corners of her eyes. "i would indeed," said hugh john, like all good men quickly remorseful after severity had achieved its end. "i'd ever so much rather have the nicest presents a week after; for on a regular birthday you get so many things. but by next week, when you've got tired of them all, and don't have anything new--that's the proper time to get a present." "oh, you _are_ nice," said cissy impulsively, coming over to hugh john and clasping his arm with both her hands. he did not encourage this, for he did not know where it might end, and the open moor was not by any means the ivy-grown corner of the stable. cissy went on. "yes, you are the nicest thing. only don't tell any body----" "i won't!" said hugh john, with deepest conviction. "and i'll give you the mother too," continued cissy; "she is a perfect darling, and won a prize at the last edam show. it was only a second, but everybody said that she ought by rights to have had the first. yes, and she would have got it too--only that the other old hen was a cousin of the judge's. that wasn't fair, was it?" "certainly not!" said hugh john, with instant emphasis. chapter xxviii. the gipsy camp. at this point a peculiar fragrance was borne to them upon the light wind, the far-blowing smell of a wood-fire, together with the odour of boiling and fragrant stew--a compound and delicious wild-wood scent, which almost created the taste by which it was to be enjoyed, as they say all good literature must. there was also another smell, less idyllic but equally characteristic--the odour of drying paint. all these came from the camp of the gipsies set up on the corner of the common lands of windy standard. the gipsies' wood was a barren acre of tall, ill-nurtured scotch firs, with nothing to break their sturdy monotony of trunk right up to the spreading crown of twisted red branches and dark green spines. beneath, the earth was covered with a carpet of dry and brown pine-needles, several inches thick, soft and silent under the feet as velvet pile. ditches wet and dry closed in the place of sanctuary for the wandering tribes of egypt on all sides, save only towards the high road, where a joggly, much-rutted cart track led deviously in between high banks, through which the protruding roots of the scotch firs, knotted and scarred, were seen twisting and grappling each other like a nest of snakes. suddenly, between the ridges of pine-trees, the pair came in sight of the camp. "i declare," cried hugh john, "they are painting the waggons. i wish they would let me help. i can slick it on like a daisy. now i'm telling you. andrew penman at the coach-works in church street showed me how. he says i can 'line' as well as any workman in the place. i'm going to be a coach-painter. they get bully wages, i tell you." "i thought you were going to be a soldier," commented cissy, with the cool and inviting criticism of the model domestic lady, who is always on hand with a bucket of cold water for the enthusiasms of her men-folk. hugh john remembered, saw his mistake, and shifted his ground all in the twinkling of an eye; for of course a man of spirit ought never to own himself in the wrong--at least to a girl. it is a bad precedent, occasionally even fatal. "oh yes, of course i am going to be a soldier," he said with the hesitation of one who stops to think what he is going to say; "but i'm to be a coach-painter in my odd time and on holidays. besides, officers get so little pay now-a-days, it's shameful--i heard my father say. so one must do something." "oh, here's the terrier--pretty thing, i declare he quite knows me--see, hugh john," cried cissy, kneeling with delight in her eye, and taking hold of the little dog, which came bounding forward to meet her--stopping midway, however, to paw at its neck, to which the chianti wicker-work still clung tightly round the edge of the bandage. billy blythe came towards them, touching his cap as he did so in a half-military manner; for had he not a brother in the county militia, who was the best fighter (with his fists) in the regiment, the pest of his colonel, but in private the particular pet of all the other officers, who were always ready to put their money on gipsy blythe to any amount. "yes, miss," he said; "i done it. he's better a'ready, and as lively as a green grass-chirper. never seed the like o' that ointment. 'tis worth its weight in gold when ye have dogs." a tall girl came up at this moment, dusky and lithe, her face and neck tanned to a fine healthy brown almost as dark as saddle-leather, but with a rolling black eye so full and piercing that even her complexion seemed light by comparison. she carried a back load of tinware of all sorts, and by her wearied air appeared to be returning to the encampment after a day's tramp. "ah, young lady and gentleman, sure i can see by your eyes that you are going to buy something from a poor girl--ribbons for the hair, or for the house some nice collanders, saucepans, fish-pans, stew-pans, patty-pans, jelly-pans----" [illustration: "she carried a back load of tinware."] "go 'way, lepronia lovell," growled billy; "don't you see that this is the young lady that cured my dog?" "and who may the young gentleman be?" said the girl. "certain i am i've seen him before somewhere at the back o' beyant." "belike aye, lepronia, tha art a clever wench, and hast got eyes in the back o' thee yead," said billy, in a tone of irony. "do you not know the son of master smith o' t' windy standard--him as lets us bide on his land, when all the neighbours were on for nothing else but turning us off with never a rest for the soles of our feet?" "and what is his name?" said the girl. "why, the same as his father of course, lass--what else?" cried billy; "young master smith as ever was. did you think it was blythe?" "'faith then, god forbid!" said lepronia, "ye have lashin's of that name in them parts already. sure it is lonesome for a poor orphan like me among so many blythes; and good-looking young chaps some o' them too, and never a wan o' ye man enough to ask me to change my name, and go to church and be thransmogrified into a blythe like the rest of yez!" some of the gipsies standing round laughed at the boldness of the girl, and billy reddened. "i'm not by way of takin' up with no paddy," he said, and turned on his heel. "paddy is ut," cried the girl indignantly after him, "'faith now, and it wad be tellin' ye if ye could get a daycent single woman only half as good lookin' as me, to take as much notice av the likes o' ye as to kick ye out of her road!" she turned away, calling over her shoulder to cissy, "can i tell your fortune, pretty lady?" quick as a flash, cissy's answer came back. "no, but i can tell yours!" the girl stopped, surprised that a maid of the gentiles should tell fortunes without glass balls, cards, or even looking at the lines of the hand. "tell it then," she said defiantly. "you will live to marry billy!" she said. then lepronia lovell laughed a short laugh, and said, "never while there's a daycent scarecrow in the world will i set up a tent-stick along with the likes of billy blythe!" but all the same she walked away very thoughtful, her basketful of tinware clattering at her back. after the fox-terrier had been examined, commented upon, and duly dressed, billy blythe walked with them part of the way homeward, and hugh john opened out to him his troubles. he told him of the feud against the town boys, and related all the manifold misdeeds of the smoutchies. all the while billy said nothing, but the twitching of his hands and a peculiarly covert look about his dusky face told that he was listening intently. scarcely had hugh john come to the end of his tale when, with the blood mounting darkly to his cheeks, billy turned about to see if he were observed. there was no one near. "we are the lads to help ye to turn out nipper donnan and all his crew," he said. "him and his would soon make short work of us gipsies if they had the rights of castle and common. why, nipper's father is what they call a bailie of their burgh court, and he fined my father for leaving his horses out on the roadside, while he went for a doctor when my mother was took ill a year past last november." hugh john had found his ally. "there's a round dozen and more of us lads," continued billy, "that 'ud make small potatoes and mince meat of every one of them, if they was all nipper donnans--which they ain't, not by a long sight. i know them. a fig for them and their flag! we'll take their castle, and we'll take it too in a way they won't forget till their dying day." the gipsy lad was so earnest that hugh john, though as much as ever bent upon conquering the enemy, began to be a little alarmed. "of course it's part pretending," he said, "for my father could put them out if we were to tell on them. but then we won't tell, and we want just to drive them out ourselves, and thrash them for stealing our pet lamb as well!" "right!" said billy, "don't be afraid; we won't do more than just give them a blazing good hiding. tell 'ee what, they'll be main sore from top to toe before we get through with 'em!" chapter xxix. toady lion's little ways. thus it was finally arranged. the castle was to be attacked by the combined forces of windy standard and the gipsy camp the following saturday afternoon, which would give them the enemy in their fullest numbers. notice would be sent, so that they could not say afterwards that they had been taken by surprise. general napoleon smith was to write the letter himself, but to say nothing in it about his new allies. that, as cissy put it, "would be as good as a sixpenny surprise-packet to them." so full was hugh john of his new plan and the hope, now almost the certainty, of success, that when he went home he could not help confiding in prissy--who, like a model housewife, was seated mending her doll's stockings, while janet sheepshanks attended to those of the elder members of the household. she listened with quick-coming breath and rising colour, till hugh john thought that his own military enthusiasm had kindled hers. "isn't it prime?--we'll beat them till they can't speak," said hugh john triumphantly. "they'll never come back to our castle again after we finish with them." but priscilla was silent, and deep dejection gnawed dully at her heart. "poor things," she said thoughtfully; "perhaps they never had fathers to teach them, nor godfathers and godmothers to see that they learned their catechism." "precious lot mine ever did for me--only one old silver mug!" snorted hugh john. just then toady lion came in. "oh, hugh john," he panted, in tremulous haste to tell some fell tidings, "i so sorry--i'se broked one of the cannons, and it's your cannon what i'se broked." "what were you doing with my cannon?" inquired his brother severely. "i was juss playin' wif it so as to save my cannons, and a great bid stone fell from the wall and broked it all to bits. i beg'oo pardon, hugh john!" "all right!" said hugh john cheerfully; "you can give me one of yours for it." toady lion stood a while silent, with a puzzled expression on his face. "that's not right, hugh john," he said seriously; "i saided that i was sorry, and i begged 'oo pardon. father says then 'oo must fordiv me!" "oh, i'll forgive you right enough," said hugh john, "after i get the cannon. it's all the same to me which cannon i have." "but _your_ cannon is broked--all to little bits!" said toady lion, trying to impress the fact on his brother's memory. "well, another cannon," said hugh john--"i ain't particular." "but the other cannons is all mine," explained toady lion, who has strong ideas as to the rights of property. "no matter--one of them is mine now!" said his brother, snatching one out of his arms. toady lion began to cry with a whining whimper that carried far, and with which in his time he had achieved great things. it reached the ear of janet sheepshanks, busy at her stocking-mending, as toady lion intended it should. "i declare," she cried, "can you not give the poor little boy what he wants? a great fellow like you pestering and teasing a child like that. think shame of yourself! what is the matter, arthur george?" "hugh john tooked my cannon!" whimpered that young machiavel. "haven't got your cannon, little sneak!" said hugh john under his breath. "won't give me back my cannon!" wailed toady lion still louder, hearing janet beginning to move, and knowing well that if he only kept it up she would come out, and, on principle, instantly take his part. janet never inquired. she had a theory that the elder children were always teasing and oppressing the younger, and she acted upon it--acted promptly too. "i wants--" began toady lion in his highest key. "oh, take the cannon, sneak!" said hugh john fiercely, "chucking" his last remaining piece of artillery at toady lion, for janet was almost in the doorway now. toady lion burst into a howl. "oo-oo-ooooh!" he cried; "hugh john hitted me on the head wif my cannon----" "oh, you bad boy, wait till i catch you, hugh picton smith," cried janet sheepshanks, as the boy retreated precipitately through the open french window,--"you don't get any supper to-night, rascal that you are, never letting that poor innocent lamb alone for one minute." in the safety of the garden walk hugh john shook his fist at the window. "oh, golly," he said aloud; "just wait till toady lion grows up a bit. by hokey, won't i take this out of him with a wicket? oh no--not at all!" now toady lion was not usually a selfish little boy; but this day it happened that he was cross and hot, also he had a tooth which was bothering him. and most of all he wanted his own way, and had a very good idea how to get it too. that same night, when hugh john was wandering disconsolately without at the hour of supper, wondering whether janet sheepshanks meant to keep her word, a small stout figure came waddling towards him. it was toady lion with the cover of a silver-plated fish-server in his hand. it was nearly full of a miscellaneous mess, such as children (and all hungry persons) love--half a fried sole was there, three large mealy potatoes, green peas, and a whole boiled turnip. "please, hugh john," said toady lion, "i'se welly solly i broked your cannon. i bringed you mine supper. will 'oo forgive me?" "all right, old chap," said the generous hero of battles instantly, "that's all right! let's have a jolly feed!" so on the garden seat they sat down with the fish-cover propped between them, and ate their suppers fraternally and happily out of one dish, using the oldest implements invented for the purpose by the human race. chapter xxx. saint prissy, peacemaker. this is the letter which, according to his promise, general napoleon smith despatched to the accredited leader of the smoutchy boys--or, as they delighted to call themselves, the comanche cowboys. windy standard house, bordershire. _mistr. nippr. donnan, esqr.,_ _dear sir,--this is to warn you that on saturday the th, between the hours of ten in the morning and six in the evening, we, the rightful owners of the castle of windy standard, will take possession of our proppaty. prevent us at your peril. you had better get out, for we're coming, and our motty is 'smith for ever, and no quarter!'_ _given under our hand and seal._ (_signed_) _napoleon smith_, _general-feeld-marshall-commanding._ _p.s.--i'll teach you to kick my legs with tacketty butes and put me in nasty dunguns. wait till i catch you, nipper donnan._ the reply came back on a piece of wrapping paper from the butcher's shop, rendered warlike by undeniable stains of gore. it had, to all appearance, been written with a skewer, and contrasted ill with the blue official paper purloined out of mr. picton smith's office, on which the challenge had been sent. it ran thus:---- _matthew donnan & co., butchers and cattle salesmen, high street, edam, bordershire._ _dear sir.--yours of the th received, and contents noted. come on, you stuck-up retches. we can fight you any day with our one hand tied behind us. better leave girls and childer at home, for we meen fightin' this time--and no error.--we'll nock you into eternal smash._ _hoping to be favoured with a continuance of your esteemed orders,--i have the honour to remain, sir, your obedient servant to command,_ _n. donnan._ the high contracting parties having thus agreed upon terms of mutual animosity, to all appearance there remained only the arbitrament of battle. but other thoughts were working in the tender heart of prissy smith. she had no sympathy with bloodshed, and had she been in her father's place she would at once have given the town all their desires at any price, in order that the peace might be kept. deeply and sincerely she bewailed the spirit of quarrelling and bloodshed which was abroad. she had her own intentions as to the enemy, hugh john had his--which he had so succinctly summed up in the "favour of the th," acknowledged with such businesslike precision by mr. nipper donnan in his reply to general napoleon's blue official cartel. without taking any one into her confidence (not even sammy carter, who might have laughed at her), priscilla smith resolved to set out on a mission of reconciliation to the comanche cowboys. long and deeply she prepared herself by self-imposed penances for the work that was before her. she was, she knew, no joan of arc to lead an army in battle array against a cruel and taunting enemy. she was to be a st. catherine of siena rather, setting out alone and unfriended on a pilgrimage of mercy. she had read all she could lay her hands on about the tanner's daughter, and a picture of the great barn-like brick church of san dominico where she had her visions, hung over the wash-stand in prissy's little room, and to her pious eyes made the plain deal table seem the next thing to an altar. prissy wanted to go and have visions too; and so, three times a day she went in pilgrimage to the tool-house where the potatoes were stored, as being the next best thing to the unattainable san dominico. this was a roomy place more than half underground, and had a vaulted roof which was supported by pillars--the remains, doubtless, of some much more ancient structure. here prissy waited, like the scholar gipsy, for the light from heaven to fall; but, alas, the light refused to come to time. well, then, she must just go on without it as many another eager soul had done before her. there only remained to make the final preparations. on the morrow therefore she waited carefully after early dinner till general smith and toady lion had gone off in the direction of the mill-dam. then she took out the little basket which she had concealed in the crypt of san dominico--that is to say in the potato house. it stood ready packed and covered with a white linen cloth. it was a basket which had been prepared upon the strictest missionary models. she had no printed authorities which went the length of telling her what provision for the way, what bribes and presents saint catherine carried forth to appease withal the enemies of her city and country. but there was on record the exact provision of the mission-chest of a woman, who in her time went forth to turn to gentleness the angry hearts of brigands and robbers--one abigail, the wife of a certain churl of maon, a village near to the roots of mount carmel. true, prissy could not quite make up the tale of her presents on the same generous and wholesale scale. she had to preach according to her stipend, like the glasgow wife of the legend, who, upon the doctor ordering her husband champagne and oysters, informed a friend that "poor folk like us couldna juist gie tammas champeen-an'-ighsters, but we did the next best thing--we gied him whelks-an'-ginger-beer." so since it might have attracted some attention, even on pastures so well stocked as those of mr. picton smith of windy standard, if prissy had taken with her "five sheep ready dressed," she had to be content with half of a sheep's-head-pie, which she had begged "to give away" from janet sheepshanks. to this she added a four pound loaf she had bought in edam with her own money (abigail's two hundred being distinctly out of her reach)--together with the regulation cluster of raisins and cake of figs which were both well within her means. in addition, since prissy was a strict teetotaler, she took with her a little apparatus for making tea, some sugar and cream from the pantry, and her largest and best set of dolls' cups and saucers. all this occupied a good deal of room and was exceedingly heavy, so that prissy had very often to rest on the way towards the castle. she might have failed altogether, but that she saw mike raking the gravel of the path near the edge of the water, and asked him to carry the basket for her over the stepping-stones. prince michael, who as he often remarked was "spoiling for another taste of donnybrook," conveyed the basket over edam water for his young mistress, without the least idea of the strange quest upon which the girl was going. he laid it down and looked at the linen cover. "faix," he said, "sure 'tis a long road to sind a young lady wid a heavy load like that!" now, this was his mode of inviting an explanation, but prissy was far too wise to offer one. she merely thanked him and went on her way towards the castle. "don't go near thim ruins till after saturday, when we will clean every dirty spalpeen out of the place like thunder on the mountains," cried mike, who, like some other people, loved to round off his sentences with sounding expressions without troubling himself much as to whether they fitted the place or not. "thank you!" cried prissy over her shoulder, with a sweet and grateful, but quite uninforming smile. she continued on her way till mike was out of sight, without altering her course from the straight road to the wooden bridge which led into the town of edam. then at the edge of the hazel copse she came upon a small footpath which meandered through lush grass meadows and patches of the greater willow herb to the castle of windy standard. the willow herb flourished in glorious red-purple masses on the ancient masonry of the outer defences, for it is a plant which loves above all things the disintegrating lime of old buildings from which its crown of blossom shoots up three or four, or it may be even six feet. she skirted the moat, green with the leaves of pond-weed floating like small veined eggs on the surface. from the sluggish water at the side, iris and bog-bean stood nobly up, and white-lilies floated on the still surface in lordly pride among the humbler wrack and scum of duckweed and water buttercup. the light chrome heads of "go-to-bed-john" flaunted on the dryer bank beyond. prissy eyed all these treasures with anxious glances. "i want just dreadfully to gather you," she said. "i hope all this warring and battling will be over before you have done blooming, you nice waterside things." and indeed i agree with her, for there is nothing much nicer in the world than wayside and riverside flowers--except the little children who play among them; and nothing sweeter than a bairns' daisy-chain, save the fingers which weave it, and the neck about which it hangs. prissy had arrived within sight of the castle now. she saw the flaunting of the red republican flag which in staggery capitals condemned her parent to instant dissolution. she stood a moment with the basket on her arm in front of the great ruined gate. a sentry was pacing to and fro there. bob hetherington was his name, and there were other lads and boys lounging and pretending to smoke in the deep embrasures and recesses of the walls. clearly the castle was occupied in force by the enemy. prissy stopped somewhat embarrassed, and set down her basket that she might have a good look, and think what she was to do next. as she did so she caught the eye of nosie cuthbertson, a youth whom nipper donnan permitted in his corps because his father had a terrier which was undoubtedly the best ratter in edam. but the privilege of association with such a distinguished dog was dear at the price, for no meaner nor more "ill-set" youth than nosie cuthbertson cumbered honest bordershire soil. nosie was seated trying to smoke dry dock-leaf wrapped in newspaper without being sick, when his eye caught the trim little figure on the opposite side of the moat. "hey, boys!" he cried, "here's the smith lass. let's go and hit her!" now master nosie had not been prominent on the great day of the battle of the black sheds, but he felt instinctively that against a solitary girl he had at last some chance to assert himself. so he threw away his paper cigar, and ran round the broken causeway to the place where prissy was standing. [illustration: "'oh, please don't, sir!'"] "if you please, sir," began prissy sweetly, "i've come to ask you not to fight any more. it isn't right, you know, and god will be angry." nosie cuthbertson did not at all attend to the appeal so gently and courteously made to him. he only caught prissy by the hand, and began twisting her wrist and squeezing her slender fingers till the joints ground against each other, and prissy bit her lips and was ready to cry with pain. "oh, _please_ don't, sir!" she pleaded softly, trying to smile as at a famous jest. "i came because i wanted to speak to your captain, and i've brought a lot of nice things for you all. i think you will be sure to like them." "humbug," cried nosie cuthbertson, performing another yet more painful twist, "the basket's ours anyway. i captured it. hey, bob, catch hold of this chuck, while i give the girl _toko_--i'll teach her to come spying here about our castle!" chapter xxxi. prissy's picnic. but just at this moment an important personage stalked through the great broken-down doorway by which kings and princes most magnificent had once entered the ancient castle of the lorraines. he stood a moment or two on the threshold behind nosie cuthbertson, silently contemplating his courageous doings. presently a little stifled cry escaped from prissy, caused by one of nosie's refinements in torture, which consisted in separating her fingers and pulling two in one direction and two in the other. nosie was a youth of parts and promise, who had already proceeded some distance on his way to the gallows. but the important personage, who was no other than nipper donnan himself, did not long remain quiescent. he advanced suddenly, seized nosie cuthbertson by the scruff of the neck, kicked him several times severely, tweaked his ear till it looked as if it had been constructed of the best india-rubber, and then ended by tumbling him into the moat, where he disappeared as noiselessly as if he had fallen into green syrup. "now, what's all this?" cried the lordly nipper, whose doings among his own no man dared to question, for reasons connected with health. at the first sight of him bob hetherington had quietly shouldered his musket, and begun pacing up and down with his nose in the air, as if he had never so much as dreamed of going near prissy's basket. "what's all this, i say--you?" demanded his captain. "i don't know any bloomin' thing about it----" began bob, with whom ignorance, if not honesty, was certainly the best policy. "salute!" roared his officer; "don't you know enough to salute when you speak to me? want to get knocked endways?" sulkily bob hetherington obeyed. "well?" said nipper donnan, somewhat appeased by the appearance of nosie cuthbertson as he scrambled up the bank, with the green scum of duckweed clinging all over him. he was shaking his head and muttering anathemas, declaring what his father would do to nipper donnan, when within his heart he knew that first of all something very painful would be done to himself by that able-bodied relative as soon as ever he showed face at home. "this girl she come to the drawbridge and hollered--that's all i know!" said the sentry, disassociating himself from any trouble as completely as possible. bob felt that under the circumstances it was very distinctly folly to be wise. "i don't know what she hollered, but nosie he runs an' begins twisting her arm, and then the girl she begins to holler again!" "i didn't mean to," said prissy tremulously, "but he _was_ hurting so dreadfully." "come here, you!" shouted nipper to the retiring nosie. whereupon that young gentleman, hearing the dreadful voice of his chief officer, and being at the time on the right side of the moat, did not pause to respond, but promptly took to his heels in the direction of the town. "run after him and bring him back, two of you fellows! don't dare come back without him!" cried nipper, and at his word two big boys detached themselves from the doorposts in which the guard was kept, and dashed after the deserter. "oh, don't hurt him--perhaps he didn't mean it!" cried the universally sympathetic prissy. "he didn't hurt me much after all, and it is quite better now anyway." nipper donnan could, as we know, be as cruel as anybody, but he liked to keep both the theory and practice of terror in his own hands. besides, some possible far-off fragrance from another life stirred in him when he saw the slim girlish figure of prissy smith, clad all in white with a large sun-bonnet edged with pale green, standing on the bank and appealing to him with eyes different from any he had ever seen. he wanted, he knew not why, to kick nosie cuthbertson--kick him much harder than he had done before he saw whom he was tormenting. he had never particularly noticed any one's eyes before. he had thought vaguely that every one had the same kind of eyes. [illustration: "the return of the two swift footmen."] "well, what do you want?" he said gruffly. for with nipper and his class emotion or shamefacedness of any kind always in the first instance produces additional dourness. prissy smiled upon him--a glad, confident smile. she was the daughter of one war chief, the sister of another, and she knew that it is always best and simplest to treat only with principals. "you know that i didn't come to spy or find out anything, don't you?" she said; "only i was so sorry to think you were fighting with each other, when the bible tells us to love one another. why can't we all be nice together? i'm sure hugh john would if you would----" "gammon--this is our castle," said nipper donnan sullenly, "my father he says so. everybody says so. your father has no right to it." "well, but--" replied prissy, with woman's gentle wit avoiding all discussion of the bone of contention, "i'm sure you would let us come here and have picnics and things. and you could come too, and play at soldiers and marching and drills--all without fighting to hurt." "fighting is the best fun!" snarled nipper; "besides, 'twasn't us that begun it." "then," answered prissy, "wouldn't it be all the nicer of you if you were to stop first?" but this nipper donnan could not be expected to understand. a diversion was caused at this moment by the return of the two swift footmen, with the culprit nosie between them, doing the frog's march, and having his own experiences as to what arm-twisting meant. "cast him into the deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat!" thundered the brigand chief. "can't," said the elder of the two captors, one joe craig, the son of the carlisle carrier; "can't--we couldn't get him out again if we did!" "well then,"--returned the great chief, swiftly deciding upon an alternative plan, as if he had thought about it from the first, "chuck him down anywhere on the stones, and get fat sandy to sit on him." [illustration: "hydraulic pressure."] joe craig obediently saluted, and presently sundry moans and sounds of exhausted breath indicated that nosie cuthbertson was being subjected to hydraulic pressure by the unseen tormentor whom nipper donnan had called fat sandy. prissy felt that nothing she could say would for the present lessen master nosie's griefs, so she went on to accomplish her purpose by other means. "if you please, mr. captain," she said politely, "i thought you would like to taste our nice sheep's-head-pie. janet makes it all out of her own head. besides, there are some dee-licious fruits which i have brought you; and if you will let me come in, i will make you some lovely tea?" nipper donnan considered, and at last shook his head. "i don't know," he said, "'tisn't regular. how do we know that you aren't a spy?" "you could bind my eyes with a napkin, and----" "that's the thing!" cried several of nipper's followers, who scented something to eat, and who knew that the commissariat was the weak point in the defences of the castle of windy standard under the consulship of donnan. "well," said the chief, "that's according to rule. here, timothy tracy, tell us if that is all right." whereupon uprose timothy tracy, a long lank boy with yellowish hair and dull lack-lustre eyes, out of a niche in the wall and unfolded a number of "the wild boys of new york." he rustled the flaccid, ill-conditioned leaves and found the place. "'then bendigo bill went to the gateway of the stockade to interview the emissary of the besiegers. with keen unerring eyes he examined his credentials, and finding them correct, he took from the breast of his fringed buckskin hunting-dress a handkerchief of fine indian silk, and with it he swathed the eyes of the ambassador. then taking the envoy by the hand he led him past the impregnable defences of the comanche cowboys into the presence of their haughty chief, who was seated with the fair luluja beside him, holding her delicate hand, and inhaling the fragrance of a choice havanna cigar through his noble aquiline nose.' "that's all it says," said timothy tracy, succinctly, and straightway curled himself up again to resume his own story at the place where he had left it off. "well, that's all pretty straight and easy. nobody can say fairer nor that," meditated bob hetherington. "shut up!" said his chief; "who asked for your oar? i'll knock the bloomin' nut off you if you don't watch out. blindfold the emissary of the enemy, and bring her before me into the inner court." and with this peremptory command, nipper donnan disappeared. but the order was more easily given than obeyed. for not only could the entire array of the comanche cowboys produce nothing even distantly resembling indian silk (which at any rate was a counsel of perfection), but what was worse, their pockets were equally destitute of common domestic linen. indeed the proceedings would have fallen through at this point had not the ambassadress offered her own. this was knotted round her brows by joe craig, with the best intentions in the world. immediately after completing the arrangement, he stepped in front of prissy and said, thrusting his fist below her nose, "tell me if you see anything--mind, true as 'hope-you-may-die!'" "i do see something, something very dirty," said prissy, "but i can't quite tell what it is." "she _can_ see, boys," cried joe indignantly, "it's my hand." every boy recognised the description, and the handkerchief was once more adjusted with greater care and precision than before, so that it was only by the sense of smell that prissy could judge of the proximity of joe craig's fingers. "please let me carry my basket myself--i've got my best china tea-service in it--and then i will be sure that it won't get broken." a licentious soldiery was about to object, but a stern command issued unexpectedly from one of the arrow-slits through which their chief had been on the watch. "give the girl the basket! do you hear--you?" and in this manner prissy entered the castle, guarded on either side by soldiers with fixed (wooden) bayonets. and at the inner and outer ports, the convoy was halted and asked for the pass-word. "_death!_" cried joe craig, at the pitch of his voice. "_vengeance!_" replied the sentry. "pass, '_death_'!" at last prissy felt the grass beneath her feet, and the handkerchief being slipped from her eyes, she found herself within the courtyard of the castle. the captain of the band sat before her with a red sash tied tightly about his waist. by his side swung a butcher's steel, almost as long and twice as dangerous as a sword. prissy began her mission at once, to allow captain donnan no time to order her out again, or to put her into a dungeon, as he had done with hugh john. "i think we had better have tea first," she said. "have you got a match-box?" she could not have taken a better line. nipper donnan stepped down from his high horse at once. he put his hand into his pocket. "i have only fusees," he said grandly, "but perhaps they will do. you see regular smokers never use anything else." "oh yes, they will do perfectly," returned prissy sweetly, "it is just to light the spirit-lamp. see how nicely it fits in. isn't it a beauty? i got that from father on my birthday. wasn't it nice of him?" nipper donnan grunted. he never found any marked difference between his birthday and any other day. nevertheless he stood by and assisted at the making of the tea, a process which interested him greatly. "i shall need some more fresh spring water for so many cups," said prissy, "i only brought the full of the kettle with me." the chief slightly waved a haughty hand, which instantly impelled joe craig forward as if moved by a spring. "bring some fresh water from the well!" he commanded. joe craig took the tin dipper, and was marching off. prissy looked distressed. "what is it?" said the robber chief. now prissy did not want to be rude, but she had her feelings. "oh, please, mr. captain," she said, "his hands--i think he has perhaps been working----" nipper donnan had no fine scruples, but he respected them in such an unknown quantity as this dainty little lady with the green trimmed sun-bonnet and the widely-opened eyes. "tracy, fetch the water, you lazy jaundiced toad!" he commanded. the sallow student rose unwillingly, and moved off with his face still bent upon the thrilling pages of "the wild boys of new york," which he held folded small in his hand for convenience of perusal. presently the tea being made, the white cloth was laid on the grass, and the entire company of the smoutchy boys crowded about, always excepting the sentinels at the east and west doors, who being on duty could not immediately participate. the sheep's-head-pie, the bread, the butter, the fruits were all set out in order, and the whole presented such an appearance as the inside of the castle of windy standard had never seen through all its generations. prissy conducted herself precisely as if she had been dispensing afternoon tea to callers in the drawing-room, as, since her last birthday, her father had occasionally permitted her to do. "do you take sugar?" she asked, delicately poising a piece in the dolls' sugar-tongs, and smiling her most politefully conventional smile at nipper donnan. the brigand chief had never been asked such a question before, and had no answer of the usual kind at hand. but he replied for all that. "_rather!_" he cried in a burst, "if the grocer's not lookin'!" "i mean in your tea! do you take sugar in your tea?" prissy was still smiling. nipper appeared to acquiesce. two knobs of sugar were dropped in. the whipped cream out of the wide-mouthed bottle was spooned delicately on the top, and with a yet more charming smile the cup was passed to him. he held it between his finger and thumb, as an inquiring naturalist holds a rare beetle. then he put it down on a low fragment of wall and looked at it. "one lump or two?" queried prissy again, graciously transferring her attentions to joe craig. "eh, what?" ejaculated that warrior. prissy repeated her question. "as many as i can get!" cried the boy. so one by one the brigands were served, and the subdued look which rests upon a sunday-school picnic at the hour of refreshment settled down upon them. the smoutchy boy is bad and bold, but he does not like you to see him in the act of eating. his instinct is to get behind a wall, or into the thick of a copse and do it there. a similar feeling sends the sparrow with a larger crumb than the others into the seclusion of his nest among the ivy. nevertheless the bread and jam, the raisins, and the sheep's-head-pie disappeared 'like snow off a dyke.' the wonder of the thimbleful cups, continually replenished, grew more and more surprising; and, winking slyly at each other the smoutchies passed them in with a touch of their caps to be filled and refilled again and again. prissy kept the kettle beside her, out of which she poured the water brought by timothy tracy as she wanted it. the golden colour of the tea degenerated, but so long as a few drops of milk remained to mask the fraud from their eyes, the smoutchies drank the warm water with equal relish. "besides it's so much better for your nerves, you know!" said prissy, putting her action upon a hygienic basis. at first the boys had been inclined to snatch the viands from the table-cloth, and there was one footprint on the further edge. but the iron hand of nipper donnan knocked two or three intruders sprawling, and after that the eatables were distributed as patiently and exactly as at a lord mayor's banquet. "please will you let that boy get up?--i think he must have been sat upon quite long enough now," said prissy, who could not bear to listen to the uneasy groaning of the oppressed prisoner. the chief granted the boon. the sitter and his victim came in and were regaled amicably from one plate. "pieces" and full cups of tea were despatched to the distant sentinels, and finally the whole company was in the midst of washing up, when prissy, who had been kneeling on the grass wiping saucers one by one, suddenly rose to her feet with a little cry. "oh, it is so dreadful--i _quite_ forgot!" the smoutchies stood open-mouthed, some holding dishes, some with belated pieces of pie, some only with their hands in their pockets, but all waiting eagerly for the revelation of the dreadful thing which their hostess had forgotten. "why, we forgot to say grace!" she cried--"well, anyway i am glad i remembered in time. we can say it now. who is the youngest?" the boys all looked guiltily at each other. prissy picked out a small boy of stunted aspect, but whose face was old and wizened. he had just put a piece of tobacco into his mouth to take away the taste of the tea. "you say it, little boy," she said pointedly, and shut her eyes for him to begin. the boy gasped, glanced once at his chief, and made a bolt for the door, through which he had fled before the sentinels had time to stop him. at the clatter prissy opened her eyes. "what is the matter with that boy? couldn't he say grace? didn't he remember the beginning? well, you say it then----" nipper donnan shook his head. he had a fine natural contempt for all religious services in the abstract, but when one was brought before him as a ceremony, his sense of discipline told him that it must somehow be valuable. "better say it yourself," he suggested. whereat prissy devoutly clasped her hands and shut her eyes. there was a smart smack and something fell over. prissy opened her eyes, and saw a boy sprawling on the grass. "right," said nipper donnan cheerfully, "go ahead--joe craig laughed. i'll teach him to laugh except when i tell him to." so prissy again proceeded with a grace of her own composition: "_god bless our table, bless our food; and make us stable, brave and good._" after all was over prissy left the castle of windy standard, without indeed obtaining any pledge from the chief of the army of occupation, but not without having done some good. and she went forth with dignity too. for not only did the robber chieftain provide her with an escort, but he ordered the ramparts to be manned, and a general salute to be fired in her honour. prissy waved her hand vigorously, and had already proceeded a little way towards the stepping-stones, when she stopped, laid down her basket, and ran back to the postern gate. she took her little tortoise-shell card-case out of her pocket. "oh, i was nearly forgetting--how dreadfully rude of me!" she said, and forthwith pulled out a card on which she had previously written very neatly: +---------------------------------------+ | | | _miss priscilla smith_ | | | |_at home every day_ | +---------------------------------------+ she laid it on the stones, and tripped away. "i'm sorry i have not my brother's card to leave also," she said, looking up at the brigand chief, who had been watching her curiously from a window. "oh," said nipper donnan, "we shall be pleased to see him if he drops in on saturday--or any other time." then he waited till the trim white figure was some distance from the gateway before he took his cap from his head and waved it in the air. "three proper cheers for the little lady!" he cried. and the grim old walls of the castle of windy standard never echoed to a heartier shout than that with which the smoutchy boys sped miss priscilla smith, the daughter of their arch enemy, upon her homeward way. prissy poised herself on tiptoe at the entrance of the copse, and blew them a dainty collective kiss from her fingers. "thank you so much," she cried, "you are very kind. come and see me soon--and be sure you stop to tea." and with that she tripped swiftly away homeward with an empty basket and a happy heart. that night in her little room before she went to sleep she read over her favourite text, "blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be called the children of god." "oh dear," she said, "i should so like to be one some day." chapter xxxii. plan of campaign. saturday morning dawned calm and clear after heavy rain on the hills, with a sabbath-like peace in the air. the smoke of edam rose straight up into the firmament from a hundred chimneys, and the lias coal mine contributed a yet taller pillar to the skies, which bushed out at the top till it resembled an umbrella with a thick handle. hugh john had been very early astir, and one of his first visits had been to the gipsy camp, where he found billy blythe with several others all clad in their tumbling tights, practising their great bounding brothers' act. "hello," cried hugh john jovially, "at it already?" "the mornin's the best time for suppling the jints!" answered billy sententiously; "ask lepronia lovell, there. she should know with all them tin pans going clitter-clatter on her back." "i'll be thankin' ye, billy blythe, to kape a tight holt on the slack o' that whopper jaw of yours. it will be better for you at supper-time than jeerin' at a stranger girl, that is arnin' her bite o' bread daycent. and that's a deal more than ye can do, aye, or anny wan like ye!" and with these brave words, lepronia lovell went jingling away. the bounding brothers threw themselves into knots, spun themselves into parti-coloured tops, turned double and treble somersaults, built human pyramids, and generally behaved as if they had no bones in any permanent positions throughout their entire bodies. hugh john stood by in wonder and admiration. "are you afraid?" cried billy from where he stood, arching his shoulders and swaying a little, as one of the supporters of the pyramid. "no?--then take off your boots." hugh john instantly stood in his stocking soles. "up with him!" and before he knew it, he was far aloft, with his feet on the shoulders of the highest pair, who supported him with their right and left hands respectively. from his elevated perch he could see the enemy's flag flaunting defiance from the topmost battlements of the castle. as soon as he reached the ground he mentioned what he had seen to billy blythe. "we'll have it low and mean enough this night as ever was, before the edge o' dark!" said billy, with a grim nod of his head. * * * * * the rains of the night had swelled the ford so that the stepping-stones were almost impracticable--indeed, entirely so for the short brown legs of sir toady lion. this circumstance added greatly to the strength of the enemy's position, and gave the smoutchies a decided advantage. "they can't be at the castle all the time," said billy; "why not let my mates and me go in before they get there? then we could easily keep every one of them out." this suggestion much distressed general smith, who endeavoured to explain the terms of his contract to the gipsy lad. he showed him that it would not be fair to attack the smoutchies except on saturday, because at any other time they could not have all their forces in the field. billy thought with some reason that this was simple folly. but in time he was convinced of the wisdom of not "making two blazes of the same wasps' byke," as he expressed it. "do for them once out and out, and be done with it!" was his final advice. hugh john could not keep from thinking how stale and unprofitable it would be when all the smoutchies had been finally "done for," and when he did not waken to new problems of warfare every morning. according to the final arrangements the main attack was to be developed from the broadest part of the castle island below the stepping-stones. there were two boats belonging to the house of windy standard, lying in a boat-house by the little pier on the way to oaklands. for security these were attached by a couple of padlocks to a strong double staple, which had been driven right through the solid floor of the landing-stage. the padlocks were new, and the whole appeared impregnable to the simple minds of the children, and even to mike and peter greg. but billy smiled as he looked at them. "why, opening them's as easy as falling off a stool when you're asleep. gimme a hairpin." but neither prissy nor cissy carter had yet attained to the dignity of having their hair done up, so neither carried such a thing about with them. business was thus at a standstill, when hugh john called to prissy, "go and ask jane housemaid to give us one." "a good thick 'un!" called billy blythe after her. the swift-footed dian of windy standard had only been away a minute or two before she came flying back like the wind. "she-won't-give-us-any-unless-we-tell-her-what-it-is-for!" she panted, all in one long word. "rats!" said hugh john contemptuously, "ask her where she was last friday week at eleven o'clock at night!" the divine huntress flitted away again on winged feet, and in a trice was back with three hairpins, still glossy from their recent task of supporting the well-oiled hair of jane housemaid. with quick supple hand billy twisted the wire this way and that, tried the padlock once, and then deftly bent the ductile metal again with a pair of small pincers. the wards clicked promptly back, and lo! the padlock was hanging by its curved tongue. the other was stiffer with rust, but was opened in the same way. the besiegers were thus in possession of two fine transports in which to convey their army to the scene of conflict. it was the plan of the general that the men under billy blythe should fill the larger of the two boats, and drop secretly down the left channel till they were close under the walls of the castle. the enemy, being previously alarmed by the beating of drums and the musketry fire on the land side, would never expect to be taken in the rear, and probably would not have a single soldier stationed there. indeed, towards the edam water, the walls of the keep rose thirty or forty feet into the air without an aperture wide enough to thrust an arm through. so that the need of defence on that side was not very apparent to the most careful captain. but at the south-west corner, one of the flanking turrets had been overthrown, though there still remained several steps of a descent into the water. but so high was the river on this occasion, that it lapped against the masonry of the outer defences. to this point then, apparently impregnable, the formidable division under billy blythe was to make its way. there was nothing very martial about the appearance of these sons of the tent and caravan. the bounding brothers wore their trick dresses, and as for the rest, they were simply and comprehensively arrayed in shirt and trousers. not a weapon, not a sash, not a stick, sword, nor gun broke the harmonious simplicity of the gipsy army. yet it was evident that they knew something which gave them secret confidence, for all the time they were in a state of high glee, only partially suppressed by the authority of their leader, and by the necessity for care in manning the boat with so large a crew. there were fourteen who were to adventure forth under billy's pennon. to the former assailants of the black sheds there had been added a stout and willing soldier from the gardens of windy standard,--a boy named gregory (or more popularly gregory's mixture), together with a forester lad, who was called craw-bogle tam from his former occupation of scaring the crows out of the corn. sammy carter had been cashiered some time ago by the commander-in-chief, but nevertheless he appeared with three cousins all armed with dog-whips, which sammy assured hugh john were the deadliest of weapons at close quarters. altogether it was a formidable array. the boat for the attack on the land side was so full that there remained no room for toady lion. that young gentleman promptly sat down on the landing-stage, and sent up a howl which in a few moments would certainly have brought down janet sheepshanks and all the curbing powers from the house, had he not been committed to the care of prissy, with public instructions to get him some toffy and a private order to take him into the town, and keep him there till the struggle was over. prissy went off with sir toady lion, both in high glee. "i'se going round by the white bwidge--so long, everybody! i'll be at the castle as soon as you!" he cried as he departed. hugh john sighed a sigh of relief when he saw them safely off the muster-ground. cissy, however, was coming on board as soon as ever the boat was ready to start. she had been posted to watch the movements of the household of windy standard, and would report at the last moment. "all right," she cried from her watch-tower among the whins, "prissy and toady lion are round the corner, and janet sheepshanks has just gone into the high garden to get parsley." "up anchors," cried hugh john solemnly, "the hour has come!" mike and billy tossed the padlock chains into the bottom of the boats and pushed off. there were no anchors, but the mistake was permissible to a simple soldier like general napoleon smith. chapter xxxiii. toady lion's second lone hand. edam water ran swiftly, surging and pushing southward on its way to the sea. it was brown and drumly with a wrack of twigs and leaves, snatched from the low branches of the hazels and alders which fringed its banks. it fretted and elbowed, frothing like yeast about the landing-place from which the two boat-loads were to set out for the attack. general napoleon smith, equipped with sword and sash, sat in the stern of the first, in order to steer, while prince michael o'donowitch stood on the jetty and held the boat's head. the others sat still in their places till the general gave the word. the eager soldiery vented their feelings in a great shout. cissy carter took her place with a flying leap just as the rope was cast off, and the fateful voyage began. at first there was little to be done save in the way of keeping the vessel's head straight, for the edam water, swirling and brown with the mountain rains, hurried her towards the island with almost too great speed. with a rush they passed the wide gap between the unsubmerged stones of the causeway, at which point the boldest held his breath. the beach of pebbles was immediately beyond. but they were not to be allowed to land without a struggle; for there, directly on their front, appeared the massed forces of the enemy, occupying the high bluff behind, and prepared to prevent the disembarkation by a desperate fusillade of stones and turf. it was in this hour of peril that the soldierly qualities of the leader again came out most strongly. he kept the boat's head straight for the shore, as if he had been going to beach her, till she was within a dozen yards; then with a quick stroke of his steering oar he turned her right for the willow copses which fringed the island on the eastern side. the water had risen, so that these were sunk to half their height in the quick-running flood, and their leaves sucked under with the force of the current. but behind there was a quiet backwater into which hugh john ran his vessel head on till she slanted with a gentle heave up on the green turf. "overboard every man!" he cried, and showed the example himself by dashing into the water up to the knees, carrying the blue ensign of his cause. the enemy had not expected this rapid flank movement, and waited only till the invaders had formed in battle array to retreat upon the castle, fearful perhaps of being cut off from their stronghold. general-field-marshal smith addressed his army. "soldiers," he said, "we've got to fight, and it's dead earnest this time, mind you. we're going to lick the smoutchies, so that they will stay licked a long time. now, come on!" this brief address was considered on all hands to be a model effort, and worthy of the imitation of all generals in the face of the enemy. the most vulnerable part of the castle from the landward side was undoubtedly the great doorway--an open arch of some six feet wide, which, however, had to be approached under a galling cross fire from the ports at either side and from the lintel above. "it's no use wasting time," cried the general; "follow me to the door." and with his sword in his hand he darted valiantly up the steep incline which led to the castle. cissy carter charged at his left shoulder also sword in hand, while mike and peter, with gregory's mixture and the craw bogle, were scarcely a step behind. stones and mortar hailed down upon the devoted band; sticks and clods of turf struck them on their shoulders and arms. but with their teeth clenched and their heads bent low, the storming party rushed undauntedly upon their foes. the smoutchies had built a breast-work of driftwood in front of the great entrance, but it was so flimsy that mike and his companions kicked it away in a moment--yet not before general smith, light as a young goat, had overleaped it and launched himself solitary on the foe. then, with the way clear, it was cut and thrust from start to finish. first among the assailants general smith crossed swords with the great nipper donnan himself. but his reserves had not yet come up, and so he was beaten down by three cracks on the head received from different quarters at the same time. but like witherington in the ballad, he still fought upon his knees; and while prince michael and gregory's mixture held the enemy at bay with their stout sticks, the stricken hugh john kept well down among their legs, and used his sword from underneath with damaging effect. "give them the point--cold steel!" he cried. "cowld steel it is!" shouted prince michael, as he brought down his blackthorn upon the right ear of nipper donnan. "cauld steel--tak' you that!" cried peter greg the scot as he let out with his left, and knocked nosey cuthbert over backwarks into the hall of the castle. thus raged in front the heady fight; and thus with their faces to the foe and their weapons in their hands, we leave the vanguard of the army of windy standard, in order that for a little we may follow the fortunes of the other divisions. * * * * * yes, divisions is the word, that is to say billy blythe's gipsy division and--sir toady lion. for once more toady lion was playing a lone hand. so soon as prissy and he had been left behind, we regret to be obliged to report that the behaviour of the distinguished knight left much to be desired. "don't be bad, toady lion," said his sister, gently taking him by the hand; "come and look at nice picture-books." "will be bad," growled toady lion, stamping his little foot in impotent wrath; "doan want t' look at pitchur-books--want to go and fight! and i will go too, so there!" and in his fiery indignation he even kicked at his sister prissy, and threw stones after the boat in which the expedition had sailed. the gipsy division, which was to wait till they heard the noise of battle roll up from the castle island before cutting loose, took pity on sir toady lion, and but for the special nature of the service required of them, they would, i think, have taken him with them. "that's a rare well-plucked little 'un!" cried joe baillie. "see how he shuts his fists, and cuts up rough!" "a little man!" said the leader encouragingly; "walks into his sister's shins, don't he, the little codger!" "let me go wif you, please," pleaded toady lion; "i'll kill you unless!--kill you every one!" and his voice was full of bloodshed. "last time 'twas me that d'livered donald, when they all runned away or got took prisoner; and now they won't even take me wif them!" billy regretfully shook his head. it would not do to be cumbered with small boys in the desperate mission on which they were going. the hope was forlorn enough as it was. "wait till we come back, little 'un," he said kindly; "run away and play with your sister." toady lion stamped on the ground more fiercely than ever. "shan't stop and play wif a girl. if you don't let me come, i shall kill you." and with sentiments even more discreditable, he pursued their boat as long as he could reach it with volleys of stones, to the great delight of the gipsy boys, who stimulated him to yet more desperate exertions with cries of "well fielded!" "chuck her in hard!" "hit him with a big one!" while some of those in the stern pretended to stand shaking in deadly fear, and implored toady lion to spare them because they were orphans. "shan't spare none--shall kill 'oo every one!" cried the angry toady lion, lugging at a bigger stone than all, which he could not lift above three inches from the ground. "will smass 'oo with this, billy blythe--bad billy!" he exclaimed, as he wrestled with the boulder. "oh, spare me--think of my family, toady lion, my pore wife and childer," pleaded billy hypocritically. "'oo should have finked of 'oo fambly sooner!" cried toady lion, staggering to the water's edge with the great stone. but at this moment the noise of the crying of those warring for the mastery came faintly up from the castle island. the rope that had been passed through the ring on the landing-stage and held ready in the hand of billy blythe, was loosened, and the second part of the besieging expedition went down with the rushing spate which reddened edam water. and as they fell away billy stood up and called for three cheers for "little toady lion, the best man of the lot." but toady lion stood on the shore and fairly bellowed with impotent rage, and the sound of his crying, "i'll kill 'oo! i'll kill 'oo dead!" roused janet sheepshanks, who was taking advantage of her master's absence to carry out a complete house-cleaning. she left the blanket-washing to see what was the matter. but toady lion, angry as he was, had sense enough to know that if janet got him, he would be superintended all the morning. so with real alacrity he slipped aside into the "scrubbery," and there lay hidden till janet, anxious that her maids should not scamp their house-work, was compelled to hurry back to the laundry to see that the blankets were properly washed. after this there was but one thing to do, and so the second division, under sir toady lion, did it. he resolved to turn the enemy's flank, and attack him with reinforcements from an entirely unexpected quarter. so, leaving prissy to her own devices, he took to his heels, and his fat legs carried him rapidly in the direction of the town of edam. difficulties there were of course, such as the barrier of the white lodge gate, where old betty lay in wait for him. but toady lion circumnavigated betty by going to the lodge-door and shouting with all his might, "betty, come quick, p'raps they's some soldiers comin' down the road--maybe tom's comin', 'oo come and look." "sodjers--where?--what?" cried old betty, waking up hastily from her doze, and fumbling in her pocket for the gate-key. toady lion was at her elbow when she undid the latch. toady lion charged past her with a yell. toady lion it was who from the safe middle of the highway made the preposterous explanation, "oh no, they isn't no soldiers. 'tis only a silly old fish-man wif a tin trumpet." "come back, sir, or i'll tell your father! come back at once!" cried old betty. but she might shake her head and nod with her nut-cracker chin till the black beads on her lace "kep" tinkled. all was in vain. toady lion was out of reach far down the dusty main road along which the scots greys had come the day that hugh john became a soldier. toady lion was a born pioneer, and usually got what he wanted, first of all by dint of knowing exactly what he did want, and then "fighting it out on that line if it took all summer"--or even winter too. the road to the town of edam wound underneath trees great and tall, which hummed with bees and gnats that day as toady lion sped along, his bare feet "plapping" pleasantly in the white hot dust. he was furtively crying all the time--not from sorrow but with sheer indignation. he hated all his kind. he was going to desert to the smoutchies. he would be a comanche cowboy if they would have him, since his brother and cissy carter had turned against him. nobody loved him, and he was glad of it. prissy--oh! yes, but prissy did not count. she loved everybody and everything, even stitching and dollies, and putting on white thread gloves when you went into town. so he ran on, evading the hay waggons and red farm-carts without looking at them, till in a trice he had crossed edam bridge and entered the town--in the glaring streets and upon the hot pavement of which the sunshine was sleeping, and which on saturday forenoon had more than its usual aspect of enjoying a perpetual siesta. the leading chemist was standing at his door, wondering if the rustic who passed in such a hurry could actually be on the point of entering the shop of his hated rival. the linen-draper at the corner under the town clock was divided between keeping an eye on his apprentices to see that they did not spar with yard sticks, and mentally criticising the ludicrous and meretricious window-dressing of his next-door neighbour. none of them cared at all for the small dusty boy with the tear-furrowed countenance who kept on trotting so steadily through the town, turned confidently up the high street, and finally dodged into the path which led past the black sheds to the wooden bridge which joined the castle island to the butcher's parks. as he crossed the grass toady lion heard a wrathful voice from somewhere calling loudly, "nipper! nipper-r-r-r! oh, wait till i catch you!" for it chanced that this day the leading butcher in edam was without the services of both his younger assistants--his son nipper and his message boy, tommy pratt. mr. donnan had a new cane in his hand, and he was making it whistle through the air in a most unpleasant and suggestive manner. "get away out of my field, little boy--where are you going? what are you doing there?" the question was put at short range now, for all unwittingly sir toady lion had almost run into butcher donnan's arms. "please i finks i'se going to mist'r burnham's house," explained toady lion readily but somewhat unaccurately; "i'se keepin' off the grass--and i didn't know it was your grass anyway, please, sir." at the same time toady lion saluted because he also was a soldier, and mr. donnan, who in his untempered youth had passed several years in the ranks of her majesty's line, mechanically returned the courtesy. "why, little shaver," he said not unkindly, "this isn't the way to mr. burnham's house. there it is over among the trees. but, hello, talk of the--ahem--why, here comes mr. burnham himself." toady lion clapped his hands and ran as fast as he could in the direction of the clergyman. mr. burnham was very tall, very soldierly, very stiff, and his well-fitting black coat and corded silk waistcoat were the admiration of the ladies of the neighbourhood. he was never seen out of doors without the glossiest of tall hats, and it was whispered that he had his trousers made tight about the calves on purpose to look like a dean. it was also understood in well-informed circles that he was writing a book on the eastward position--after which there would be no such thing as the low church. nevertheless an upright, good, and, above all, kindly heart beat under the immaculate silk m. b. waistcoat; also strong capable arms were attached to the armholes of the coat which fitted its owner without a wrinkle. indeed, mr. burnham had a blue jacket of a dark shade in which he had once upon a time rowed a famous race. it hung now in a glass cabinet, and was to the clergyman what sambo soulis was to general-field-marshal smith. but as we know, the fear of man dwelt not in sir toady lion, and certainly not fear of his clergyman. he trotted up to him and said, "i wants to go to the castle. you come." now hitherto mr. burnham had always seen sir toady lion as he came, with shining face and liberally plastered hair, from under the tender mercies of janet sheepshanks--with her parting monition to behave (and perhaps something else) still ringing in his ear. so that it is no wonder that he did not for the moment recognise in the tear-stained, dust-caked face of the barefooted imp who addressed him so unceremoniously, the features of the son of his most prominent parishioner. he gazed down in mildly bewildered surprise, whereupon toady lion took him familiarly by the hand and reiterated his request, with an aplomb which had all the finality of a royal invitation. "take me to the castle on the island. i 'ants to go there!" "and who may you be, little boy?" "don't 'oo know? 'oo knows me when 'oo comes to tea at our house!" cried toady lion reproachfully. "i'se mist'r smiff's little boy; and i 'ants to go to the castle." "why do you want to go to the castle island?" asked mr. burnham. "to find my bruvver hugh john," said toady lion instantly. the butcher had come up and stood listening silently, after having, with a certain hereditary respect for the cloth, respectfully saluted mr. burnham. "this little boy wants to go on the island to find his brother," said the clergyman; "i suppose i may pass through your field with him?" "certainly! the path is over at the other side of the field. but i don't know but what i'll come along with you. i've lost my son and my message-boy too. it is possible they may be at the castle. "there is some dust being kicked up among the boys. i can't get my rascals to attend to business at all this last week or two." and mr. donnan again caused his cane to whistle through the air in a way that turned toady lion cold, and made him glad that he was "mr. smift's little boy," and neither the son nor yet the errand-boy of the butcher of edam. presently the three came to the wooden bridge, and from it they could see the flag flying over the battlements of the castle, and a swarming press of black figures swaying this way and that across the bright green turf in front. "hurrah--yonder they'se fightin'. come on, mist'r burnham, we'll be in time yet!" shouted toady lion. "they saided that i couldn't come; and i've comed!" suddenly a far-off burst of cheering came to them down the wind. black dots swarmed on the perilous battlements of the castle. other black dots were unceremoniously pitched off the lower ramparts into the ditch below. the red and white flag of jacobin rebellion was pulled under, and a clamorous crowd of disturbed jackdaws rose from the turrets and hung squalling and circling over the ancient and lofty walls. the conflict had indeed joined in earnest. the embattled foes were in the death grips; and, fearful lest he should arrive too late, toady lion hurried forward his reinforcements, crying, "come on both of you! come on, quick!" butcher donnan broke into a run, while mr. burnham, forgetting all about his silk waistcoat, clapped his tall hat on the back of his head and started forward at his best speed, toady lion hanging manfully on to the long skirts of his coat, as the highlanders had clung to the cavalry stirrups at balaclava till they were borne into the very floodtide of battle. there were now two trump-cards in the lone hand. chapter xxxiv. the crowning mercy. we must now take up the story of the third division of the great expedition, the plan and execution of which so fully reflects the military genius of our distinguished hero; for though this part was carried out by billy blythe, the credit of the design, as well as the discovery of the means of carrying it out, were wholly due to general napoleon smith. when the second boat swept loose and the futile anger of sir toady lion had ceased to excite the laughter of the crew, the gipsy lads settled down to watching the rush of the edam water as it swept them along. they had, to begin with, an easier task than the first boat expedition. no enemy opposed their landing. no dangerous concealed stepping-stones had to be negotiated on the route they were to follow. leaving all to the action of the current, they swept through the entrance to the wider branch, and presently ranged up alongside the deserted water-front of the ancient defences. they let the castle drop a little behind, and then rowed up into the eddy made by the corner of the fallen tower, where, on the morning of his deliverance, hugh john had disturbed the slumbering sheep by so unexpectedly emerging from the secret passage. billy stepped on shore to choose a great stone for an anchor, and presently pulled the whole expedition alongside the fallen masonry, so that they were able to disembark as upon a pier. the bounding brothers immediately threw several somersaults just to let off steam, till billy cuffed them into something like seriousness. "hark to 'em," whispered charlie lee; "ain't they pitching it into them slick, over there on the other side. it's surely about our time to go at it." "just you shut up and wait," hissed billy blythe under his breath. "that's all your job just now." and here, in the safe shelter of the ruined tower, the fourteen listened to the roar of battle surging, now high, now low, in heady fluctuations, turbulent bursts, and yet more eloquent silences from the other side of the keep. they could distinguish, clear above all, the voice of general smith, encouraging on his men in the purest and most vigorous saxon. "go at them, boys! they're giving in. sammy carter, you sneak, i'll smash you, if you don't charge! go it, mike! wire in, boys! hike them out like billy-o!" and the bounding brothers, in their itching desire to take part, rubbed themselves down as if they had been horses, and softly squared up to each other, selecting the tenderest spots and hitting lightly, but with most wondrous accuracy, upon breast or chin. "won't we punch them! oh no!" whispered charlie lee. but from the way that he said it, he hardly seemed to mean what he said. just then came a tremendous and long continued gust of cheering from the defenders of the castle, which meant that they had cleared their front of the assailants. the sound of general smith's voice waxed gradually fainter, as if he were being carried away against his will by the tide of retreat. still at intervals he could be heard, encouraging, reproving, exhorting, but without the same glad confident ring in his tones. flags of red and white were waved from the ramparts; pistols (charged with powder only) were fired from embrasures, and the smoutchies rent their throats in arrogant jubilation. they thought that the great assault had failed. but behind them in the turret, all unbeknown, the bounding brothers silently patted one another with their knuckles as if desirous of practising affectionate greetings for the smoutchies. perhaps they were; and then, again, perhaps they weren't. * * * * * "now's our time," cried billy blythe; "come on, boys. now for it!" and with both hands and feet he began to remove certain flag-stones and recently heaped up _débris_ from the mouth of a narrow passage, the same by which hugh john had made his escape. his men stood around in astonishment and slowly dawning admiration, as they realised that their attack was to be a surprise, the most complete and famous in history, and also one strictly devised and carried out on the best models. though the rank and file did not know quite so much about that as their commander-in-chief, who was sure in his heart that froissart would have been glad to write about his crowning mercy. it is one of the proofs of the genuine nobility of hugh john's nature, and also of his consummate generalship, that he put the carrying out of the final _coup_ of his great scheme into other hands, consenting himself to take the hard knocks, to be mauled and defeated, in order that the rout of the enemy might be the more complete. the rubbish being at last sufficiently cleared, billy bent his head and dipped down the steps. charlie lee followed, and the fourteen were on their way. silently and cautiously, as if he had been relieving a hen-roost of its superfluous inhabitants, billy crept along, testing the foothold at every step. he came to the stairway up to the dungeon, pausing a moment, to listen. there was a great pow-wow overhead. the smoutchies were in the seventh heaven of jubilation over the repulse of the enemy. suddenly somebody in the passage sneezed. billy turned to charlie lee. "if that man does that again, burke him!" he whispered. then with a firm step he mounted the final ascent of the secret stair. his head hit hard against the roof at the top. he had not remembered how hugh john had told him that the exit was under the lowest part of the bottle dungeon. "bless that roof!" he muttered piously--more piously, perhaps, than could have been expected of him, considering his upbringing. "if billy blythe says that again, burke him!" said a carefully disguised gruff voice from the back--evidently that of the late sneezer. "silence--or by the lord i'll slay you!" returned billy, in a hissing whisper. there was the silence of the grave behind. billy blythe made himself much respected for the moral rectitude and true worth of his character. one by one the fourteen stepped clear of the damp stairs, and stood in the wide circuit of the dungeon. but the narrow circular exit of the cell was still twelve feet above them. how were they to reach it? the walls were smooth as the inside of the bottle from which the prison-house took its name, curving in at the top, without foothold or niches in their smooth surface, so that no climber could ascend more than a few feet. the bounding brothers stepped to the front, and with a hitch of their shoulders, stood waiting. "ready!" said billy. in a moment charlie lee was balancing himself on the third storey of the fraternal pyramid. he could just look over the edge of the platform on which the mouth of the dungeon was placed. he ducked down sharply. [illustration: "the living chain."] "they are all at their windows, yelling like fun," he whispered, with the white, eager look of battle on his face. "up, and at 'em!" said billy, as if he had been the great duke. and at his word the bounding brothers arched their shoulders to receive the weight of the coming climbers. one after another the remaining eleven scrambled up, swift and silent as cats; and with charlie lee at their head, lay prone on the dungeon platform, waiting the word of command. close as herrings in a barrel they crouched, their arms outstretched before them, and their chins sunk low on the masonry. billy crept along till his head lay over the edge of the bottle dungeon. he extended his arms down. the highest bounding brother grasped them. his mate at the foot cast loose from the floor and swarmed up as on a ladder. the living chain swayed and dangled; but though his wrists ached as if they would part from their sockets, billy never flinched; and finally, with charlie lee stretched across the hollow of his knees to keep all taut behind, by mere leverage of muscle he drew up the last brother upon the dungeon platform. the fourteen lay looking over upon the unconscious enemy. the level of the floor of the keep was six feet below. the smoutchies to a man were at their posts. with a nudge of his elbow billy intimated that it was not yet time for the final assault. he listened with one ear turned towards the great open gateway, till he heard again the rallying shout of general napoleon smith. "_now then! ready all! double-quick! char-r-r-ge!_" with a shout the first land division, once repulsed, came the second time at the foe. the smoutchies crowded to the gateway, deserting their windows in order to repel the determined assault delivered by hugh john and his merry men. "now!" said billy blythe softly, standing up on the dungeon platform. he glanced about him. every bounding brother and baresark man of the gipsy camp had the same smile on his face, the boxer's smile when he gives or takes punishment. down leaped billy blythe, and straight over the floor of the keep for the great gateway he dashed. one, two--one, two! went his fists. the thirteen followed him, and such was the energy of their charge that the smoutchies, taken completely by surprise, tumbled off their platforms by companies, fell over the broken steps by platoons, and even threw themselves in their panic into the arms of hugh john and his corps, who were coming on at the double in front. never was there such a rout known in history. the isolated smoutchies who had been left in the castle dropped from window and tower at the peril of their necks in order that they might have a chance of reaching the ground in safety. then they gathered themselves up and fled helter-skelter for the bridge which led towards the town of edam. but what completed their demoralisation was that at this psychological moment the third division under sir toady lion came into action. mr. burnham, with his coat-tails flying, caught first one and then another, and whelmed them on the turf, while the valiant butcher of edam, having secured his own offspring firmly by the collar, caused his cane to descend upon that hero's back and limbs till the air was filled with the resultant music. and the more loudly nipper howled, the faster and faster the smoutchies fled, while the shillelahs of the two generals, and the fists of the bounding brothers, wrought havoc in their rear. the flight became a rout. the bridge was covered with the fugitives. the forces of windy standard took all the prisoners they wanted, and butcher donnan took his son, who for many days had reason to remember the circumstance. he was a changed smoutchy from that day. the camp of the enemy, with all his artillery, arms, and military stores, fell into the hands of the triumphant besiegers. at the intercession of mr. burnham the prisoners were conditionally released, under parole never to fight again in the same war--nor for the future to meddle with the castle of windy standard, the property, as hugh john insisted on putting it, of mr. picton smith, esq., j. p. but mr. burnham did what was perhaps more efficacious than any oaths. he went round to all the parents, guardians, teachers, and employers of the smoutchy army. he represented the state of the case to them, and the danger of getting into trouble with a man so determined and powerful as mr. picton smith. the fists of the bounding brothers, the sword of general napoleon, the teeth and nails of sir toady lion (who systematically harassed the rear of the fleeing enemy) were as nothing to the several interviews which awaited the unfortunate smoutchies at their homes and places of business or learning that evening, and on the succeeding monday morning. their torture of general smith was amply avenged. the victorious army remained in possession of the field, damaged but happy. their triumph had not been achieved without wounds and bruises manifold. so mr. burnham sent for half-a-crown's worth of sticking-plaster, and another half-crown's worth of ripe gooseberries. whereupon the three divisions with one voice cheered mr. burnham, and toady lion put his hand on the sacred silk waistcoat, and said in his most peculiar toady-leonine grammar, "'oo is a bwick. us likes 'oo!" which mr. burnham felt was, at the very least, equivalent to the thanks of parliament for distinguished service. it was a very happy, a very hungry, a very sticky, and a very patchy army which approached the house of windy standard at six o'clock that night, and was promptly sent supperless to bed. hugh john parted with cissy at the stepping-stones. her eyes dwelt proudly and happily upon him. "you fought splendidly," she said. "we all fought splendidly," replied hugh john, with a nod of approval which went straight to cissy's heart, so that the tears sprang into her eyes. "oh, you _are_ a nice thing, hugh john!" she cried impulsively, reaching out her hands to clasp his arm. "no, i'm not!" said hugh john, startled and apprehensive. then without waiting for more he turned hastily away. but all the same cissy carter was very happy that night as she went homeward, and did not speak or even listen when sammy addressed her several times by the way upon the dangers of war and the folly of love. chapter xxxv. prissy's compromise. after the turmoil and excitement of the notably adventurous days which ended with the capture of the castle, the succeeding weeks dragged strangely. the holidays were dwindling as quickly as the last grains of sand in an hourglass, and there was an uneasy feeling in the air that the end of old and the beginning of new things were alike at hand. mr. picton smith returned from london the day after the great battle. that afternoon he was closeted for a long time with mr. burnham, but not even the venturesome sir toady lion on his hands and knees, could overhear what the two gentlemen had to say to each other. at all events mr. smith did not this time attempt to force any confession from the active combatants. his failure on a former occasion had been complete enough, and he had no desire once more to confess himself worsted by hugh john's determination to abjure all that savoured even remotely of the "dasht-mean." but it is certain that the smoutchy ringleaders were not further punished, and mr. smith took no steps to enforce the interdict which he had obtained against trespassers on the castle island. for it was about this time that prissy, having taken a great deal of trouble to understand all the bearings of the case, at last, with a brave heart, went and knocked at her father's study door. "come in," said the deep grave voice instantly, sending a thrill through the closed door, which made her tremble and rather wish that she had not come. "saint catherine of siena would not have been afraid," she murmured to herself, and forthwith opened the door. "well, little girl, what is it? what can i do for you?" said her father, smiling upon her; for he had heard of her ambassadorial picnic to the smoutchies, and perhaps his daughter's trustful gentleness had made him a little ashamed of his own severity. prissy stood nerving herself to speak the words which were in her heart. she had seen peace and kindly concord bless her mission from afar; and now, like paul before king agrippa, she would not be unfaithful to the heavenly vision. "father," she said at last, "you don't really want to keep people out of the castle altogether, do you?" "certainly not, if they behave themselves," said her father, "but the mischief is that they don't." "but suppose, father, that there was some one always there to see that they did behave, would you mind?" "of course not," replied her father, "but you know, prissy, i can't afford to keep a man down on the island to see that sixpenny trippers don't pull down my castle stone by stone, or break their own necks by falling into the dungeon." prissy thought a little while, and then tried a new tack. "father"--she went a little nearer to him and stroked the cuff of his coat-sleeve--"does the land beyond the bridge belong to you?" mr. picton smith moved away his hand. her mother used to do just that, and somehow the memory hurt. nevertheless, all unconsciously, the touch of the child's hand softened him. "no, prissy," he said wonderingly, "but what do you know about such things?" "nothing at all," she answered, "but i am trying to learn. i want everybody to love you, and think you as nice as i know you to be. don't you think you could let some one you knew very well live in the little lodge by the white bridge, and keep out the horrid people, or see that they behaved themselves?" "the town would never agree to that," said her father, not seeing where he was being led. "don't you think the town's people would if you gave them the sixpences all for themselves?" her father pushed back his chair in great astonishment and looked at prissy. "little girl," he said very gravely, "who has been putting all this into your head? has anybody told you to come to me about this?" prissy shook her head quickly, then she looked down as if embarrassed. "well, what is it? go on!" said her father, but the words were more softly spoken than you would think only to see them printed. "nobody told me about anything--i just thought about it all myself, father," she answered, taking courage from a certain look in mr. smith's eyes; "once i heard you say that the money was what the town's-people cared about. and--and--well, i knew that jane housemaid wanted to get married to tom cannon, and you see they can't, because tom has not enough wages to take a house." prissy was speaking very fast now, rattling out the words so as to be finished before her father could interpose with any grown-up questions or objections. "and you know i remembered last night when i was lying awake that catherine would have done this----" "what catherine?" said her father, who did not always follow his daughter's reasoning. "saint catherine of siena, of course," said prissy, for whom there was no other of the name; "so i came to you, and i want you to let tom and jane have the cottage, and jane can take up the sixpences in a little brass plate like the one mr. burnham gets from the churchwardens on sunday. and, oh! but i would just love to help her. may i sometimes, father?" "well," said her father, laughing, "there is perhaps something in what you say; but i don't think the provost and magistrates would ever agree. now run away and play, and i will see what can be done." * * * * * but all the same prissy did not go and play, and it was not mr. picton smith who saw what could be done. on the afternoon of the same day the provost of the good town of edam entered the council chamber wiping his face and panting vigorously. he was a stout man of much good humour when not crossed in temper, the leading chemist and druggist in the town, and as the proprietor of more houses and less education than any man in edam, of very great influence among the councillors. "well, billies," he cried jovially, "what do you think? there's a lass has keep'd me from the meetin' of this council for a full half-hour." "a lass!" answered the senior bailie, still more hilariously, "that's surely less than proper. i will be compelled to inform mrs. lamont of the fact." "oh, it was a lassie of twelve or thirteen," answered the provost. "so none of your insinuations, bailie tawse, and i'll thank you. she had a most astonishing tale to tell. it appears she is picton smith's lassie from windy standard; and she says to me, says she, 'provost, do you want to have the tourist folk that come to edam admitted to the castle?' says she. 'of course,' says i, 'that is what the law-plea is about. that dust is no settled yet.' 'then,' says she, brisk as if she was hiring me at yedam fair, 'suppose my father was willing to let ye charge a sixpence for admission, would you pay a capable man his wages summer and winter to look after it--a man that my father would approve of?' 'aye,' says i, 'the council would be blythe and proud to do that'--me thinking of my sister's son peter that was injured by a lamp-post falling against him last new year's night as he was coming hame frae the blue bell. 'then,' says she, 'i think it can be managed. my father will put tom cannon in the lodge at the white bridge. you will pay him ten shillings in the week for his wife looking after the gate and taking the parties over the castle.' 'his wife,' says i; 'tom is no married that ever i heard.' 'no,' says she, 'but he will be very quick if he gets the lodge.' then i thocht that somebody had put her up to all this, and i questioned her tightly. but no--certes, she is a clever lass. i verily believe if i had said the word she would hae comed along here to the council meeting and faced the pack o' ye. but i said to her that she might gang her ways hame, and that i would put the matter before the council mysel'!" [illustration: "'then,' said prissy, 'i think it can be managed.'"] the provost, who had been walking up and down all the time and wiping his brow, finally plumped solidly into his chair. there was a mighty discussion--in which, as usual, many epithets were bandied about; but finally it was unanimously agreed that, if the offer were put on a firm and legal basis and the interdict withdrawn, the "smith's lassie" compromise, as it was called for brevity, might be none such a bad solution of the difficulty for all parties. thus by the wise thought and brave heart of a girl was the great controversy ended. and now the tourist and holiday-maker, each after his kind, passes his sixpence into the slot of a clicking gate, instead of depositing it in the brazen offertory salver, which had been the desire of prissy's heart. "for," said one of the councillors generously, when the plate was proposed, "how do we know that mrs. cannon might not keep every second sixpence for herself--or maybe send it up to mr. smith? we all know that she was long a servant in his house. no, no, honesty is honesty--but it's better when well looked after. let us have a patent 'clicker.' i have used one attached to my till for years, and found it of great utility in the bacon-and-ham trade." but the change made no difference to hugh john and no difference to toady lion; for they came and went to the castle by the stepping-stones, and cissy carter took that way too, leaping as nimbly as any of them from stone to stone. on the sunday after this was finally arranged, mr. burnham gave out his text:-- "blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of god." and this is the way he ended his sermon: "there is one here to-day whom i might without offence or flattery call a true child of god. i will not say who that is; but this i will say, that i, for one, would rather be such a peacemaker, and have a right to be called by that other name, than be general of the greatest army in the world." "i think he must mean the provost--or else my father," said prissy to herself, looking reverently up to where, in the front row of the upper seats, the local chief magistrate sat, mopping his head with a red spotted handkerchief, and sunning himself in the somewhat sultry beams of his own greatness. as for hugh john, he declared that for a man who could row in a college boat, and who worshipped an old blue coat hung up in a glass case, mr. burnham said more drivelling things than any man alive or dead. and toady lion said nothing. he was only wondering all through the service whether he could catch a fly without his father seeing him.--he found that he could not. after this failure he remembered that he had a brandy ball only half sucked in his left trousers' pocket. he got it out with some difficulty. it had stuck fast to the seams, and finally came away somewhat mixed up with twine, sealing wax, and a little bit of pitch wrapped in leather. but as soon as he got down to it the brandy ball proved itself thoroughly satisfactory, and the various flavours developed in the process of sucking kept toady lion awake till the blessed "amen" released the black-coated throng. toady lion's gratitude was almost an entire thanksgiving service of itself. as he came out through the crowded porch, he put his hand into his father's, and with a portentous yawn piped out in his shrillest voice, "oh, i is so tired." the smile which ran round the late worshippers showed that toady lion had voiced the sentiments of many of mr. burnham's congregation. at this moment mr. burnham himself came out of the vestry just in time to hear the boy's frank expression of opinion. "never mind, toady lion," he said genially, "the truth is, i was a little tired myself to-day. i promise not to keep you quite so long next sunday morning. you must remind me if i transgress. nobody will, if you don't, toady lion." "doan know what 'twansguess' is--but shall call out loud if you goes on too long--telling out sermons and textises and fings." as they walked along the high street of edam, prissy glanced reverently at the provost. "oh, i wish i could have been a peacemaker too, like him," she sighed, "and then mr. burnham might have preached about me. perhaps i will when i grow up." for next to saint catherine of siena, the provost was her ideal of a peacemaker. as they walked homeward, mr. burnham came and touched prissy on the shoulder. "money cannot buy love," he said, somewhat sententiously, "but you, my dear, win it by loving actions." he turned to toady lion, who was trotting along somewhat sulkily, holding his sister's hand, and grumbling because he was not allowed to chase butterflies on sunday. "arthur george," said mr. burnham, "if anybody was to give you a piece of money and say, 'will you love me for half-a-crown,' you couldn't do it, could you?" "could just, though!" contradicted toady lion flatly, kicking at the stones on the highway. "oh no," his instructor suavely explained, "if it were a bad person who asked you to love him, you wouldn't love him for half-a-crown, surely!" toady lion turned the matter over. "well," he said, speaking slowly as if he were thinking hard between the words, "it might have to be five sillin's if he was _very_ bad!" chapter xxxvi. hugh john's way-going. the secret which had oppressed society after the return of mr. picton smith from london, being revealed, was that hugh john and sammy carter were both to go to school. for a while it appeared as if the foundations of the world had been undercut--the famous fellowship of noble knights disbanded, prissy and cissy, ministering angel and wild tomboy, alike abandoned to the tender mercies of mere governesses. strangest of all to prissy was the indubitable fact that hugh john wanted to go. at the very first mention of school he promptly forgot all about his noblest military ambitions, and began oiling his cricket bat and kicking his football all over the green. mr. burnham was anxious about his pupil's latin and more than doubtful about his vulgar fractions; but the general himself was chiefly bent on improving his round arm bowling, and getting that break from the left down to a fine point. every member of the household was more or less disturbed by the coming exodus--except sir toady lion. on the last fateful morning that self-contained youth maundered about as usual among his pets, carrying to and fro saucers of milk, dandelion leaves cut small, and other dainties--though hugh john's boxes were standing corded and labelled in the hall, though prissy was crying herself sick on her bed, and though there was even a dry hard lump high up in the great hero's own manly throat. his father was giving his parting instructions to his eldest son. "work hard, my boy," he said. "tell the truth, never tell tales, nor yet listen to them. mind your own business. don't fight, if you can help it; but if you have to, be sure you get home with your left before the other fellow. practise your bowling, the batting will practise itself. and when you play golf, keep your eye on the ball." "i'll try to play up, father," said hugh john, "and anyway i won't be 'dasht-mean'!" his father was satisfied. then it was prissy who came to say good-bye. she had made all sorts of good resolutions, but in less than half a minute she was bawling undisguisedly on the hero's neck. and as for the hero--well, we will not say what he was doing, something most particularly unheroic at any rate. janet sheepshanks hovered in the background, saying all the time, "for shame, miss priscilla, think shame o' yoursel'--garring the laddie greet like that when he's gaun awa'!" but even janet herself was observed to blow her own nose very often, and to offer hugh john the small garden hoe instead of the neatly wrapped new silk umbrella she had bought for him out of her own money. and all the while sir toady lion kept on carrying milk and fresh lettuce leaves to his stupid lop-eared rabbits. yet it was by no means insensibility which kept him thus busied. he was only playing his usual lone hand. yet even toady lion was not without his own proper sense of the importance of the occasion. "there's a funny fing 'at you wants to see at the stile behind the stable," he remarked casually to hugh john, as he went past the front door with an armful of hay for bedding, "but i promised not to tell w'at it is." immediately hugh john slunk out, ran off in an entirely different direction, circled about the "office houses," reached the stile behind the stable--and there, with her eyes very big, and her underlip quivering strangely, he discovered cissy carter. he stopped short and looked at her. the pressure of having to say farewell, or of making a stated speech of any kind, weighed heavily upon him. the two looked at each other like young wild animals--or as if they were children who had never been introduced, which is the same thing. "hugh john picton, you don't care!" sobbed cissy at last. "and i don't care either!" she added haughtily, commanding herself after a pathetic little pause. "i do, i do," answered hugh john vehemently, "only every fellow has to. sammy is going too, you know!" "oh, i don't care a button for sammy!" was cissy's most unsisterly speech. hugh john tried to think of something to say. cissy was now sobbing quietly and persistently, and that did not seem to help him. "say, don't now, ciss! stop it, or you'll make me cry too!" "you don't care! you don't love me a bit! you know you don't!" "i do--i do," protested the hero, in despair, "there--there--_now_ you can't say i don't care." "but you'll be so different when you come back, and you'll have lost your half of the crooked sixpence." "i won't, for true, cissy--and i shan't ever look at another girl nor play horses with them even if they ask me ever so." "you will, i know you will!" a rumble of wheels, a shout from the front door--"hugh john--wherever can that boy have got to?" "good-bye, ciss, i must go. oh hang it, don't go making a fellow cry. well, i _will_ say it then, 'i love you, ciss!' there--will that satisfy you?" [illustration: "a slim bundle of limp woe."] something lit on the end of cissy's nose, which was very red and wet with the tears that had run down it. there was a clatter of feet, and the lord of creation had departed. cissy sank down behind the stone wall, a slim bundle of limp woe, done up in blue serge trimmed with scarlet. the servants were gathered in the hall. several of the maids were already wet-eyed, for hugh john had "the way with him" that made all women want to "mother" him. besides, he had no mother of his own. "good-bye, master hugh!" they said, and sniffed as they said it. "good-bye, everybody," cried the hero, "soon be back again, you know." he said this very loudly to show that he did not care. he was going down the steps with prissy's fingers clutched in his, and every one was smiling. all went merry as a marriage bell--never had been seen so jovial a way-going. "_ugh--ugh--ugh!_" somebody in the hall suddenly sobbed out from among the white caps of the maids. "go upstairs instantly, jane. don't disgrace yourself!" cried janet sheepshanks sharply, stamping her foot. for the sound of jane's sudden and shameful collapse sent the other maids' aprons furtively up to their eyes. and janet sheepshanks had no apron. not that she needed one--of course not. "come on, hugh john--the time is up!" said his father from the side of the dog-cart, where (somewhat ostentatiously) he had been refastening straps which mike had already done to a nicety. at this moment toady lion passed with half a dozen lettuce leaves. he was no more excited "than nothing at all," as prissy indignantly said afterwards. "good-bye, toady lion," said hugh john, "you can have my other bat and the white rat with the pink eyes." toady lion stood with the lettuce leaves in his arms, looking on in a bored sort of way. prissy could have slapped him if her hands had not been otherwise employed. he did not say a word till his brother was perched up aloft on the dog-cart with his cricket bat nursed between his knees and a new hard-hat pulled painfully over his eyes. then at last toady lion spoke. "did 'oo find the funny fing behind the stable, hugh john?" before hugh john had time to reply, the dog-cart drove away amid sharp explosions of grief from the white-capped throng. jane housemaid dripped sympathy from a first-floor window till the gravel was wet as from a smart shower. toady lion alone stood on the steps with his usual expression of bored calmness. then he turned to prissy. "why is 'oo so moppy?" "oh, you go away--you've got no heart!" said prissy, and resumed her luxury of woe. if toady lion had been a gallic boy, we should have said that he shrugged his shoulders. at all events, he smiled covertly to the lettuces as he moved off in the direction of the rabbit-hutches. "it was a _very_ funny fing w'at was behind the stable," he said. for sir toady lion was a humorist. and you can't be a humorist without being a little hard-hearted. only the heart of a professional writer of pathos can be one degree harder. chapter xxxvii. the good conduct prize. it was three years after. sometimes three years makes a considerable change in grown-ups. more often it leaves them pretty much where they were. but with boys and girls the world begins all over again every two years at most. so the terms went and came, and at each vacation, instead of returning home, hugh john went to london. for it so happened that the year he had left for school the house of windy standard was burned down almost to the ground, and mr. picton smith took advantage of the fact to build an entirely new mansion on a somewhat higher site. the first house might have been saved had the bounding brothers been in the neighbourhood, or indeed any active and efficient helpers. but the nearest engine was under the care of the edam fire brigade, who upon hearing of the conflagration, with great enthusiasm ran their engine a quarter of a mile out of the town by hand. then their ardour suddenly giving out, they sat down and had an amicable smoke on the roadside till the horse was brought to drag the apparatus the rest of the distance. but alas! the animal was too fat to be got between the shafts, so it had to be sent back and a leaner horse forwarded. meantime the house of windy standard was blazing merrily, and when the edam fire company finally arrived, the ashes were still quite hot. * * * * * so in this way it came about that it was three long years before hugh john again saw the hoary battlements of the ancient strength on the castle island which he and his army had attacked so boldly. there were great changes in the town itself. the railway had come to edam, and now steamed and snorted under the very walls of the abbey. chimneys had multiplied, and the smoke columns were taller and denser. the rubicund provost had gone the way of all the earth, even of all provosts! and the leading bailie, one donnan, a butcher and army contractor, sat with something less of dignity but equal efficiency in his magisterial chair. hugh john from the station platform saw something of this with a sick heart, but he was sure that out in the pure air and infinite quiet of windy standard he would find all things the same. but a new and finer house shone white upon the hill. gardens flourished on unexpected places with that appearance of having been recently planted, frequently pulled up by the roots, looked at and put back, which distinguishes all new gardens. here and there white-painted vineries and conservatories winked ostentatiously in the sun. what a time hugh john had been planning they would have! for months he had thought of nothing but this. toady lion and he would do all over again those famous deeds of daring he had done at the castle. again they would attack the island. other secret passages would be discovered. all would be as it had been--only nicer. and cissy carter--more than everything else he had looked forward to meeting cissy. prissy had seen her often, and even during the last week she had written to hugh john (prissy always did like to write letters) that cissy carter was just splendid--so much older and _so_ improved. cissy was now nearly seventeen, being (as before) a year and three months older than hugh john. now the distinguished military hero had not been much troubled with sentiment during his school terms. soldiers at the front never are. he was fully occupied in doing his lessons fairly. he got on well with "the fellows." he was anxious to keep up his end in the games. but, for all that, during these years he had sacredly kept the half of the crooked sixpence in his box, hidden in the end of a tie which he never wore. now, however, he had looked it out, and by dint of hammering his imagination, he had managed to squeeze out an amount of feeling which quite astonished himself. he would be noble, generous, forbearing. he remembered how faithfully cissy had loved him, and how unresponsive he had been in the past. he resolved that all would be very different now. it was. then again he had brought back a record of some distinction from st. salvator's. he had won the school golf championship. he possessed also a fine bat with an inscription on silver, telling how in the match with st. aiden's, a rival college of much pretension, he had made not out, and taken eight wickets for sixty-nine. besides this presentation cricket bat hugh john had brought home only one other prize. this was a fitted dressing-bag of beautiful design, with a whole armoury of wonderful silver-plated things inside. it was known as the good conduct prize, and was awarded every year, not by the masters, but by the free votes of all the boys. prissy was enormously proud of this tribute paid to her brother by his companions. the donor was an old gentleman whose favourite hobby was the promotion of the finer manners of the ancient days, and the terms of the remit on which the award must be made were, that it should be given to the boy who, in the opinion of his fellow-students, was most distinguished for consistent good manners and polite breeding, shown both by his conduct to his superiors in school, and in association with his equals in the playing fields. at first hugh john had taken no interest whatever in this award, perhaps from a feeling that his own claims were somewhat slender--or thinking that the prize would merely be some "old book or other." but it happened that, in order to stimulate the school during the last lax and sluggish days of the summer term, the head-master took out the fittings of the dressing-bag, and set the stand containing them on his desk in view of all. there was a set of razors among them. instantly hugh john's heart yearned with a mighty desire to obtain that prize. how splendid it would be if he could appear at home before toady lion and cissy carter with a moustache! that night he considered the matter from all points of view--and felt his muscles. in the morning he was down bright and early. he prowled about the purlieus of the playground. at the back of the gymnasium he met ashwell major. "i say, ashwell major," he said, "about that good conduct prize--who are you going to vote for?" "well," replied ashwell major, "i haven't thought much--i suppose sammy carter." "oh, humbug!" cried our hero; "see here, sammy will get tons of prizes anyway. what does he want with that one too?" "well," said the other, "let's give it to little brown. butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. he's such a cake." hugh john felt that the time for moral suasion had come. "smell that!" he said, suddenly extending the clenched fist with which a week before he had made "bran mash" of the bully of the school. [illustration: "smell that!"] reluctantly ashwell major's nostrils inhaled the bouquet of hugh john's knuckles. ashwell major seemed to have a dainty and discriminating taste in perfumes, for he did not appear to relish this one. then ashwell major said that now he was going to vote solidly for hugh john smith. he had come to the conclusion that his manners were quite exceptional. and so as the day went on, did the candidate for the fitted dressing-bag argue with the other boarders, waylaying them one by one as they came out into the playground. the day-boys followed, and each enjoyed the privilege of a smell at the fist of power. * * * * * "i rejoice to announce that the good conduct prize has been awarded by the unanimous vote of all the scholars of saint salvator's to hugh john picton smith of the fifth form. i am the more pleased with this result, that i have never before known such complete and remarkable unanimity of choice in the long and distinguished history of this institution." these were the memorable words of the headmaster on the great day of the prize-giving. whereupon our hero, going up to receive his well-earned distinction, blushed modestly and becomingly; and was gazed upon with wrapt wonder by the matrons and maids assembled, as beyond controversy the model boy of the school. and such a burst of cheering followed him to his seat as had never been heard within the walls of st. salvator's. for quite casually hugh john had mentioned that he would be on the look-out for any fellow that was a sneak and didn't cheer like blazes. * * * * * moral.--_there is no moral to this chapter._ chapter xxxviii. hugh john's blighted heart. on the first evening at home hugh john put on his new straw hat with its becoming school ribbon of brown, white and blue, for he did not forget that prissy had described cissy carter as "such a pretty girl." now pretty girls are quite nice when they are jolly. what a romp he would have, and even the stile would not be half bad. he ran down to the landing-stage, having given his old bat and third best fishing-rod to his brother to occupy his attention. toady lion was in an unusually adoring frame of mind, chiefly owing to the new bat with the silver inscription which hugh john had brought home with him. if that were toady lion's attitude, how would it be with the enthusiastic cissy carter? she must be more than sixteen now. he liked grown-up girls, he thought, so long as they were pretty. and cissy was pretty, prissy had distinctly said so. the white punt bumped against the landing-stage, but the brown was gone. however, he could see it at the other side, swaying against the new pier which mr. davenant carter had built opposite to that of windy standard. this was another improvement; you used to have to tie the boat to a bush of bog-myrtle and jump into wet squashy ground. the returned exile sculled over and tied up the punt to an iron ring. then with a high and joyous heart he started over the moor, taking the well-beaten path towards oaklands. suddenly, through the wood as it grew thinner and more birchy, he saw the gleam of a white dress. two girls were walking--no, not two girls, prissy and a young lady. "oh hang!" said hugh john to himself, "somebody that's stopping with the carters. she'll go taking up all cissy's time, and i wanted to see such a lot of her." the white dresses and summer hats walked composedly on. "i tell you what," said hugh john to himself, "i'll scoot through the woods and give them a surprise." and in five minutes he leaped from a bank into the road immediately before the girls. prissy gave a little scream, threw up her hands, and then ran eagerly to him. "why, hugh john," she cried, "have you really come? how could you frighten us like that, you bad boy!" and she kissed him--well, just as prissy always did. meanwhile the young lady had turned partly away, and was pulling carelessly at a leaf--as if such proceedings, if not exactly offensive, were nevertheless highly uninteresting. "cissy," called priscilla at last, "won't you come and shake hands with hugh john." the girl turned slowly. she was robed in white linen belted with slim scarlet. the dress came quite down to the tops of her dainty boots. she held out her hand. "how do you do--ah, mr. smith?" she said, with her fingers very much extended indeed. hugh john gasped, and for a long moment found no word to say. "why, cissy, how you've grown!" he cried at length. but observing no gleam of fellow-feeling in his quondam comrade's eyes, he added somewhat lamely, "i mean how do you do, miss--miss carter?" there was silence after this, as the three walked on together, prissy talking valiantly in order to cover the long and distressful silences. hugh john's usual bubbling river of speech was frozen upon his lips. he had a thousand things to tell, a thousand thousand to ask. but now it did not seem worth while to speak of one. why should a young lady like this, with tan gloves half-way to her elbows and the shiniest shoes, with stockings of black silk striped with red, care to hear about his wonderful bat for the three-figure score at cricket, or the fact that he had won the golf medal by doing the round in ninety-five? he had even thought of taking some credit (girls will suck in anything you tell them, you know) for his place in his class, which was seventh. but he had intended to suppress the fact that the fifth form was not a very large one at st. salvator's. but now he suddenly became conscious that these trivialities could not possibly interest a young lady who talked about the hunt ball in some such fashion as this: "he is _such_ a nice partner, don't you know! he dances--oh, like an angel, and the floor was--well, just perfection!" hugh john did not catch the name of this paragon; but he hated the beast anyhow. he did not know that cissy was only bragging about her bat, and cracking up her score at golf. "have you seen 'the white lady of avenel' at the sobriety theatre, mr. smith?" she said, suddenly turning to him. "no," grunted hugh john, "but i've seen the drury lane pantomime. it was prime!" the next moment he was sorry he had said it. but the truth slipped out before he knew. for so little was hugh john used to the society of grown-up big girls, that he did not know any better than to tell them the truth. "ah, yes!" commented cissy carter condescendingly, "i used quite to like going to pantomimes when i was a child!" a slight and elegant young man, with a curling moustache turned up at the ends, came towards them down the bank. he had grey-and-white striped trousers on, a dark cutaway coat, and a smart straw hat set on the back of his head. he wore gloves and walked with a pretty cane. hugh john loathed him on sight. "good-evening, courtenay," said cissy familiarly, "this is my friend, prissy smith, of whom you have heard me speak; and this is her brother just home from school!" ("what a beast! i hate him! calls that a moustache, i daresay. ha, ha! he should just see ashwell major's. and i can lick ashwell major with one hand!") "aw," said the young man with the cane, superciliously stroking his maligned upper lip, "the preparatory school, i daresay--lord, was at one once myself--beastly hole!" ("i don't doubt it, you look it," was hugh john's mental note.) aloud he said, "saint salvator's is a ripping place. we beat glen fetto by an innings and ninety-one!" mr. courtenay carling took no notice. he was talking earnestly and confidentially to his cousin. hugh john had had enough of this. "come on, priss," he said roughly, "let's go home." prissy was nothing loath. she was just aching to get him by himself, so that she might begin to burn incense at his manly shrine. she had had stacks of it ready, and the match laid for weeks and weeks. "good-night," said cissy frigidly. hugh john took hold of her dainty gloved fingers as gingerly as if each had been a stinging nettle, and dropped them as quickly. mr. courtenay carling paused in his conversation just long enough to say over his shoulder, "ah--ta-ta--got lots of pets to run round and see, i s'pose--rabbits and guinea-pigs; used to keep 'em myself, you know, beastly things, ta-ta!" and with cissy by his side he moved off, alternately twirling his moustache and glancing approvingly down at her. cissy on her part never once looked round, but kept poking her parasol into the plants at the side of the road, as determinedly as if it had been the old pike manufactured by the exiled king o'donowitch. such treatment could not have been at all good for such a miracle of silk and lace and cane; but somehow its owner did not seem to mind. "what an awful brute!" burst out hugh john, as soon as prissy and he were clear. "oh, how _can_ you say so!" said prissy, much surprised; "why, every one thinks him so nice. he has such lots of money, and is going to stand for parliament--that is, if his uncle would only die, or have something happen to him!" her brother snorted, as if to convey his contempt for "everybody's" opinion on such a matter; but prissy was too happy to care for aught save the fact that once more her dear hugh john was safe at home. "do you know," she said lovingly, "i could not sleep last night for thinking of your coming! it is so splendid. there's the loveliest lot of roses being planted in the new potting house, and i've got a pearl necklace to show you--such a beauty--and----" thus she rattled on, joyously ticking off all the things she had to show him. she ran a little ahead to look at him, then ran as quickly back to hug him. "oh, you dear!" she exclaimed. and all the while the heart of the former valiant soldier sank deep and ever deeper into the split-new cricketing shoes he had been so proud of when he sallied forth to meet cissy carter by the stile. "come on," she cried presently, picking up her skirts. "i'm so excited i don't know what to do. i can't keep quiet. i believe i can race you yet, for all you're so big and have won a silver cricket bat. how i shall love to see it! come on, hugh john, i'll race you to the gipsy camp for a pound of candy!" but hugh john did not want to race. he did not want _not_ to race. he did not want ever to do anything any more--only to fade away and die. his heart was cold and dead within him. he felt that he would never know happiness again. but he could not bear to disappoint prissy the first night. besides, he could easily enough beat her--he was sure of that. so he smiled indulgently and nodded acquiescence. he had not told her that he had won the school mile handicap from scratch. they started, and hugh john began to run scientifically, as he had been taught to do at school, keeping a little behind prissy, ready to spurt at the last and win by a neck. doubtless this would have answered splendidly, only that prissy ran so fast. she did not know anything about scientific sprinting, but she could run like the wind. so by the time they reached the partan burn she had completely outclassed hugh john. with her skirts held high in her hand over she flew like a bird; but her brother, jumping the least bit too soon, went splash into the shallows, sending the water ten feet into the air. like a shot prissy was back, and reached a hand down to the vanquished scientific athlete. "oh, i'm so sorry, hugh john," she said; "i ought to have told you it had been widened. don't let's race any more. i think i must have started too soon, and you'd have beaten me anyway. here's the gipsy camp." the world-weary exile looked about him. he had thought that at least it might be some manly pleasure to see billy blythe once more, and try a round with the bounding brothers. after all, what did it matter about girls? he had a twelve-bladed knife in his pocket which he intended for billy, and he knew a trick of boxing--a feint with the right, and then an upward blow with the left, which he knew would interest his friend. but the tents were gone. the place where they had stood was green and unencumbered. only an aged crone or two moved slowly about among the small thatched cottages. to one of these hugh john addressed himself. "eh, master--billy blythe--why, he be 'listed for a sodger--a corp'ral they say he be, and may be sergeant by this time, shouldn't wonder. eh, dearie, and the boundin' brothers--oh! ye mean the joompin' lads. they're off wi' a circus in ireland. nowt left but me and my owd mon! thank ye, sir, you be a gentleman born, as anybody can see without the crossin' o' the hand." sadly hugh john moved away, a still more blighted being. he left prissy at the white lodge-gate in order that she might go home to meet mr. picton smith on his return from the county town, where he had been judging the horses at an agricultural show. he would take a walk through the town, he said to himself, and perhaps he might meet some of his old enemies. he felt that above everything he would enjoy a sharp tussle. after all what save valour was worth living for? wait till he was a soldier, and came back in uniform with a sword by his side and the scar of a wound on his forehead--would cissy carter despise him then? he would show her! in the meantime he had learned certain tricks of fence which he would rather like to prove on the countenances of his former foes. so with renewed hope in his heart he took his way through the town of edam. the lamps were just being lighted, and hugh john lounged along through the early dusk with his hands in his pockets, looking out for a cause of offence. presently he came upon a brilliantly lighted building, into which young men and women were entering singly and in pairs. a hanging lamp shone down upon a noticeboard. he had nothing better to do. he stopped and read-- +--------------------------------------------------------+ | edam mutual improvement society. | | _season_ -- | | | | _hon. president._--rev. mr. burnham. | | _hon. vice-president._--mr. n. donnan. | | _hon. sec. and treasurer._--mr. nathaniel cuthbertson. | | debate to-night. | | | | _subject._--"is the pen mightier than the sword?" | | _affirmative._--mr. n. donnan. | | _negative._--mr. burnham. | | -------------------- | | all are cordially invited. | | _bring your hymn-books._ | +--------------------------------------------------------+ hugh john did not accept the invitation, perhaps because he had no hymn-book. he only waited outside to hear mr. n. donnan's opening sentence. it ran thus: "all ages of the world's history have borne testimony to the fact that peace is preferable to war, right to might, and the sweet still voice of reason to the savage compulsions of brutal force." "oh, hang!" ejaculated hugh john, doubling his fist; "did you ever hear such rot? i wish i could jolly well fetch nipper donnan one on the nob!" and he sauntered on till he came to the burying-ground of edam's ancient abbey. he wandered aimlessly up the short avenue, stood at the gate a while, then kicked it open and went in. he clambered about among the graves, stumbling over the grassy mounds till he came to the tombs of his ancestors. at least they were not quite his ancestors, but the principle was the same. "there's nothing exclusive about me. i'll adopt them," said hugh john to himself, as many another distinguished person had done before him. they were in fact the tombs of the lorraines, the ancient possessors and original architects of the castle of windy standard, which he had spilt his best blood to defend. well, it was to attack. but no matter. he sat down and looked at the defaced and battered tombs in silence. mighty thoughts coursed through his brain. his heart was filled full to the brim with the sadness of mortality. tears of hopeless resignation stood in his eyes. it was the end, the solemn end of all. soon he, too, like them, would be lying low and quiet. he began to be conscious of a general fatal weakness of the system, a hollowness of the chest (or stomach), which showed that the end was near. ah, they would be sorry then--_she_ would be sorry! and after morning service in church, they would come and stand by his grave and say--_she_ would say, "he was young, but he lived nobly, though, alas! there was none to appreciate him. ah, would that he were again alive!" then they (she) would weep, yes, weep bitterly, and fling themselves (herself) upon the cold, cold ground. but all in vain. he (hugh john picton smith, late hero) would lie still in death under that green sod and never say a word. no, not even if he could. like brer fox, he would lie low. at this point hugh john was so moved that he put his face down into his hands and sobbed. a heavy clod of earth whizzed through the air and impacted itself with a thud upon the mourner's cheek, filling his ear with mud and sand, and informing him at the same instant that it carried a stone concealed somewhere about its person. for though nipper donnan was now vice-president of a mutual improvement association, and at that moment spreading himself in a peroration upon the advantages of universal goody-goodiness, he had, happily for society and hugh john, left exceedingly capable successors. the eternal smoutchy was still very much alive, and still an amateur of clods in the town of edam. that sod worked a complete and sudden cure in hugh john. he rose like a shot. few and short were the prayers he said, but what these petitions lacked in length they made up for in fervency. he pursued his assailant down the mill brae, clamoured after him round the town-yards, finally cornered him at the spital port, punched his head soundly--and felt better. so that night the unfortunate young martyr to the flouts and scorns of love, instead of occupying a clay-cold bier with his (adopted) ancestors in edam abbey graveyard, ate an excellent supper in the new house of windy standard, with three helpings of round-of-beef and vegetables to match. then with an empty heart, but a full stomach, he betook himself upstairs to his room, where presently toady lion came to worship, and prissy dropped in to see that all was well. she had spread prettily worked covers of pink silk over his brushes and combs, an arrangement which the hero contemplated with disgust. he seized them, gathered them into a knot, and flung them into a corner. "oh, hugh john!" cried prissy, "how could you? and they took such a long time to do!" and there were the premonitions of april showers in the sensitive barometer of priscilla's eyes. the brother was touched--as much, that is, as it is in the nature of a brother to be. but in the interests of discipline he could not give way too completely. "all right, prissy," he said, "it was no end good of you. but really, you know, a fellow couldn't be expected to put up with these things. why, they'd stick in your nails and tangle up all your traps so that you'd wish you were dead ten times a day, or else they'd make you say 'hang!' and things." "very well," said prissy, with sweetest resignation, "then i will take them for myself, but i did think you would have liked them!" "did you, priss--you are a good sort!" said hugh john, patting his sister on the cheek. his sister felt that after such a demonstration of affection from him there was little left to live for. "good-night, you dear," she said; "i'll wake you in the morning, and have your bath ready for you at eight." "good old girl!" said hugh john tolerantly, and went to bed, glad that he had been so nice to prissy about the brush-covers. such a little makes a girl happy, you know. perhaps, all things being considered, it was for the good of our hero's soul at this time that cissy carter was on hand to take some of the conceit out of him. chapter xxxix. "girls are funny things." "girls are funny things" was hugh john's favourite maxim; and he forthwith proceeded to prove that boys are too, by making a point of seeing cissy carter several times a week during his entire vacation. yet he was unhappy as often as he went to oaklands, and only more unhappy when he stayed away. on the whole, cissy was much less frigid than on that first memorable evening. but she never thawed entirely, nor could hugh john discover the least trace of the hair-brained madcap of ancient days for whom his whole soul longed, in the charmingly attired young lady whose talk and appearance were so much beyond her years. but he shaved three or four times a day with his new razors, sneaking hot water on the sly in order to catch up. the last time he could hope to see her before going back to school for his final term, was on the evening of a day when hugh john had successfully captained a team of schoolboys and visitors from the surrounding country-houses against the best eleven which edam could produce. cissy carter had looked on with mr. courtenay carling by her side, while captain (once general napoleon) smith made seventy-seven, and carried out his still virgin bat amid the cheers of the spectators, after having beaten the edamites by four wickets, and with only six minutes to spare in order to save the draw. "oh, well played!" cried mr. carling patronisingly, as hugh john came up, modestly swinging his bat as if he did as much every day of his life; "i remember when i was at the 'varsity----" but hugh john turned away without waiting to hear what happened to mr. carling at the 'varsity which he had honoured with his presence. it chanced, however, that at that moment the young gentleman with the moustache saw on the other side of the enclosure a lady of more mature charms than those of his present companion, whose father also had a great deal of influence--don't you know?--in the county. so in a little while he excused himself and went over to talk with his new friend in her carriage, afterwards driving home with her to "a quiet family dinner." thus cissy was left to return alone with sammy, and she gathered up her sunshade and gloves with an air of calm and surprising dignity. hugh john had meant to bid her an equally cool good night and stroll off with the worshipful toady lion--who that day had kept wickets "like a jolly little brick" (as his brother was good enough to say), besides making a useful six before being run out. but somehow, when the hero of the day went to say good-bye, he could not quite carry out his programme, and found himself, against his will, offering in due form to "see miss carter home." which shows that hugh john, like his moustache, was growing up very rapidly indeed, and learning how to adapt himself to circumstances. he wondered what ashwell major would say if he knew. it would make him sick, hugh john thought; but after all, what was a fellow to do? for the first mile they talked freely about the match, and cissy complimented him on his scoring. then there fell a silence and constraint upon them. they were approaching the historic stile. hugh john nerved himself for a daring venture. "do you remember what you once made me say here, cissy?" he said. miss carter turned upon him a perfectly well-bred stare of blankest ignorance. "no," she said, "i don't remember ever being here with you before." "oh, come, no humbug, cissy--you could remember very well if you wanted to," said hugh john roughly. as he would have described it himself, "his monkey was getting up. cissy had better look out." he took from his ticket-pocket the piece of the crooked sixpence, which he had kept for more than three years in his schoolbox. "you don't remember that either, i suppose?" he said with grave irony. cissy looked at the broken coin calmly--she would have given a great deal if she had had a pincenez or a quizzing-glass to put up at that point. but she did her best without either. strangely, however, hugh john was not even irritated. "no," she said at last, "it looks like half of a sixpence which somebody has stepped upon. how quaint! did you find it, or did some one give it to you?" they were at the stile now, and hugh john helped cissy over. the grown-up swing of her skirt as she tripped down was masterly. it looked so natural. on the other side they both stopped, faced about, and set their elbows on the top almost as they had done three or four years ago when--but so much had happened since then. with even more serenity hugh john took a small purse out of his pocket. it was exceedingly dusty, as well it might be, for he had picked it out from underneath the specially constructed grandstand at the cricket ground. he opened it quietly, in spite of the unladylike snatch which cissy made as soon as she recognised it, dropping her youngladyish hauteur in an instant. hugh john held the dainty purse high up out of her reach, and extracted from an inner compartment a small piece of silver. [illustration: "it looks like half of a sixpence which somebody has stepped upon. how quaint!"] "give it back to me this moment," cried cissy, who had lost all her reserve, and suddenly grown whole years younger. "i didn't think any one in the world could be so mean. but i might have known. do you hear--give it back to me, hugh john." with the utmost deliberation he snapped the catch and handed her the purse. the bit of silver he fitted carefully to the first piece he had taken from his ticket-pocket and held them up. they were the reunited halves of the same crooked sixpence. then he looked at cissy with some of her own former calmness. he even offered her the second fragment of silver, whereupon with a sudden petulant gesture she struck his hand up, and her own half of the crooked sixpence flew into the air, flashed once in the rays of the setting sun, and fell in the middle of the path. hugh john stood in front of her a moment silent. then he spoke. "do you know, cissy, you are a regular little fraud!" and with that he suddenly caught the girl in his arms, kissed her once, twice, thrice--and then sprang over the stile, and down towards the river almost as swiftly as prissy herself. the girl stood a moment speechless with surprise and indignation. then the tears leaped to her eyes, and she stamped her foot. "oh, i hate you, i despise you!" she cried, putting all her injured pride and anger into the indignant ring of her voice. "i'll never speak to you again--not as long as i live, hugh john smith!" and she turned away homeward, holding her head very high in the air. she seemed to be biting her lips to keep back the tears which threatened to overflow her cheeks. but just as she was leaving the stile, curiously enough she cast sharply over her shoulder and all round her the quick shy look of a startled fawn--and stooped to the path. the next moment the bit of silver which had sparkled there was gone, and cissy carter, with eyes still moist, but with the sweetest and most wistful smile playing upon her face, was tripping homeward to oaklands to the tune of "the girl i left behind me," which she liked to whistle softly when she was sure no one was listening. and at the end of every verse she gave a little skip, as if her heart were light within her. girls are funny things. transcriber's note: inconsistent and archaic spelling, syntax, and punctuation retained. the house of whispers by william le queux contents chapter i the laird of glencardine chapter ii from out the night chapter iii seals of destiny chapter iv something concerning james flockart chapter v the muries of connachan chapter vi concerns gabrielle's secret chapter vii contains curious confidences chapter viii casting the bait chapter ix reveals a mysterious business chapter x declares a woman's love chapter xi concerns the whispers chapter xii explains some curious facts chapter xiii what flockart foresaw chapter xiv concerns the curse of the cardinal chapter xv follows flockart's fortunes chapter xvi shows a girl's bondage chapter xvii describes a frenchman's visit chapter xviii reveals the spy chapter xix shows gabrielle defiant chapter xx tells of flockart's triumph chapter xxi through the mists chapter xxii by the mediterranean chapter xxiii which shows a shabby foreigner chapter xxiv "when greek meets greek" chapter xxv shows gabrielle in exile chapter xxvi the velvet paw chapter xxvii betrays the bond chapter xxviii the whispers again chapter xxix contains a further mystery chapter xxx reveals something to hamilton chapter xxxi describes a curious circumstance chapter xxxii outside the window chapter xxxiii is about the maison lÉnard chapter xxxiv surprises mr. flockart chapter xxxv discloses a secret chapter xxxvi in which gabrielle tells a strange story chapter xxxvii increases the interest chapter xxxviii "that man's voice!" chapter xxxix contains the conclusion the house of whispers chapter i the laird of glencardine "why, what's the matter, child? tell me." "nothing, dad--really nothing." "but you are breathing hard; your hand trembles; your pulse beats quickly. there's something amiss--i'm sure there is. now, what is it? come, no secrets." the girl, quickly snatching away her hand, answered with a forced laugh, "how absurd you really are, dear old dad! you're always fancying something or other." "because my senses of hearing and feeling are sharper and more developed than those of other folk perhaps," replied the grey-bearded old gentleman, as he turned his sharp-cut, grey, but expressionless countenance to the tall, sweet-faced girl standing beside his chair. no second glance was needed to realise the pitiful truth. the man seated there in his fine library, with the summer sunset slanting across the red carpet from the open french windows, was blind. since his daughter gabrielle had been a pretty, prattling child of nine, nursing her dolly, he had never looked upon her fair face. but he was ever as devoted to her as she to him. surely his was a sad and lonely life. within the last fifteen years or so great wealth had come to him; but, alas! he was unable to enjoy it. until eleven years ago he had been a prominent figure in politics and in society in london. he had sat in the house for one of the divisions of hampshire, was a member of the carlton, and one year he found his name among the birthday honours with a k.c.m.g. for him everybody predicted a brilliant future. the press gave prominence to his speeches, and to his house in park street came cabinet ministers and most of the well-known men of his party. indeed, it was an open secret in a certain circle that he had been promised a seat in the cabinet in the near future. then, at the very moment of his popularity, a terrible tragedy had occurred. he was on the platform of the albert hall addressing a great meeting at which the prime minister was the principal speaker. his speech was a brilliant one, and the applause had been vociferous. full of satisfaction, he drove home that night to park street; but next morning the report spread that his brilliant political career had ended. he had suddenly been stricken by blindness. in political circles and in the clubs the greatest consternation was caused, and some strange gossip became rife. it was whispered in certain quarters that the affliction was not produced by natural causes. in fact, it was a mystery, and one that had never been solved. the first oculists of europe had peered into and tested his eyes, but all to no purpose. the sight had gone for ever. therefore, full of bitter regrets at being thus compelled to renounce the stress and storm of political life which he loved so well, sir henry heyburn had gone into strict retirement at glencardine, his beautiful old perthshire home, visiting london but very seldom. he was essentially a man of mystery. even in the days of his universal popularity the source of his vast wealth was unknown. his father, the tenth baronet, had been sadly impoverished by the depreciation of agricultural property in lincolnshire, and had ended his days in the genteel quietude of the albany. but sir henry, without betraying to the world his methods, had in fifteen years amassed a fortune which people guessed must be considerably over a million sterling. from a life of strenuous activity he had, in one single hour, been doomed to one of loneliness and inactivity. his friends sympathised, as indeed the whole british public had done; but in a month the tragic affair and its attendant mysterious gossip had been forgotten, as in truth had the very name of sir henry heyburn, whom the prime minister, though his political opponent, had one night designated in the house as "one of the most brilliant and talented young men who has ever sat upon the opposition benches." in his declining years the life of this man was a pitiful tragedy, his filmy eyes sightless, his thin white fingers ever eager and nervous, his hours full of deep thought and silent immobility. to him, what was the benefit of that beautiful perthshire castle which he had purchased from lord strathavon a year before his compulsory retirement? what was the use of the old ancestral manor near caistor in lincolnshire, or the town-house in park street, the snug hunting-box at melton, or the beautiful palm-shaded, flower-embowered villa overlooking the blue southern sea at san remo? he remembered them all. he had misty visions of their splendour and their luxury; but since his blindness he had seldom, if ever, entered them. that big library up in scotland in which he now sat was the room he preferred; and with his daughter gabrielle to bear him company, to smooth his brow with her soft hand, to chatter and to gossip, he wished for no other companion. his life was of the past, a meteor that had flashed and had vanished for ever. "tell me, child, what is troubling you?" he was asking in a calm, kind voice, as he still held the girl's hand in his. the sweet scent of the roses from the garden beyond filled the room. a smart footman in livery opened the door at that moment, asking, "stokes has just returned with the car from perth, sir henry, and asks if you want him further at present." "no," replied his blind master. "has he brought back her ladyship?" "yes, sir henry," replied the man. "i believe he is taking her to the ball over at connachan to-night." "oh, yes, of course. how foolish i am! i quite forgot," said the baronet with a slight sigh. "very well, hill." and the clean-shaven young man, with his bright buttons bearing the chevron _gules_ betwixt three boars' heads erased _sable_, of the heyburns, bowed and withdrew. "i had quite forgotten the ball at connachan, dear," exclaimed her father, stretching out his thin white hand in search of hers again. "of course you are going?" "no, dad; i'm staying at home with you." "staying at home!" echoed sir henry. "why, my dear gabrielle, the first year you're out, and missing the best ball in the county! certainly not. i'm all right. i shan't be lonely. a little box came this morning from the professor, didn't it?" "yes, dad." "then i shall be able to spend the evening very well alone. the professor has sent me what he promised the other day." "i've decided not to go," was the girl's firm reply. "i fear, dear, your mother will be very annoyed if you refuse," he remarked. "i shall risk that, dear old dad, and stay with you to-night. please allow me," she added persuasively, taking his hand in hers and bending till her red lips touched his white brow. "you have quite a lot to do, remember. a big packet of papers came from paris this morning. i must read them over to you." "but your mother, my dear! your absence will be commented upon. people will gossip, you know." "there is but one person i care for, dad--yourself," laughed the girl lightly. "perhaps you're disappointed over a new frock or something, eh?" "not at all. my frock came from town the day before yesterday. elise declares it suits me admirably, and she's very hard to please, you know. it's white, trimmed with tiny roses." "a perfect dream, i expect," remarked the blind man, smiling. "i wish i could see you in it, dear. i often wonder what you are like, now that you've grown to be a woman." "i'm like what i always have been, dad, i suppose," she laughed. "yes, yes," he sighed, in pretence of being troubled. "wilful as always. and--and," he faltered a moment later, "i often hear your dear dead mother's voice in yours." then he was silent, and by the deep lines in his brow she knew that he was thinking. outside, in the high elms beyond the level, well-kept lawn, with its grey old sundial, the homecoming rooks were cawing prior to settling down for the night. no other sound broke the stillness of that quiet sunset hour save the solemn ticking of the long, old-fashioned clock at the farther end of the big, book-lined room, with its wide fireplace, great overmantel of carved stone with emblazoned arms, and its three long windows of old stained glass which gave it a somewhat ecclesiastical aspect. "tell me, child," repeated sir henry at length, "what was it that upset you just now?" "nothing, dad--unless--well, perhaps it's the heat. i felt rather unwell when i went out for my ride this morning," she answered with a frantic attempt at excuse. the blind man was well aware that her reply was but a subterfuge. little, however, did he dream the cause. little did he know that a dark shadow had fallen upon the young girl's life--a shadow of evil. "gabrielle," he said in a low, intense voice, "why aren't you open and frank with me as you once used to be? remember that you, my daughter, are my only friend!" slim, dainty, and small-waisted, with a sweet, dimpled face, and blue eyes large and clear like a child's, a white throat, a well-poised head, and light-chestnut hair dressed low with a large black bow, she presented the picture of happy, careless youth, her features soft and refined, her half-bare arms well moulded, and hands delicate and white. she wore only one ornament--upon her left hand was a small signet-ring with her monogram engraved, a gift from one of her governesses when a child, and now worn upon the little finger. that face was strikingly beautiful, it had been remarked more than once in london; but any admiration only called forth the covert sneers of lady heyburn. "why don't you tell me?" urged the blind man. "why don't you tell me the truth?" he protested. her countenance changed when she heard his words. in her blue eyes was a look of abject fear. her left hand was tightly clenched and her mouth set hard, as though in resolution. "i really don't know what you mean, dad," she responded with a hollow laugh. "you have such strange fancies nowadays." "strange fancies, child!" echoed the afflicted man, lifting his grey, expressionless face to hers. "a blind man has always vague, suspicious, and black forebodings engendered by the darkness and loneliness of his life. i am no exception," he sighed. "i think ever of the might-have-beens." "no, dear," exclaimed the girl, bending until her lips touched his white brow softly. "forget it all, dear old dad. surely your days here, with me, quiet and healthful in this beautiful perthshire, are better, better by far, than if you had been a politician up in london, ever struggling, ever speaking, and ever bearing the long hours at the house and the eternal stress of parliamentary life?" "yes, yes," he said, just a trifle impatiently. "it is not that. i don't regret that i had to retire, except--well, except for your sake perhaps, dear." "for my sake! how?" "because, had i been a member of this cabinet--which some of my friends predicted--you would have had the chance of a good marriage. but buried as you are down here instead, what chances have you?" "i want no chance, dad," replied the girl. "i shall never marry." a painful thought crossed the old man's mind, being mirrored upon his brow by the deep lines which puckered there for a few brief moments. "well," he exclaimed, smiling, "that's surely no reason why you should not go to the ball at connachan to-night." "i have my duty to perform, dad; my duty is to remain with you," she said decisively. "you know you have quite a lot to do, and when your mother has gone we'll spend an hour or two here at work." "i hear that walter murie is at home again at connachan. hill told me this morning," remarked her father. "so i heard also," answered the girl. "and yet you are not going to the ball, gabrielle, eh?" laughed the old man mischievously. "now come, dad," the girl exclaimed, colouring slightly, "you're really too bad! i thought you had promised me not to mention him again." "so i did, dear; i--i quite forgot," replied sir henry apologetically. "forgive me. you are now your own mistress. if you prefer to stay away from connachan, then do so by all means. only, make a proper excuse to your mother; otherwise she will be annoyed." "i think not, dear," his daughter replied in a meaning tone. "if i remain at home she'll be rather glad than otherwise." "why?" inquired the old man quickly. the girl hesitated. she saw instantly that her remark was an unfortunate one. "well," she said rather lamely, "because my absence will relieve her of the responsibility of acting as chaperon." what else could she say? how could she tell her father--the kindly but afflicted man to whom she was devoted--the bitter truth? his lonely, dismal life was surely sufficiently hard to bear without the extra burden of suspicion, of enforced inactivity, of fierce hatred, and of bitter regret. so she slowly disengaged her hand, kissed him again, and with an excuse that she had the menus to write for the dinner-table, went out, leaving him alone. when the door had closed a great sigh sounded through the long, book-lined room, a sigh that ended in a sob. the old man had leaned his chin upon his hands, and his sightless eyes were filled with tears. "is it the truth?" he murmured to himself. "is it really the truth?" chapter ii from out the night there are few of the perthshire castles that more plainly declare their feudal origin and exhibit traces of obsolete power than does the great gaunt pile of ruins known as glencardine. its situation is both picturesque and imposing, and the stern aspect of the two square baronial towers which face the south, perched on a sheer precipice that descends to the ruthven water deep below, shows that the castle was once the residence of a predatory chief in the days before its association with the great montrose. two miles from the long, straggling village of auchterarder, in the centre of a fine, well-wooded, well-kept estate, the great ruined castle stands a silent monument of warlike days long since forgotten. there, within those walls, now overgrown with ivy and weeds, and where big trees grow in the centre of what was once the great paved courtyard, montrose schemed and plotted, and, according to tradition, kept certain of his enemies in the dungeons below. in the twelfth century the aspect of the deep glen was very different from what it is to-day. in those days the ruthven was a broad river, flowing swiftly down to the earn, and forming, by reason of a moat, an effective barrier against attack. to-day, however, the river has diminished into a mere burn meandering through a beautiful wooded glen three hundred feet below, a glen the charms of which are well known throughout the whole of scotland, and where in summer tourists from england endeavour to explore, but are warned back by stewart, sir henry's highland keeper. a quarter of a mile from the great historic ruin is the modern castle, built mainly of stone from the ancient structure early in the eighteenth century, with oak-panelled rooms, many quaint gables, stained glass, and long, echoing corridors--a residence well adapted for entertaining on a lavish scale, the front overlooking the beautiful glen, and the back with level lawns and stretch of undulating park, well wooded and full of picturesque beauty. the family traditions and history of the old place and its owners had induced sir henry heyburn, himself a fellow of the society of antiquaries, to purchase it from lord strathavon, into whose possession it had passed some forty years previously. history showed that william de graeme or graham, who settled in scotland in the twelfth century, became lord of glencardine, and the great castle was built by his son. they were indeed a noble race, as their biographer has explained. ever fearless in their country's cause, they sneered at the mandates from impregnable stirling, and were loyal in every generation. glencardine was a stronghold feared by all the surrounding nobles, and its men were full of valour and bravery. one story of them is perhaps worth the telling. in the year the all-powerful abbot of inchaffray issued an order for the collection of the teinds of the killearns' lands possessed by the grahams of glencardine in the parish of monzievaird, of which he was titular. the order was rigorously executed, the teinds being exacted by force. lord killearn of dunning castle was from home at the time; but in his absence his eldest son, william, master of dunning, called out a number of his clansmen, and marched towards glencardine for the purpose of putting a stop to the abbot's proceedings. the grahams of glencardine, having been apprised of their neighbour's intention, mustered in strong force, and marched to meet him. the opposing forces encountered each other at the north side of knock mary, about two miles to the south-west of crieff, while a number of the clan m'robbie, who lived beside the loch of balloch, marched up the south side of the hill, halting at the top to watch the progress of the combat. the fight began with great fury on both sides. the glencardine men, however, began to get the upper hand and drive their opponents back, when the m'robbies rushed down the hill to the succour of the killearns. the tables were now turned. the grahams were unable to maintain their ground against the combined forces which they had now to face, and fled towards glencardine, taking refuge in the kirk of monzievaird. the killearns had no desire to follow up their success any farther, but at this stage they were joined by duncan campbell of dunstaffnage, who had come across from argyllshire to avenge the death of his father-in-law, robert of monzie, who, along with his two sons, had a short time before been killed by the lord of glencardine. an arrow shot from the church fatally wounded one of campbell's men, and so enraged were the besiegers at this that they set fire to the heather-thatched building. of the one hundred and sixty human beings who are supposed to have been in the church, only one young lad escaped, and this was effected by the help of one of the killearns, who caught the boy in his arms as he leaped out of the flames. the killearns did not go unpunished for their barbarous deed. their leader, with several of his chief retainers, was afterwards beheaded at stirling, and an assessment was imposed on the killearns for behoof of the wives and children of the grahams who had perished by their hands. the killearn by whose aid the young graham had been saved was forced to flee to ireland, but he afterwards returned to scotland, where he and his attendants were known by the name of "killearn eirinich" (or ernoch), meaning killearn of ireland. the estate which he held, and which is situated near comrie, still bears that name. the site of the kirk of monzievaird is now occupied by the mausoleum of the family of murray of ochtertyre, which was erected in . when the foundations were being excavated a large quantity of charred bones and wood was found. the history of scotland is full of references to the doings at glencardine, the fine home of the great lord glencardine, and of events, both in the original stronghold and in the present mansion, which have had important bearings upon the welfare of the country. in the autumn of the celebrated poetess baroness nairne, who had been born at gask, a few miles away, visited glencardine and spent several weeks in the pleasantest manner. within those gaunt ruins of the old castle she first became inspired to write her celebrated "castell gloom," near dollar: oh castell gloom! thy strength is gone, the green grass o'er thee growin'; on hill of care thou art alone, the sorrow round thee flowin'. oh castell gloom! on thy fair wa's nae banners now are streamin'; the howlit flits amang thy ha's, and wild birds there are screamin'. oh, mourn the woe! oh, mourn the crime frae civil war that flows! oh, mourn, argyll, thy fallen line, and mourn the great montrose! the lofty ochils bright did glow, though sleepin' was the sun; but mornin's light did sadly show what ragin' flames had done! oh, mirk, mirk was the misty cloud that hung o'er thy wild wood! thou wert like beauty in a shroud, and all was solitude. a volume, indeed, could be written upon the history, traditions, and superstitions of glencardine castle, a subject in which its blind owner took the keenest possible interest. but, tragedy of it all, he had never seen the lovely old domain he had acquired! only by gabrielle's descriptions of it, as she led him so often across the woods, down by the babbling burn, or over the great ivy-covered ruins, did he know and love it. every shepherd of the ochils knows of the lady of glencardine who, on rare occasions, had been seen dressed in green flitting before the modern mansion, and who was said to be the spectre of the young lady jane glencardine, who in was foully drowned in the earn by her jealous lover, the lord of glamis, and whose body was never recovered. her appearance always boded ill-fortune to the family in residence. glencardine was scarcely ever without guests. lady heyburn, a shallow and vain woman many years younger than her husband, was always surrounded by her own friends. she hated the country, and more especially what she declared to be the "deadly dullness" of her perthshire home. that moment was no exception. there were half-a-dozen guests staying in the house, but neither gabrielle nor her father took the slightest interest in any of them. they had been, of course, invited to the ball at connachan, and at dinner had expressed surprise when their host's pretty daughter, the belle of the county, had declared that she was not going. "oh, gabrielle is really such a wayward child!" declared her ladyship to old colonel burton at her side. "if she has decided not to go, no power on earth will persuade her." "i'm not feeling at all well, mother," the girl responded from the farther end of the table. "you'll make nice excuses for me, won't you?" "i think it's simply ridiculous!" declared the baronet's wife. "your first season, too!" gabrielle glanced round the table, coloured slightly, but said nothing. the guests knew too well that in the glencardine household there had always been, and always would be, slightly strained relations between her ladyship and her stepdaughter. for an hour after dinner all was bustle and excitement; then, in the covered wagonette, the gay party drove away, while gabrielle, standing at the door, shouted after them a merry adieu. it was a bright, clear, moonlit night, so beautiful indeed that, twisting a shawl about her shoulders, she went to her father's den, where he usually smoked alone, and, taking his arm, led him out for a walk into the park over that gravelled drive where, upon such nights as that, 'twas said that the unfortunate lady jane could be seen. when alone, the sightless man could find his way quite well with the aid of his stick. he knew every inch of his domain. indeed, he could descend from the castle by the winding path that led deep into the glen, and across the narrow foot-bridges of the rushing ruthven water, or he could traverse the most intricate paths through the woods by means of certain landmarks which only he himself knew. he was ever fond of wandering about the estate alone, and often took solitary walks on bright nights with his stout stick tapping before him. on rare occasions, however, when, in the absence of her ladyship, he enjoyed the company of pretty gabrielle, they would wander in the park arm-in-arm, chatting and exchanging confidences. the departure of their house-party had lifted a heavy weight from both their hearts. it would be dawn before they returned. she loved her father, and was never happier than when describing to him things--the smallest objects sometimes--which he himself could not see. as they strolled on beneath the shadows of the tall elms, the stillness of the night was broken only by the quick scurry of a rabbit into the tall bracken or the harsh cry of some night-bird startled by their approach. before them, standing black against the night-sky, rose the quaint, ponderous, but broken walls of the ancient stronghold, where an owl hooted weirdly in the ivy, and where the whispering of the waters rose from the deep below. "it's a pity, dear, that you didn't go to the dance," the old man was saying, her arm held within his own. "you've annoyed your mother, i fear." "mother is quite happy with her guests, dad; while i am quite happy with you," she replied softly. "therefore, why discuss it?" "but surely it is not very entertaining for you to remain here with a man who is blind. remember, you are young, and these golden days of youth will very soon pass." "why, you always entertain and instruct me, dad," she declared; "from you i've learnt so much archaeology and so much about mediaeval seals that i believe i am qualified to become a fellow of the society of antiquaries, if women were admitted to fellowship." "they will be one day, my dear, if the suffragettes are allowed their own way," he laughed. and then, during the full hour they strolled together, their conversation mostly consisted of questions asked by her father concerning some improvements being made in one of the farms which she had visited on the previous day, and her description of what had been done. the stable-clock had struck half-past ten on its musical chimes before they re-entered the big hall, and, being relieved by hill of the wraps, passed together into the library, where, from a locked cabinet in a corner, gabrielle took a number of business papers and placed them upon the writing-table before her father. "no," he said, running his thin white hands over them, "not business to-night, dear, but pleasure. where is that box from the professor?" "it's here, dad. shall i open it?" "yes," he replied. "that dear old fellow never forgets his old friend. never a seal finds its way into the collection at cambridge but he first sends it to me for examination before it is catalogued. he knows what pleasure it is to me to decipher them and make out their history--almost, alas! the only pleasure left to me, except you, my darling." "professor moyes adopts your opinion always, dad. he knows, as every other antiquary knows, that you are the greatest living authority on the subject which you have made a lifetime study--that of the bronze seals of the middle ages." "ah!" sighed the old man, "if i could only write my great book! it is the pleasure debarred me. years ago i started to collect material; but my affliction came, and now i can only feel the matrices and picture them in my mind. i see through your eyes, dear gabrielle. to me, the world i loved so much is only a blank darkness, with your dear voice sounding out of it--the only voice, my child, that is music to my ears." the girl said nothing. she only glanced at the sad, expressionless face, and, cutting the string of the small packet, displayed three bronze seals--two oval, about two inches long, and the third round, about one inch in diameter, and each with a small kind of handle on the reverse. with them were sulphur-casts or impressions taken from them, ready to be placed in the museum at cambridge. the old man's nervous fingers travelled over the surfaces quickly, an expression of complete satisfaction in his face. "have you the magnifying-glass, dear? tell me what you make of the inscriptions," he said, at the same time carefully feeling the curious mediaeval lettering of one of the casts. at the same instant she started, rose quickly from her chair, and held her breath. a man, tall, dark-faced, and wearing a thin black overcoat, had entered noiselessly from the lawn by the open window, and stood there, with his finger upon his lips, indicating silence. then he pointed outside, with a commanding gesture that she should follow. her eyes met his in a glance of fierce resentment, and instinctively she placed her hand upon her breast, as though to stay the beating of her heart. again he pointed in silent authority, and she as though held in some mysterious thraldom, made excuse to the blind man, and, rising, followed in his noiseless footsteps. chapter iii seals of destiny ten minutes later she returned, panting, her face pale and haggard, her mouth hard-set. for a moment she stood in silence upon the threshold of the open doors leading to the grounds, her hand pressed to her breast in a strenuous endeavour to calm herself. she feared that her father might detect her agitation, for he was so quick in discovering in her the slightest unusual emotion. she glanced behind her with an expression full of fear, as though dreading the reappearance of that man who had compelled her to follow him out into the night. then she looked at her father, who, still seated motionless with his back to her, was busy with his fingers upon something on the blotting-pad before him. in that brief absence her countenance had entirely changed. she was pale to the lips, with drawn brows, while about her mouth played a hard, bitter expression, as though her mind were bent upon some desperate resolve. that the man who had come there by stealth was no stranger was evident; yet that between them was some deep-rooted enmity was equally apparent. nevertheless, he held her irresistibly within his toils. his clean-shaven face was a distinctly evil one. his eyes were set too close together, and in his physiognomy was something unscrupulous and relentless. he was not the man for a woman to trust. she stepped back from the threshold, and for a few seconds halted outside, her ears strained to catch any sound. then, as though reassured, she pushed the chestnut hair from her hot, fevered brow, held her breath with strenuous effort, and, re-entering the library, advanced to her father's side. "i wondered where you had gone, dear," he said in his low, calm voice, as he detected her presence. "i hoped you would not leave me for long, for it is not very often we enjoy an evening so entirely alone as to-night." "leave you, dear old dad! why, of course not!" she laughed gaily, as though nothing had occurred to disturb her peace of mind. "we were just about to look at those seals professor moyes sent you to-day, weren't we? here they are;" and she placed them before the helpless and afflicted man, endeavouring to remain undisturbed, and taking a chair at his side, as was her habit when they sat together. "yes," he said cheerfully. "let us see what they are." the first of the yellow sulphur-casts which he examined bore the full-length figure of an abbot, with mitre and crosier, in the act of giving his blessing. behind him were three circular towers with pointed roofs surmounted by crosses, while around, in bold early gothic letters, ran the inscription + s. benediti . abbatis . santi . ambrosii . d'rancia + slowly and with great care his fingers travelled over the raised letters and design of the oval cast. then, having also examined the battered old bronze matrix, he said, "a most excellent specimen, and in first-class preservation, too! i wonder where it has been found? in italy, without doubt." "what do you make it out to be, dad?" asked the girl, seated in the chair at his side and as interested in the little antiquity as he was himself. "thirteenth century, my dear--early thirteenth century," he declared without hesitation. "genuine, quite genuine, no doubt. the matrix shows signs of considerable wear. is there much patina upon it?" he asked. she turned it over, displaying that thick green corrosion which bronze acquires only by great age. "yes, quite a lot, dad. the raised portion at the back is pierced by a hole very much worn." "worn by the thong by which it was attached to the girdle of successive abbots through centuries," he declared. "from its inscription, it is the seal of the abbot benedict of the monastery of st. ambrose, of rancia, in lombardy. let me think, now. we should find the history of that house probably in sassolini's _memorials_. will you get it down, dear?--top shelf of the fifth case, on the left." though blind, he knew just where he could put his hand upon all his most cherished volumes, and woe betide any one who put a volume back in its wrong place! gabrielle rose, and, obtaining the steps, reached down the great leather-bound quarto book, which she carried to a reading-desk and at once searched the index. the work was in italian, a language which she knew fairly well; and after ten minutes or so, during which time the blind man continued slowly to trace the inscription with his finger-tips, she said, "here it is, dad. 'rancia, near cremona. the religious brotherhood was founded there in , and the abbot benedict was third abbot, from to . the church still exists. the magnificent pulpit in marble, embellished with mosaics, presented in , rests on six columns supported by lions, with an inscription: "_nicolaus de montava marmorarius hoc opus fecit._" opposite it is the ambo ( ), in a simple style, with a representation of jonah being swallowed by a whale. in the choir is the throne adorned by mosaics, and the cappella di san pantaleone contains the blood of the saint, together with some relics of the abbot benedict. the cloisters still exist, though, of course, the monastery is now suppressed.'" "and this," remarked sir henry, turning over the old bronze seal in his hand, "belonged to the abbot ambrose six hundred and fifty years ago!" "yes, dad," declared the girl, returning to his side and taking the matrix herself to examine it under the green-shaded reading-lamp. "the study of seals is most interesting. it carries one back into the dim ages. i hope the professor will allow you to keep these casts for your collection." "yes, i know he will," responded the old baronet. "he is well aware what a deep interest i take in my hobby." "and also that you are one of the first authorities in the world upon the subject," added his daughter. the old man sighed. would that he could see with his eyes once again; for, after all, the sense of touch was but a poor substitute for that of sight! he drew towards him the impression of the second of the oval seals. the centre was divided into two portions. above was the half-length figure of a saint holding a closed book in his hand, and below was a youth with long hands in the act of adoration. between them was a scroll upon which was written: "sc. martine o.p.n.," while around the seal were the words in gothic characters: + sigil . heinrichi . plebani . d' doelsc'h + "this is fourteenth century," pronounced the baronet, "and is from dulcigno, on the adriatic--the seal of henry, the vicar of the church of that place. from the engraving and style," he said, still fingering it with great care, now and then turning to the matrix in order to satisfy himself, "i should place it as having been executed about . but it is really a very beautiful specimen, done at a time when the art of seal-engraving was at its height. no engraver could to-day turn out a more ornate and at the same time bold design. moyes is really very fortunate in securing this. you must write, my dear, and ask him how these latest treasures came into his hands." at his request she got down another of the ponderous volumes of sassolini from the high shelf, and read to him, translating from the italian the brief notice of the ancient church of dulcigno, which, it appeared, had been built in the lombard-norman style of the eleventh century, while the campanile, with columns from paestum, dated from . the third seal, the circular one, was larger than the rest, being quite two inches across. in the centre of the top half was the madonna with child, seated, a male and female figure on either side. below were three female figures on either side, the two scenes being divided by a festoon of flowers, while around the edge ran in somewhat more modern characters--those of the early sixteenth century--the following: + sigillvm . vicaris . generalis . ordinis . beata . maria . d' mon . carmel + "this," declared sir henry, after a long and most minute examination, "is a treasure probably unequalled in the collection at cambridge, being the actual seal of the vicar-general of the carmelite order. its date i should place at about . look well, dear, at those flower garlands; how beautifully they are engraved! seal-making is, alas! to-day a lost art. we have only crude and heavy attempts. the company seal seems to-day the only thing the engraver can turn out--those machines which emboss upon a big red wafer." and his busy fingers were continuously feeling the great circular bronze matrix, and a moment afterwards its sulphur-cast. he was an enthusiastic antiquary, and long ago, in the days when the world was light, had read papers before the society of antiquaries at burlington house upon mediaeval seals and upon the early latin codices. nowadays, however, gabrielle acted as his eyes; and so devoted was she to her father that she took a keen interest in his dry-as-dust hobbies, so that after his long tuition she could decipher and read a twelfth-century latin manuscript, on its scrap of yellow, crinkled parchment, and with all its puzzling abbreviations, almost as well as any professor of palaeography at the universities, while inscriptions upon gothic seals were to her as plain as a paragraph in a newspaper. more than once, white-haired, spectacled professors who came to glencardine as her father's guests were amazed at her intelligent conversation upon points which were quite abstruse. indeed, she had no idea of the remarkable extent of her own antiquarian knowledge, all of it gathered from the talented man whose affliction had kept her so close at his side. for quite an hour her father fingered the three seal-impressions, discussing them with her in the language of a savant. she herself examined them minutely and expressed opinions. now and then she glanced apprehensively to that open window. he pointed out to her where she was wrong in her estimate of the design of the circular one, explaining a technical and little-known detail concerning the seals of the carmelite order. from the window a cool breath of the night-wind came in, fanning the curtains and carrying with it the sweet scent of the flowers without. "how refreshing!" exclaimed the old man, drawing in a deep breath. "the night is very close, gabrielle, dear. i fear we shall have thunder." "there was lightning only a moment ago," explained the girl. "shall i put the casts into your collection, dad?" "yes, dear. moyes no doubt intends that i should keep them." gabrielle rose, and, passing across to a large cabinet with many shallow drawers, she opened one, displaying a tray full of casts of seals, each neatly arranged, with its inscription and translation placed beneath, all in her own clear handwriting. some of the drawers contained the matrices as well as the casts; but as matrices of mediaeval seals are rarities, and seldom found anywhere save in the chief public museums, it is no wonder that the bulk of private collections consist of impressions. presently, at the baronet's suggestion, she closed and locked the cabinet, and then took up a bundle of business documents, which she commenced to sort out and arrange. she acted as her father's private secretary, and therefore knew much of his affairs. but many things were to her a complete mystery, be it said. though devoted to her father, she nevertheless sometimes became filled with a vague suspicion that the source of his great income was not altogether an open and honest one. the papers and letters she read to him often contained veiled information which sorely puzzled her, and which caused her many hours of wonder and reflection. her father lived alone, with only her as companion. her stepmother, a young, good-looking, and giddy woman, never dreamed the truth. what would she do, how would she act, gabrielle wondered, if ever she gained sight of some of those private papers kept locked in the cavity beyond the black steel door concealed by the false bookcase at the farther end of the fine old restful room? the papers she handled had been taken from the safe by sir henry himself. and they contained a man's secret. chapter iv something concerning james flockart in the spreading dawn the house party had returned from connachan and had ascended to their rooms, weary with the night's revelry, the men with shirt-fronts crumpled and ties awry, the women with hair disordered, and in some cases with flimsy skirts torn in the mazes of the dance. yet all were merry and full of satisfaction at what one young man from town had declared to be "an awfully ripping evening." all retired at once--all save the hostess and one of her male guests, the man who had entered the library by stealth earlier in the evening and had called gabrielle outside. lady heyburn and her visitor, james flockart, had managed to slip away from the others, and now stood together in the library, into which the grey light of dawn was at that moment slowly creeping. he drew up one of the blinds to admit the light; and there, away over the hills beyond, the glen showed the red flush that heralded the sun's coming. then, returning to where stood the young and attractive woman in pale pink chiffon, with diamonds on her neck and a star in her fair hair, he looked her straight in the face and asked, "well, and what have you decided?" she raised her eyes to his, but made no reply. she was hesitating. the gems upon her were heirlooms of the heyburn family, and in that grey light looked cold and glassy. the powder and the slight touch of carmine upon her cheeks, which at night had served to heighten her beauty, now gave her an appearance of painted artificiality. she was undeniably a pretty woman, and surely required no artificial aids to beauty. about thirty-three, yet she looked five years younger; while her husband was twenty years senior to herself. she still retained a figure so girlish that most people took her for gabrielle's elder sister, while in the matter of dress she was admitted in society to be one of the leaders of fashion. her hair was of that rare copper-gold tint, her features regular, with a slightly protruding chin, soft eyes, and cheeks perfect in their contour. society knew her as a gay, reckless, giddy woman, who, regardless of the terrible affliction which had fallen upon the brilliant man who was her husband, surrounded herself with a circle of friends of the same type as herself, and who thoroughly enjoyed her life regardless of any gossip or of the malignant statements by women who envied her. men were fond of "winnie heyburn," as they called her, and always voted her "good fun." they pitied poor sir henry; but, after all, he was blind, and preferred his hobbies of collecting old seals and dusty parchment manuscripts to dances, bridge-parties, theatres, aero shows at ranelagh, and suppers at the carlton or savoy. like most wealthy women of her type, she had a wide circle of male friends. younger men declared her to be "a real pal," and with some of the older beaux she would flirt and be amused by their flattering speeches. gabrielle's mother, the second daughter of lord buckhurst, had been dead several years when the brilliant politician met his second wife at a garden-party at dollis hill. she was daughter of a man named lambert, a paper manufacturer, who acted as political agent in the town of bedford; and she was, therefore, essentially a country cousin. her beauty was, however, remarked everywhere. the baronet was struck by her, and within three months they were married at st. george's, hanover square, the world congratulating her upon a very excellent match. from the very first, however, the difference in the ages of husband and wife proved a barrier. ere the honeymoon was over she found that her husband, tied by his political engagements and by his eternal duties at the house, was unable to accompany her out of an evening; hence from the very first they had drifted apart, until, eight months later, the terrible affliction of blindness fell upon him. for a time this drew her back to him. she was his constant and dutiful companion everywhere, leading him hither and thither, and attending to his wants; but very soon the tie bored her, and the attractions of society once again proved too great. hence for the past nine years--gabrielle being at school, first at eastbourne and afterwards at amiens--she had amused herself and left her husband to his dry-as-dust hobbies and the loneliness of his black and sunless world. the man who had just put that curious question to her was perhaps her closest friend. to her he owed everything, though the world was in ignorance of the fact. that they were friends everybody knew. indeed, they had been friends years ago in bedford, before her marriage, for james was the only son of the reverend henry flockart, vicar of one of the parishes in the town. people living in bedford recollected that the parson's son had turned out rather badly, and had gone to america. but a year or two after that the quiet-mannered old clergyman had died, the living had been given to a successor, and bedford knew the name of flockart no more. after winifred's marriage, however, london society--or rather a gay section of it--became acquainted with james flockart, who lived at ease in his pretty bachelor-rooms in half-moon street, and who soon gathered about him a large circle of male acquaintances. sir henry knew him, and raised no objection to his wife's friendship towards him. they had been boy and girl together; therefore what more natural than that they should be friends in later life? in her schooldays gabrielle knew practically nothing of this man; but now she had returned to be her father's companion she had met him, and had bitter cause to hate both him and lady heyburn. it was her own secret. she kept it to herself. she hid the truth from her father--from every one. she watched closely and in patience. one day she would speak and tell the truth. until then, she resolved to keep to herself all that she knew. "well?" asked the man with the soft-pleated shirt-front and white waistcoat smeared with cigarette-ash. "what have you decided?" he asked again. "i've decided nothing," was her blank answer. "but you must. don't be a silly fool," he urged. "you've surely had time to think over it?" "no, i haven't." "the girl knows nothing. so what have you to fear?" he endeavoured to assure her. lady heyburn shrugged her shoulders. "how can you prove that she knows nothing?" "oh, she has eyes for nobody but the old man," he laughed. "to-night is an example. why, she wouldn't come to connachan, even though she knew that walter was there. she preferred to spend the evening here with her father." "she's a little fool, of course, jimmy," replied the woman in pink; "but perhaps it was as well that she didn't come. i hate to have to chaperon the chit. it makes me look so horribly old." "i wish to goodness the girl was out of the way!" he declared. "she's sharper than we think, and, by jove! if ever she did know what was in progress it would be all up for both of us--wouldn't it? phew! think of it!" "if i thought she had the slightest suspicion," declared her ladyship with a sudden hardness of her lips, "i'd--i'd close her mouth very quickly." "and for ever, eh?" he asked meaningly. "yes, for ever." "bah!" he laughed. "you'd be afraid to do that, my dear winnie," added the man, lowering his voice. "your husband is blind, it's true; but there are other people in the world who are not. recollect, gabrielle is now nineteen, and she has her eyes open. she's the eyes and ears of sir henry. not the slightest thing occurs in this household but it is told to him at once. his indifference to all is only a clever pretence." "what!" she gasped quickly; "do you think he suspects?" "pray, what can he suspect?" asked the man very calmly, both hands in his trouser-pockets, as he leaned back against the table in front of her. "he can only suspect things which his daughter knows," she said. "but what does she know? what can she know?" he asked. "how can we tell? i have watched, but can detect nothing. i am, however, suspicious, because she did not come to connachan with us to-night." "why?" "walter murie may know something, and may have told her." "if so, then to close her lips would be useless. it would only bring a heavier responsibility upon us--and----" but he hesitated, without finishing his sentence. his meaning was apparent from the wry face she pulled at his remark. he did not tell her how he had, while she had been dancing and flirting that night, made his way back to the castle, or how he had compelled gabrielle to go forth and speak with him. his action had been a bold one, yet its result had confirmed certain vague suspicions he had held. well he knew that the girl hated him heartily, and that she was in possession of a certain secret of his--one which might easily result in his downfall. he feared to tell the truth to this woman before him, for if he did so she would certainly withdraw from all association with him in order to save herself. the key to the whole situation was held by that slim, sweet-faced girl, so devoted to her afflicted father. he was not quite certain as to the actual extent of her knowledge, and was as yet undecided as to what attitude he should adopt towards her. he stood between the baronet's wife and his daughter, and hesitated in which direction to follow. what did she really know, he wondered. had she overheard any of that serious conversation between lady heyburn and himself while they walked together in the glen on the previous evening? such a _contretemps_ was surely impossible, for he remembered they had taken every precaution lest even stewart, the head gamekeeper, might be about in order to stop trespassers, who, attracted by the beauties of glencardine, tried to penetrate and explore them, and by so doing disturbed the game. "and if the girl really knows?" he asked of the woman who stood there motionless, gazing out across the lawn fixedly towards the dawn. "if she knows, james," she said in a hard, decisive tone, "then we must act together, quickly and fearlessly. we must carry out that--that plan you proposed a year ago!" "you are quite fearless, then," he asked, looking straight into her fine eyes. "fearless? of course i am," she answered unflinchingly. "we must get rid of her." "providing we can do so without any suspicion falling upon us." "you seem to have become quite white-livered," she exclaimed to him with a harsh, derisive laugh. "you were not so a year ago--in the other affair." his brows contracted as he reflected upon all it meant to him. the girl knew something; therefore, to seal her lips was imperative for their own safety. she was their enemy. "you are mistaken," he answered in a low calm voice. "i am just as determined--just as fearless--as i was then." "and you will do it?" she asked. "if it is your wish," he replied simply. "good! give me your hand. we are agreed. it shall be done." and the man took the slim white hand the woman held out to him, and a moment later they ascended the great oak staircase to their respective rooms. the pair were in accord. the future contained for gabrielle heyburn--asleep and all unconscious of the dastardly conspiracy--only that which must be hideous, tragic, fatal. chapter v the muries of connachan elise, lady heyburn's french maid, discovered next morning that an antique snake-bracelet was missing, a loss which occasioned great consternation in the household. breakfast was late, and at table, when the loss was mentioned, gabrielle offered to drive over to connachan in the car and make inquiry and search. the general opinion was that it had been dropped in one of the rooms, and was probably still lying there undiscovered. the girl's offer was accepted, and half an hour later the smaller of the two glencardine cars--the "sixteen" fiat--was brought round to the door by stokes, the smart chauffeur. young gellatly, fresh down from oxford, begged to be allowed to go with her, and his escort was accepted. then, in motor-cap and champagne-coloured dust-veil, gabrielle mounted at the wheel, with the young fellow at her side and stokes in the back, and drove away down the long avenue to the high-road. the car was her delight. never so happy was she as when, wrapped in her leather-lined motor-coat, she drove the "sixteen." the six-cylinder "sixty" was too powerful for her, but with the "sixteen" she ran half-over scotland, and was quite a common object on the perth to stirling road. possessed of nerve and full of self-confidence, she could negotiate traffic in edinburgh or glasgow, and on one occasion had driven her father the whole way from glencardine up to london, a distance of four hundred and fifty miles. her fingers pressed the button of the electric horn as they descended the sharp incline to the lodge-gates; and, turning into the open road, she was soon speeding along through auchterarder village, skirted tullibardine wood, down through braco, and along by the knaik water and st. patrick's well into glen artney, passing under the dark shadow of dundurn, until there came into view the broad waters of loch earn. the morning was bright and cloudless, and at such a pace they went that a perfect wall of dust stood behind them. from the margin of the loch the ground rose for a couple of miles until it reached a plateau upon which stood the fine, imposing priory, the ancestral seat of the muries of connachan. the aspect as they drove up was very imposing. the winding road was closely planted with trees for a large portion of its course, and the stately front of the western entrance, with its massive stone portico and crenulated cornice, burst unexpectedly upon them. from that point of view one seemed to have reached the gable-end of a princely edifice, crowned with gothic belfries; yet on looking round it was seen that the approach by which the doorway had been reached was lined on one side with buildings hidden behind the clustering foliage; and through the archway on the left one caught a glimpse of the ivy-covered clock-tower and spacious stable-yard and garage extending northwards for a considerable distance. gabrielle ran the car round to the south side of the house, where in the foreground were the well-kept parks of connachan, the smooth-shaven lawn fringed with symmetrically planted trees, and the fertile fields extending away to the very brink of the loch. the original fortalice of the muries, half a mile distant, was, like glencardine, a ruin. the present priory, notwithstanding its old-fashioned towers and lancet windows, was a comparatively modern structure, and the ivy which partially covered some of the windows could claim no great antiquity; yet the general effect of the architectural grouping was most pleasing, and might well deceive the visitor or tourist into the supposition that it belonged to a very remote period. it was, as a matter of fact, the work of atkinson, who in the first years of the nineteenth century built scone, abbotsford, and taymouth castle. with loud warning blasts upon the horn, gabrielle heyburn pulled up; but ere she could descend, walter murie, a good-looking, dark-haired young man in grey flannels, and hatless, was outside, hailing her with delight. "hallo, gabrielle!" he cried cheerily, taking her hand, "what brings you over this morning, especially when we were told last night that you were so very ill?" "the illness has passed," exclaimed young gellatly, shaking his friend's hand. "and we're now in search of a lost bracelet--one of lady heyburn's." "why, my mother was just going to wire! one of the maids found it in the boudoir this morning, but we didn't know to whom it belonged. come inside. there are a lot of people staying over from last night." then, turning to gabrielle, he added, "by jove! what dust there must be on the road! you're absolutely covered." "well," she laughed lightly, "it won't hurt me, i suppose. i'm not afraid of it." stokes took charge of the car and shut off the petrol, while the three went inside, passing into a long, cool cloister, down which was arranged the splendid collection of antiques discovered or acquired by malcolm murie, the well-known antiquary, who had spent many years in italy, and died in . in cases ranged down each side of the long cloister, with its antique carved chairs, armour, and statuary, were rare etruscan and roman terra-cottas, one containing relics from the tomb of a warrior, which included a sword-hilt adorned with gold and a portion of a golden crown formed of lilies _in relievo_ of pure gold laid upon a mould of bronze; another case was full of bronze ornaments unearthed near albano, and still another contained rare abyssinian curios. the collection was renowned among antiquaries, and was often visited by sir henry, who would be brought there in the car by gabrielle, and spend hours alone fingering the objects in the various cases. sir george murie and sir henry heyburn were close friends; therefore it was but natural that walter, the heir to the connachan estate, and gabrielle should often be thrown into each other's company, or perhaps that the young man--who for the past twelve months had been absent on a tour round the world--should have loved her ever since the days when she wore short skirts and her hair down her back. he had been sorely puzzled why she had not at the last moment come to the ball. she had promised that she would be with them, and yet she had made the rather lame excuse of a headache. truth to tell, walter murie had during the past week been greatly puzzled at her demeanour of indifference. seven days ago he had arrived in london from new york, but found no letter from her awaiting him at the club, as he had expected. the last he had received in detroit a month before, and it was strangely cold, and quite unusual. two days ago he had arrived home, and in secret she had met him down at the end of the glen at glencardine. at her wish, their first meeting had been clandestine. why? both their families knew of their mutual affection. therefore, why should she now make a secret of their meeting after twelve months' separation? he was puzzled at her note, and he was further puzzled at her attitude towards him. she was cold and unresponsive. when he held her in his arms and kissed her soft lips, she only once returned his passionate caress, and then as though it were a duty forced upon her. she had, however, promised to come to the ball. that promise she had deliberately broken. though he could not understand her, he made pretence of unconcern. he regretted that she had not felt well last night--that was all. at the end of the cloister young gellatly found one of lady murie's guests, a girl named violet priest, with whom he had danced a good deal on the previous night, and at once attached himself to her, leaving walter with the sweet-faced, slim-waisted object of his affections. the moment they were alone in the long cloister he asked her quickly, "tell me, gabrielle, the real reason why you did not come last night. i had looked forward very much to seeing you. but i was disappointed --sadly disappointed." "i am very sorry," she laughed, with assumed nonchalance; "but i had to assist my father with some business papers." "your mother told everyone that you do not care for dancing," he said. "that is untrue, walter. i love dancing." "i knew it was untrue, dearest," he said, standing before her. "but why does lady heyburn go out of her way to throw cold water upon you and all your works?" "how should i know?" asked the girl, with a slight shrug. "perhaps it is because my father places more confidence in me than in her." "and his confidence is surely not misplaced," he said. "i tell you frankly that i don't like lady heyburn." "she pretends to like you." "pretends!" he echoed. "yes, it's all pretence. but," he added, "do tell me the real reason of your absence last night, gabrielle. it has worried me." "why worry, my dear walter? is it really worth troubling over? i'm only a girl, and, as such, am allowed vagaries of nerves--and all that. i simply didn't want to come, that's all." "why?" "well, to tell you the truth, i hate the crowd we have staying in our house. they are all mother's friends; and mother's friends are never mine, you know." he looked at her slim figure, so charming in its daintiness. "what a dear little philosopher you've grown to be in a single year!" he declared. "we shall have you quoting friedrich nietzsche next." "well," she laughed, "if you would like me to quote him i can do so. i read _zarathustra_ secretly at school. one of the girls got a copy from germany. do you remember what zarathustra says: 'verily, ye could wear no better masks, ye present-day men, than your own faces,' who could recognise you?" "i hope that's not meant to be personal," he laughed, gazing at the girl's beautiful countenance and great, luminous eyes. "you may take it as you like," she declared with a delightfully mischievous smile. "i only quoted it to show you that i have read nietzsche, and recollect his many truths." "you certainly do seem to have a gay house-party at glencardine," he remarked, changing the subject. "i noticed jimmy flockart there as usual." "yes. he's one of mother's greatest friends. she makes good use of him in every way. up in town they are inseparable, it seems. they knew each other, i believe, when they were boy and girl." "so i've heard," replied the young man thoughtfully, leaning against a big glass case containing a collection of _lares_ and _penates_--images of jupiter, hercules, mercury, &c., used as household gods. "i expected that he would be dancing attendance upon her during the whole of the evening; but, curiously enough, soon after his arrival he suddenly disappeared, and was not seen again until nearly two o'clock." then, looking straight in the girl's fathomless eye, he added, "do you know, gabrielle, i don't like that fellow. beware of him." "neither do i. but your warning is quite unnecessary, i assure you. he doesn't interest me in the least." walter murie was silent for a moment, silent as though in doubt. a shadow crossed his well-cut features, but only for a single second. then he smiled again upon the fair-faced, soft-spoken girl whom he loved so honestly and so well, the woman who was all in all to him. how could he doubt her--she who only a year ago had, out yonder in the park, given him her pledge of affection, and sealed it with her hot, passionate kisses? remembrance of those sweet caresses still lingered with him. but he doubted her. yes, he could not conceal from himself certain very ugly facts--facts within his own knowledge. yet was not his own poignant jealousy misleading him? was not her refusal to attend the ball perhaps due to some sudden pique or unpleasantness with her giddy stepmother? was it? he only longed to be able to believe that it might be so. alas! however, he had discovered the shadow of a strange and disagreeable truth. chapter vi concerns gabrielle's secret along the cloister they went to the great hall, where walter's mother advanced to greet her. full of regrets at the girl's inability to attend the dance, she handed her the missing bracelet, saying, "it is such a curious and unusual one, dear, that we wondered to whom it belonged. brown found it when she was sweeping my boudoir this morning. take it home to your mother, and suggest that she has a stronger clasp put on it." the girl held the golden snake in her open hand. this was the first time she had ever seen it. a fine example of old italian workmanship, it was made flexible, with its flat head covered with diamonds, and two bright emeralds for the eyes. the mouth could be opened, and within was a small cavity where a photo or any tiny object could be concealed. where her mother had picked it up she could not tell. but lady heyburn was always purchasing quaint odds and ends, and, like most giddy women of her class, was extraordinarily fond of fantastic jewellery and ornaments such as other women did not possess. several members of the house-party at connachan entered and chatted, all being full of the success of the previous night's entertainment. lady murie's husband had, it appeared, left that morning for edinburgh to attend a political committee. a little later walter succeeded in getting gabrielle alone again in a small, well-furnished room leading off the library--a room in which she had passed many happy hours with him before he had gone abroad. he had been in london reading for the bar, but had spent a good deal of his time up in perthshire, or at least all he possibly could. at such times they were inseparable; but after he had been "called"--there being no necessity for him to practise, he being heir to the estates--he had gone to india and japan "to broaden his mind," as his father had explained. "i wonder, gabrielle," he said hesitatingly, holding her hand as they stood at the open window--"i wonder if you will forgive me if i put a question to you. i--i know i ought not to ask it," he stammered; "but it is only because i love you so well, dearest, that i ask you to tell me the truth." "the truth!" echoed the girl, looking at him with some surprise, though turning just a trifle paler, he thought. "the truth about what?" "about that man james flockart," was his low, distinct reply. "about him! why, my dear walter," she laughed, "whatever do you want to know about him? you know all that i know. we were agreed long ago that he is not a gentleman, weren't we?" "yes," he said. "don't you recollect our talk at your house in london two years ago, soon after you came back from school? do you remember what you then told me?" she flushed slightly at the recollection. "i--i ought not to have said that," she exclaimed hurriedly. "i was only a girl then, and i--well, i didn't know." "what you said has never passed my lips, dearest. only, i ask you again to-day to tell me honestly and frankly whether your opinion of him has in any way changed. i mean whether you still believe what you then said." she was silent for a few moments. her lips twitched nervously, and her eyes stared blankly out of the window. "no, i repeat what--i--said --then," she answered in a strange hoarse voice. "and only you yourself suspect the truth?" "you are the only person to whom i have mentioned it, and i have been filled with regret ever since. i had no right to make the allegation, walter. i should have kept my secret to myself." "there was surely no harm in telling me, dearest," he exclaimed, still holding her hand, and looking fixedly into those clear-blue, fathomless eyes so very dear to him. "you know too well that i would never betray you." "but if he knew--if that man ever knew," she cried, "he would avenge himself upon me! i know he would." "but what have you to fear, little one?" he asked, surprised at the sudden change in her. "you know how my mother hates me, how they all detest me--all except dear old dad, who is so terribly helpless, misled, defrauded, and tricked--as he daily is--by those about him." "i know, darling," said the young man. "i know it all only too well. trust in me;" and, bending, he kissed her softly upon the lips. what was the real, the actual truth, he wondered. was she still his, as she had ever been, or was she playing him false? little did the girl dream of the extent of her lover's knowledge of certain facts which she was hiding from the world, vainly believing them to be her own secret. little did she dream how very near she was to disaster. walter murie had, after a frivolous youth, developed at the age of six-and-twenty into as sound, honest, and upright a young man as could be found beyond the border. as full of high spirits as of high principles, he was in every way worthy the name of the gallant family whose name he bore, a murie of connachan, both for physical strength and scrupulous honesty; while his affection for gabrielle heyburn was that deep, all-absorbing devotion which makes men sacrifice themselves for the women they love. he was not very demonstrative. he never wore his heart upon his sleeve, but deep within him was that true affection which caused him to worship her as his idol. to him she was peerless among women, and her beauty was unequalled. her piquant mischievousness amused him. as a girl, she had always been fond of tantalising him, and did so now. yet he knew her fine character; how deeply devoted she was to her afflicted father, and how full of discomfort was her dull life, now that she had exchanged her school for the same roof which covered sir henry's second wife. indeed, this latter event was the common talk of all who knew the family. they sighed and pitied poor sir henry. it was all very sad, they said; but there their sympathy ended. during walter's absence abroad something had occurred. what that something was he had not yet determined. gabrielle was not exactly the same towards him as she used to be. his keen sensitiveness told him this instinctively, and, indeed, he had made a discovery that, though he did not admit it now, had staggered him. he stood there at the open window chatting with her, but what he said he had no idea. his one thought--the one question which now possessed him--was whether she still loved him, or whether the discovery he had made was the actual and painful truth. tall and good-looking, clean-shaven, and essentially easy-going, he stood before her with his dark eyes fixed upon her--eyes full of devotion, for was she not his idol? she was telling him of a garden-party which her mother had arranged for the following thursday, and pressing him to attend it. "i'm afraid i may have to be in london that day, dearest," he responded. "but if i may i'll come over to-morrow and play tennis. will you be at home in the afternoon?" "no," she declared promptly, with a mischievous laugh, "i shan't. i shall be in the glen by the first bridge at four o'clock, and shall wait for you there." "very well, i'll be there," he laughed. "but why should we meet in secret like this, when everybody knows of our engagement?" "well, because i have a reason," she replied in a strained voice--"a strong reason." "you've grown suddenly shy, afraid of chaff, it seems." "my mother is, i fear, not altogether well disposed towards you, walter," was her quick response. "dad is very fond of you, as you well know; but lady heyburn has other views for me, i think." "and is that the only reason you wish to meet me in secret?" he asked. she hesitated, became slightly confused, and quickly turned the conversation into a different channel, a fact which caused him increased doubt and reflection. yes, something certainly had occurred. that was vividly apparent. a gulf lay between them. again he looked straight into her beautiful face, and fell to wondering. what could it all mean? so true had she been to him, so sweet her temperament, so high all her ideals, that he could not bring himself to believe ill of her. he tried to fight down those increasing doubts. he tried to put aside the naked truth which had arisen before him since his return to england. he loved her. yes, he loved her, and would think no ill of her until he had proof, actual and indisputable. as far as the eligibility of walter murie was concerned there was no question. even lady heyburn could not deny it when she discussed the matter over the tea-cups with her intimate friends. the family of the muries of connachan claimed a respectable antiquity. the original surname of the family was de balinhard, assumed from an estate of that name in the county of forfar. sir jocelynus de baldendard, or balinhard, who witnessed several charters between and , is the first recorded of the name, but there is no documentary proof of descent before that time; and, indeed, most of the family papers having been burned in , little remains of the early history beyond the names and succession of the possessors of balinhard from about till , which are stated in a charter of david ii. now preserved in the british museum. this charter records the grant made by william de maule to john de balinhard, _filio et heredi quondam joannis filii christini filii joannis de balinhard_, of the lands of murie, in the county of perthshire, and from that period, about , the family has borne the name of de murie instead of de balinhard. in duthac de murie obtained a charter of the castle of connachan, possession of which has been held by the family uninterruptedly ever since, except for about thirty years, when the lands were under forfeiture on account of the rebellion of . near crieff junction station the lands of glencardine and connachan march together; therefore both sir henry heyburn and his friend, sir george murie, had looked upon an alliance between the two houses as quite within the bounds of probability. if the truth were told, gabrielle had never looked upon any other man save walter with the slightest thought of affection. she loved him with the whole strength of her being. during that twelve long months of absence he had been daily in her thoughts, and his constant letters she had read and re-read dozens of times. she had, since she left school, met many eligible young men at houses to which her mother had grudgingly taken her--young men who had been nice to her, flattered her, and flirted with her. but she had treated them all with coquettish disdain, for in the world there was but one man who was her lover and her hero--her old friend walter murie. at this moment, as they were together in that cosy, well-furnished room, she became seized by a twinge of conscience. she knew quite well that she was not treating him as she ought. she had not been at all enthusiastic at his return, and she had inquired but little about his wanderings. indeed, she had treated him with a studied indifference, as though his life concerned her but little. and yet if he only knew the truth, she thought; if he could only see that that cool, unresponsive attitude was forced upon her by circumstances; if he could only know how quickly her heart throbbed when he was present, and how dull and lonely all became when he was absent! she loved him. ah, yes! as truly and devotedly as he loved her. but between them there had fallen a dark, grim shadow--one which, at all hazards and by every subterfuge, she must endeavour to hide. she loved him, and could, therefore, never bear to hear his bitter reproaches or to witness his grief. he worshipped her. would that he did not, she thought. she must hide her secret from him as she was hiding it from all the world. he was speaking. she answered him calmly yet mechanically. he wondered what strange thoughts were concealed beneath those clear, wide-open, child-like eyes which he was trying in vain to fathom. what would he have thought had he known the terrible truth: that she had calmly, and after long reflection, resolved to court death--death by her own hand--rather than face the exposure with which she had that previous night been threatened. chapter vii contains curious confidences a week had gone by. stewart, the lean, thin-faced head-keeper, who spoke with such a strong accent that guests from the south often failed to understand him, and who never seemed to sleep, so vigilant was he over the glencardine shootings, had reported the purchase of a couple of new pointers. therefore, one morning lady heyburn and her constant cavalier, flockart, had walked across to the kennels close to the castle to inspect them. at the end of the big, old-fashioned stable-yard, with grey stone outbuildings ranged down either side, and the ancient mounting-block a conspicuous object, were ranged the modern iron kennels full of pointers and spaniels. in that big, old, paved quadrangle, the cobbles of which were nowadays stained by the oil of noisy motor-cars, many a graham of glencardine had mounted to ride into stirling or edinburgh, or to drive in his coach to far-off london. the stables were now empty, but the garage adjoining, whence came the odour of petrol, contained the two glencardine cars, besides three others belonging to members of that merry, irresponsible house-party. the inspection of the pointers was a mere excuse on her ladyship's part to be alone with flockart. she wished to speak with him, and with that object suggested that they should take the by-road which, crossing one of the main roads through the estate, led through a leafy wood away to a railway level-crossing half a mile off. the road was unfrequented, and they were not likely to meet any of the guests, for some were away fishing, others had motored into stirling, and at least three had walked down into auchterarder to take a telegram for their blind host. "well, my dear jimmy," asked the well-preserved, fair-haired woman in short brown skirt and fresh white cotton blouse and sun-hat, "what have you discovered?" "very little," replied the easy-going man, who wore a suit of rough heather-tweed and a round cloth fishing-hat. "my information is unfortunately very meagre. you have watched carefully. well, what have you found out?" "that she's just as much in love with him as before--the little fool!" "and i suppose he's just as devoted to her as ever--eh?" "of course. since you've been away these last few days he's been over here from connachan, on one pretext or another, every day. of course i've been compelled to ask him to lunch, for i can't afford to quarrel with his people, although i hate the whole lot of them. his mother gives herself such airs, and his father is the most terrible old bore in the whole country." "but the match would be an advantageous one--wouldn't it?" suggested the man strolling at her side, and he stopped to light a cigarette which he took from a golden case. "advantageous! of course it would! but we can't afford to allow it, my dear jimmy. think what such an alliance would mean to us!" "to you, you mean." "to you also. an ugly revelation might result, remember. therefore it must not be allowed. while walter was abroad all was pretty plain sailing. lots of the letters she wrote him i secured from the post-box, read them, and afterwards burned them. but now he's back there is a distinct peril. he's a cute young fellow, remember." flockart smiled. "we must discover a means by which to part them," he said slowly but decisively. "i quite agree with you that to allow the matter to go any further would be to court disaster. we have a good many enemies, you and i, winnie--many who would only be too pleased and eager to rake up that unfortunate episode. and i, for one, have no desire to figure in a criminal dock." "nor have i," she declared quickly. "but if i went there you would certainly accompany me," he said, looking straight at her. "what!" she gasped in quick dismay. "you would tell the truth and--and denounce me?" "i would not; but no doubt there are others who would," was his answer. for a few moments her arched brows were knit, and she remained silent. her reflections were uneasy ones. she and the man at her side, who for years had been her confidant and friend, were both in imminent peril of exposure. their relations had always been purely platonic; therefore she was not afraid of any allegation against her honour. what her enemies had said were lies--all of them. her fear lay in quite a different direction. her poor, blind, helpless husband was in ignorance of that terrible chapter of her own life--a chapter which she had believed to be closed for ever, and yet which was, by means of a chain of unexpected circumstances, in imminent danger of being reopened. "well," she inquired at last in a blank voice, "and who are those others who, you believe, would be prepared to denounce me?" "certain persons who envy you your position, and who, perhaps, think that you do not treat poor old sir henry quite properly." "but i do treat him properly!" she declared vehemently. "if he prefers the society of that chit of a girl of his to mine, how can i possibly help it? besides, people surely must know that, to me, the society of a blind old man is not exactly conducive to gaiety. i would only like to put those women who malign me into my place for a single year. perhaps they would become even more reckless of the _convenances_ than i am!" "my dear winnie," he said, "what's the use of discussing such an old and threadbare theme? things are not always what they seem, as the man with a squint said when he thought he saw two sovereigns where there was but one. the point before us is the girl's future." "it lies in your hands," was her sharp reply. "no; in yours. i have promised to look after walter murie." "but how can i act?" she asked. "the little hussy cares nothing for me--only sees me at table, and spends the whole of her day with her father." "act as i suggested last week," was his rejoinder. "if you did that the old man would turn her out of the place, and the rest would be easy enough." "but----" "ah!" he laughed derisively, "i see you've some sympathy with the girl after all. very well, take the consequences. it is she who will be your deadliest enemy, remember; she who, if the disaster falls, will give evidence against you. therefore, you'd best act now, ere it's too late. unless, of course, you are in fear of her." "i don't fear her!" cried the woman, her eyes flashing defiance. "why do you taunt me like this? you haven't told me yet what took place on the night of the ball." "nothing. the mystery is just as complete as ever." "she defied you--eh?" her companion nodded. "then how do you now intend to act?" "that's just the question i was about to put to you," he said. "there is a distinct peril--one which becomes graver every moment that the girl and young murie are together. how are we to avert it?" "by parting them." "then act as i suggested the other day. it's the only way, winnie, depend upon it--the only way to secure our own safety." "and what would the world say of me, her stepmother, if it were known that i had done such a thing?" "you've never yet cared for what the world said. why should you care now? besides, it never will be known. i should be the only person in the secret, and for my own sake it isn't likely that i'd give you away. is it? you've trusted me before," he added; "why not again?" "it would break my husband's heart," she declared in a low, intense voice. "remember, he is devoted to her. he would never recover from the shock." "and yet the other night after the ball you said you were prepared to carry out the suggestion, in order to save yourself," he remarked with a covert sneer. "perhaps i was piqued that she should defy my suggestion that she should go to the ball." "no, you were not. you never intended her to go. that you know." when he spoke to her this man never minced matters. the woman was held by him in a strange thraldom which surprised many people; yet to all it was a mystery. the world knew nothing of the fact that james flockart was without a penny, and that he lived--and lived well, too--upon the charity of lady heyburn. two thousand pounds were placed, in secret, every year to his credit from her ladyship's private account at coutts's, besides which he received odd cheques from her whenever his needs required. to his friends he posed as an easy-going man-about-town, in possession of an income not large, but sufficient to supply him with both comforts and luxuries. he usually spent the london season in his cosy chambers in half-moon street; the winter at monte carlo or at cairo; the summer at aix, vichy, or marienbad; and the autumn in a series of visits to houses in scotland. he was not exactly a ladies' man. courtly, refined, and a splendid linguist, as he was, the girls always voted him great fun; but from the elder ones, and from married women especially, he somehow held himself aloof. his one woman-friend, as everybody knew, was the flighty, go-ahead lady heyburn. of the country-house party he was usually the life and soul. no man could invent so many practical jokes or carry them on with such refinement of humour as he. therefore, if the hostess wished to impart merriment among her guests, she sought out and sent a pressing invitation to "jimmy" flockart. a first-class shot, an excellent tennis-player, a good golfer, and quite a good hand at putting a stone in curling, he was an all-round sportsman who was sure to be highly popular with his fellow-guests. hence up in the north his advent was always welcomed with loud approbation. to those who knew him, and knew him well, this confidential conversation with the woman whose platonic friendship he had enjoyed through so many years would certainly have caused greatest surprise. that he was a schemer was entirely undreamed of. that he was attracted by "winnie heyburn" was declared to be only natural, in view of the age and affliction of her own husband. cases such as hers are often regarded with a very lenient eye. they had reached the level-crossing where, beside the line of the caledonian railway, stands the mail-apparatus by which the down-mail for euston picks up the local bag without stopping, while the up-mail drops its letters and parcels into the big, strong net. for a few moments they halted to watch the dining-car express for euston pass with a roar and a crash as she dashed down the incline towards crieff junction. then, as they turned again towards the house, he suddenly exclaimed, "look here, winnie. we've got to face the music now. every day increases our peril. if you are actually afraid to act as i suggest, then tell me frankly and i'll know what to do. i tell you quite openly that i have neither desire nor intention to be put into a hole by this confounded girl. she has defied me; therefore she must take the consequences." "how do you know that your action the other night has not aroused her suspicions?" "ah! there you are quite right. it may have done so. if it has, then our peril has very considerably increased. that's just my argument." "but we'll have walter to reckon with in any case. he loves her." "bah! leave the boy to me. i'll soon show him that the girl's not worth a second thought," replied flockart with nonchalant air. "all you have to do is to act as i suggested the other night. then leave the rest to me." "and suppose it were discovered?" asked the woman, whose face had grown considerably paler. "well, suppose the worst happened, and it were discovered?" he asked, raising his brows slightly. "should we be any worse off than would be the case if this girl took it into her head to expose us--if the facts which she could prove placed us side by side in an assize-court?" the woman--clever, scheming, ambitious--was silent. the question admitted of no reply. she recognised her own peril. the picture of herself arraigned before a judge, with that man beside her, rose before her imagination, and she became terrified. that slim, pale-faced girl, her husband's child, stood between her and her own honour, her own safety. once the girl was removed, she would have no further fear, no apprehension, no hideous forebodings concerning the imminent future. she saw it all as she walked along that moss-grown forest-road, her eyes fixed straight before her. the tempter at her side had urged her to commit a dastardly, an unpardonable crime. in that man's hands she was, alas! as wax. he poured into her ear a vivid picture of what must inevitably result should gabrielle reveal the ugly truth, at the same time calmly watching the effect of his words upon her. upon her decision depended his whole future as well as hers. what was gabrielle's life to hers, asked the man point-blank. that was the question which decided her--decided her, after long and futile resistance, to promise to commit the act which he had suggested. she gave the man her hand in pledge. then a slight smile of triumph played about his cruel nether lip, and the pair retraced their steps towards the castle in silence. chapter viii casting the bait loving and perishing: these have tallied from eternity. love and death walk hand-in-hand. the will to love means also to be ready for death. gabrielle heyburn recognised this truth. she had the will to love, and she had the resolve to perish--perish by her own hand--rather than allow her secret to be exposed. those who knew her--a young, athletic, merry-faced, open-air girl on the verge of budding womanhood, so true-hearted, frank, and free--little dreamed of the terrible nature of that secret within her young heart. she held aloof from her lover as much as she dared. true, walter came to glencardine nearly every day, but she managed to avoid him whenever possible. why? because she knew her own weakness; she feared being compelled by his stronger nature, and by the true affection in which she held him, to confess. they walked together in the cool, shady glen beside the rippling burn, climbed the neighbouring hills, played tennis, or else she lay in the hammock at the edge of the lawn while he lounged at her side smoking cigarettes. she did all this because she was compelled. her most enjoyable hours were the quiet ones spent at her father's side. alone in the library, she read to him, in french, those curious business documents which came so often by registered post. they were so strangely worded that, not knowing their true import, she failed to understand them. all were neatly typed, without any heading to the paper. sometimes a printed address in the boulevard des capucines, paris, would appear on letters accompanying the enclosures. but all were very formal, and to gabrielle extremely puzzling. sir henry always took the greatest precaution that no one should obtain sight of these confidential reports or overhear them read by his daughter. before she sat down to read, she always shot the small brass bolt on the door to prevent hill or any other intruder from entering. more than once the baronet's wife had wanted to come in while the reading was in progress, whereupon sir henry always excused himself, saying that he locked his door against his guests when he wished to be alone, an explanation which her ladyship accepted. these strangely worded reports in french always puzzled the baronet's daughter. sometimes she became seized by a vague suspicion that her father was carrying on some business which was not altogether honourable. why should he enjoin such secrecy? why should he cause her to write and despatch with her own hand such curiously worded telegrams, addressed always to the registered address: "meteforos, paris"? those neatly typed pages which she read could be always construed in two or three senses. but only her father knew the actual meaning which the writer intended to convey. for hours she would often be engaged in reading them. sometimes, too, telegrams in cipher arrived, and she would then obtain the little, dark-blue covered book from the safe, and by its aid decipher the messages from the french capital. questions, curious questions, were frequently asked by the anonymous sender of the reports; and to these her father replied by means of his private code. she had become during the past year quite an expert typist, and therefore to her the baronet entrusted the replies, always impressing upon her the need of absolute secrecy, even from her mother. "my affairs," he often declared, "concern nobody but myself. i trust in you, gabrielle dear, to guard my secrets from prying eyes. i know that you yourself must often be puzzled, but that is only natural." unfamiliar as the girl was with business in any form, she had during the past year arrived at the conclusion, after much debate within herself, that this source of her father's income was a distinctly mysterious one. the estates were, of course, large, and he employed agents to manage them; but they could not produce that huge income which she knew he possessed, for had she not more than once seen the amount of his balance at his banker's as well as the large sum he had on deposit? the source of his colossal wealth was a mystery, but was no doubt connected with his curious and constant communications with paris. at rare intervals a grey-faced, grey-bearded, and rather stout frenchman--a certain monsieur goslin--called, and on such occasions was closeted for a long time alone with sir henry, evidently discussing some important affair in secret. to her ladyship, as well as to gabrielle, the frenchman was most courteous, but refused the pressing invitations to remain the night. he always arrived by the morning train from perth, and left for the south the same night, the express being stopped for him by signal at auchterarder station. the mysterious visitor puzzled gabrielle considerably. her father entrusted him with secrets which he withheld from her, and this often caused her both surprise and annoyance. like every other girl, she was of course full of curiosity. towards her flockart became daily more friendly. on two occasions, after breakfast, he had invited her to spend an hour or two fishing for trout in the burn, which was unexpectedly in spate, and they had thus been some time in each other's company. she, however, regarded him with distinct distrust. he was undeniably good-looking, nonchalant, and a thorough-going man of the world. but his intimate friendship with lady heyburn prevented her from regarding him as a true friend. towards her he was ever most courteous, and paid her many little compliments. he tied her flies, he fitted her rod, and if her line became entangled in the trees he always put matters right. not, however, that she could not do it all herself. in her strong, high fishing-boots, her short skirts hemmed with leather, her burberry, and her dark-blue tam-o'-shanter set jauntily on her chestnut hair, she very often fished alone, and made quite respectable baskets. to wade into the burn and disentangle her line from beneath a stone was to her quite a small occurrence, for she would never let either stewart or any of the under-keepers accompany her. why flockart had so suddenly sought her society she failed to discern. hitherto, though always extremely polite, he had treated her as a child, which she naturally resented. at length, however, he seemed to have realised that she now possessed the average intelligence of a young woman. he had never repeated those strange words he had uttered when, on the night of the ball at connachan, he returned in secret to the castle and beckoned her out upon the lawn. he had, indeed, never referred to his curious action. sometimes she wondered, so changed was his manner, whether he had actually forgotten the incident altogether. he had showed himself in his true colours that night. whatever suspicions she had previously held were corroborated in that stroll across the lawn in the dark shadow. his tactics had altered, it seemed, and their objective puzzled her. "it must be very dull for you here, miss heyburn," he remarked to her one bright morning as they were casting up-stream near one another. they were standing not far from a rustic bridge in a deep, leafy glen, where the sunshine penetrated here and there through the canopy of leaves, beneath which the burn pursued its sinuous course towards the earn. the music of the rippling waters over the brown, moss-grown boulders mingled with the rustle of the leaves above, as now and then the soft wind swept up the narrow valley. they were treading a carpet of wild-flowers, and the air was full of the delicious perfume of the summer day. "you must be very dull, living here so much, and going up to town so very seldom," he said. "oh dear no!" she laughed. "you are quite mistaken. i really enjoy a country life. it's so jolly after the confinement and rigorous rules of school. one is free up here. i can wear my old clothes, and go cycling, fishing, shooting, curling; in fact, i'm my own mistress. that i shouldn't be if i lived in london, and had to make calls, walk in the park, go shopping, sit out concerts, and all that sort of thing." "but though you're out, you never go anywhere. surely that's unusual for one so active and--well"--he hesitated--"i wonder whether i might be permitted to say so--so good-looking as you are, gabrielle." "ah!" replied the girl, protesting, but blushing at the same time, "you're poking fun at me, mr. flockart. all i can reply is, first, that i'm not good-looking; and, secondly, i'm not in the least dull--perhaps i should be if i hadn't my father's affairs to attend to." "they seem to take up a lot of your time," he said with pretended indifference, but, to his annoyance, landed a salmon parr at the same moment. "we work together most evenings," was her reply. the question which he then put as he threw the parr back into the burn struck her as curious. it was evident that he was endeavouring to learn from her the nature of her father's correspondence. but she was shrewd enough to parry all his ingenious cross-questioning. her father's secrets were her own. "some ill-natured people gossip about sir henry," he remarked presently, as he made another long cast up-stream and allowed the flies to be carried down to within a few yards from where he stood. "they say that his source of income is mysterious, and that it is not altogether open and above-board." "what!" she exclaimed, looking at him quickly. "and who, pray, mr. flockart, makes this allegation against my father?" "oh, i really don't know who started the gossip. the source of such tales is always difficult to discover. some enemy, no doubt. every man in this world of ours has enemies." "what do you mean by the source of dad's income not being an honourable one?" the man shrugged his shoulders. "i really don't know," he declared. "i only repeat what i've heard once or twice up in london." "tell me exactly what they say," demanded the girl, with quick interest. her companion hesitated for a few seconds. "well, whatever has been said, i've always denied; for, as you know, i am a friend of both lady heyburn and of your father." the girl's nostrils dilated slightly. friend! why, was not this man her father's false friend? was he not behind every sinister action of lady heyburn's, and had not she herself, with her own ears, one day at park street, four years ago, overheard her ladyship express a dastardly desire in the words, "oh, henry is such a dreadful old bore, and so utterly useless, that it's a shame a woman like myself should be tied up to him. fortunately for me, he already has one foot in the grave. otherwise i couldn't tolerate this life at all!" those cruel words of her stepmother's, spoken to this man who was at that moment her companion, recurred to her. she recollected, too, flockart's reply. this hollow pretence of friendship angered her. she knew that the man was her father's enemy, and that he had united with the clever, scheming woman in some ingenious conspiracy against the poor, helpless man. therefore she turned, and, facing him boldly, said, "i wish, mr. flockart, that you would please understand that i have no intention to discuss my father or his affairs. the latter concern himself alone. he does not even speak of them to his wife; therefore why should strangers evince any interest in them?" "because there are rumours--rumours of a mystery; and mysteries are always interesting and attractive," was his answer. "true," she said meaningly. "just as rumours concerning certain of my father's guests possess an unusual interest for him, mr. flockart. though my father may be blind, his hearing is still excellent. and he is aware of much more than you think." the man glanced at her for an instant, and his face darkened. the girl's ominous words filled him with vague apprehension. was it possible that the blind man had any suspicion of what was intended? he held his breath, and made another vicious cast far up the rippling stream. chapter ix reveals a mysterious business in the few days which followed, lady heyburn's attitude towards gabrielle became one of marked affection. she even kissed her in the breakfast-room each morning, called her "dear," and consulted her upon the day's arrangements. poor sir henry was but a cipher in the household. he usually took all his meals alone, except dinner, and was very seldom seen, save perhaps when he would come out for an hour or so to walk in the park, led by his daughter, or else, alone, tapping before him with his stout stick. on such occasions he would wear a pair of big blue spectacles to hide the unsightliness of his gray, filmy eyes. sometimes he would sit on one of the garden seats on the south side of the house, enjoying the sunshine, and listening to the songs of the birds, the hum of the insects, and the soft ripples of the burn far below. and on such occasions one of his wife's guests would join him to chat and cheer him, for everyone felt pity for the lonely man living his life of darkness. no one was more full of words of sympathy than james flockart. gabrielle longed to warn her father of that man, but dared not do so. there was a reason--a strong reason--for her silence. sir henry had declared that he was interested in the man's intellectual conversation, and that he rather liked him, though he had never looked upon his face. in some things the old gentleman was ever ready to adopt his daughter's advice and rely upon her judgment; but in others he was quite obstinate and treated her pointed remarks with calm indifference. one day, at lady heyburn's suggestion, gabrielle, accompanied by flockart and another of the guests, a retired colonel, had driven over in the big car to perth to make a call; and on their return she spent some hours in the library with her father, attending to his correspondence. that morning a big packet of those typed reports in french had arrived in the usual registered, orange-coloured envelope, and after she had read them over to the baronet, he had given her the key, and she had got out the code-book. then, at his instructions, she had written upon a yellow telegraph-form a cipher message addressed to the mysterious "meteforos, paris." it read, when decoded:-- "arrange with amethyst. i agree the price of pearls. have no fear of smithson, but watch peters. if london refuses, then mayfair. expect report of bedford." it was not signed by the baronet's name, but by the signature he always used on such telegraphic replies: "senrab." from such a despatch she could gather nothing. at his request she took away the little blue-covered book and relocked it in the safe. then she rang for hill, and told him to send the despatch by messenger down to auchterarder village. "very well, miss," replied the man, bowing. "the car is going down to take mr. seymour to the station in about a quarter of an hour, so stokes will take it." "and look here," exclaimed the blind man, who was standing before the window with his back to the crimson sunset, "you can tell her ladyship, hill, that i'm very busy, and i shan't come in to dinner to-night. just serve a snack here for me, will you?" "very well, sir henry," responded the smart footman; and, bowing again, he closed the door. "may i dine with you, dad?" asked the girl. "there are two or three people invited to-night, and they don't interest me in the least." "my dear child, what do you mean? why, aren't walter murie and his mother dining here to-night? i know your mother invited them ten days ago." "oh, why, yes," replied the girl rather lamely; "i did not recollect. then, i suppose, i must put in an appearance," she sighed. "suppose!" he echoed. "what would walter think if you elected to dine with me instead of meeting him at table?" "now, dad, it is really unkind of you!" she said reprovingly. "walter and i thoroughly understand each other. he's not surprised at anything i do." "ah!" laughed the sightless man, "he's already beginning to understand the feminine perverseness, eh? well, my child, dine here with me if you wish, by all means. tell hill to lay the table for two. we have lots of work to do afterwards." so the bell was rung again and hill was informed that miss gabrielle would dine with her father in the library. then they turned again to the baronet's mysterious private affairs; and when she had seated herself at the typewriter and re-read the reports--confidential reports they were, but framed in a manner which only the old man himself could understand--he dictated to her cryptic replies, the true nature of which were to her a mystery. the last of the reports, brief and unsigned, read as follows:-- "mon petit garçon est très gravement malade, et je supplie dieu à genoux de ne pas me punir si severement, de ne pas me prendre mon enfant. "d'apres le dernier bulletin du professeur knieberger, il a la fièvre scarlatine, et l'issue de la maladie est incertaine. je ne quitte plus son chevet. et sans cesse je me dis, 'c'est une punition du ciel.'" gabrielle saw that, to the outside world, it was a statement by a frantic mother that her child had caught scarlet-fever. "what could it really mean?" she wondered. slowly she read it, and as she did so noticed the curious effect it had upon her father, seated as he was in the deep saddle-bag chair. his face grew very grave, his thin white hands clenched themselves, and there was an unusually bitter expression about his mouth. "eh?" he asked, as though not quite certain of the words. "read it again, child, slower. i--i have to think." she obeyed, wondering if the key to the cryptic message were contained in some conjunction of letters or words. it seemed as though, in imagination, he was setting it down before him as she pronounced the words. this was often so. at times he would have reports repeated to him over and over again. "ah!" he gasped at last, drawing a long breath, his hands still tightly clenched, his countenance haggard and drawn. "i--i expected that. and so it has come--at last!" "what, dad?" asked the girl in surprise, staring at the crisp typewritten sheet before her. "oh, well, nothing child--nothing," he answered, bestirring himself. "but the lady whoever she is, seems terribly concerned about her little boy. the judgment of heaven, she calls it." "and well she may, gabrielle," he answered in a hoarse strained voice. "well she may, my dear. it is a punishment sent upon the wicked." "is the mother wicked, then?" asked the girl in curiosity. "no, dear," he urged. "don't try to understand, for you can never do that. these reports convey to me alone the truth. they are intended to mislead you, as they mislead other people." "then there is no little boy suffering from scarlet-fever?" "yes. because it is written there," was his smiling reply. "but it only refers to an imaginary child, and, by so doing, places a surprising and alarming truth before me." "is the matter so very serious, dad?" she asked, noticing the curious effect the words had had upon him. "serious!" he echoed, leaning forward in his chair. "yes," he answered in a low voice, "it is very serious, child, both to me and to you." "i don't understand you, dad," she exclaimed, walking to his chair throwing herself upon her knees, and placing her arms around his neck. "won't you be more explicit? won't you tell me the truth? surely you can rely upon my secrecy?" "yes, child," he said, groping until his hand fell upon her hair, and then stroking it tenderly; "i trust you. you keep my affairs from those people who seek to obtain knowledge of them. without you, i would be compelled to employ a secretary; but he could be bought, without a doubt. most secretaries can." "ford was very trustworthy, was he not?" "yes, poor ford," he sighed. "when he died i lost my right hand. but fortunately you were old enough to take his place." "but in a case like this, when you are worried and excited, as you are at this moment, why not confide in me and allow me to help you?" she suggested. "you see that, although i act as your secretary, dad, i know nothing of the nature of your business." "and forgive me for speaking very plainly, child, i do not intend that you should," the old man said. "because you cannot trust me!" she pouted. "you think that because i'm a woman i cannot keep a secret." "not at all," he said. "i place every confidence in you, dear. you are the only real friend left to me in the whole world. i know that you would never willingly betray me to my enemies; but----" "well, but what?" "but you might do so unknowingly. you might by one single chance-word place me within the power of those who seek my downfall." "who seeks your downfall, dad?" she asked very seriously. "that's a matter which i desire to keep to myself. unfortunately, i do not know the identity of my enemies; hence i am compelled to keep from you certain matters which, in other circumstances, you might know. but," he added, "this is not the first time we've discussed this question, gabrielle dear. you are my daughter, and i trust you. do not, child, misjudge me by suspecting that i doubt your loyalty." "i don't, dad; only sometimes i----" "sometimes you think," he said, still stroking her hair--"you think that i ought to tell you the reason i receive all these reports from paris, and their real significance. well, to tell the truth, dear, it is best that you should not know. if you reflect for a moment," went on the old man, tears welling slowly in his filmy, sightless eyes, "you will realise my unhappy situation--how i am compelled to hide my affairs even from lady heyburn herself. does she ever question you regarding them?" "she used to at one time; but she refrains nowadays, for i would tell her nothing." "has anyone else ever tried to glean information from you?" he inquired, after a long breath. "mr. flockart has done so on several occasions of late. but i pleaded absolute ignorance." "oh, flockart has been asking you, has he?" remarked her father with surprise. "well, i suppose it is only natural. a blind man's doings are always more or less a mystery to the world." "i don't like mr. flockart, dad," she said. "so you've remarked before, my dear," her father replied. "of course you are right in withholding any information upon a subject which is my own affair; yet, on the other hand, you should always remember that he is your mother's very good friend--and yours also." "mine!" gasped the girl, starting up. would that she were free to tell the poor, blind, helpless man the ghastly truth! "my friend, dad! what makes you think that?" "because he is always singing your praises, both to me and your mother." "then i tell you that his expressions of opinion are false, dear dad." "how?" she was silent. she dared not tell her father the reason; therefore, in order to turn the subject, she replied, with a forced laugh, "oh, well, of course, i may be mistaken; but that's my opinion." "a mere prejudice, child; i'm sure it is. as far as i know, flockart is quite an excellent fellow, and is most kind both to your mother and to myself." gabrielle's brow contracted. disengaging herself, she rose to her feet, and, after a pause, asked, "what reply shall i send to the report, dad?" "ah, that report!" gasped the man, huddled up in his chair in serious reflection. "that report!" he repeated, rising to straighten himself. "reply in these words: 'no effort is to be made to save the child's life. on the contrary, it is to be so neglected as to produce a fatal termination.'" the girl had seated herself at the typewriter and rapidly clicked out the words in french--words that seemed ominous enough, and yet the true meaning of which she never dreamed. she was thinking only of her father's misplaced friendship in james flockart. if she dared to tell him the naked truth! oh, if her poor, blind, afflicted father could only see! chapter x declares a woman's love at nine o'clock that night gabrielle left her father, and ascended to her own pretty room, with its light chintz-covered furniture, its well-filled bamboo bookcases, its little writing-table, and its narrow bed in the alcove. it was a nest of rest and cosy comfort. exchanging her tweed dress, she put on an easy dressing-gown of pale blue cashmere, drew up an armchair, and, arranging her electric reading-lamp, sat down to a new novel she intended to finish. presently elise came to her; but, looking up, she said she did not wish to be disturbed, and again coiled herself up in the chair, endeavouring to concentrate her thoughts upon her book. but all to no purpose. ever and anon she would lift her big eyes from the printed page, sigh, and stare fixedly at the rose-coloured trellis pattern of the wall-paper opposite. upon her there had fallen a feeling of vague apprehension such as she had never before experienced, a feeling that something was about to happen. lady heyburn was, she knew, greatly annoyed that she had not made her appearance at dinner or in the drawing-room afterwards. generally, when there were guests from the neighbourhood, she was compelled to sing one or other of her italian songs. her refusal to come to dinner would, she knew, cause her ladyship much chagrin, for it showed plainly to the guests that her authority over her step-daughter was entirely at an end. just as the stable-clock chimed half-past ten there came a light tap at the door. it was hill, who, on receiving permission to enter, said, "if you please, miss, mr. murie has just asked me to give you this"; and he handed her an envelope. tearing it open eagerly, she found a visiting-card, upon which some words were scribbled in pencil. for a moment after reading them she paused. then she said, "tell mr. murie it will be all right." "very well, miss," the man replied, and, bowing, closed the door. for a few moments she stood motionless in the centre of the room, her lover's card still in her hand. then she walked to the open window, and looked out into the hot, oppressive night. the moon was hidden behind dark clouds, and the stillness was precursory of the thunderstorm which for the past hour or so had threatened. across the room she paced slowly several times, a deep, anxious expression upon her pale countenance; then slowly she slipped off her gown and put on a dark stuff dress. until the clock had struck eleven she waited. then, assuming her tam-o'-shanter and twisting a silk scarf about her neck, she crept along the corridor and down the wide oak stairs. lights were still burning; but without detection she slipped out by the main door, and, crossing the broad drive, took the winding path into the woods. the guests had all left, and the servants were closing the house for the night. scarce had she gone a hundred yards when a dark figure in overcoat and a golf-cap loomed up before her, and she found walter at her side. "why, dearest!" he exclaimed, taking her hand and bending till he pressed it to his lips, "i began to fear you wouldn't come. why haven't i seen you to-night?" "because--well, because i had a bad headache," was her lame reply. "i knew that if i went in to dinner mother would want me to sing, and i really didn't feel up to it. i hope, however, you haven't been bored too much." "you know i have!" he said quickly in a low, earnest voice. "i came here purposely to see you, and you were invisible. i've run the car down the farm-road on the other side of the park, and left it there. the mater went home in the carriage nearly an hour ago. she's afraid to go in the car when i drive." slowly they strolled together along the dark path, he with her arm held tenderly under his own. "think, darling," he said, "i haven't seen you for four whole days! why is it? yesterday i went to the usual spot at the end of the glen, and waited nearly two hours; but you did not come, although you promised me, you know. why are you so indifferent, dearest?" he asked in a plaintive tone. "i can't really make you out of late." "i'm not indifferent at all, walter," she declared. "my father has very much to attend to just now, and i'm compelled to assist him, as you are well aware. he's so utterly helpless." "oh, but you might spare me just half-an-hour sometimes," he said in a slight tone of reproach. "i do. why, we surely see each other very often!" "not often enough for me, gabrielle," he declared, halting in the darkness and raising her soft little hand to his eager lips. "you know well enough how fondly i love you, how--" "i know," she said in a sad, blank tone. her own heart beat fast at his passionate words. "then why do you treat me like this?" he asked. "is it because i have annoyed you, that you perhaps think i am not keeping faith with you? i know i was absent a long time, but it was really not my own fault. my people made me go round the world. i didn't want to, i assure you. i'd far rather have been up here at connachan all the time, and near you, my own well-beloved." "i believe you would, walter," she answered, turning towards him with her hand upon his shoulder. "but i do wish you wouldn't reproach me for my undemonstrativeness each time we meet. it saddens me." "i know i ought not to reproach you," he hastened to assure her. "i have no right to do so; but somehow you have of late grown so sphinx-like that you are not the gabrielle i used to know." "why not?" and she laughed, a strange, hollow laugh. "explain yourself." "in the days gone by, before i went abroad, you were not so particular about our meetings being clandestine. you did not care who saw us or what people might say." "i was a girl then. i have now learnt wisdom, and the truth of the modern religion which holds that the only sin is that of being found out." "but why are you so secret in all your actions?" he demanded. "whom do you fear?" "fear!" she echoed, starting and staring in his direction. "why, i fear nobody! what--what makes you think that?" "because it has lately struck me that you meet me in secret because--well, because you are afraid of someone, or do not wish us to be seen." "why, how very foolish!" she laughed. "don't my father and mother both know that we love each other? besides, i am surely my own mistress. i would never marry a man i don't love," she added in a tone of quiet defiance. "and am i to take it that you really do love me, after all?" he inquired very earnestly. "why, of course," she replied without hesitation, again placing her arm about his neck and kissing him. "how foolish of you to ask such a question, walter! when will you be convinced that the answer i gave you long ago was the actual truth?" "men who love as fervently as i do are apt to be somewhat foolish," he declared. "then don't be foolish any longer," she urged in a matter-of-fact voice, lifting her lips to his and kissing him. "you know i love you, walter; therefore you should also know that it i avoid you in public i have some good reason for doing so." "a reason!" he cried. "what reason? tell me." she shook her head. "that is my own affair," she responded. "i repeat again that my affection for you is undiminished, if such repetition really pleases you, as it seems to do." "of course it pleases me, dearest," he declared. "no words are sweeter to my ears than the declaration of your love. my only regret is that, now i am at home again, i do not see so much of you, sweetheart, as i had anticipated." "walter," she exclaimed in a slow, changed voice, after a brief silence, "there is a reason. please do not ask me to tell you--because--well, because i can't." and, drawing a long breath, she added, "all i beg of you is to remain patient and trust in me. i love you; and i love no other man. surely that should be, for you, all-sufficient. i am yours, and yours only." in an instant he had folded her slight, dainty form in his arms. the young man was satisfied, perfectly satisfied. they strolled on together through the wood, and out across the open corn-fields. the moon had come forth again, the storm-clouds had passed, and the night was perfect. though she was trying against her will to hold aloof from walter murie, yet she loved him with all her heart and soul. many letters she had addressed to him in his travels had remained unanswered. this had, in a measure, piqued her. but she was in ignorance that much of his correspondence and hers had fallen into the hands of her ladyship and been destroyed. as they walked on, talking as lovers will, she was thinking deeply, and full of regret that she dared not tell the truth to this man who, loving her so fondly, would, she knew, be prepared to make any sacrifice for her sake. suppose he knew the truth! whatever sacrifice he made would, alas! not alter facts. if she confessed, he would only hate her. ah, the tragedy of it all! therefore she held her silence; she dared not speak lest she might lose his love. she had no friend in whom she could confide. from her own father, even, she was compelled to hide the actual facts. they were too terrible. what would he think if the bitter truth were exposed? the man at her side, tall, brave, strong--a lover whom she knew many girls coveted--believed that he was to marry her. but, she told herself within her grief-stricken heart, such a thing could never be. a barrier stood between them, invisible, yet nevertheless one that might for ever debar their mutual happiness. an involuntary sigh escaped her, and he inquired the reason. she excused herself by saying that it was owing to the exertion of walking over the rough path. therefore they halted, and, with the bright summer moonbeams falling upon her beautiful countenance, he kissed her passionately upon the lips again and yet again. they remained together for over an hour, moving along slowly, heedless of where their footsteps led them; heedless, too, of being seen by any of the keepers who, at night, usually patrolled the estate. their walk, however, lay at the farther end of the glen, in the coverts remote from the house and nearer the high-road; therefore there was but little danger of being observed. many were the pledges of affection they exchanged before parting. on walter's part they were fervent and passionate, but on the part of his idol they were, alas! only the pretence of a happiness which she feared could never be permanent. presently they retraced their steps to the edge of the wood beyond which lay the house. they found the path, and there, at her request, he left her. it was not wise that he should approach the house at that hour, she urged. so, after a long and fervent leave-taking, he held her in a last embrace, and then, raising his cap, and saying, "good-night, my darling, my own well-beloved!" he turned away and went at a swinging pace down the farm-road where he had left his car with lights extinguished. she watched him disappear. then, sighing, she turned into the dark, winding path beneath the trees, the end of which came out upon the drive close to the house. half-way down, however, with sudden resolve, she took a narrower path to the left, and was soon on the outskirts of the wood and out again in the bright moonlight. the night was so glorious that she had resolved to stroll alone, to think and devise some plan for the future. before her, silhouetted high against the steely sky, rose the two great, black, ivy-clad towers of the ancient castle. the grim, crumbling walls stood dark and frowning amid the fairy-like scene, while from far below came up the faint rippling of the ruthven water. a great owl flapped lazily from the ivy as she approached those historic old walls which in bygone days had held within them some of scotland's greatest men. she had explored and knew every nook and cranny in those extensive ruins. with walter's assistance, she had once made a perilous ascent to the top of the highest of the two square towers, and had often clambered along the broken walls of the keep or descended into those strange little subterranean chambers, now half-choked with earth and rubbish, which tradition declared were the dungeons in which prisoners in the old days had been put to the rack, seared with red-hot irons, or submitted to other horrible tortures. her feet falling noiselessly, she entered the grass-grown courtyard, where stood the ancient spreading yew, the "dule-tree," under which the glencardine charters had been signed and justice administered. other big trees had sprung from seedlings since the place had fallen into ruin; and, having entered, she paused amidst its weird, impressive silence. those high, ponderous walls about her spoke mutely of strength and impregnability. those grass-grown mounds hid ruined walls and broken foundations. what tales of wild lawlessness and reckless bloodshed they all could tell! many of the strange stories she had heard concerning the old place--stories told by the people in the neighbourhood--were recalled as she stood there gazing wonderingly about her. many romantic legends had, indeed, been handed down in perthshire from generation to generation concerning old glencardine and its lawless masters, and for her they had always possessed a strange fascination, for had she not inherited the antiquarian tastes of her father, and had she not read many works upon folklore and such-like subjects. suddenly, while standing in the deep shadow, gazing thoughtfully up at those high towers which, though ruined, still guarded the end of the glen, a strange thing occurred--something which startled her, causing her to halt breathless, petrified, rooted to the spot. she stared straight before her. something uncanny was happening there, something that was, indeed, beyond human credence, and quite inexplicable. chapter xi concerns the whispers what had startled gabrielle was certainly extraordinary and decidedly uncanny. she was standing near the southern wall, when, of a sudden, she heard low but distinct whispers. again she listened. yes. the sounds were not due to her excited imagination at the recollection of those romantic traditions of love and hatred, or of those gruesome stories of how the wolf of badenoch had been kept prisoner there for five years and put to frightful tortures, or how the laird of weem was deliberately poisoned in that old banqueting-hall, the huge open fireplace of which still existed near where she stood. there was the distinct sound of low, whispered words! she held her breath to listen. she tried to distinguish what the words were, but in vain. then she endeavoured to determine whence they emanated, but was unable to do so. again they sounded--again--and yet again. then there was another voice, still low, still whispering, but not quite so deep as the first. it sounded like a woman's. local tradition had it that the place held the ghosts of those who had died in agony within its noisome dungeons; but she had always been far too matter-of-fact to accept stories of the supernatural. yet at that moment her ears did not deceive her. that pile of grim, gaunt ruins was a house of whispers! again she listened, never moving a muscle. an owl hooted weirdly in the ivy far above her, while near, at her feet, a rabbit scuttled away through the grass. such noises she was used to. she knew every night-sound of the country-side; for when she had finished her work in the library she often went, unknown to the household, with stewart upon his nocturnal rounds, and walked miles through the woods in the night. the grey-eyed, thin-nosed head-keeper was her particular favourite. he knew so much of natural history, and he taught her all he knew. she could distinguish the cries of birds in the night, and could tell by certain sounds made by them, as they were disturbed, that no other intruders were in the vicinity. but that weird whispering, coming as it did from an undiscovered source, was inhuman and utterly uncanny. was it possible that her ears had deceived her? was it one of the omens believed in by the superstitious? the wall whence the voices appeared to emanate was, she knew, about seven feet thick--an outer wall of the old keep. she was aware of this because in one of the folio tomes in the library was a picture of the castle as it appeared in , taken from some manuscript of that period preserved in the british museum. she, who had explored the ruins dozens of times, knew well that at the point where she was standing there could be no place of concealment. beyond that wall, the hill, covered with bushes and brushwood, descended sheer for three hundred feet or so to the bottom of the glen. had the voices sounded from one or other of the half-choked chambers which remained more or less intact she would not have been so puzzled; but, as it was, the weird whisperings seemed to come forth from space. sometimes they sounded so low that she could scarcely hear them; at others they were so loud that she could almost distinguish the words uttered by the unseen. was it merely a phenomenon caused by the wind blowing through some crack in the ponderous lichen-covered wall? she looked beyond at the great dark yew, the justice-tree of the grahams. the night was perfectly calm. not a leaf stirred either upon that or upon the other trees. the ivy, high above and exposed to the slightest breath of a breeze, was motionless; only the going and coming of the night-birds moved it. no. she decided once and for all that the noise was that of voices, spectral voices though they might be. again she strained her eyes, when still again those soft, sibilant whisperings sounded weird and quite inexplicable. slowly, and with greatest caution, she moved along beneath the wall, but as she did so she seemed to recede from the sound. so back she went to the spot where she had previously stood, and there again remained listening. there were two distinct voices; at least that was the conclusion at which she arrived after nearly a quarter of an hour of most minute investigation. once she fancied, in her excitement, that away in the farther corner of the ruined courtyard she saw a slowly moving form like a thin column of mist. was it the lady of glencardine--the apparition of the hapless lady jane glencardine? but on closer inspection she decided that it was merely due to her own distorted imagination, and dismissed it from her mind. those low, curious whisperings alone puzzled her. they were certainly not sounds that could be made by any rodents within the walls, because they were voices, distinctly and indisputably _voices_, which at some moments were raised in argument, and then fell away into sounds of indistinct murmuring. whence did they come? she again moved noiselessly from place to place, at length deciding that only at one point--the point where she had first stood--could the sounds be heard distinctly. so to that spot once more the girl returned, standing there like a statue, her ears strained for every sound, waiting and wondering. but the whispers had now ceased. in the distance the stable-clock chimed two. yet she remained at her post, determined to solve the mystery, and not in the least afraid of those weird stories which the country-folk in the highlands so entirely believed. no ghost, of whatever form, could frighten her, she told herself. she had never believed in omens or superstitions, and she steeled herself not to believe in them now. so she remained there in patience, seeking some natural solution of the extraordinary enigma. but though she waited until the chimes rang out three o'clock and the moon was going down, she heard no other sound. the whispers had suddenly ended, and the silence of those gaunt, frowning old walls was undisturbed. a slight wind had now sprung up, sweeping across the hills, and causing her to feel chill. therefore, at last she was reluctantly compelled to quit her post of observation, and retrace her steps by the rough byroad to the house, entering by one of the windows of the morning-room, of which the burglar-alarm was broken, and which on many occasions she had unfastened after her nocturnal rambles with stewart. indeed, concealed under the walls she kept an old rusted table-knife, and by its aid it was her habit to push back the catch and so gain entrance, after reconcealing the knife for use on a future occasion. on reaching her own room she stood for a few moments reflecting deeply upon her remarkable and inexplicable discovery. had the story of those whisperings been told to her she would certainly have scouted them; but she had heard them with her own ears, and was certain that she had not been deceived. it was a mystery, absolute and complete; and, regarding it as such, she retired to bed. but her thoughts were very naturally full of the weird story told of the dead and gone owners of glencardine. she recollected that horrible story of the ghaist of manse and of the spectre of bridgend. in the library she had, a year ago, discovered a strange old book--one which sixty years before had been in universal circulation--entitled _satan's invisible world discovered_, and she had read it from beginning to end. this book had, perhaps, more influence upon the simple-minded country people in scotland than any other work. it consisted entirely of relations of ghosts of murdered persons, witches, warlocks, and fairies; and as it was read as an indoor amusement in the presence of children, and followed up by unfounded tales of the same description, the youngsters were afraid to turn round in case they might be grasped by the "old one." so strong, indeed, became this impression that even grown-up people would not venture, through fear, into another room or down a stair after nightfall. her experience in the old castle had, to say the least, been remarkable. those weird whisperings were extraordinary. for hours she lay reflecting upon the many traditions of the old place, some recorded in the historic notices of the house of the montrose, and others which had gathered from local sources--the farmers of the neighbourhood, the keepers, and servants. those noises in the night were mysterious and puzzling. next morning she went alone to the kennels to find stewart and to question him. he had told her many weird stories and traditions of the old place, and it struck her that he might be able to furnish her with some information regarding her strange discovery. had anyone else heard those whispers besides herself, she wondered. she met several of the guests, but assiduously avoided them, until at last she saw the thin, long-legged keeper going towards his cottage with dash, the faithful old spaniel, at his heels. when she hailed him he touched his cap respectfully, changed his gun to the other arm, and wished her "guid-mornin', miss gabrielle," in his strong scotch accent. she bade him put down his gun and walk with her up the hill towards the ruins. "look here, stewart," she commanded in a confidential tone, "i'm going to take you into my confidence. i know i can trust you with a secret." "ye may, miss," replied the keen-eyed scot. "i houp sir henry trusts me as a faithfu' servant. i've been on glencardine estate noo, miss, thae forty year." "stewart, we all know you are faithful, and that you can keep your tongue still. what i'm about to tell you is in strictest confidence. not even my father knows it." "ah! then it's a secret e'en frae the laird, eh?" "yes," she replied. "i want you to come up to the old castle with me," pointing to the great ruined pile standing boldly in the summer sunlight, "and i want you to tell me all you know. i've had a very uncanny experience there." "what, miss!" exclaimed the man, halting and looking her seriously in the face; "ha'e ye seen the ghaist?" "no, i haven't seen any ghost," replied the girl; "but last night i heard most extraordinary sounds, as though people were within the old walls." "guid sake, miss! an' ha'e ye actually h'ard the whispers?" he gasped. "then other people have heard them, eh?" inquired the girl quickly. "tell me all you know about the matter, stewart." "a'?" he said, slowly shaking his head. "i ken but a wee bittie aboot the noises." "who has heard them besides myself?" "maxwell o'tullichuil's girl. she said she h'ard the whispers ae nicht aboot a year syne. they're a bad omen, miss, for the lassie deed sudden a fortnicht later." "did anyone else hear them?" "auld willie buchan, wha lived doon in auchterarder village, declared that ae nicht, while poachin' for rabbits, he h'ard the voices. he telt the doctor sae when he lay in bed a-deein' aboot three weeks aifterwards. ay, miss, i'm sair sorry ye've h'ard the whispers." "then they're regarded as a bad omen to those who overhear them?" she remarked. "that's sae. there's bin ithers wha acted as eavesdroppers, an' they a' deed very sune aifterwards. there was jean kirkwood an' geordie menteith. the latter was a young keeper i had here aboot a year syne. he cam' tae me ae mornin' an' said that while lyin' up for poachers the nicht afore, he distinc'ly h'ard the whispers. kennin' what folk say aboot the owerhearin' o' them bein' fatal, i lauched at 'im an' told 'im no' to tak' ony tent o' auld wives' gossip. but, miss, sure enough, within a week he got blood-pizinin', an', though they took 'im to the hospital in perth, he deed." "then popular superstition points to the fact that anyone who accidentally acts as eavesdropper is doomed to death, eh? a very nice outlook for me!" she remarked. "oh, miss gabrielle!" exclaimed the man, greatly concerned, "dinna treat the maitter lichtly, i beg o' ye. i did, wi' puir menteith, an' he deed juist like the ithers." "but what does it all mean?" asked the daughter of the house in a calm, matter-of-fact voice. she knew well that stewart was just as superstitious as any of his class, for some of the stories he had told her had been most fearful and wonderful elaborations of historical fact. "it means, i'm fear'd, miss," he replied, "that the whispers which come frae naewhere are fore-warnin's o' daith." chapter xii explains some curious facts gabrielle was silent for a moment. no doubt stewart meant what he said; he was not endeavouring to alarm her unduly, but thoroughly believed in supernatural agencies. "i suppose you've already examined the ruins thoroughly, eh?" she asked at last. "examined them?" echoed the gray-bearded man. "i should think sae, aifter forty-odd years here. why, as a laddie i used to play there ilka day, an' ha'e been in ilka neuk an' cranny." "nevertheless, come up now with me," she said. "i want to explain to you exactly where and how i heard the voices." "the whispers are an uncanny thing," said the keeper, with his broad accent. "i dinna like them, miss; i dinna like tae hear what ye tell me ava." "oh, don't worry about me, stewart," she laughed. "i'm not afraid of any omen. i only mean to fathom the mystery, and i want your assistance in doing so. but, of course, you'll say no word to a soul. remember that." "if it be yer wush, miss gabrielle, i'll say naething," he promised. and together they descended the steep grass-slope and overgrown foundations of the castle until they stood in the old courtyard, close to the ancient justice-tree, the exact spot where the girl had stood on the previous night. "i could hear plainly as i stood just here," she said. "the sound of voices seemed to come from that wall there"; and she pointed to the gray flint wall, half-overgrown with ivy, about six yards away. stewart made no remark. it was not the first occasion on which he had examined that place in an attempt to solve the mystery of the nocturnal whisperings. he walked across to the wall, tapping it with his hand, while the faithful spaniel began sniffing in expectancy of something to bolt. "there's naething here, miss--absolutely naething," he declared, as they both examined the wall minutely. its depth did not admit of any chamber, for it was an inner wall; and, according to the gamekeeper's statement, he had already tested it years ago, and found it solid masonry. "if i went forward or backward, then the sounds were lost to me," gabrielle explained, much puzzled. "ay. that's juist what they a' said," remarked the keeper, with an apprehensive look upon his face. "the whispers are only h'ard at ae spot, whaur ye've juist stood. i've seen the lady a' in green masel', miss--aince when i was a laddie, an' again aboot ten year syne." "you mean, stewart, that you imagined that you saw an apparition. you were alone, i suppose?" "yes, miss, i was alane." "well, you thought you saw the lady of glencardine. where was she?" "on the drive, in front o' the hoose." "perhaps somebody played a practical joke on you. the green lady is glencardine's favourite spectre, isn't she--perfectly harmless, i mean?" "ay, miss. lots o' folk saw her ten year syne. but nooadays she seems to ha'e been laid. somebody said they saw her last glesca holidays, but i dinna believe 't." "neither do i, stewart. but don't let's trouble about the unfortunate lady, who ought to have been at rest long ago. it's those weird whisperings i mean to investigate." and she looked blankly around her at the great, cyclopean walls and high, weather-beaten towers, gaunt yet picturesque in the morning sunshine. the keeper shook his shaggy head. "i'm afear'd, miss gabrielle, that ye'll ne'er solve the mystery. there's somethin' sae fatal aboot the whisperin's," he said, speaking in his pleasant highland tongue, "that naebody cares tae attempt the investigation. they div say that the whispers are the voice o' the de'il himsel'." the girl, in her short blue serge skirt, white cotton blouse, and blue tam-o'-shanter, laughed at the man's dread. there must be a distinct cause for this noise she had heard, she argued. yet, though they both spent half-an-hour wandering among the ruins, standing in the roofless banqueting hall, and traversing stone corridors and lichen-covered, moss-grown, ruined chambers choked with weeds, their efforts to obtain any clue were all in vain. to gabrielle it was quite evident that the old keeper regarded the incident of the previous night as a fatal omen, for he was most solicitous of her welfare. he went so far as to crave permission to go to sir henry and put the whole of the mysterious facts before him. but she would not hear of it. she meant to solve the mystery herself. if her father learnt of the affair, and of the ill-omen connected with it, the matter would surely cause him great uneasiness. why should he be worried on her account? no, she would never allow it, and told stewart plainly of her disapproval of such a course. "but, tell me," she asked at last, as returning to the courtyard, they stood together at the spot where she had stood in that moonlit hour and heard with her own ears those weird, mysterious voices coming from nowhere--"tell me, stewart, is there any legend connected with the whispers? have you ever heard any story concerning their origin?" "of coorse, miss. through all perthshire it's weel kent," replied the man slowly, not, it seemed, without considerable reluctance. "what is h'ard by those doomed tae daith is the conspiracy o' charles lord glencardine an' the earl o' kintyre for the murder o' the infamous cardinal setoun o' st. andrews, wha, as i dare say ye ken fra history, miss, was assassinated here, on this very spot whaur we stan'. the earl o' kintyre, thegither wi' lord glencardine, his dochter mary, an' ane o' the m'intyres o' talnetry, an' wemyss o' strathblane, were a year later tried by a commission issued under the name o' mary queen o' scots; but sae popular was the murder o' the cardinal that the accused were acquitted." "yes," exclaimed the girl, "i remember reading something about it in scottish history. and the whispers are, i suppose, said to be the ghostly conspirators in conclave." "that's what folk say, miss. they div say as weel that auld nick himsel' was present, an' gied the decision that the cardinal, wha was to be askit ower frae stirlin', should dee. it is his evil counsel that is h'ard by those whom death will quickly overtake." "really, stewart," she laughed, "you make me feel quite uncomfortable." "but, miss, sir henry already kens a' aboot the whispers," said the man. "i h'ard him tellin' a young gentleman wha cam' doon last shootin' season a guid dale aboot it. they veesited the auld castle thegither, an' i happened tae be hereaboots." this caused the girl to resolve to learn from her father what she could. he was an antiquary, and had the history of glencardine at his finger-ends. so presently she strolled back to stewart's cottage, and after receiving from the faithful servant urgent injunctions to "have a care" of herself, she walked on to the tennis-lawn, where, shaded by the high trees, lady heyburn, in white serge, and three of her male guests were playing. "father," she said that same evening, when they had settled down to commence work upon those ever-arriving documents from paris, "what was the cause of glencardine becoming a ruin?" "well, the reason of its downfall was lord glencardine's change of front," he answered. "in he became a stalwart supporter of episcopacy and divine right, a course which proved equally fatal to himself and to his ancient castle of glencardine. reid, in his _annals of auchterarder_, relates how, after the civil war, lord dundrennan, in company with his cousin, george lochan of ochiltree, and burgess of auchterarder and the laird of m'nab, descended into strathearn and occupied the castle with about fifty men. he hurriedly put it into a state of defence. general overton besieged the place in person, with his army, consisting of eighteen hundred foot and eleven hundred horse, and battered the walls with cannon, having brought a number of great ordnance from stirling castle. for ten days the castle was held by the small but resolute garrison, and might have held out longer had not the well failed. with the prospect of death before them in the event of the place being taken, dundrennan and lochan contrived to break through the enemy, who surrounded the castle on all sides. a page of the name of john hamilton, in attendance upon lord dundrennan, well acquainted with the localities of glencardine, undertook to be their guide. when the moon was down, dundrennan and lochan issued from the castle by a small postern, where they found hamilton waiting for them with three horses. they mounted, and, passing quietly through the enemy's force, they escaped, and reached lord glencardine in safety to the north. on the morning after their escape the castle was surrendered, and thirty-five of the garrison were sent to the tolbooth of edinburgh. general overton ordered the remaining twelve of those who had surrendered to be shot at a post, and the castle to be burned, which was accordingly done." "the country-folk in the neighbourhood are full of strange stories about ghostly whisperings being heard in the castle ruins," she remarked. her father started, and raising his expressionless face to hers, asked in almost a snappish tone, "well, and who has heard them now, pray?" "several people, i believe." "and they're gossiping as usual, eh?" he remarked in a hard, dry tone. "up here in the highlands they are ridiculously superstitious. who's been telling you about the whispers, child?" "oh, i've learnt of them from several people," she replied evasively. "mysterious voices were heard, they say, last night, and for several nights previously. it's also a local tradition that all those who hear the whispered warning die within forty days." "bosh, my dear! utter rubbish!" the old man laughed. "who's been trying to frighten you?" "nobody, dad. i merely tell you what the country people say." "yes," he remarked, "i know. the story is a gruesome one, and in the highlands a story is not attractive unless it has some fatality in it. up here the belief in demonology and witchcraft has died very hard. get down penny's _traditions of perth_--first shelf to the left beyond the second window, right-hand corner. it will explain to you how very superstitious the people have ever been." "i know all that, dad," persisted the girl; "but i'm interested in this extraordinary story of the whispers. you, as an antiquary, have, no doubt, investigated all the legendary lore connected with glencardine. the people declare that the whispers are heard, and, i am told, believe some extraordinary theory regarding them." "a theory!" he exclaimed quickly. "what theory? what has been discovered?" "nothing, as far as i know." "no, and nothing ever will be discovered," he said. "why not, dad?" she asked. "do you deny that strange noises are heard there when there is so much evidence in the affirmative?" "i really don't know, my dear. i've never had the pleasure of hearing them myself, though i've been told of them ever since i bought the place." "but there is a legend which is supposed to account for them, is there not, dad? do tell me what you know," she urged. "i'm so very much interested in the old place and its bygone history." "the less you know concerning the whispers the better, my dear," he replied abruptly. her father's ominous words surprised her. did he, too, believe in the fatal omen, though he was trying to mislead her and poke fun at the local superstition? "but why shouldn't i know?" she protested. "this is the first time, dad, that you've tried to withhold from me any antiquarian knowledge that you possess. besides, the story of glencardine and its lords is intensely fascinating to me." "so might be the whispers, if ever you had the misfortune to hear them." "misfortune!" she gasped, turning pale. "why do you say misfortune?" but he laughed a strange, hollow laugh, and, endeavouring to turn his seriousness into humour, said, "well, they might give you a turn, perhaps. they would make me start, i feel sure. from what i've been told, they seem to come from nowhere. it is practically an unseen spectre who has the rather unusual gift of speech." it was on the tip of her tongue to explain how, on the previous night, she had actually listened to the whispers. but she refrained. she recognised that, though he would not admit it, he was nevertheless superstitious of ill results following the hearing of those weird whisperings. so she made eager pretence of wishing to know the historical facts of the incident referred to by the gamekeeper. "no," exclaimed the blind man softly but firmly, taking her hand and stroking her arm tenderly, as was his habit when he wished to persuade her. "no, gabrielle dear," he said; "we will change the subject now. do not bother your head about absurd country legends of that sort. there are so many concerning glencardine and its lords that a whole volume might be filled with them." "but i want to know all about this particular one, dad," she said. "from me you will never know, my dear," was his answer, as his gray, serious face was upturned to hers. "you have never heard the whispers, and i sincerely hope that you never will." chapter xiii what flockart foresaw the following afternoon was glaring and breathless. gabrielle had taken stokes, with may spencer (a girl friend visiting her mother), and driven the "sixteen" over to connachan with a message from her mother--an invitation to lady murie and her party to luncheon and tennis on the following day. it was three o'clock, the hour when silence is upon a summer house-party in the country. beneath the blazing sun glencardine lay amid its rose-gardens, its cut beech-hedges, and its bowers of greenery. the palpitating heat was terrible--the hottest day that summer. at the end of the long, handsome drawing-room, with its pale blue carpet and silk-covered furniture, lady heyburn was lolling lazily in her chair near the wide, bright steel grate, with her inseparable friend, james flockart, standing before her. the striped blinds outside the three long, open windows subdued the sun-glare, yet the very odour of the cut flowers in the room seemed oppressive, while without could be heard the busy hum of insect life. the baronet's handsome wife looked cool and comfortable in her gown of white embroidered muslin, her head thrown back upon the silken cushion, and her eyes raised to those of the man, who was idly smoking a cigarette, at her side. "the thing grows more and more inexplicable," he was saying to her in a low, strained voice. "all the inquiries i've caused to be made in london and in paris have led to a negative result." "we shall only know the truth when we get a peep of those papers in henry's safe, my dear friend," was the woman's reply. "and that's a pretty difficult job. you don't know where the old fellow keeps the key?" "i only wish i did. gabrielle knows, no doubt." "then you ought to compel her to divulge," he urged. "once we get hold of that key for half-an-hour, we could learn a lot." "a lot that would be useful to you, eh?" remarked the woman, with a meaning smile. "and to you also," he said. "couldn't we somehow watch and see where he hides the safe-key? he never has it upon him, you say." "it isn't on his bunch." "then he must have a hiding-place for it, or it may be on his watch-chain," remarked the man decisively. "get rid of all the guests as quickly as you can, winnie. while they're about there's always a danger of eavesdroppers and of watchers." "i've already announced that i'm going up to inverness next week, so within the next day or two our friends will all leave." "good! then the ground will be cleared for action," he remarked, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips. "what's your decision regarding the girl?" "the same as yours." "but she hates me, you know," laughed the man in gray flannel. "yes; but she fears you at the same time, and with her you can do more by fear than by love." "true. but she's got a spirit of her own, recollect." "that must be broken." "and what about walter?" "oh, as soon as he finds out the truth he'll drop her, never fear. he's already rather fond of that tall, dark girl of dundas's. you saw her at the ball. you recollect her?" flockart grunted. he was assisting this woman at his side to play a desperate game. this was not, however, the first occasion on which they had acted in conjunction in matters that were not altogether honourable. there had never been any question of affection between them. the pair regarded each other from a purely business standpoint. people might gossip as much as ever they liked; but the two always congratulated themselves that they had never committed the supreme folly of falling in love with each other. the woman had married sir henry merely in order to obtain money and position; and this man flockart, who for years had been her most intimate associate, had ever remained behind her, to advise and to help her. perhaps had the baronet not been afflicted he would have disapproved of this constant companionship, for he would, no doubt, have overheard in society certain tittle-tattle which, though utterly unfounded, would not have been exactly pleasant. but as he was blind and never went into society, he remained in blissful ignorance, wrapped up in his mysterious "business" and his hobbies. gabrielle, on her return from school, had at first accepted flockart as her friend. it was he who took her for walks, who taught her to cast a fly, to shoot rooks, and to play the national winter game of scotland--curling. he had in the first few months of her return home done everything in his power to attract the young girl's friendship, while at the same time her ladyship showed herself extraordinarily well disposed towards her. within a year, however, by reason of various remarks made by people in her presence, and on account of the cold disdain with which lady heyburn treated her afflicted father, vague suspicions were aroused within her, suspicions which gradually grew to hatred, until she clung to her father, and, as his eyes and ears, took up a position of open defiance towards her mother and her adventurous friend. the situation each day grew more and more strained. lady heyburn was, even though of humble origin, a woman of unusual intelligence. in various quarters she had been snubbed and ridiculed, but she gradually managed in every case to get the better of her enemies. many a man and many a woman had had bitter cause to repent their enmity towards her. they marvelled how their secrets became known to her. they did not know the power behind her--the sinister power of that ingenious and unscrupulous man, james flockart--the man who made it his business to know other people's secrets. though for years he had been seized with a desire to get at the bottom of sir henry's private affairs, he had never succeeded. the old baronet was essentially a recluse; he kept himself so much to himself, and was so careful that no eyes save those of his daughter should see the mysterious documents which came to him so regularly by registered post, that all flockart's efforts and those of lady heyburn had been futile. "i had another good look at the safe this morning," the man went on presently. "it is one of the best makes, and would resist anything, except, of course, the electric current." "to force it would be to put henry on his guard," lady heyburn remarked, "if we are to know what secrets are there, and use our knowledge for our own benefit, we must open it with a key and relock it." "well, winnie, we must do something. we must both have money--that's quite evident," he said. "that last five hundred you gave me will stave off ruin for a week or so. but after that we must certainly be well supplied, or else there may be revelations well--which will be as ugly for yourself as for me." "i know," she exclaimed. "i fully realise the necessity of getting funds. the other affair, though we worked it so well, proved a miserable fiasco." "and very nearly gave us away into the bargain," he declared. "i tell you frankly, winnie, that if we can't pay a level five thousand in three weeks' time the truth will be out, and you know what that will mean." he was watching her handsome face as he spoke, and he noticed how pale and drawn were her features as he referred to certain ugly truths that might leak out. "yes," she gasped, "i know, james. we'd both find ourselves under arrest. such a _contretemps_ is really too terrible to think of." "but, my dear girl, it must be faced," he said, "if we don't get the money. can't you work sir henry for a bit more, say another thousand. make an excuse that you have bills to pay in london--dressmakers, jewellers, milliners--any good story will surely do. he gives you anything you ask for." she shook her head and sighed. "i fear i've imposed upon his good-nature far too much already," she answered. "i know i'm extravagant; i'm sorry, but can't help it. born in me, i suppose. a few months ago he found out that i'd been paying mellish a hundred pounds each time to decorate park street with flowers for my wednesday evenings, and he created an awful scene. he's getting horribly stingy of late." "yes; but the flowers were a bit expensive, weren't they?" he remarked. "not at all. lady fortrose, the wife of the soap-man, pays two hundred and fifty pounds for flowers for her house every thursday in the season; and mine looked quite as good as hers. i think mellish is much cheaper than anybody else. and, just because i went to a cheap man, henry was horrible. he said all sorts of weird things about my reckless extravagance and the suffering poor--as though i had anything to do with them. the genuine poor are really people like you and me." "i know," he said philosophically, lighting another cigarette. "but all this is beside the point. we want money, and money we must have in order to avoid exposure. you--" "i was a fool to have had anything to do with that other little affair," she interrupted. "it was not only myself who arranged it. remember, it was you who suggested it, because it seemed so easy, and because you had an old score to pay off." "the woman was sacrificed, and at the same time an enemy learnt our secret." "i couldn't help it," he protested. "you let your woman's vindictiveness overstep your natural caution, my dear girl. if you'd taken my advice there would have been no suspicion." lady heyburn was silent. she sat regarding the toe of her patent-leather shoe fixedly, in deep reflection. she was powerless to protest, she was so entirely in this man's hands. "well," she asked at last, stirring uneasily in her chair, "and suppose we are not able to raise the money, what do you anticipate will be the result?" "a rapid reprisal," was his answer. "people like them don't hesitate--they act." "yes, i see," she remarked in a blank voice. "they have nothing to lose, so they will bring pressure upon us." "just as we once tried to bring pressure upon them. it's all a matter of money. we pay the price arranged--a mere matter of business." "but how are we to get money?" "by getting a glance at what's in that safe," he replied. "once we get to know this mysterious secret of sir henry's, i and my friends can get money easily enough. leave it all to me." "but how--" "this matter you will please leave entirely to me, winnie," he repeated with determination. "we are both in danger--great danger; and that being so, it is incumbent upon me to act boldly and fearlessly. i mean to get the key, and see what is within that safe." "but the girl?" asked her ladyship. "within one week from to-day the girl will no longer trouble us," he said with an evil glance. "i do not intend that she shall remain a barrier against our good fortune any longer. understand that, and remain perfectly calm, whatever may happen." "but you surely don't intend--you surely will not--" "i shall act as i think proper, and without any sentimental advice from you," he declared with a mock bow, but straightening himself instantly when at the door was heard a fumbling, and the gray-bearded man in blue spectacles, his thin white hand groping before him, slowly entered the room. chapter xiv concerns the curse of the cardinal gabrielle and walter were seated together under one of the big oaks at the edge of the tennis-lawn at connachan. with may spencer and lady murie they had been playing; but his mother and the young girl had gone into the house for tea, leaving the lovers alone. "what's the matter with you to-day, darling?" he had asked as soon as they were out of hearing. "you don't seem yourself, somehow." she started quickly, and, pulling herself up, tried to smile, assuring him that there was really nothing amiss. "i do wish you'd tell me what it is that's troubling you so," he said. "ever since i returned from abroad you've not been yourself. it's no use denying it, you know." "i haven't felt well, perhaps. i think it must be the weather," she assured him. but he, viewing the facts in the light of what he had noticed at their almost daily clandestine meetings, knew that she was concealing something from him. before his departure on that journey to japan she had always been so very frank and open. nowadays, however, she seemed to have entirely changed. her love for him was just the same--that he knew; it was her unusual manner, so full of fear and vague apprehension, which caused him so many hours of grave reflection. with her woman's cleverness, she succeeded in changing the topic of conversation, and presently they rose to join his mother at the tea-table in the drawing-room. half-an-hour later, while they were idling in the hall together, she suddenly exclaimed, "walter, you're great on scottish history, so i want some information from you. i'm studying the legends and traditions of our place, glencardine. what do you happen to know about them?" "well," he laughed, "there are dozens of weird tales about the old castle. i remember reading quite a lot of extraordinary stories in some book or other about three years ago. i found it in the library here." "oh! do tell me all about it," she urged instantly. "weird legends always fascinate me. of course i know just the outlines of its history. it's the tales told by the country-folk in which i'm so deeply interested." "you mean the apparition of the lady in green, and all that?" "yes; and the whispers." he started quickly at her words, and asked, "what do you know about them, dear? i hope you haven't heard them?" she smiled, with a frantic effort at unconcern, saying, "and what harm, pray, would they have done me, even if i had?" "well," he said, "they are only heard by those whose days are numbered; at least, so say the folk about here." "of course, it's only a fable," she laughed. "the people of the ochils are so very superstitious." "i believe the fatal result of listening to those mysterious whispers has been proved in more than one instance," remarked the young man quite seriously. "for myself, i do not believe in any supernatural agency. i merely tell you what the people hereabouts believe. nobody from this neighbourhood could ever be induced to visit your ruins on a moonlit night." "that's just why i want to know the origin of the unexplained phenomenon." "how can i tell you?" "but you know--i mean you've heard the legend, haven't you?" "yes," was his reply. "the story of the whispers of glencardine is well known all through perthshire. hasn't your father ever told you?" "he refuses." "because, no doubt, he fears that you might perhaps take it into your head to go there one night and try to listen for them," her lover said. "do not court misfortune, dearest. take my advice, and give the place a very wide berth. there is, without a doubt, some uncanny agency there." the girl laughed outright. "i do declare, walter, that you believe in these foolish traditions," she said. "well, i'm a scot, you see, darling, and a little superstition is perhaps permissible, especially in connection with such a mystery as the strange disappearance of cardinal setoun." "then, tell me the real story as you know it," she urged. "i'm much interested. i only heard about the whispers quite recently." "the historical facts, so far as i can recollect reading them in the book in question," he said, "are to the effect that the most reverend james cardinal setoun, archbishop of st. andrews, chancellor of the kingdom, was in the middle of the sixteenth century directing all his energies towards consolidating the romish power in scotland, and not hesitating to resort to any crime which seemed likely to accomplish his purpose. many were the foul assassinations and terrible tortures upon innocent persons performed at his orders. one person who fell into the hands of this infamous cleric was margaret, the second daughter of charles, lord glencardine, a beautiful girl of nineteen. because she would not betray her lover, she was so cruelly tortured in the cardinal's palace that she expired, after suffering fearful agony, and her body was sent back to glencardine with an insulting message to her father, who at once swore to be avenged. the king had so far resigned the conduct of the kingdom into the hands of his eminence that nothing save armed force could oppose him. setoun knew that a union between henry viii. and james v. would be followed by the downfall of the papal power in scotland, and therefore he laid a skilful plot. whilst advising james to resist the dictation of his uncle, he privately accused those of the scottish nobles who had joined the reformers of meditated treason against his majesty. this placed the king in a serious dilemma, for he could not proceed against henry without the assistance of those very nobles accused as traitors. the wily cardinal had hoped that james would, in self-defence, seek an alliance with france and spain; but he was mistaken. you know, of course, how the forces of the kingdom were assembled and sent against the duke of norfolk. the invader was thus repelled, and the cardinal then endeavoured to organise a new expedition under romish leaders. this also failing, his eminence endeavoured to dictate to the country through the earl of arran, the governor of scotland. by a clever ruse he pretended friendship with erskine of dun, and endeavoured to use him for his own ends. curiously enough, over yonder"--and he pointed to a yellow parchment in a black ebony frame hanging upon the panelled wall of the hall--"over there is one of the cardinal's letters to erskine, which shows the infamous cleric's smooth, insinuating style when it suited his purpose. i'll go and get it for you to read." the young man rose, and, taking it down, brought it to her. she saw that the parchment, about eight inches long by four wide, was covered with writing in brown ink, half-faded, while attached was a formidable oval red seal which bore a coat of arms surmounting the cardinal's hat. with difficulty they made out this interesting letter to read as follows: "rycht honourable and traist cousing,--i commend me hartlie to you, nocht doutting bot my lord governour hes written specialye to you at this tyme to keep the diet with his lordship in edinburgh the first day of november nixt to cum, quhilk i dout nocht bot ye will kepe, and i know perfitlie your guid will and mynd euer inclinit to serue my lord governour, and how ye are nocht onnely determinit to serue his lordship, at this tyme be yourself bot als your gret wais and solistatioun maid with mony your gret freyndis to do the samin, quhilk i assuris you sall cum bayth to your hier honour and the vele of you and your houss and freyndis, quhilk ye salbe sure i sall procure and fortyfie euir at my power, as i have shewin in mair speciale my mynd heirintil to your cousin of brechin, knycht: praing your effectuously to kepe trist, and to be heir in sanct androwis at me this nixt wedinsday, that we may depairt all togydder by thurisday nixt to cum, towart my lord governour, and bring your frendis and servandis with you accordantly, and as my lord governour hais speciale confidence in you at this tyme; and be sure the plesour i can do you salbe evir reddy at my power as knawis god, quha preserve you eternall. "at sanct androwis, the th day of october ( ). j. cardinall off sanct androwis. "to the rycht honourable and our rycht traist cousing the lard of dvn." "most interesting!" declared the young girl, holding the frame in her hands. "it's doubly interesting, because it is believed that erskine's brother henry, finding himself befooled by the crafty cardinal, united with lord glencardine to kill him and dispose of his body secretly, thus ridding scotland of one of her worst enemies," walter went on. "for the past five years stories had been continually leaking out of setoun's inhuman cruelty, his unscrupulous, fiendish tortures inflicted upon all those who displeased him, and how certain persons who stood in his way had died mysteriously or disappeared, no one knew whither. hence it was that, at erskine's suggestion, wemyss of strathblane went over to glencardine, and with charles, lord glencardine, conspired to invite the cardinal there, on pretence of taking counsel against the protestants, but instead to take his life. the conspirators were, it is said, joined by the earl of kintyre and by mary, the sixteen-year-old daughter of lord charles, and sister of the poor girl so brutally done to death by his eminence. on several successive nights the best means of getting rid of setoun were considered and discussed, and it is declared that the whispers now heard sometimes at glencardine are the secret deliberations of those sworn to kill the infamous cardinal. mary, the daughter of the house, was allowed to decide in what manner her sister's death should be avenged, and at her suggestion it was resolved that the inhuman head of the roman church should, before his life was taken, be put to the same fiendish tortures as those to which her sister had been subjected in his palace." "it is curious that after his crime the cardinal should dare to visit glencardine," gabrielle remarked. "not exactly. his lordship, pretending that he wished to be appointed governor of scotland in the place of the earl of arran, had purposely made his peace with setoun, who on his part was only too anxious to again resume friendly relations with so powerful a noble. therefore, early in may, , he went on a private visit, and almost unattended, to glencardine, within the walls of which fortress he disappeared for ever. what exactly occurred will never be known. all that the commission who subsequently sat to try the conspirators were able to discover was that the cardinal had been taken to the dungeon beneath the north tower, and there tortured horribly for several days, and afterwards burned at the stake in the courtyard, the fire being ignited by lord glencardine himself, and the dead cardinal's ashes afterwards scattered to the winds." "a terrible revenge!" exclaimed the girl with a shudder. "they were veritable fiends in those days." "they were," he laughed, rehanging the frame upon the wall. "some historians have, of course, declared that setoun was murdered at mains castle, and others declare cortachy to have been the scene of the assassination; but the truth that it occurred at glencardine is proved by a quantity of the family papers which, when your father purchased glencardine, came into his possession. you ought to search through them." "i will. i had no idea dad possessed any of the glencardine papers," she declared, much interested in that story of the past. "perhaps from them i may be able to glean something further regarding the strange whispers of glencardine." "make whatever searches you like, dearest," he said in all earnestness, "but never attempt to investigate the whispers themselves." and as they were alone, he took her little hand in his, and looking into her face with eyes of love, pressed her to promise him never to disregard his warning. she told him nothing of her own weird experience. he was ignorant of the fact that she had actually heard the mysterious whispers, and that, as a consequence, a great evil already lay upon her. chapter xv follows flockart's fortunes one evening, a few days later, gabrielle, seated beside her father at his big writing-table, had concluded reading some reports, and had received those brief, laconic replies which the blind man was in the habit of giving, when she suddenly asked, "i believe, dad, that you have a quantity of the glencardine papers, haven't you? if i remember aright, when you bought the castle you made possession of these papers a stipulation." "yes, dear, i did," was his answer. "i thought it a shame that the papers of such a historic family should be dispersed at sotheby's, as they no doubt would have been. so i purchased them." "you've never let me see them," she said. "as you know, you've taught me so much antiquarian knowledge that i'm becoming an enthusiast like yourself." "you can see them, dear, of course," was his reply. "they are in that big ebony cabinet at the end of the room yonder--about two hundred charters, letters, and documents, dating from down to ." "i'll go through them to-morrow," she said. "i suppose they throw a good deal of light upon the history of the grahams and the actions of the great lord glencardine?" "yes; but i fear you'll find them very difficult to read," he remarked. "not being able to see them for myself, alas! i had to send them to london to be deciphered." "and you still have the translations?" "unfortunately, no, dear. professor petre at oxford, who is preparing his great work on glencardine, begged me to let him see them, and he still has them." "well," she laughed, "i must therefore content myself with the originals, eh? do they throw any further light upon the secret agreement in between the great marquess of glencardine, whose home was here, and king charles?" "really, gabrielle," laughed the old antiquary, "for a girl, your recollection of abstruse historical points is wonderful." "not at all. there was a mystery, i remember, and mysteries always attract me." "well," he replied after a few moments' hesitation, "i fear you will not find the solution of that point, or of any other really important point, contained in any of the papers. the most interesting records they contain are some relating to alexander senescallus (stewart), the fourth son of robert ii., who was granted in a castle of garth. he was a reprobate, and known as the wolf of badenoch. on his father's accession in , he was granted the charters of badenoch, with the castle of lochindorb and of strathavon; and at a slightly later date he was granted the lands of tempar, lassintulach, tulachcroske, and gort (garth). as you know, many traditions regarding him still survive; but one fact contained in yonder papers is always interesting, for it shows that he was confined in the dungeon of the old keep of glencardine until robert iii. released him. there are also a quantity of interesting facts regarding 'red neil,' or neil stewart of fothergill, who was laird of garth, which will some day be of value to future historians of scotland." "is there anything concerning the mysterious fate of cardinal setoun within glencardine?" asked the girl, unable to curb her curiosity. "no," he replied in a manner which was almost snappish. "that's a mere tradition, my dear--simply a tale invented by the country-folk. it seems to have been imagined in order to associate it with the mysterious whispers which some superstitious people claim to have heard. no old castle is complete nowadays without its ghost, so we have for our share the lady of glencardine and the whispers," he laughed. "but i thought it was a matter of authenticated history that the cardinal was actually enticed here, and disappeared!" exclaimed the girl. "i should have thought that the glencardine papers would have referred to it," she added, recollecting what walter had told her. "well, they don't; so why worry your head, dear, over a mere fable? i have already gone very carefully into all the facts that are proved, and have come to the conclusion that the story of the torture of his eminence is a fairy-tale, and that the supernatural whispers have only been heard in imagination." she was silent. she recollected that sound of murmuring voices. it was certainly not imagination. "but you'll let me have the key of the cabinet, won't you, dad?" she asked, glancing across to where stood a beautiful old florentine cabinet of ebony inlaid with ivory, and reaching almost to the ceiling. "certainly, gabrielle dear," was the reply of the expressionless man. "it is upstairs in my room. you shall have it to-morrow." and then he lapsed again into silence, reflecting whether it were not best to secure certain parchment records from those drawers before his daughter investigated them. there was a small roll of yellow parchment, tied with modern tape, which he was half-inclined to conceal from her curious gaze. truth to tell, they constituted a record of the torture and death of cardinal setoun much in the same manner as walter murie had described to her. if she read that strange chronicle she might, he feared, be impelled to watch and endeavour to hear the fatal whispers. strange though it was, yet those sounds were a subject which caused him daily apprehension. though he never referred to them save to ridicule every suggestion of their existence, or to attribute the weird noises to the wind, yet never a day passed but he sat calmly reflecting. that one matter which his daughter knew above all others caused him the most serious thought and apprehension--a fear which had become doubly increased since she had referred to the curious and apparently inexplicable phenomenon. he, a refined, educated man of brilliant attainments, scouted the idea of any supernatural agency. to those who had made mention of the whispers--among them his friend murie, the laird of connachan; lord strathavon, from whom he had purchased the estate; and several of the neighbouring landowners--he had always expressed a hope that one day he might be fortunate enough to hear the whispered counsel of the evil one, and so decide for himself its true cause. he pretended always to treat the affair with humorous incredulity, yet at heart he was sorely troubled. if his young wife's remarkable friendship with the man flockart often caused him bitter thoughts, then the mysterious whispers and the fatality so strangely connected with them were equally a source of constant inquietude. a few days later flockart, with clever cunning, seemed to alter his ingenious tactics completely, for suddenly he had commenced to bestir himself in sir henry's interests. one morning after breakfast, taking the baronet by the arm, he led him for a stroll along the drive, down to the lodge-gates, and back, for the purpose, as he explained, of speaking with him in confidence. at first the blind man was full of curiosity as to the reason of this unusual action, as those deprived of sight usually are. "i know, sir henry," flockart said presently, and not without hesitation, "that certain ill-disposed people have endeavoured to place an entirely wrong construction upon your wife's friendship towards me. for that reason i have decided to leave glencardine, both for her sake and for yours." "but, my dear fellow," exclaimed the blind man, "why do you suggest such a thing?" "because your wife's enemies have their mouths full of scandalous lies," he replied. "i tell you frankly, sir henry, that my friendship with her ladyship is a purely platonic one. we were children together, at home in bedford, and ever since our schooldays i have remained her friend." "i know that," remarked the old man quietly. "my wife told me that when you dined with us on several occasions at park street. i have never objected to the friendship existing between you, flockart; for, though i have never seen you, i have always believed you to be a man of honour." "i feel very much gratified at those words, sir henry," he said in a deep, earnest voice, glancing at the grey, dark-spectacled face of the fragile man whose arm he was holding. "indeed, i've always hoped that you would repose sufficient confidence in me to know that i am not such a blackguard as to take any advantage of your cruel affliction." the blind baronet sighed. "ah, my dear flockart! all men are not honourable like yourself. there are many ready to take advantage of my lack of eyesight. i have experienced it, alas! in business as well as in my private life." the dark-faced man was silent. he was playing an ingenious, if dangerous, game. the baronet had referred to business--his mysterious business, the secret of which he was now trying his best to solve. "yes," he said at length, "i suppose the standard of honesty in business is nowadays just about as low as it can possibly be, eh? well, i've never been in business myself, so i don't know. in the one or two small financial deals in which i've had a share, i've usually been 'frozen out' in the end." "ah, flockart," sighed the laird of glencardine, "you are unfortunately quite correct. the so-called smart business man is the one who robs his neighbour without committing the sin of being found out." this remark caused the other a twinge of conscience. did he intend to convey any hidden meaning? he was full of cunning and cleverness. "well," flockart exclaimed, "i'm truly gratified to think that i retain your confidence, sir henry. if i have in the past been able to be of any little service to lady heyburn, i assure you i am only too delighted. yet i think that in the face of gossip which some of your neighbours here are trying to spread--gossip started, i very much fear, by miss gabrielle--my absence from glencardine will be of distinct advantage to all concerned. i do not, my dear sir henry, desire for one single moment to embarrass you, or to place her ladyship in any false position. i----" "but, my dear fellow, you've become quite an institution with us!" exclaimed sir henry in dismay. "we should all be lost without you. why, as you know, you've done me so many kindnesses that i can never sufficiently repay you. i don't forget how, through your advice, i've been able to effect quite a number of economies at caistor, and how often you assist my wife in various ways in her social duties." "my dear sir henry," he laughed, "you know i'm always ready to serve either of you whenever it lies in my power. only--well, i feel that i'm in your wife's company far too much, both here and in lincolnshire. people are talking. therefore, i have decided to leave her, and my decision is irrevocable." "let them talk. if i do not object, you surely need not." "but for your wife's sake?" "i know--i know how cruel are people's tongues, flockart," remarked the old man. "yes; and the gossip was unfortunately started by gabrielle. it was surely very unwise of her." "ah!" sighed the other, "it is the old story. every girl becomes jealous of her step-mother. and she's only a child, after all," he added apologetically. "well, much as i esteem her, and much as i admire her, i feel, sir henry, that she had no right to bring discord into your house. i hope you will permit me to say this, with all due deference to the fact that she's your daughter. but i consider her conduct in this matter has been very unfriendly." again the baronet was silent, and his companion saw that he was reflecting deeply. "how do you know that the scandal was started by her?" he asked presently, in a low, rather strained voice. "young paterson told me so. it appears that when she was staying with them over at tullyallan she told his mother all sorts of absurd stories. and mrs. paterson who, as you know, is a terrible gossip--told the reads of logie and the redcastles, and in a few days these fictions, with all sorts of embroidery, were spread half over scotland. why, my friend lindsay, the member for berwick, heard some whispers the other day in the carlton club! so, in consequence of that, sir henry, i'm resolved, much against my will and inclination, i assure you, to end my friendship with your wife." "all this pains me more than i can tell you," declared the old man. "the more so, too, that gabrielle should have allowed her jealousy to lead her to make such false charges." "yes. in order not to pain you. i have hesitated to tell you this for several weeks. but i really thought that you ought at least to know the truth, and who originated the scandal. and so i have ventured to-day to speak openly, and to announce my departure," said the wily flockart. he was putting to the test the strength of his position in that household. he had an ulterior motive, one that was ingenious and subtle. "but you are not really going?" exclaimed the other. "you told me the other day something about my factor macdonald, and your suspicions of certain irregularities." "my dear sir henry, it will be far better for us both if i leave. to remain will only be to lend further colour to these scandalous rumours. i have decided to leave your house." "you believe that macdonald is dishonest, eh?" inquired the afflicted man quickly. "yes, i'm certain of it. remember, sir henry, that when one is dealing with a man who is blind, it is sometimes a great temptation to be dishonest." "i know, i know," sighed the other deeply. they were at a bend in the drive where the big trees met overhead, forming a leafy tunnel. the ascent was a trifle steep, and the baronet had paused for a few seconds, leaning heavily upon the arm of his friend. "oh, pardon me!" exclaimed flockart suddenly, releasing his arm. "your watch-chain is hanging down. let me put it right for you." and for a few seconds he fumbled at the chain, at the same time holding something in the palm of his left hand. "there, that's right," he said a few minutes later. "you caught it somewhere, i expect." "on one of the knobs of my writing-table perhaps," said the other. "thanks. i sometimes inadvertently pull it out of my pocket." a faint smile of triumph passed across the dark, handsome face of the man, who again took his arm, as at the same time he replaced something in his own jacket-pocket. he had in that instant secured what he wanted. "you were saying with much truth, my dear flockart, that in dealing with a man who cannot see there is occasionally a temptation towards dishonesty. well, this very day i intend to have a long chat with my wife, but before i do so will you promise me one thing?" "and what is that?" asked the man, not without some apprehension. "that you will remain here, disregard the gossip that you may have heard, and continue to assist me in my helplessness in making full and searching inquiry into macdonald's alleged defalcations." the man reflected for a few seconds, with knit brows. his quick wits were instantly at work, for he saw with the utmost satisfaction that he had been entirely successful in disarming all suspicion; therefore his next move must be the defeat of that man's devoted defender, gabrielle, the one person who stood between his own penniless self and fortune. "i really cannot at this moment make any promise, sir henry," he remarked at last. "i have decided to go." "but defer your decision for the present. there is surely no immediate hurry for your departure! first let me consult my wife," urged the baronet, putting out his hand and groping for that of flockart, which he pressed warmly as proof of his continued esteem. "let me talk to winifred. she shall decide whether you go or whether you shall stay." chapter xvi shows a girl's bondage walter murie had chosen politics as a profession long ago, even when he was an undergraduate. he had already eaten his dinners in london, and had been called to the bar as the first step towards a political career. he had a relative in the foreign office, while his uncle had held an under-secretaryship in the late government. therefore he had influence, and hoped by its aid to secure some safe seat. already he had studied both home and foreign affairs very closely, and had on two occasions written articles in the _times_ upon that most vexed and difficult question, the pacification of macedonia. he was a very fair speaker, too, and on several occasions he had seconded resolutions and made quite clever speeches at political gatherings in his own county, perthshire. indeed, politics was his hobby; and, with money at his command and influence in high quarters, there was no reason why he should not within the next few years gain a seat in the house. with sir henry heyburn he often had long and serious chats. the brilliant politician, whose career had so suddenly and tragically been cut short, gave him much good advice, pointing out the special questions he should study in order to become an authority. this is the age of specialising, and in politics it is just as essential to be a specialist as it is in the medical, legal, or any other profession. in a few days the young man was returning to his dingy chambers in the temple, to pore again over those mouldy tomes of law; therefore almost daily he ran over to glencardine to chat with the blind baronet, and to have quiet walks with the sweet girl who looked so dainty in her fresh white frocks, and whose warm kisses were so soft and caressing. surely no pair, even in the bygone days of knight and dame, the days of real romance, were more devoted to each other. with satisfaction he saw that gabrielle's apparent indifference had now worn off. it had been but the mask of a woman's whim, and as such he treated it. one afternoon, after tea out on the lawn, they were walking together by the bypath to the lodge in order to meet lady heyburn, who had gone into the village to visit a bedridden old lady. hand-in-hand they were strolling, for on the morrow he was going south, and would probably be absent for some months. the girl had allowed herself to remain in her lover's arms in one long kiss of perfect ecstasy. then, with a sigh of regret, she had held his hand and gone forward again without a word. when walter had left, the sun of her young life would have set, for after all it was not exactly exciting to be the eyes and ears of a man who was blind. and there was always at her side that man whom she hated, and who, she knew, was her bitterest foe--james flockart. of late her father seemed to have taken him strangely into his confidence. why, she could not tell. a sudden change of front on the baronet's part was unusual; but as she watched with sinking heart she could not conceal from herself the fact that flockart now exercised considerable influence over her father--an influence which in some matters had already proved to be greater than her own. it was of this man walter spoke. "i have a regret, dearest--nay, more than a regret, a fear--in leaving you here alone," he exclaimed in a low, distinct voice, gazing into the blue, fathomless depths of those eyes so very dear to him. "a fear! why?" she asked in some surprise, returning his look. "because of that man--your mother's friend," he said. "recently i have heard some curious tales concerning him. i really wonder why sir henry still retains him as his guest." "why need we speak of him?" she exclaimed quickly, for the subject was distasteful. "because i wish you to be forewarned," he said in a serious voice. "that man is no fitting companion for you. his past is too well known to a certain circle." "his past!" she echoed. "what have you discovered concerning him?" her companion did not answer for a few moments. how could he tell her all that he had heard? his desire was to warn her, yet he could not relate to her the allegations made by certain persons against flockart. "gabrielle," he said, "all that i have heard tends to show that his friendship for you and for your father is false; therefore avoid him--beware of him." "i--i know," she faltered, lowering her eyes. "i've felt that was the case all along, yet i----" "yet what?" he asked. "i mean i want you to promise me one thing, walter," she said quickly. "you love me, do you not?" "love you, my own darling! how can you ask such a question? you surely know that i do!" "then, if you really love me, you will make me a promise." "of what?" "only one thing--one little thing," she said in a low, earnest voice, looking straight into his eyes. "if--if that man ever makes an allegation against me, you won't believe him?" "an allegation! why, darling, what allegation could such a man ever make against you?" "he is my enemy," she remarked simply. "i know that. but what charge could he bring against you? why, if even he dared to utter a single word against you, i--i'd wring the ruffian's neck!" "but if he did, walter, you wouldn't believe him, would you?" "of course i wouldn't." "not--not if the charge he made against me was a terrible one--a--a disgraceful one?" she asked in a strained voice after a brief and painful pause. "why, dearest!" he cried, "what is the matter? you are really not yourself to-day. you seem to be filled with a graver apprehension even than i am. what does it mean? tell me." "it means, walter, that that man is lady heyburn's friend; hence he is my enemy." "and what need you fear when you have me as your friend?" "i do not fear if you will still remain my friend--always--in face of any allegation he makes." "i love you, darling. surely that's sufficient guarantee of my friendship?" "yes," she responded, raising her white, troubled face to his while he bent and kissed her again on the lips. "i know that i am yours, my own well-beloved; and, as yours, i will not fear." "that's right!" he exclaimed, endeavouring to smile. "cheer up. i don't like to see you on this last day down-hearted and apprehensive like this." "i am not so without cause." "then, what is the cause?" he demanded. "surely you can repose confidence in me?" again she was silent. above them the wind stirred the leaves, and through the high bracken a rabbit scuttled at their feet. they were alone, and she stood again locked in her lover's fond embrace. "you have told me yourself that man flockart is my enemy," she said in a low voice. "but what action of his can you fear? surely you should be forearmed against any evil he may be plotting. tell me the truth, and i will go myself to your father and denounce the fellow before his face!" "ah, no!" she cried, full of quick apprehension. "never think of doing that, walter!" "why? am i not your friend?" "such a course would only bring his wrath down upon my head. he would retaliate quickly, and i alone would suffer." "but, my dear gabrielle," he exclaimed, "you really speak in enigmas. whatever can you fear from a man who is known to be a blackguard--whom i could now, at this very moment, expose in such a manner that he would never dare to set foot in perthshire again?" "such a course would be most injudicious, i assure you. his ruin would mean--it would mean--my--own!" "i don't follow you." "ah, because you do not know my secret--you----" "your secret!" the young man gasped, staring at her, yet still holding her trembling form in his strong arms. "why, what do you mean? what secret?" "i--i cannot tell you!" she exclaimed in a hard, mechanical voice, looking straight before her. "but you must," he protested. "i--i asked you, walter, to make me a promise," she said, her voice broken by emotion--"a promise that, for the sake of the love you bear for me, you will not believe that man, that you will disregard any allegation against me." "and i promise, on one condition, darling--that you tell me in confidence what i, as your future husband, have a just right to know--the nature of this secret of yours." "ah, no!" she cried, unable longer to restrain her tears, and burying her pale, beautiful face upon his arm. "i--i was foolish to have spoken of it," she sobbed brokenly: "i ought to have kept it to myself. it is--it's the one thing that i can never reveal to you--to you of all men!" chapter xvii describes a frenchman's visit "monsieur goslin, sir henry," hill announced, entering his master's room one morning a fortnight later, just as the blind man was about to descend to breakfast. "he's in the library, sir." "goslin!" exclaimed the baronet, in great surprise. "i'll go to him at once; and hill, serve breakfast for two in the library, and tell miss gabrielle that i do not wish to be disturbed this morning." "very well, sir henry;" and the man bowed and went down the broad oak staircase. "goslin here, without any announcement!" exclaimed the baronet, speaking to himself. "something must have happened. i wonder what it can be." he tugged at his collar to render it more comfortable; and then, with a groping hand on the broad balustrade, he felt his way down the stairs and along the corridor to the big library, where a stout, grey-haired frenchman came forward to greet him warmly, after carefully closing the door. "ah, _mon cher ami_!" he began; and, speaking in french, he inquired eagerly after the baronet's health. he was rather long-faced, with beard worn short and pointed, and his dark, deep-set eyes and his countenance showed a fund of good humour. "this visit is quite unexpected," exclaimed sir henry. "you were not due till the th." "no; but circumstances have arisen which made my journey imperative, so i left the gare du nord at four yesterday afternoon, was at charing cross at eleven, had half-an-hour to catch the scotch express at king's cross, and here i am." "oh, my dear goslin, you always move so quickly! you're simply a marvel of alertness." the other smiled, and, with a shrug of the shoulders, said, "i really don't know why i should have earned a reputation as a rapid traveller, except, perhaps, by that trip i made last year, from paris to constantinople, when i remained exactly thirty-eight minutes in the sultan's capital. but i did my business there, nevertheless, even though i got through quicker than _messieurs les touristes_ of the most estimable agence cook." "you want a wash, eh?" "ah, no, my friend. i washed at the hotel in perth, where i took my morning coffee. when i come to scotland i carry no baggage save my tooth-brush in my pocket, and a clean collar across my chest, its ends held by my braces." the baronet laughed heartily. his friend was always most resourceful and ingenious. he was a mystery to all at glencardine, and to lady heyburn most of all. his visits were always unexpected, while as to who he really was, or whence he came, nobody--not even gabrielle herself--knew. at times the frenchman would take his meals alone with sir henry in the library, while at others he would lunch with her ladyship and her guests. on these latter occasions he proved himself a most amusing cosmopolitan, and at the same time exhibited an extreme courtliness towards every one. his manner was quite charming, yet his presence there was always puzzling, and had given rise to considerable speculation. hill came in, and after helping the frenchman to take off his heavy leather-lined travelling-coat, laid a small table for two and prepared breakfast. then, when he had served it and left, goslin rose, and, crossing to the door, pushed the little brass bolt into its socket. returning to his chair opposite the blind man (whose food hill had already cut up for him), he exclaimed in a very calm, serious voice, speaking in french, "i want you to hear what i have to say, sir henry, without exciting yourself unduly. something has occurred--something very strange and remarkable." the other dropped his knife, and sat statuesque and expressionless. "go on," he said hoarsely. "tell me the worst at once." "the worst has not yet happened. it is that which i'm dreading." "well, what has happened? is--is the secret out?" "the secret is safe--for the present." the blind man drew a long breath. "well, that's one thing to be thankful for," he gasped. "i was afraid you were going to tell me that the facts were exposed." "they may yet be exposed," the mysterious visitor exclaimed. "that's where lies the danger." "we have been betrayed, eh? you may as well admit the ugly truth at once, goslin!" "i do not conceal it, sir henry. we have." "by whom?" "by somebody here--in this house." "here! what do you mean? somebody in my own house?" "yes. the greek affair is known. they have been put upon their guard in athens." "by whom?" cried the baronet, starting from his chair. "by somebody whom we cannot trace--somebody who must have had access to your papers." "no one has had access to my papers. i always take good care of that, goslin--very good care of that. the affair has leaked out at your end, not at mine." "at our end we are always circumspect," the frenchman said calmly. "rest assured that nobody but we ourselves are aware of our operations or intentions. we know only too well that any revelation would assuredly bring upon us--disaster." "but a revelation has actually been made!" exclaimed sir henry, bending forward. "therefore the worst is to be feared." "exactly. that is what i am endeavouring to convey." "the betrayal must have come from your end, i expect; not from here." "i regret to assert that it came from here--from this very room." "how do you know that?" "because in athens they have a complete copy of one of the documents which you showed me on the last occasion i was here, and which we have never had in our possession." the blind man was silent. the allegation admitted of no argument. "my daughter gabrielle is the only person who has seen it, and she understands nothing of our affairs, as you know quite well." "she may have copied it." "my daughter would never betray me, goslin," said sir henry in a hard, distinct voice, rising from the table and slowly walking down the long, book-lined room. "has no one else been able to open your safe and examine its contents?" asked the frenchman, glancing over to the small steel door let into the wall close to where he was sitting. "no one. though i'm blind, do you consider me a fool? surely i recognise only too well how essential is secrecy. have i not always taken the most extraordinary precautions?" "you have, sir henry. i quite admit that. indeed, the precautions you've taken would, if known to the world, be regarded--well, as simply amazing." "i hope the world will never know the truth." "it will know the truth. they have the copies in athens. if there is a traitor--as we have now proved the existence of one--then we can never in future rest secure. at any moment another exposure may result, with its attendant disaster." the baronet halted before one of the long windows, the morning sunshine falling full upon his sad, grey face. he drew a long sigh and said, "goslin, do not let us discuss the future. tell me exactly what is the present situation." "the present situation," the frenchman said in a dry, matter-of-fact voice, "is one full of peril for us. you have, over there in your safe, a certain paper--a confidential report which you received direct from vienna. it was brought to you by special messenger because its nature was not such as should be sent through the post. a trusted official of the austrian ministry of foreign affairs brought it here. to whom did he deliver it?" "to gabrielle. she signed a receipt." "and she broke the seals?" "no. i was present, and she handed it to me. i broke the seals myself. she read it over to me." "ah!" ejaculated the frenchman suspiciously. "it is unfortunate that you are compelled to entrust our secrets to a woman." "my daughter is my best friend; indeed, perhaps my only friend." "then you have enemies?" "who has not?" "true. we all of us have enemies," replied the mysterious visitor. "but in this case, how do you account for that report falling into the hands of the people in athens? who keeps the key of the safe?" "i do. it is never out of my possession." "at night what do you do with it?" "i hide it in a secret place in my room, and i sleep with the door locked." "then, as far as you are aware, nobody has ever had possession of your key--not even mademoiselle your daughter?" "not even gabrielle. i always lock and unlock the safe myself." "but she has access to its contents when it is open," the visitor remarked. "acting as your secretary, she is, of course, aware of a good deal of your business." "no; you are mistaken. have we not arranged a code in order to prevent her from satisfying her woman's natural inquisitiveness?" "that's admitted. but the document in question, though somewhat guarded, is sufficiently plain to any one acquainted with the nature of our negotiations." the blind man crossed to the safe, and with the key upon his chain opened it, and, after fumbling in one of the long iron drawers revealed within, took out a big oblong envelope, orange-coloured, and secured with five black seals, now, however, broken. this he handed to his friend, saying, "read it again, to refresh your memory. i know myself what it says pretty well by heart." monsieur goslin drew forth the paper within and read the lines of close, even writing. it was in german. he stood near the window as he read, while sir henry remained near the open safe. hill tapped at the bolted door, but his master replied that he did not wish to be disturbed. "yes," the frenchman said at last, "the copy they have in athens is exact--word for word." "they may have obtained it from vienna." "no; it came from here. there are some pencilled comments in your daughter's handwriting." "they were dictated by me." "exactly. and they appear in the copy now in the hands of the people in athens! thus it is doubly proved that it was this actual document which was copied. but by whom?" "ah!" sighed the helpless man, his face drawn and paler than usual, "gabrielle is the only person who has had sight of it." "mademoiselle surely could not have copied it," remarked the frenchman. "has she a lover?" "yes; the son of a neighbour of mine, a very worthy young fellow." goslin grunted dubiously. it was apparent that he suspected her of trickery. information such as had been supplied to the greek government would, he knew, be paid for, and at a high price. had mademoiselle's lover had a hand in that revelation? "i would not suggest for a single moment, sir henry, that mademoiselle your daughter would act in any way against your personal interests; but--" "but what?" demanded the blind man fiercely, turning towards his visitor. "well, it is peculiar--very peculiar--to say the least." sir henry was silent. within himself he was compelled to admit that certain suspicion attached to gabrielle. and yet was she not his most devoted--nay, his only--friend? "some one has copied the report--that's evident," he said in a low, hard voice, reflecting deeply. "and by so doing has placed us in a position of grave peril, sir henry--imminent peril," remarked the visitor. "i see in this an attempt to obtain further knowledge of our affairs. we have a secret enemy, who, it seems, has found a vulnerable point in our armour." "surely my own daughter cannot be my enemy?" cried the blind man in dismay. "you say she has a lover," remarked the frenchman, speaking slowly and with deliberation. "may not he be the instigator?" "walter murie is upright and honourable," replied the blind man. "and yet--" a long-drawn sigh prevented the conclusion of that sentence. "ah, i know!" exclaimed the mysterious visitor in a tone of sympathy. "you are uncertain in your conclusions because of your terrible affliction. sometimes, alas! my dear friend, you are imposed upon, because you are blind." "yes," responded the other, bitterly. "that is the truth, goslin. because i cannot see like other men, i have been deceived--foully and grossly deceived and betrayed! but--but," he cried, "they thought to ruin me, and i've tricked them, goslin--yes, tricked them! have no fear. for the present our secrets are our own!" chapter xviii reveals the spy the twelfth--the glorious twelfth--had come and gone. "the rush to the north" had commenced from london. from euston, st. pancras, and king's cross the night trains for scotland had run in triplicate, crowded by men and gun-cases and kit-bags, while gloomy old perth station was a scene of unwonted activity each morning. at glencardine there were little or no grouse; therefore it was not until later that sir henry invited his usual party. gabrielle had been south to visit one of her girlfriends near durham, and the week of her absence her afflicted father had spent in dark loneliness, for flockart had gone to london, and her ladyship was away on a fortnight's visit to the pelhams, down at new galloway. on the last day of august, however, gabrielle returned, being followed a few hours later by lady heyburn, who had travelled up by way of stirling and crieff junction, while that same night eight men forming the shooting-party arrived by the day express from the south. the gathering was a merry one. the guests were the same who came up there every year, some of them friends of sir henry in the days of his brilliant career, others friends of his wife. the shooting at glencardine was always excellent; and stewart, wise and serious, had prophesied first-class sport. walter murie was in london. while gabrielle had been at durham he had travelled up there, spent the night at the "three tuns," and met her next morning in that pretty wooded walk they call "the banks." devoted to her as he was, he could not bear any long separation; while she, on her part, was gratified by this attention. not without some difficulty did she succeed in getting away from her friends to meet him, for a provincial town is not like london, and any stranger is always in the public eye. but they spent a delightful couple of hours together, strolling along the footpath through the meadows in the direction of finchale priory. there were no eavesdroppers; and he, with his arm linked in hers, repeated the story of his all-conquering love. she listened in silence, then raising her fine clear eyes to his, said, "i know, walter--i know that you love me. and i love you also." "ah," he sighed, "if you would only be frank with me, dearest--if you would only be as frank with me as i am with you!" sadly she shook her head, but made no reply. he saw that a shadow had clouded her brow, that she still clung to her strange secret; and at length, when they retraced their steps back to the city, he reluctantly took leave of her, and half-an-hour later was speeding south again towards york and king's cross. the opening day of the partridge season proved bright and pleasant. the men were out early; and the ladies, a gay party, including gabrielle, joined them at luncheon spread on a mossy bank about three miles from the castle. several of the male guests were particularly attentive to the dainty, sweet-faced girl whose charming manner and fresh beauty attracted them. but gabrielle's heart was with walter always. she loved him. yes, she told herself so a dozen times each day. and yet was not the barrier between them insurmountable? ah, if he only knew! if he only knew! the blind man was left alone nearly the whole of that day. his daughter had wanted to remain with him, but he would not hear of it. "my dear child," he had said, "you must go out and lunch. you really must assist your mother in entertaining the people." "but, dear dad, i much prefer to remain with you and help you," she protested. "yesterday the professor sent you five more bronze matrices of ecclesiastical seals. we haven't yet examined them." "we'll do so to-night, dear," he said. "you go out to-day. i'll amuse myself all right. perhaps i'll go for a little walk." therefore the girl had, against her inclination, joined the luncheon-party, where foremost of all to have her little attentions was a rather foppish young stockbroker named girdlestone, who had been up there shooting the previous year, and had on that occasion flirted with her furiously. during her absence her father tried to resume his knitting--an occupation which he had long ago been compelled to resort to in order to employ his time; but he soon put it down with a sigh, rose, and taking his soft brown felt-hat and stout stick, tapped his way along through the great hall and out into the park. he felt the warmth upon his cheek as he passed slowly along down the broad drive. "ah," he murmured to himself, "if only i could once again see god's sunlight! if i could only see the greenery of nature and the face of my darling child!" and he sighed brokenly, and went on, his chin sunk upon his breast, a despairing, hopeless man. surely no figure more pathetic than his could be found in the whole of scotland. upon him had been showered honour, great wealth, all indeed that makes life worth living, and yet, deprived of sight, he existed in that world of darkness, deceived and plotted against by all about him. his grey countenance was hard and thoughtful as he passed slowly along tapping the ground before him, for he was thinking--ever thinking--of the declaration of his french visitor. he had been betrayed. but by whom? his thoughts were wandering back to those days when he could see--those well-remembered days when he had held the house in silence by his brilliant oratory, and when the papers next day had leading articles concerning his speeches. he recollected his time-mellowed old club in st. james's street--boodle's--of which he had been so fond. then came his affliction. the thought of it all struck him suddenly; and, clenching his hands, he murmured some inarticulate words through his teeth. they sounded strangely like a threat. next instant, however, he laughed bitterly to himself the dry, harsh laugh of a man into whose very soul the iron had entered. in the distance he could hear the shots of his guests, those men who accepted his hospitality, and who among themselves agreed that he was "a terrible bore, poor old fellow!" they came up there--with perhaps two exceptions--to eat his dinners, drink his choice wines, and shoot his birds, but begrudged him more than ten minutes or so of their company each day. in the billiard-room of an evening, as he sat upon one of the long lounges, they would perhaps deign to chat with him; but, alas! he knew that he was only as a wet blanket to his wife's guests, hence he kept himself so much to the library--his own domain. that night he spent half-an-hour in the billiard-room in order to hear what sport they had had, but very soon escaped, and with gabrielle returned again to the library to fulfil his promise and examine the seal-matrices which the professor had sent. to where they sat came bursts of boisterous laughter and of the waltz-music of the pianola in the hall, for in the shooting season the echoes of the fine mansion were awakened by the merriment of as gay a crowd as any who assembled in the highlands. sir henry heard it. the sounds jarred upon his nerves. mirth such as theirs was debarred him for ever, and he had now become gloomy and misanthropic. he sat fingering those big oval matrices of bronze, listening to gabrielle's voice deciphering the inscriptions, and explaining what was meant and what was possibly their history. one which sir henry declared to be the gem of them all bore the _manus dei_ for device, and was the seal of archbishop richard ( - ). several documents bearing impressions of this seal were, he said, preserved at canterbury and in the british museum, but here the actual seal itself had come to light. with all the enthusiasm of an expert he lingered over the matrice, feeling it carefully with the tips of his fingers, and tracing the device with the nail of his forefinger. "splendid!" he declared. "the lettering is a most excellent specimen of early lombardic." and then he gave the girl the titles of several works, which she got down from the shelves, and from which she read extracts after some careful search. the sulphur-casts sent with the matrices she placed carefully with her father's collection, and during the remainder of the evening they were occupied in replying to several letters regarding estate matters. at eleven o'clock she kissed her father good-night and passed out to the hall, where the pianola was still going, and where the merriment was still in full swing. for a quarter of an hour she was compelled to remain with the insipid young ass bertie girdlestone, a man who patronised musical comedy nightly, and afterwards supped regularly at the "savoy"; then she escaped at last to her room. exchanging her pretty gown of turquoise chiffon for an easy wrap, she took up a novel, and, switching on her green-shaded reading-lamp, sat down to enjoy a quiet hour before retiring. quickly she became engrossed in the story, and though the stable-chimes sounded each half-hour she remained undisturbed by them. it was half-past two before she had reached the happy _dénouement_ of the book, and, closing it, she rose to take off her trinkets. having divested herself of bracelets, rings, and necklet, she placed her hands to her ears. there was only one ear-ring; the other was missing! they were sapphires, a present from walter on her last birthday. he had sent them to her from yokohama, and she greatly prized them. therefore, at risk of being seen in her dressing-gown by any of the male guests who might still be astir--for she knew they always played billiards until very late--she took off her little blue satin slippers and stole out along the corridor and down the broad staircase. the place was in darkness; but she turned on the light, and again when she reached the hall. she must have dropped her ear-ring in the library; of that she felt sure. servants were so careless that, if she left it, it might easily be swept up in the morning and lost for ever. that thought had caused her to search for it at once. as she approached the library door she thought she heard the sound as of some one within. on her opening the door, however, all was in darkness. she laughed at her apprehension. in an instant she touched the switch, and the place became flooded by a soft, mellow light from lamps cunningly concealed behind the bookcases against the wall. at the same moment, however, she detected a movement behind one of the bookcases against which she stood. with sudden resolution and fearlessness, she stepped forward to ascertain its cause. her eyes at that instant fell upon a sight which caused her to start and stand dumb with amazement. straight before her the door of her father's safe stood open. beside it, startled at the sudden interruption, stood a man in evening-dress, with a small electric lamp in his clenched hand. a pair of dark, evil eyes met hers in defiance--the eyes of james flockart. "you!" she gasped. "yes," he laughed dryly. "don't be afraid. it's only i. but, by jove! how very charming you look in that gown! i'd love to get a snapshot of you just as you stand now." "what are you doing there, examining my father's papers?" she demanded quickly, her small hands clenched. "my dear girl," he replied with affected unconcern, "that's my own business. you really ought to have been in bed long ago. it isn't discreet, you know, to be down here with me at this hour!" "i demand to know what you are doing here!" she cried firmly. "and, my dear little girl, i refuse to tell you," was his decisive answer. "very well, then i shall alarm the house and explain to my father what i have discovered." chapter xix shows gabrielle defiant gabrielle crossed quickly to one of the long windows, which she unbolted and flung open, expecting to hear the shrill whir of the burglar-alarm, which, every night, hill switched on before retiring. "my dear little girl!" exclaimed the man, smiling as he strolled leisurely across to her with a cool, perfect unconcern which showed how completely he was master, "why create such a beastly draught? nothing will happen, for i've already seen to those wires." "you're a thief!" she cried, drawing herself up angrily. "i shall go straight to my father and tell him at once." "you are at perfect liberty to act exactly as you choose," was flockart's answer, as he bowed before her with irritating mock politeness. "but before you go, pray allow me to finish these most interesting documents, some of which, i believe, are in your very neat handwriting." "my father's business is his own alone, and you have no right whatever to pry into it. i thought you were posing as his friend!" she cried in bitter protest, as she stood with both her hands clenched. "i am his friend," he declared. "some day, gabrielle, you will know the truth of how near he is to disaster, and how i am risking much in an endeavour to save him." "i don't believe you!" she exclaimed in undisguised disgust. "in your heart there is not one single spark of sympathy with him in his affliction or with me in my ghastly position!" "your position is only your own seeking, my dear child," was his cold response. "i gave you full warning long ago. you can't deny that." "you conspired with lady heyburn against me!" she cried. "i have discovered more about it than you think; and i now openly defy you, mr. flockart. please understand that." "good!" he replied, still unruffled. "i quite understand. you will pardon my resuming, won't you?" and walking back to the open safe, he drew forth a small bundle of papers from a drawer. then he threw himself into a leather arm-chair, and proceeded to untie the tape and examine the documents one by one, as though in eager search of something. "though lady heyburn may be your friend, i am quite sure even she would never for a moment countenance such a dastardly action as this!" cried the girl, crimsoning in anger. "you come here, accept my father's hospitality, and make pretence of being his friend and adviser; yet you are conspiring against him, as you have done against myself!" "so far as you yourself are concerned, my dear gabrielle," he laughed, without deigning to look up from the papers he was scanning, "i offered you my friendship, but you refused it." "friendship!" she cried, in sarcasm. "your friendship, mr. flockart! what, pray, is it worth? you surely know what people are saying--the construction they are placing upon your friendship for lady heyburn?" "the misconstruction, you mean," he exclaimed airily, correcting her. "well, to me it matters not a single jot. the world is always ill-disposed and ill-natured. a woman can surely have a male friend without being subject to hostile and venomous criticism?" "when the male friend is an honest man," said the girl meaningly. he shrugged his shoulders and continued reading, as though utterly disregarding her presence. what should she do? how should she act? she knew quite well that from those papers he could gather no knowledge of her father's affairs, unless he held some secret knowledge of the true meaning of those cryptic terms and allusions. to her they were all as hebrew. only that very day monsieur goslin had again made one of those unexpected visits, remaining from eleven in the morning until three; afterwards taking his leave, and driving back in the car to auchterarder station. she had not seen him; but he had brought from paris for her a big box of chocolates tied with violet ribbons, as had been his habit for quite a couple of years past. she was a particular favourite with the polite, middle-aged frenchman. her father's demeanour was always more thoughtful and serious after the stranger's visits. business matters put before him by his visitor always, it seemed, required much deep thought and ample consideration. some papers brought to her father by goslin she had placed in the safe earlier that evening, and these, she recognised, were now in flockart's hands. she had not read them herself, and had no idea of their contents. they were, to her, never interesting. "mr. flockart," she exclaimed very firmly at last, "i ask you to kindly replace those papers in my father's safe, relock it, and hand me the key." "that i certainly refuse to do," was the man's defiant reply, bowing as he spoke. "you would prefer, then, that i should go up to my father and explain all i have seen?" "i repeat what i have already said. you are perfectly at liberty to tell whom you like. it makes no difference whatever to me. and, well, i don't want to be disturbed just now." rising, he walked across to the writing-table, and taking a piece of note-paper bearing the heyburn crest, rapidly pencilled some memoranda upon it. he was, it seemed, taking a copy of one of the documents. suddenly she sprang towards him, crying, "give me that paper! give it to me at once, i say! it is my father's." he straightened himself from the table, pulled down his white dress-vest with its amethyst buttons, and, looking straight into her face, ordered her to leave the room. "i shall not go," she answered boldly. "i have discovered a thief in my father's house; therefore my duty is to remain here." "no. surely your duty is to go upstairs and tell him;" and he bent again, resuming his rapid memoranda. "well," he asked defiantly, a few moments later, seeing that she had not moved, "aren't you going?" "i shall not leave you here alone." "don't. i might run away with some of the ornaments." "oh, yes!" exclaimed the girl bitterly, "you taunt me because you are well aware of my helplessness--of what occurred on that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon--of how completely you have me in your power! i see it all. you defy me, well knowing that you could, in a moment, bring upon me a vengeance terrible and complete. it is all horrible!" she cried, covering her face with her hands. "i know that i am in your power. and you have no pity, no remorse." "i gave you full warning," he declared, placing the papers upon the table and looking at her. "i gave you your choice. you cannot blame me. you had ample time and opportunity." "but i still have one man who loves me--a man who will yet stand my friend and defend me, even against you!" "walter murie!" he laughed, with a quick gesture of disregard. "you believe him to be your friend? recollect, my dear gabrielle, that men are deceivers ever." "so it seems in your case," she exclaimed with poignant bitterness. "you have brought scandalous comment upon my father's name, and yet you are utterly unconcerned." "because, as i have already told you, your father is my friend." "and it is his money which you spend so freely," she said, in a low, hard voice of reproach. "it comes from him." "his money!" he exclaimed quickly. "what do you mean? what do you imply?" "simply that among my father's accounts a short time back i found two cheques drawn by lady heyburn in your favour." "and you told your father of them, of course!" he exclaimed with sarcasm. "a remarkable discovery, eh?" "i told him nothing," was her bold reply. "not because i wished to shield you, but because i did not wish to pain him unduly. he has worries sufficient, in all conscience." "your devotion is really most charming," the man declared calmly, leaning against the table and examining her critically from head to foot. "sir henry believes in you. you are his dutiful daughter--pure, good, and all that!" he sneered. "i wonder what he would say if he--well, if he knew just a little of the truth, of what happened that day at chantilly?" "the truth! ah, and you would tell him--you!" she gasped in a broken voice, her sweet, innocent face blanched to the lips in an instant. "you would drag my good name into the mire, and blast my life for ever with just as little compunction as you would shoot a rabbit. i know--i know you only too well, mr. flockart! i stand in your way; i am in your way as well as in lady heyburn's. you are only awaiting an opportunity to wreck my life and crush me! once i am away from here, my poor father will be helpless in your hands!" "dear me," he sneered, "how very tragic you are becoming! that dressing-gown really makes you appear quite like a heroine of provincial melodrama. i ought now to have a revolver and threaten you, and then this scene would be complete for the stage--wouldn't it? but for goodness' sake don't remain here in the cold any longer, my dear little girl. run off to bed, and forget that to-night you've been walking in your sleep." "not until i see that safe relocked and you give me the false key of yours. if you will not, then you shall this very night have an opportunity of telling the truth to my father. i am prepared to bear my shame and all its consequences----" the words froze upon her pale lips. on the lawn outside the half-open glass door there was at that moment a light movement--the tapping of a walking-stick! "hush!" cried flockart. "remember what i can tell him--if i choose!" in an instant she saw the fragile figure of her father, in soft felt-hat and black coat, creeping almost noiselessly past the window. he had been out for one of his nocturnal walks, for he sometimes went out alone when suffering from insomnia. he had just returned. the blind man went forward only a few paces farther; but, finding that he had proceeded too far, he returned and discovered the open door. near it stood the pair, not daring now to move lest the blind man's quick ears should detect their footsteps. "gabrielle! gabrielle, my dear!" exclaimed the baronet. but though her heart beat quickly, the girl did not reply. she knew, however, that the old man could almost read her innermost thoughts. the ominous words of flockart rang in her ears. yes, he could tell a terrible and awful truth which must be concealed at all hazards. "i felt sure i heard gabrielle's voice. how curious!" murmured the old man, as his feet fell noiselessly upon the thick turkey carpet. "gabrielle, dear!" he called. but his daughter stood there breathless and silent, not daring to move a muscle. plain it was that while passing across the lawn outside he heard her voice. he had overheard her declaration that she was prepared to bear the consequences of her disgrace. across the room the blind man groped, his hand held before him, as was his habit. "strange! remarkably strange!" he remarked to himself quite aloud. "i'm never mistaken in gabrielle's voice. gabrielle, dear, where are you? why don't you speak? it's too late to-night to play practical jokes." flockart knew that he had left the safe-door open, yet he dared not move across the room to close it. the sightless man would detect the slightest movement in that dead silence of the night. with great care he left the girl's side, and a single stride brought him to the large writing-table, where he secured the document, together with the pencilled memoranda of its purport, both of which he slipped into his pocket unobserved. gabrielle dared not breathe. her discovery there meant her ruin. the man who held her in his toils cast her an evil, threatening glance, raising his clenched fist in menace, as though daring her to make the slightest movement. in his dark eyes showed a sinister expression, and his nether lip was hard. she was, alas! utterly and completely in his power. the safe was some distance away, and in order to reach and close it he would be compelled to pass the man in blue spectacles now standing, puzzled and surprised, in the centre of the great book-lined apartment. both of them could escape by the open window, but to do so would be to court discovery should the baronet find his safe standing open. in that case the alarm would be raised, and they would both be found outside the house, instead of within. slowly the old man drew his thin hand across his furrowed brow, and then, as a sudden recollection dawned upon him, he cried, "ah, the window! why, that's strange! when i went out i closed it! but it was open--open--as i came in! some one--some one has entered here in my absence!" with both his thin, wasted hands outstretched, he walked quickly to his safe, cleverly avoiding the furniture in his course, and next second discovered that the iron door stood wide open. "thieves!" he gasped aloud hoarsely as the truth dawned upon him. "my papers! gabrielle's voice! what can all this mean?" and next moment he opened the door, crying, "help!" and endeavouring to alarm the household. in an instant flockart dashed forward towards the safe, and, without being observed by gabrielle, had slipped the key into his own pocket. "gabrielle," cried the blind man, "you are here in the room. i know you are. you cannot deceive me. i smell that new scent, which your aunt annie sent you, upon your handkerchief. why don't you speak to me?" "yes, dad," she answered at last, in a low, strained voice, "i--i am here." "then what is meant by my safe being open?" he asked sternly, as all that goslin had told him a little while before flashed across his memory. "why have you obtained a key to it?" "i have no key," was her quick answer. "come here," he said. "let me take your hand." with great reluctance, her eyes fixed upon flockart's face, she did as she was bid, and as her father took her soft hand in his, he said in a stern, harsh tone, full of suspicion and quite unusual to him, "you are trembling, gabrielle--trembling, because--because of my unexpected appearance, eh?" the fair girl with the sweet face and dainty figure was silent. what could she reply? chapter xx tells of flockart's triumph "what are you doing here at this hour?" gabrielle's father demanded slowly, releasing her hand. "why are you prying into my affairs?" he had not detected flockart's presence, and believed himself alone with his daughter. the man's glance again met gabrielle's, and she saw in his eyes a desperate look. to tell the truth would, she knew, alas! cause the exposure of her secret and her disgrace. on both sides had she suddenly become hemmed in by a deadly peril. "dad," she cried suddenly, "do i not know all about your affairs already? do i not act as your secretary? with what motive should i open your safe?" without response, the blind man moved back to the open door, and, placing his hand within, fingered one of the long iron drawers. it was unlocked, and he drew it forth. some papers were within--blue, legal-looking papers which his daughter had never seen. "yes," he exclaimed aloud, "just as i thought. this drawer has been opened, and my private affairs pried into. tell me, gabrielle, where is young murie just at present?" "in paris, i believe. he left london unexpectedly three days ago." "paris!" echoed the old man. "ah," he added, "goslin was right--quite right. and so you, my daughter, in whom i placed all my trust--my--my only friend--have betrayed me!" he added brokenly. "i have not betrayed you, dear father," was her quick protest. "to whom do you allege i have exposed your affairs?" "to your lover, walter." to flockart, whose wits were already at work upon some scheme to extricate himself, there came at that instant a sudden suggestion. he spoke, causing the old man to start suddenly and turn in the direction of the speaker. as the words left his lips he raised a threatening finger towards gabrielle, a sign of silence to her of which the old man was unfortunately in ignorance. "i think, sir henry, that i ought to speak--to tell you the truth, painful though it may be. five minutes ago i came down here in order to get a telegraph-form, as i wanted to send a wire at the earliest possible moment to-morrow, when, to my surprise, i saw a light beneath the door. i----" "oh, no, no!" gasped the girl, in horrified protest. "it's a lie!" "i crept in quietly, and was very surprised to find gabrielle with the safe open, and alone. i had expected that she was sitting up late, working with you. but she seemed to be examining and reading some papers she took from a drawer. forgive me for telling you this, but the truth must now be made plain. i startled her by my sudden presence; and, pointing out the dishonour of copying her father's papers, no matter for what purpose, i compelled her to return the documents to their place. i fold her frankly that it was my duty, as your friend, to inform you of the incident; but she implored me, for the sake of her lover, to remain silent." "mr. flockart!" cried the girl, "how dare you say such a thing when you know it to be an untruth; when----" "enough!" exclaimed her father bitterly. "i'm ashamed of you, gabrielle. i----" "i would beg of you, sir henry, not further to distress yourself," flockart interrupted. "love, as you know, often prompts both men and women to commit acts of supreme folly." "folly!" echoed the blind man. "this is more than folly! gabrielle and her lover have conspired to bring about my ruin. i have had suspicions for several weeks; now, alas! they are confirmed. walter murie is in paris at this moment in order to make money out of the secret knowledge which gabrielle obtains for him. my own daughter is responsible for my betrayal!" he added, in a voice broken by emotion. "no, no, sir henry!" urged flockart. "surely the outlook is not so black as you foresee. gabrielle has acted injudiciously; but surely she is still devoted to you and your interests." "yes," cried the girl in desperation, "you know i am, dad. you know that i----" "it is useless, flockart, for you to endeavour to seek forgiveness for gabrielle," declared her father in a firm, harsh voice, "quite useless. she has even endeavoured to deny the statement you have made--tried to deny it when i actually heard with my own ears her defiant declaration that she was prepared to bear her shame and all its consequences! let her do so, i say. she shall leave glencardine to-morrow, and have no further opportunity to conspire against me." "oh, father, what are you saying?" she cried in despair, bursting into tears. "i have not conspired." "i am saying the truth," went on the blind man. "you and your lover have formed another clever plot, eh? because i have not sight to watch you, you will copy my business reports and send them to walter murie, who hopes to place them in a certain channel where he can receive payment. this is not the first time my business has leaked out from this room. only a short time ago certain confidential documents were offered to the greek government, but fortunately they were false ones prepared on purpose to trick any one who had designs upon my business secrets." "i swear i am in ignorance of it all." "well, i have now told you plainly," the old man said. "i loved you, gabrielle, and until this moment foolishly believed that you were devoted to me and to my interests. i trusted you implicitly, but you have betrayed me into the hands of my enemies--betrayed me," he wailed, "in such a manner that only ruin may face me. i tell you the hard and bitter truth. i am blind, and ever since your return from school you have acted as my secretary, and i have looked at the world only through your eyes. ah," he sighed, "but i ought to have known! i should never have trusted a woman, even though she be my own daughter." the girl stood with her blanched face covered by her hands. to protest, to declare that flockart's story was a lie, was, she saw, all to no purpose. her father had overheard her bold defiance and had, alas! most unfortunately taken it as an admission of her guilt. flockart stood motionless but watchful; yet by the few words he uttered he succeeded in impressing the blind man with the genuineness of his friendship both for father and for daughter. he urged forgiveness, but sir henry disregarded all his appeals. "no," he declared. "it is fortunate indeed, flockart, that you made this discovery, and thus placed me upon my guard." the poor deluded man little dreamt that on the occasion when flockart had taken him down the drive to announce his departure from glencardine on account of the gossip, and had drawn sir henry's attention to his hanging watch-chain, he had succeeded in cleverly obtaining two impressions of the safe-key attached. in his excitement, it had never occurred to him to ask his daughter by what means she had been able to open that steel door. "dad," she faltered, advancing towards him and placing her soft, tender hand upon his shoulder, "won't you listen to reason? i assure you i am quite innocent of any attempt or intention to betray you. i know you have many enemies;" and she glanced quickly in flockart's direction. "have we not often discussed them? have i not kept eyes and ears open, and told you of all i have seen and learnt? have----" "you have seen and learnt what is to my detriment," he answered. "all argument is useless. a fortnight or so ago, by your aid, my enemies secured a copy of a certain document which has never left yonder safe. to-night mr. flockart has discovered you again tampering with my safe, and with my own ears i heard you utter defiance. you are more devoted to your lover than to me, and you are supplying him with copies of my papers." "that is untrue, dad," protested the girl reproachfully. but her father shook her hand roughly from his shoulder, saying, "i have already told you my decision, which is irrevocable. to-morrow you shall leave glencardine and go to your aunt emily at woodnewton. you won't have much opportunity for mischief in that dull little northampton village. i won't allow you to remain under my roof any longer; you are too ungrateful and deceitful, knowing as you do the misery of my affliction." "but, father----" "go to your room," he ordered sternly. "tomorrow i will speak with your mother, and we shall then decide what shall be done. only, understand one thing: in the future you are not my dear daughter that you have been in the past. i--i have no daughter," he added in a voice harsh yet broken by emotion, "for you have now proved yourself an enemy worse even than those who for so many years have taken advantage of my helplessness." "ah, dad, dad, you are cruel!" she cried, bursting again into a torrent of tears. "you are too cruel! i have done nothing!" "do you call placing me in peril nothing?" he retorted bitterly. "go to your room at once. remain with me, flockart. i want to speak to you." the girl saw herself convicted by those unfortunate words she had used--words meant in defiance of her arch-enemy flockart, but which had placed her in ignominy and disgrace. ah, if she could only stand firm and speak the ghastly truth! but, alas! she dared not. flockart, the man who held her in his power, the man whom she knew to be her father's bitterest opponent, a cheat and a fraud, stood there triumphant, with a smile upon his lips; while she, pure, honest, and devoted to that afflicted man, was denounced and outcast. she raised her voice in one last word of faint protest. but her father, angered and grieved, turned fiercely upon her and ordered her from his presence. "go," he said, "and do not come near me again until your boxes are packed and you are ready to leave glencardine." "you speak as though i were a servant whom you've discharged," she said bitterly. "i am speaking to my enemy, not to my daughter," was his hard response. she raised her eyes to flockart, and saw upon his dark face a hard, sphinx-like look. what hope of salvation could she ever expect from that man--the man who long ago had sought to estrange her from her father so that he might work his own ends? it was upon her tongue to turn upon him and relate the whole infamous truth. yet so friendly had the two men become of late that she feared, even if she did so, that her father would only see in the revelation an attempt at reprisal. besides, what if flockart spoke? what if he told the awful truth? her own dear father, whom she loved so well, even though he had misjudged her, would be dragged into the mire. no, she was the victim of that man, who was a past-master of the art of subterfuge; the man who, for years, had lived by his wits and preyed upon society. "leave us, and go to your room," again commanded her father. she looked sadly at the white, bespectacled countenance which she loved so well. her soft hand once more sought his; but he cast it from him, saying, "enough of your caresses! you are no longer my daughter! leave us!" and then, seeing all protest in vain, she sighed, turned very slowly, and with a last, lingering look upon the helpless man to whom she had been so devoted, and who now so grossly misjudged her, she tottered out, closing the door behind her. "has she gone?" asked sir henry a moment later. flockart responded in the affirmative, laying his hand upon the shoulder of his agitated host, and urging him to remain calm. "that's all very well, my dear flockart," he cried; "but you don't know what she has done. she exposed a week or so ago a most confidential arrangement with the greek government, a revelation which might have involved me in the loss of over a hundred thousand." "then it's fortunate, perhaps, that i discovered her to-night," replied his guest. "all this must be very painful to you, sir henry." "very. i shall not give her another opportunity to betray me, flockart, depend upon that," the elder man said. "my wife warned me against gabrielle long ago. i now see that i was a fool for not taking her advice." "certainly it's a curious fact that walter murie is in paris," remarked the other. "was the revelation of your financial dealings made in paris, do you know?" "yes, it was," snapped the blind man. "i believed walter to be quite a good young fellow." "ah, i knew different, sir henry. his life up in london was not--well, not exactly all that it should be. he's in with a rather shady crowd." "you never told me so." "because you did not believe me to be your friend until quite recently. i hope i have now proved what i have asserted. if i can do anything to assist you i am only too ready. i assure you that you have only to command me." sir henry reflected deeply for a few moments. the discovery that his daughter was playing him false caused within him a sudden revulsion of feeling. unfortunately, he could not see the expression upon the countenance of his false friend. he was wondering at that moment whether he might entrust to him a somewhat delicate mission. "gabrielle shall not return here," her father said, as though speaking to himself. "that is a course which i would most strongly advise. send the girl away," urged the other. "evidently she has grossly betrayed you." "that i certainly intend doing," was the answer. "but i wonder, flockart, if i might take you at your word, and ask you to do me a favour? i am so helpless, or i would not think of troubling you." "only tell me what you wish, and i will do it with pleasure." "very well, then," replied the blind man. "perhaps i shall want you to go to paris at once, watch the actions of young murie, and report to me from time to time. would you?" a look of bright intelligence overspread the man's features as a new vista opened before him. sir henry was about to take him into his confidence! "why, with pleasure," he said cheerily. "i'll start to-morrow, and rest assured that i'll keep a very good eye upon the young gentleman. you now know the painful truth concerning your daughter--the truth which lady heyburn has told you so often, and which you have never yet heeded." "yes, flockart," answered the afflicted man, taking his guest's hand in warm friendship. "i once disliked you--that i admit; but you were quite frank the other day, and now to-night you have succeeded in making a discovery that, though it has upset me terribly, may mean my salvation." chapter xxi through the mists sir henry refused to speak with his daughter when, on the following morning, she stole in and laid her hand softly upon his arm. he ordered her, in a tone quite unusual, to leave the library. through the morning hours she had lain awake trying to make a resolve. but, alas! she dared not tell the truth; she was in deadly fear of flockart's reprisals. that morning, at nine o'clock, lady heyburn and flockart had held hurried consultation in secret, at which he had explained to her what had occurred. "excellent!" she had remarked briefly. "but we must now have a care, my dear friend. mind the girl does not throw all prudence to the winds and turn upon us." "bah!" he laughed, "i don't fear that for a single second." and he left the room again, to salute her in the breakfast-room a quarter of an hour later as though they had not met before that day. gabrielle, on leaving her father, went out for a long walk alone, away over the heather-clad hills. for hours she went on--jock, her aberdeen terrier, toddling at her side, in her hand a stout ash-stick--regardless of the muddy roads or the wet weather. it was grey, damp, and dismal, one of those days which in the highlands are often so very cheerless and dispiriting. yet on, and still on, she went, her mind full of the events of the previous night; full, also, of the dread secret which prevented her from exposing her father's false friend. in order to save her father, should she sacrifice herself--sacrifice her own life? that was the one problem before her. she saw nothing; she heeded nothing. hunger or fatigue troubled her not. indeed, she took no notice of where her footsteps led her. beyond crieff she wandered, along the river-bank a short distance, ascending a hill, where a wild and wonderful view spread before her. there she sat down upon a big boulder to rest. her hair blown by the chill wind, she sat staring straight before her, thinking--ever thinking. she had not seen lady heyburn that day. she had seen no one. at six o'clock that morning she had written a long letter to walter murie. she had not mentioned the midnight incident, but she had, with many expressions of regret, pointed out the futility of any further affection between them. she had not attempted to excuse herself. she merely told him that she considered herself unworthy of his love, and because of that, and that alone, she had decided to break off their engagement. a dozen times she had reread the letter after she had completed it. surely it was the letter of a heart-broken and desperate woman. would he take it in the spirit in which it was meant, she wondered. she loved him--ah, loved him better than any one else in all the world! but she now saw that it was useless to masquerade any longer. the blow had fallen, and it had crushed her. she was powerless to resist, powerless to deny the false charge against her, powerless to tell the truth. that letter, which she knew must come as a cruel blow to walter, she had given to the postman with her own hands, and it was now on its way south. as she sat on the summit of that heather-clad hill she was wondering what effect her written words would have upon him. he had loved her so devotedly ever since they had been children together! well she knew how strong was his passion for her, how his life was at her disposal. she knew that on reading those despairing lines of hers he would be staggered. she recalled the dear face of her soul-mate, his hot kisses, his soft terms of endearment, and alone there, with none to witness her bitter grief, she burst into a flood of tears. the sad greyness of the landscape was in keeping with her own great sorrow. she had lost all that was dear to her; and, young as she was, with hardly any experience of the world and its ways, she was already the victim of grim circumstance, broken by the grief of a self-renounced love gnawing at her true heart. the knowledge that lady heyburn and flockart would exult over her downfall and exile to that tiny house in a sleepy little northamptonshire village did not trouble her. her enemies had triumphed. she had played the game and lost, just as she might have lost at billiards or at bridge, for she was a thorough sportswoman. she only grieved because she saw the grave peril of her dear father, and because she now foresaw the utter hopelessness of her own happiness. it was better, she reflected, far better, that she should go into the dull and dreary exile of an english village, with the unexciting companionship of aunt emily, an ascetic spinster of the mid-victorian era, and make pretence of pique with walter, than to reveal to him the shameful truth. he would at least in those circumstances retain of her a recollection fond and tender. he would not despise nor hate her, as he most certainly would do if he knew the real astounding facts. how long she remained there, high up, with the chill winds of autumn tossing her silky, light-brown hair, she knew not. rainclouds were gathering, and the rugged hill before her was now hidden behind a bank of mist. time had crept on without her heeding it, for what did time now matter to her? what, indeed, did anything matter? her young life, though she was still in her teens, had ended; or, at least, as far as she was concerned it had. was she not calmly and coolly contemplating telling the truth and putting an end to her existence after saving her father's honour? her sad, tearful eyes gazed slowly about her as she suddenly awakened to the fact that she was far--very far--from home. she had been dazed, unconscious of everything, because of the heavy burden of grief within her heart. but now she looked forth upon the small, grey loch, with its dark fringe of trees, the grey and purple hills beyond, the grey sky, and the grey, filmy mists that hung everywhere. the world was, indeed, sad and gloomy, and even jock sat looking up at his young mistress as though regarding her grief in wonder. now and then distant shots came from across the hills. they were shooting over the drummond estate, she knew, for she had had an invitation to join their luncheon-party that day. lady heyburn and flockart had no doubt gone. that, she told herself, was her last day in the highlands, that picturesque, breezy country she loved so well. it was her last day amid those familiar places where she and walter had so often wandered together, and where he had told her of his passionate devotion. well, perhaps it was best, after all. down south she would not be reminded of him every moment and at every turn. no, she sighed within herself as she rose to descend the hill, she must steel herself against her own sad reflections. she must learn how to forget. "what will he say?" she murmured aloud as she went down, with jock frisking and barking before her. "what will he think of me when he gets my letter? he will believe me fickle; he will believe that i have another lover. that is certain. well, i must allow him to believe it. we have parted, and we must now, alas! remain apart for ever. probably he will seek from my father the truth concerning my disappearance from glencardine. dad will tell him, no doubt. and then--then, what will he believe? he--he will know that i am unworthy to be his wife. yet--yet is it not cruel that i dare not speak the truth and clear myself of this foul charge of betraying my own dear father? was ever a girl placed in such a position as myself, i wonder. has any girl ever loved a man better than i love walter?" her white lips were set hard, and her fine eyes became again bedimmed by tears. it commenced to rain, that fine drizzle so often experienced north of the tweed. but she heeded not. she was used to it. to get wet through was, to her, quite a frequent occurrence when out fishing. though there was no path, she knew her way; and, walking through the wet heather, she came after half-an-hour out upon a muddy byroad which led her into the town of crieff, whence her return was easy; though it was already dusk, and the dressing-bell had gone, before she re-entered the house by the servants' door and slipped unobserved up to her own room. elise found her seated in her blue gown before the welcome fire-log, her chin upon her breast. her excuse was that she felt unwell; therefore one of the maids brought her some dinner on a tray. upon the mantelshelf were many photographs, some of them snap-shots of her schoolfellows and souvenirs of holidays, the odds and ends of portraits and scenes which every girl unconsciously collects. among them, in a plain silver frame, was the picture of walter murie taken in new york only a few weeks before. upon the frame was engraved, "gabrielle, from walter." she took it in her hand, and stood for a long time motionless. never again, alas! would she look upon that face so dear to her. her young heart was already broken, because she was held fettered and powerless. at last she put down the portrait, and, sinking into her chair, sat crying bitterly. now that she was outcast by her father, to whom she had been always such a close, devoted friend, her life was an absolute blank. at one blow she had lost both lover and father. already elise had told her that she had received instructions to pack her trunks. the thin-nosed frenchwoman was apparently much puzzled at the order which lady heyburn had given her, and had asked the girl whom she intended to visit. the maid had asked what dresses she would require; but gabrielle replied that she might pack what she liked for a long visit. the girl could hear elise moving about, shaking out skirts, in the adjoining room, and making preparations for her departure on the morrow. despondent, hopeless, grief-stricken, she sat before the fire for a long time. she had locked the door and switched off the light, for it irritated her. she loved the uncertain light of dancing flames, and sat huddled there in her big chair for the last time. she was reflecting upon her own brief life. scarcely out of the schoolroom, she had lived most of her days up in that dear old place where every inch of the big estate was so familiar to her. she remembered all those happy days at school, first in england, and then in france, with the kind-faced sisters in their spotless head-dresses, and the quiet, happy life of the convent. the calm, grave face of sister marguerite looked down upon her from the mantelshelf as if sympathising with her pretty pupil in those troubles that had so early come to her. she raised her eyes, and saw the portrait. its sight aroused within her a new thought and fresh recollection. had not sister marguerite always taught her to beseech the almighty's aid when in doubt or when in trouble? those grave, solemn words of the mother superior rang in her ears, and she fell upon her knees beside her narrow bed in the alcove, and with murmuring lips prayed for divine support and assistance. she raised her sweet, troubled face to heaven and made confession to her maker. then, after a long silence, she struggled again to her feet, more cool and more collected. she took up walter's portrait, and, kissing it, put it away carefully in a drawer. some of her little treasures she gathered together and placed with it, preparatory to departure, for she would on the morrow leave glencardine perhaps for ever. the stable-clock had struck ten. to where she stood came the strident sounds of the mechanical piano-player, for some of the gay party were waltzing in the hall. their merry shouts and laughter were discordant to her ears. what cared any of those friends of her step-mother if she were in disgrace and an outcast? drawing aside the curtain, she saw that the night was bright and starlit. she preferred the air out in the park to the sounds of gaiety within that house which was no longer to be her home. therefore she slipped on a skirt and blouse, and, throwing her golf-cape across her shoulders and a shawl over her head, she crept past the room wherein elise was packing her belongings, and down the back-stairs to the lawn. the sound of the laughter of the men and women of the shooting-party aroused a poignant bitterness within her. as she passed across the drive she saw a light in the library, where, no doubt, her father was sitting in his loneliness, feeling and examining his collection of seal-impressions. she turned, and, walking straight on, struck the gravelled path which took her to the castle ruins. not until the black, ponderous walls rose before her did she awaken to a consciousness of her whereabouts. then, entering the ruined courtyard, she halted and listened. all was dark. above, the stars twinkled brightly, and in the ivy the night-birds stirred the leaves. holding her breath, she strained her ears. yes, she was not deceived! there were sounds distinct and undeniable. she was fascinated, listening again to those shadow-voices that were always precursory of death--the fatal whispers. chapter xxii by the mediterranean it was february--not the foggy, muddy february of dear, damp old england, but winter beside the bright blue mediterranean, the winter of the côte d'azur. at the villa heyburn--that big, square, white house with the green sun-shutters, surrounded by its great garden full of spreading palms, sweet-smelling mimosa, orange-trees laden with golden fruit, and bright geraniums, up on the berigo at san remo--lady heyburn had that afternoon given a big luncheon-party. the smartest people wintering in that most sheltered nook of the italian riviera had eaten and gossiped and flirted, and gone back to their villas and hotels. dull persons found no place in lady heyburn's circle. most of the people were those she knew in london or in paris, including a sprinkling of cosmopolitans, a russian prince notorious for his losses over at the new _cercle_ at cannes, a divorced austrian archduchess, and two or three well-known diplomats. "dear old henry" remained, of course, at glencardine, as he always did. lady heyburn looked upon her winter visit to that beautiful villa overlooking the calm sapphire sea as her annual emancipation. henry was a dear old fellow, she openly confided to her friends, but his affliction made him terribly trying. but jimmy flockart, the good-looking, amusing, well-dressed idler, was living down at the "savoy," and was daily in her company, driving, motoring, picnicking, making excursions in the mountains, or taking trips over to "monte" by the _train-de-luxe_. he had left the villa early in the afternoon, returned to his hotel, changed his smart flannels for a tweed suit, and, taking a stout stick, had set off alone for his daily constitutional along the sea-road in the direction of that pretty but half-deserted little watering-place, ospedaletti. straight before him, into the unruffled, tideless sea, the sun was sinking in all its blood-red glory as he went at swinging pace along the white, dusty road, past the _octroi_ barrier, and out into the country where, on the left, the waves lazily lapped the grey rocks, while upon the right the fertile slopes were covered with carnations and violets growing for the markets of paris and london. in the air was a delightful perfume, the freshness of the sea in combination with the sweetness of the flowers. a big red motor-car dashed suddenly round a corner, raising a cloud of dust. an american party were on their way from genoa to the frontier along the corniche, one of the most picturesque routes in all the world. james flockart had no eyes for beauty. he was too occupied by certain grave apprehensions. that morning he had walked in the garden with lady heyburn, and had a long chat with her. her attitude had been peculiar. he could not make her out. she had begged him to promise to leave san remo, and when asked to tell the reason of this sudden demand she had firmly refused. "you must leave here, jimmy," she had said quite calmly. "go down to rome, to palermo, to ragusa, or somewhere where you can put in a month or so in comfort. the villa igiea at palermo would suit you quite well--lots of smart people, and very decent cooking." "well," he laughed, "as far as hotels go, nothing could be worse than this place. i'd never put my nose into this hole if it were not for the fact that you come here. there isn't a hotel worth the name. when one goes to monte, or cannes, or even decaying nice, one can get decent cooking. but here--ugh!" and he shrugged his shoulders. "price higher than the 'ritz' in paris, food fourth-rate, rooms cheaply decorated, and a dullness unequalled." "my dear jimmy," laughed her ladyship, "you're such a cosmopolitan that you're incorrigible. i know you don't like this place. you've been here six weeks, so go." "you've had a letter from the old man, eh?" "yes, i have," she replied, and he saw that her countenance changed; but she would say nothing more. she had decided that he must leave san remo, and would hear no argument to the contrary. the southern sun sank slowly into the sea, now grey but waveless. on the horizon lay the long smoke-trail of a passing steamer eastward bound. he had rounded the steep, rocky headland, and in the hollow before him nestled the little village of ospedaletti, with its closed casino, its rows of small villas, and its palm-lined _passeggiata_. a hundred yards farther on he saw the figure of a rather shabby, middle-aged man, in a faded grey overcoat and grey soft felt-hat of the mode usual on the riviera, but discoloured by long wear, leaning upon the low sea-wall and smoking a cigarette. no other person was in the vicinity, and it was quickly evident from the manner in which the wayfarer recognised him and came forward to meet him with outstretched hand that they had met by appointment. short of stature as he was, with fair hair, colourless eyes, and a fair moustache, his slouching appearance was that of one who had seen better days, even though there still remained about him a vestige of dandyism. the close observer would, however, detect that his clothes, shabby though they were, were of foreign cut, and that his greeting was of that demonstrative character that betrayed his foreign birth. "well, my dear krail," exclaimed flockart, after they had shaken hands and stood together leaning upon the sea-wall, "you got my wire in huntingdon? i was uncertain whether you were at the 'george' or at the 'fountain,' so i sent a message to both." "i was at the 'george,' and left an hour after receipt of your wire." "well, tell me what has happened. how are things up at glencardine?" "goslin is with the old fellow. he has taken the girl's place as his confidential secretary," was the shabby man's reply, speaking with a foreign accent. "walter murie was at home for christmas, but went to cairo." "and how are matters in paris?" "they are working hard, but it's an uphill pull. the old man is a crafty old bird. those papers you got from the safe had been cunningly prepared for anybody who sought to obtain information. the consequence is that we've shown our hand, and heavily handicapped ourselves thereby." "you told me all that when you were down here a month ago," flockart said impatiently. "you didn't believe me then. you do now, i suppose?" "i've never denied it," flockart declared, offering the stranger a russian cigarette from his gold case. "i was completely misled, and by the girl also." "the girl's influence with her father is happily quite at an end," remarked the shabby man. "i saw her last week in woodnewton. the change from glencardine to an eight-roomed cottage in a village street must be rather severe." "only what she deserves," snapped flockart. "she defied us." "granted. but i cannot help thinking that we haven't played a very fair game," said the man. "remember, she's only a girl." "but dangerous to us and to our plans, my dear krail. she knows a lot." "because--well, forgive me for saying so, my dear flockart--because you've been a fool, and have allowed her to know." "it wasn't i; it was the woman." "lady heyburn! why, i always believed her to be the soul of discretion." "she's been too defiant of consequences. a dozen times i've warned her; but she will not heed." "then she'll land herself in a deep hole if she isn't careful," replied the foreigner, speaking very fair english. "does she know i'm here?" "of course not. if we're to play the game she must know nothing. she's already inclined to throw prudence to the winds, and to confess all to her husband." "confess!" gasped the stranger, paling beneath his rather sallow skin. "_per bacco!_ she's not going to be such an idiot, surely?" "we were run so close, and so narrowly escaped discovery after i got at those papers at glencardine, that she seems to have lost heart," flockart remarked. "but if she acted the fool and told sir henry, it would mean ruin for us, and that would also mean----" "it would mean exposure for gabrielle," interrupted flockart. "the old man dare not lift his voice for his daughter's sake." "ah," exclaimed krail, "that's just where you've acted injudiciously! you've set him against her; therefore he wouldn't spare her." "it was imperative. i couldn't afford to be found prying into the old man's papers, could i? i got impressions of his key while walking in the park one day. he's never suspected it." "of course not. he believes in you," laughed his friend, "as one of the few upright men who are his friends! but," he added, "you've done wrong, my dear fellow, to trust a woman with a secret. depend upon it, her ladyship will let you down." "well, if she does," remarked flockart, with a shrug of the shoulders, "she'll have to suffer with me. you know where we should all find ourselves." the man pulled a wry face and puffed at his cigarette in silence. "what does the girl do?" asked flockart a few moments later. "well, she seems to have a pretty dull time with the old lady. i stayed at the 'cardigan arms' at woodnewton for two days--a miserable little place--and watched her pretty closely. she's out a good deal, rambling alone across the country with a collie belonging to a neighbouring farmer. she's the very picture of sadness, poor little girl!" "you seem to sympathise with her, krail. why, does she not stand between us and fortune?" "she'll stand between us and a court of assize if that woman acts the fool!" declared the shabby stranger, who moved so rapidly and whose vigilance seemed unequalled. "if we go, she shall go also," flockart declared in a threatening voice. "but you must prevent such a _contretemps_," krail urged. "ah, it's all very well to talk like that! but you know enough of her ladyship to be aware that she acts on her own initiative." "that shows that she's no fool," remarked the foreigner quickly. "you who hold her in the hollow of your hand must prevent her from opening up to her husband. the whole future lies with you." "and what is the future without money? we want a few thousands for immediate necessities, both of us. the woman's allowance from her husband is nowadays a mere bagatelle." "because he probably knows that some of her money has gone into your pockets, my dear boy." "no; he's completely in ignorance of that. how, indeed, could he know? she takes very good care there's no possibility of his finding out." "well," remarked the stranger, "that's what i fear has happened, or may one day happen. the fact is, _caro mio_, we are in a quandary at the present moment. you were a bit too confident in dealing with those documents you found at glencardine. you should have taken her ladyship into your confidence and got her to pump her husband concerning them. if you had, we shouldn't have made the mess of it that we have done." "i must admit, krail, that what you say is true," declared the well-dressed man. "you are such a philosopher always! i asked you to come here in secret to explain the exact position." "it is one of peril. we are checkmated. goslin holds the whole position in his hands, and will keep it." "very fortunately for you he doesn't, though we were very near exposure when i went out to athens and made a fool of myself upon the report furnished by you." "i believed it to be a genuine one. i had no idea that the old man was so crafty." "exactly. and if he displayed such clever ingenuity and forethought in laying a trap for the inquisitive, is it not more than likely that there may be other traps baited with equal craft and cunning?" "then how are we to make the _coup_?" flockart asked, looking into the colourless eyes of his friend. "we shall, i fear, never make it, unless----" "unless what?" he asked. "unless the old man meets with an accident," replied the other, in a low, distinct voice. "_blind men sometimes do, you know!_" chapter xxiii which shows a shabby foreigner felix krail, his cigarette held half-way to his lips, stood watching the effect of his insinuation. he saw a faint smile playing about flockart's lips, and knew that it appealed to him. old sir henry heyburn had laid a clever trap for him, a trap into which he himself believed that his daughter had fallen. why should not flockart retaliate? the shabby stranger, whose own ingenuity and double-dealing were little short of marvellous, and under whose watchful vigilance the heyburn household had been ever since her ladyship and her friend flockart had gone south, stood silent, but in complete satisfaction. the well-dressed riviera-lounger--the man so well known at all the various gay resorts from ventimiglia along to cannes, and who was a member of the fêtes committee at san remo and at nice--merely exchanged glances with his friend and smiled. quickly, however, he changed the topic of conversation. "and what's occurring in paris?" "ah, there we have the puzzle!" replied the man krail, his accent being an unfamiliar one--so unfamiliar, indeed, that those unacquainted with the truth were always placed in doubt regarding his true nationality. "but you've made inquiry?" asked his friend quickly. "of course; but the business is kept far too close. every precaution is taken to prevent anything leaking out," krail responded. "the clerks will speak, won't they?" the other said. "_mon cher ami_, they know no more of the business of the mysterious firm of which the blind baronet is the head than we do ourselves," said krail. "they make enormous financial deals, that's very certain." "not deals--but _coups_ for themselves," he laughed, correcting flockart. "recollect what i discovered in athens, and the extraordinary connection you found in brussels." "ah, yes. you mean that clever crowd--four men and two women who were working the gambling concession from the dutch government!" exclaimed flockart. "yes, that was a complete mystery. they sent wires in cipher to sir henry at glencardine. i managed to get a glance at one of them, and it was signed 'metaforos.'" "that's their paris cable address," said his companion. "surely you, with your network of sources of information, and your own genius for discovering secrets, ought to be able to reveal the true nature of sir henry's business. is it an honest one?" asked flockart. "i think not." "think! why, my dear felix, this isn't like you only to think; you always _know_. you're so certain of your facts that i've always banked upon them." the other gave his shoulders a shrug of indecision. "it was not a judicious move on your part to get rid of the girl from glencardine," he said slowly. "while she was there we had a chance of getting at some clue. but now old goslin has taken her place we may just as well abandon investigation at that end." "you've failed, krail, and attribute your failure to me," protested his companion. "how could i risk being ignominiously kicked out of glencardine as a spy?" "whatever attitude you might have taken would have had the same result. we used the information, and found ourselves fooled--tricked by a very crafty old man, who actually prepared those documents in case he was betrayed." "admitted," said flockart. "but even though we made fools of ourselves in athens, and caused the greek government to look upon us as rogues and liars, the girl is suspected; and i for one don't mean to give in before we've secured a nice, snug little sum." "how are we to do it?" "by obtaining knowledge of the game being played in paris, and working in an opposite direction," flockart replied. "we are agreed upon one point: that for the past few years, ever since goslin came on the scene, sir henry's business--a big one, there is no doubt--has been of a mysterious and therefore shady character. by his confidence in gabrielle, his care that nobody ever got a chance inside that safe, his regular consultations with goslin (who travelled from paris specially to see him), his constant telegrams in cipher, and his refusal to allow even his wife to obtain the slightest inkling into his private affairs, it is shown that he fears exposure. do you agree?" "most certainly i do." "well, any man who is in dread of the truth becoming known must be carrying on some negotiations the reverse of creditable. he is the moving spirit of that shady house, without a doubt," declared flockart, who had so often grasped the blind man's hand in friendship. "in such fear that his transactions should become known, and that exposure might result, he actually had prepared documents on purpose to mislead those who pried into his affairs. therefore, the instant we discover the truth, fortune will be at our hand. we all want money, you, i, and lady heyburn--and money we'll have." "with these sentiments, my dear friend, i entirely and absolutely agree," remarked the shabby man, lighting a fresh cigarette. "but one fact you seem to have entirely overlooked." "what?" "the girl. she stands between you, and she might come back into the old man's favour, you know." "and even though she did, that makes no difference," flockart answered defiantly. "why?" "because she dare not say a single word against me." krail looked him straight in the face with considerable surprise, but made no comment. "she knows better," flockart added. "never believe too much in your own power with a woman, _mon cher ami_," remarked the other dubiously. "she's young, therefore of a romantic turn of mind. she's in love, remember, which makes matters much worse for us." "why?" "because, being in love, she may become seized with a sentimental fit. this ends generally in a determination of self-sacrifice; and in such case she would tell the truth in defiance of you, and would be heedless of her own danger." flockart drew a long breath. what this man said was, he knew within his own heart, only too true of the girl towards whom they had been so cruel and so unscrupulous. his had been a lifelong scheme, and as part of his scheme in conjunction with the woman who was sir henry's wife, it had been unfortunately compulsory to sacrifice the girl who was the blind man's right hand. yes, gabrielle was deeply in love with walter murie--the man upon whom sir henry now looked as his enemy, and who would have exposed him to the greek government if the blind man had not been too clever. the baronet, after his daughter's confession, naturally attributed her curiosity to walter's initiative, the more especially that walter had been in paris, and, it was believed, in athens also. the pair were, however, now separated. krail, in pursuit of his diligent inquiries, had actually been in woodnewton, and seen the lonely little figure, sad and dejected, taking long rambles accompanied only by a farmer's sheep-dog. young murie had not been there; nor did the pair now correspond. this much krail had himself discovered. the problem placed before flockart by his shabby friend was a somewhat disconcerting one. on the one hand, lady heyburn had urged him to leave the riviera, without giving him any reason, and on the other, he had the ever-present danger of gabrielle, in a sudden fit of sentimental self-sacrifice, "giving him away." if she did, what then? the mere suggestion caused him to bite his nether lip. krail knew a good deal, but he did not know all. perhaps it was as well that he did not. there is a code of honour among adventurers all the world over; but few of them can resist the practice of blackmail when they chance to fall upon evil days. "yes," flockart said reflectively, as at krail's suggestion they turned and began to descend the steep hill towards ospedaletti, "perhaps it's a pity, after all, that the girl left glencardine. yet surely she's safer with her aunt?" "she was driven from glencardine!" "by her father." "you sacrificed her in order to save yourself. that was but natural. it's a pity, however, you didn't take my advice." "i suggested it to lady heyburn. but she would have nothing to do with it. she declared that such a course was far too dangerous." "dangerous!" echoed the shabby man. "surely it could not have placed either of you in any greater danger than you are in already?" "she didn't like it." "few people do," laughed the other. "but, depend upon it, it's the only way. she wouldn't, at any rate, have had an opportunity of telling the truth." flockart pulled a wry face, and after a silence of a few moments said, "don't let us discuss that. we fully considered all the pros and cons, at the time." "her ladyship is growing scrupulously honest of late," sneered his companion. "she'll try to get rid of you very soon, i expect." the latter sentence was more full of meaning than the speaker dreamed. the words, falling upon flockart's ears, caused him to wince. was her ladyship really trying to rid herself of his influence? he laughed within himself at the thought of her endeavouring to release herself from the bond. for her he had never, at any moment, entertained either admiration or affection. their association had always been purely one of business--business, be it said, in which he made the profits and she the losses. "it would hardly be an easy matter for her," replied the easy-going, audacious adventurer. "she seems to be very popular up at glencardine," remarked the foreigner, "because she's extravagant and spends money in the neighbourhood, i suppose. but the people in auchterarder village criticise her treatment of gabrielle. they hear gossip from the servants, i expect." "they should know of the girl's treatment of her stepmother," exclaimed flockart. "but there, villagers are always prone to listen to and embroider any stories concerning the private life of the gentry. it's just the same in scotland as in any other country in the world." "ah!" continued flockart, "in scotland the old families are gradually decaying, and their estates are falling into the hands of blatant parvenus. counter-jumpers stalk deer nowadays, and city clerks on their holidays shoot over peers' preserves. the humble scot sees it all with regret, because he has no real liking for this latter-day invasion by the newly-rich english. cotton-spinners from lancashire buy deer-forests, and soap-boilers from limehouse purchase castles with family portraits and ghosts complete." "ah! speaking of the supernatural," exclaimed krail suddenly, "do you know i had a most extraordinary and weird experience when at glencardine about three weeks ago. i actually heard the whispers!" flockart stared hard at the man at his side, and, laughing outright, said, "well, that's the best joke i've heard to-day. you, of all men, to be taken in by a mere superstition." "but, my dear friend, i heard them," said krail. "i swear i actually heard them! and i--well, i admit to you, even though you may laugh at me for being a superstitious fool--i somehow anticipate that something uncanny is about to happen to me." "you're going to die, like all the rest of them, i suppose," laughed his friend, as they descended the dusty, winding road that led to the palm-lined promenade of the quiet little mediterranean watering-place. chapter xxiv "when greek meets greek" on their left were several white villas, before which pink and scarlet geraniums ran riot, with spreading mimosas golden with their feathery blossom, for ospedaletti makes a frantic, if vain, bid for popularity as a winter-resort. its deadly dullness, however, is too well known to the habitué of the riviera; and its casino, which never obtained a licence, imparts to it the air of painful effort at gaiety. "well," remarked the shabby man as they passed along and out upon the sea-road in the direction of bordighera, "i always looked upon what the people at auchterarder said regarding the whispers as a mere myth. but now, having heard them with my own ears, how can i have further doubt?" "i've listened in the castle ruins a good many times, my dear krail," replied the other, "but i've never heard anything more exciting than an owl. indeed, lady heyburn and i, when there was so much gossip about the strange noises some two years ago, set to work to investigate. we went there at least a dozen times, but without result; only both of us caught bad colds." "well," exclaimed krail, "i used to ridicule the weird stories i heard in the village about the devil's whisper, and all that. but by mere chance i happened to be at the spot one bright night, and i heard distinct whisperings, just as had been described to me. they gave me a very creepy feeling, i can assure you." "bosh! now, do you believe in ghosts, you man-of-the-world that you are, my dear felix?" "no. most decidedly i don't." "then what you've heard is only in imagination, depend upon it. the supernatural doesn't exist in glencardine, that's quite certain," declared flockart. "the fact is that there's so much tradition and legendary lore connected with the old place, and its early owners were such a set of bold and defiant robbers, that for generations the peasantry have held it in awe. hence all sorts of weird and terrible stories have been invented and handed down, until the present age believes them to be based upon fact." "but, my dear friend, i actually heard the whispers--heard them with my own ears," krail asserted. "i happened to be about the place that night, trying to get a peep into the library, where goslin and the old man were, i believe, busy at work. but the blinds fitted too closely, so that i couldn't see inside. the keeper and his men were, i knew, down in the village; therefore i took a stroll towards the ruins, and, as it was a beautiful night, i sat down in the courtyard to have a smoke. then, of a sudden, i heard low voices quite distinctly. they startled me, for not until they fell upon my ears did i recall the stories told to me weeks before." "if stewart or any of the under-keepers had found you prowling about the castle grounds at that hour they might have asked you awkward questions," remarked flockart. "oh," laughed the other, "they all know me as a visitor to the village fond of walking exercise. i took very good care that they should all know me, so that as few explanations as possible would be necessary. as you well know, the secret of all my successes is that i never leave anything to chance." "to go peeping about outside the house and trying to took in at lighted windows sounds a rather injudicious proceeding," his companion declared. "not if proper precautions are taken, as i took them. i was weeks in that terribly dull scotch village, but nobody suspected my real mission. i made quite a large circle of friends at the 'star,' who all believed me to be a foreign ornithologist writing a book upon the birds of scotland. trust me to tell people a good story." "well," exclaimed flockart, after a long silence, "those whispers are certainly a mystery, more especially if you've actually heard them. on two or three occasions i've spoken to sir henry about them. he ridicules the idea, yet he admitted to me one evening that the voices had really been heard. i declared that the most remarkable fact was the sudden death of each person who had listened and heard them. it is a curious phenomenon, which certainly should be investigated." "the inference is that i, having listened to the ghostly voices, am doomed to a sudden and violent end," remarked the shabby stranger quite gloomily. flockart laughed. "really, felix, this is too funny!" he said. "fancy your taking notice of such old wives' fables! why, my dear fellow, you've got many years of constant activity before you yet. you must return to paris in the morning, and watch in patience." "i have watched, but discovered nothing." "perhaps i'll come and assist you; most probably i shall." "no, don't! as soon as you leave san remo sir henry will know, and he might suspect." "suspect what?" "that you are in search of the truth, and of fortune in consequence." "he believes in me. only the other day i had a letter from him written in goslin's hand, repeating the confidence he reposes in me." "exactly. you must remain down here for the present." flockart recollected the puzzling decision of lady heyburn, and remained silent. "our chief peril is still the one which has faced us all along," went on the man in the grey hat--"the peril that the girl may tell about that awkward affair at chantilly." "she dare not," flockart assured him quickly. krail shook his head dubiously. "she's leading a lonely life. her heart is broken, and she believes herself, as every other young girl does, to be without a future. therefore, she's brooding over it. one never knows in such cases when a girl may fling all prudence to the winds," he said. "if she did, then nothing could save us." "that's just what her ladyship said the other day," answered flockart, tossing away his cigarette. "but you don't know that i hold her irrevocably. she dare not say a single word. if she dare, why did she not tell the truth about the safe?" "probably because it was all too sudden. she now finds life in that dismal little village intolerable. she's a girl of spirit, you know, and has always been used to luxury and freedom. to live with an old woman in a country cottage away from all her friends must be maddening. no, my dear james, in this you've acted most injudiciously. you were devoid of your usual foresight. depend upon it, a very serious danger threatens. she will speak." "i tell you she dare not. rest your mind assured." "she will." "_she shall not!_" "how, pray, can you close her mouth?" asked the foreigner. flockart's eyes met his. in them was a curious expression, almost a glitter. krail understood. he shrugged his shoulders, but uttered no word. his gesture was, however, that of one unconvinced. adventurer as he was, ingenious and unscrupulous, he lived from hand to mouth. sometimes he made a big _coup_ and placed himself in funds. but following such an event he was open-handed and generous to his friends, extravagant in his expenditure; and very soon found himself under the necessity to exercise his wits in order to obtain the next louis. he had known flockart for years as one of his own class. they had first met long ago on board a castle liner homeward bound from capetown, where both found themselves playing a crooked game. a friendship begotten of dishonesty had sprung up between them, and in consequence they had thrown in their lot together more than once with considerable financial advantage. the present affair was, however, not much to krail's liking, and this he had more than once told his friend. it was quite possible that if they could discover the mysterious source of this blind man's wealth they might, by judiciously levying blackmail through a third party, secure a very handsome income which he was to share with flockart and her ladyship. the last-named krail had always admitted to be one of the cleverest women he had ever met. his only surprise had been that she, as sir henry's wife, was unable to get at the facts which were so cleverly withheld. it only showed, however, that the baronet, though deprived of eyesight, was even more clever than the unscrupulous woman he had so foolishly married. krail held lady heyburn in distinct distrust. he had once had dealings with her which had turned out the reverse of satisfactory. instinctively he knew that, in order to save herself, if exposure ever came, she would "give him away" without the least compunction. what had puzzled him for several years, and what, indeed, had puzzled other people, was the reason of the close friendship between flockart and the baronet's wife. it was certainly not affection. he knew flockart intimately, and had knowledge of his private affairs; therefore he was well aware of the existence of an unknown and rather insignificant woman to whom he was in secret devoted. no; the bond between the pair was an entirely mysterious one. he knew that on more than one occasion, when flockart's demands for money had been a little too frequent, she had resisted and attempted to withdraw from further association with him. yet by a single word, or even a look, he could compel her to disgorge the funds he needed, for she had even handed him some of her trinkets to pawn until she could obtain further funds from sir henry to redeem them. as they walked together along the white corniche road, their faces set towards the gorgeous southern afterglow, while the waves lapped lazily on the grey rocks, all these puzzling thoughts recurred to krail. "lady heyburn seems still to remain your very devoted friend," he remarked at last with a meaning smile. "i see from the _new york herald_ what pleasant parties she gives, and how she is the heart and soul of social merriment in san remo. by jove, james! you're a lucky man to possess such a popular hostess as friend." "yes," laughed flockart, "winnie is a regular pal. without her i should have been broken long ago. but she's always ready to help me along." "people have already remarked upon your remarkable friendship," said his friend, "and many ill-natured allegations have been made." "oh, yes, i'm quite well aware of that, my dear fellow. it has pained me more than enough. you yourself know that, as far as affection goes, i've never in my life entertained a spark of it for winnie. we were children together, and have been friends always." "quite so!" exclaimed krail, smiling. "that's a pretty good story to tell the world. but there's a point where mere friendship must break, you know." "what do you mean?" asked the other, glancing at him in surprise. "well, the story you tell other people may be picturesque and romantic, but with me it's just a trifle weak. lady heyburn doesn't give her pearls to be pawned, out of mere friendship, you know." flockart was silent. he knew too well that the man walking at his side was as clever an intriguer and as bold an adventurer as had ever moved up and down europe "working the game" in search of pigeons to pluck. his shabbiness was assumed. he had alighted at bordighera station from the _rapide_ from paris, spent the night at a third-rate hotel in order not to be recognised at the angst or any of the smarter houses, and had met him by appointment to explain the present situation. his remarks, however, were the reverse of reassuring. what did he suspect? "i don't quite follow you, krail," flockart said. "i meant to imply that if friendship only links you with lady heyburn, the chain may quite easily snap," he remarked. he looked at his friend, much puzzled. he could see no point in that observation. krail read what was passing in the other's mind, and added, "i know, _mon cher ami_, that affection from her ladyship is entirely out of the question. the gossips are liars. and----" "sir henry himself is quite aware of that. i have already spoken quite plainly and openly to him, and suggested my departure from glencardine on account of ill-natured remarks by her ladyship's enemies. but he would not hear of my leaving, and pressed me to remain." krail looked at him in blank surprise. "well," he said, "if you've been bold enough to do this in face of the gossip, then you're a much cleverer man than ever i took you to be." for answer, flockart took some letters from his breast-pocket, selected one written in a foreign hand, and gave it to krail to read. it was from the hermit of glencardine, written at his dictation by monsieur goslin, and was couched in the warmest and most confidential terms. "look here, james," exclaimed the shabby man, handing back the letter, "i'm going to be perfectly frank with you. tell me if i speak the truth or if i lie. it is neither affection nor friendship which links your life with that woman's. am i right?" flockart did not answer for some moments. his eyes were cast upon the ground. "yes, krail," he admitted at last when the question had been put to him a second time--"yes, krail. you speak the truth. it is neither affection nor friendship." chapter xxv shows gabrielle in exile midway between historic fotheringhay and ancient apethorpe, the ancestral seat of the earls of westmorland, lay the long, straggling, and rather poverty-stricken village of woodnewton. like many other northamptonshire villages, it consisted of one long street of cottages, many of them with dormer windows peeping from beneath the brown thatch, the better houses of stone, with old mullioned windows, but all of them more or less in stages of decay. with the depreciation in agriculture, woodnewton, once quite a prosperous little place, was now terribly shabby and depressing. as he entered the village, the first object that met the eye of the stranger was a barn with the roof half fallen away, and next it a ruined house with its moss-grown thatch full of holes. the paving was ill-kept, and even the several inns bore an appearance of struggles with poverty. half-way up the long, straight, dispiriting street stood a cottage larger and neater-looking than the rest. its ugly exterior was half-hidden by ivy, which had been cut away from the diamond-paned windows; while, unlike its neighbours, its roof was tiled and its brown door newly painted and highly varnished. old miss heyburn lived there, and had lived there for the past half-century. the prim, grey-haired, and somewhat eccentric old lady was a well-known figure to all on that country-side. twice each sunday, with her large-type prayer-book in her hand, and her steel-rimmed spectacles on her thin nose, she walked to church, while she was one of the principal supporters of the village clothing-club and such-like institutions inaugurated by the worthy rector. essentially an ascetic person, she was looked upon with fear by all the villagers. her manner was brusque, her speech sharp, and her criticism of neglectful mothers caustic and much to the point. prim, always in black bonnet and jet-trimmed cape of years gone by, both in summer and winter, she took no heed of the vagaries of fashion, even when they reached woodnewton so tardily. the common report was that when a girl she had been "crossed in love," for her single maidservant she always trained to a sober and loveless life like her own, and as soon as a girl cast an eye upon a likely swain she was ignominiously dismissed. that the sharp-tongued spinster possessed means was undoubted. it was known that she was sister of sir henry heyburn of caistor, in lincolnshire; and, on account of her social standing, she on rare occasions was bidden to the omnium gatherings at some of the mansions in the neighbourhood. she seldom accepted; but when she did it was only to satisfy her curiosity and to criticise. the household of two, the old lady and her exemplary maid, was assuredly a dull one. meals were taken with punctual regularity amid a cleanliness that was almost painful. the tiny drawing-room, with its row of window-plants, including a pot of strong-smelling musk, was hardly ever entered. not a speck of dust was allowed anywhere, for miss emily's eye was sharp, and woe betide the maid if a mere suspicion of dirt were discovered! everything was kept locked up. one maid who resigned hurriedly, refusing to be criticised, afterwards declared that her mistress kept the paraffin under lock and key. and into this uncomfortably prim and proper household little gabrielle had suddenly been introduced. her heart overburdened by grief, and full of regret at being compelled to part from the father she so fondly loved, she had accepted the inevitable, fully realising the dull greyness of the life that lay before her. surely her exile there was a cruel and crushing one! the house seemed so tiny and so suffocating after the splendid halls and huge rooms at glencardine, while her aunt's constant sarcasm about her father--whom she had not seen for eight years--was particularly galling. the woman treated the girl as a wayward child sent there for punishment and correction. she showed her neither kindness nor consideration; for, truth to tell, it annoyed her to think that her brother should have imposed the girl upon her. she hated to be bothered with the girl; but, existing upon sir henry's charity, as she really did, though none knew it, she could do no otherwise than accept his daughter as her guest. days, weeks, months had passed, each day dragging on as its predecessor, a wretched, hopeless, despairing existence to a girl so full of life and vitality as gabrielle. though she had written several times to her father, he had sent her no reply. to her mother at san remo she had also written, and from her had received one letter, cold and unresponsive. from walter murie nothing--not a single word. the well-thumbed books in the village library she had read, as well as those in the possession of her aunt. she had tried needlework, problems of patience, and the translation of a few chapters of an italian novel into english in order to occupy her time. but those hours when she was alone in her little upstairs room with the sloping roof passed, alas! so very slowly. upon her, ever oppressive, were thoughts of that bitter past. at one staggering blow she had lost all that had made her young life worth living--her father's esteem and her lover's love. she was innocent, entirely innocent, of the terrible allegations against her, and yet she was so utterly defenceless! often she sat at her little window for hours watching the lethargy of village life in the street below, that rural life in which the rector and the schoolmaster were the principal figures. the dullness of it all was maddening. her aunt's mid-victorian primness, her snappishness towards the trembling maid, and the thousand and one rules of her daily life irritated her and jarred upon her nerves. so, in order to kill time, and at the same time to study the antiquities of the neighbourhood--her father having taught her so much deep antiquarian knowledge--it had been her habit for three months past to take long walks for many miles across the country, accompanied by the black collie rover belonging to a young farmer who lived at the end of the village. the animal had one day attached itself to her while she was taking a walk on the apethorpe road; and now, by her feeding him daily and making a pet of him, the girl and the dog had become inseparable. by long walks and short train-journeys she had, in three months, been able to inspect most of the antiquities of northamptonshire. much of the history of the county was intensely interesting: the connection of old fotheringhay with the ill-fated mary queen of scots, the beauties of peterborough cathedral, the splendid old tudor house of deene (the home of the earls of cardigan), the legends of king john concerning king's cliffe, the gaunt splendour of ruined kirby, and the old-world charm of apethorpe. all these, and many others, had great attraction for her. she read them up in books she ordered from london, and then visited the old places with all the enthusiasm of a spectacled antiquary. every day, no matter what the weather, she might be seen, in her thick boots, burberry, and tam o'shanter, trudging along the roads or across the fields accompanied by the faithful collie. the winter had been a comparatively mild one, with excessive rain. but no downpour troubled her. she liked the rain to beat into her face, for the dismal, monotonous cheerlessness of the brown fields, bare trees, and muddy roads was in keeping with the tragedy of her own young life. she knew that her aunt emily disliked her. the covert sneers, the caustic criticisms, and the go-to-meeting attitude of the old lady irritated the girl beyond measure. she was not wanted in that painfully prim cottage, and had been made to understand it from the first day. hence it was that she spent all the time she possibly could out of doors. alone she had traversed the whole county, seeking permission to glance at the interior of any old house or building that promised archaeological interest, and by that means making some curious friendships. many people regarded the pretty young girl who made a study of old churches and old houses as somewhat eccentric. local antiquaries, however, stared at her in wonder when they found that she was possessed of knowledge far more profound than theirs, and that she could decipher old documents and read latin inscriptions with ease. she made few friends, preferring solitude and reflection to visiting and gossiping. hers was, indeed, a pathetic little figure, and the countryfolk used to stare at her in surprise and sigh as she passed through the various little hamlets and villages so regularly, the black collie bounding before her. quickly she had become known as "miss heyburn's niece," and the report having spread that she was "a bit eccentric, poor thing," people soon ceased to wonder, and began to regard that pale, sad face with sympathy. the whole country-side was wondering why such a pretty young lady had gone to live in the deadly dullness of woodnewton, and what was the cause of that great sorrow written upon her countenance. her daily burden of bitter reflection was, indeed, hard to bear. her one thought, as she walked those miles of lonely rural byways, so bare and cheerless, was of walter--her walter--the man who, she knew, would have willingly given his very life for hers. she had met her just punishment, and was now endeavouring to bear it bravely. she had renounced his love for ever. one afternoon, dark and rainy, in the gloom of early march, she was sitting at the old-fashioned and rather tuneless piano in the damp, unused "best room," which was devoid of fire for economic reasons. her aunt was seated in the window busily crocheting, while she, with her white fingers running across the keys, raised her sweet contralto voice in that old-world florentine song that for centuries has been sung by the populace in the streets of the city by the arno: in questa notte in sogno l'ho veduto era vestito tutto di braccato, le piume sul berretto di velluto ed una spada d'oro aveva allato. e poi m'ha detto con un bel sorriso; io no, non posso star da te diviso, da te diviso non ci posso stare e torno per mai pin non ti lasciare. miss heyburn sighed, and looked up from her work. "can't you sing something in english, gabrielle? it would be much better," she remarked in a snappy tone. the girl's mouth hardened slightly at the corners, and she closed the piano without replying. "i don't mean you to stop," exclaimed the ascetic old lady. "i only think that girls, instead of learning foreign songs, should be able to sing english ones properly. won't you sing another?" "no," replied the girl, rising. "the rain has ceased, so i shall go for my walk;" and she left the room to put on her hat and mackintosh, passing along before the window a few minutes later in the direction of king's cliffe. it was always the same. if she indulged herself in singing one or other of those ancient love-songs of the hot-blooded tuscan peasants her aunt always scolded. nothing she did was right, for the simple reason that she was an unwelcome visitor. she was alone. rover was conducting sheep to stamford market, as was his duty every week; therefore in the fading daylight she went along, immersed in her own sad thoughts. her walk at that hour was entirely aimless. she had only gone forth because of the irritation she felt at her aunt's constant complaints. so entirely engrossed was she by her own despair that she had not noticed the figure of a man who, catching sight of her at the end of woodnewton village, had held back until she had gone a considerable distance, and had then sauntered leisurely in the direction she had taken. the man kept her in view, but did not approach her. the high, red mail-cart passed, and the driver touched his hat respectfully to her. the man who collected the evening mail from all the villages between deene and peterborough met her almost every evening, and had long ago inquired and learnt who she was. for nearly two miles she walked onward, until, close by the junction of the road which comes down the hill from nassington, the man who had been following hastened up and overtook her. she heard herself addressed by name, and, turning quickly, found herself face to face with james flockart. chapter xxvi the velvet paw the new-comer stood before gabrielle, hat in hand, smiling pleasantly and uttering a greeting of surprise. her response was cold, for was not all her present unhappiness due to him? "i've come here to speak to you, gabrielle--to speak to you in confidence." "whatever you have to say may surely be said in the hearing of a third person?" was her dignified answer. his sudden appearance had startled her, but only for a moment. she was cool again next instant, and on her guard against her enemy. "i hardly think," he said, with a meaning smile, "that you would really like me to speak before a third party." "i really care nothing," was her answer. "and i cannot see why you seek me here. when one is hopeless, as i am, one becomes callous of what the future may bring." "hopeless! yes," he said in a changed voice, "i know that; living in this dismal hole, gabrielle, you must be hopeless. i know that your exile here, away from all your friends and those you love, must be soul-killing. don't think that i have not reflected upon it a hundred times." "ah, then you have at last experienced remorse!" she cried bitterly, looking straight into the man's face. "you have estranged me from my father, and tried to ruin him! you lied to him--lied in order to save yourself!" the man laughed. "my dear child," he exclaimed, "you really misjudge me entirely. i am here for two reasons: to ask your forgiveness for making that allegation which was imperative; and, secondly, to assure you that, if you will allow me, i will yet be your friend." "friend!" she echoed in a hollow voice. "you--my friend!" "yes. i know that you mistrust me," he replied; "but i want to prove that my intentions towards you are those of real friendship." "and you, who ever since my girlhood days have been my worst enemy, ask me now to trust you!" she exclaimed with indignation. "no; go back to lady heyburn and tell her that i refuse to accept the olive-branch which you and she hold out to me." "my dear girl, you don't follow me," he exclaimed impatiently. "this has nothing whatever to do with lady heyburn. i have come to you from purely personal motives. my sole desire is to effect your return to glencardine." "for your own ends, mr. flockart, without a doubt!" she said bitterly. "ah! there you are quite mistaken. though you assert that i am your father's enemy, i am, i tell you, his friend. he is ever thinking of you with regret. you were his right hand. would it not be far better if he invited you to return?" she sighed at the thought of the blind man whom she regarded with such entire devotion, but answered, "no, i shall never return to glencardine." "why?" he asked. "was it anything more than natural that, believing you had been prying into his affairs, your father, in a moment of anger, condemned you to this life of appalling monotony?" "no, not more natural than that you, the culprit, should have made me the scapegoat for the second time," was her defiant reply. "have i not already told you that the reason i'm here is to crave your forgiveness? i admit that my actions have been the reverse of honourable; but--well, there were circumstances which compelled me to act as i did." "you got an impression of my father's safe-key, had a duplicate made in glasgow, as i have found out, and one night opened the safe and copied certain private documents having regard to a proposed loan to the greek government. the night i discovered you was the second occasion when you went to the library and opened the safe. do you deny that?" "what you allege, gabrielle, is perfectly correct," he replied. "i know that i was a blackguard to shield myself behind you--to tell the lie i did that night. but how could i avoid it?" "suppose i had, in retaliation, spoken the truth?" she asked, looking the man straight in the face. "ah! i knew that you would not do that." "you believe that i dare not--dare not for my own sake, eh?" he nodded in the affirmative. "then you are much mistaken, mr. flockart," she said in a hard voice. "you don't understand that a woman may become desperate." "i can understand how desperate you have become, living in this 'sleepy hollow.' a week of it would, i admit, drive me to distraction." "then if you understand my present position you will know that i am fearless of you, or of anybody else. my life has ended. i have neither happiness, comfort, peace of mind, nor love. all is of the past. to you--you, james flockart--i am indebted for all this! you have held me powerless. i was a happy girl once, but you and your dastardly friends crossed my path like an evil shadow, and i have existed in an inferno of remorse ever since. i----" "remorse! how absurdly you talk!" "it will not be absurd when i speak the truth and tell the world what i know. it will be rather a serious matter for you, mr. flockart." "you threaten me, then?" he asked, his eyes flashing for a second. "i think it is as well for us to understand one another at once," she said frankly. they had halted upon a small bridge close to the entrance to apethorpe village. "then i'm to understand that you refuse my proffered assistance?" he asked. "i require no assistance from my enemies," was her defiant and dignified reply. "i suppose lady heyburn is at the villa at san remo as usual, and that it was she who sent you to me, because she recognises that you've both gone a little too far. you have. when the opportunity arises, then i shall speak, regardless of the consequences. therefore, mr. flockart, i wish you good-evening;" and she turned away. "no, gabrielle," he cried, resolutely barring her path. "you must hear me. you don't grasp the point of my argument." "with me none of your arguments are of any avail," was her response in a bitter tone. "i, alas! have reason to know you too well. for you--by your clever intrigue--i committed a crime; but god knows i am innocent of what was intended. now that you have estranged me from my father and my lover, i shall confess--confess all--before i make an end of my life." he saw from her pale, drawn face that she was desperate. he grew afraid. "but, my dear girl, think--of what you are saying! you don't mean it; you can't mean it. your father has relented, and will welcome you back, if only you will consent to return." "i have no wish to be regarded as the prodigal daughter," was her proud response. "not for walter murie's sake?" asked the crafty man. "i have seen him. i was at the club with him last night, and we had a chat about you. he loves you very dearly. ah! you do not know how he is suffering." she was silent, and he recognised in an instant that his words had touched the sympathetic chord in her heart. "he is not suffering any greater grief than i am," she said in a low, mechanical voice, her brow heavily clouded. "of course i can quite understand that," he remarked sympathetically. "walter is a good fellow, and--well, it is indeed sad that matters should be as they are. he is entirely devoted to you, gabrielle." "not more so than i am to him," declared the girl quite frankly. "then why did you write breaking off your engagement?" "he told you that?" she exclaimed in surprise. the truth was that murie had told flockart nothing. he had not even seen him. it was only a wild guess on flockart's part. "tell me," she urged anxiously, "what did he say concerning myself?" flockart hesitated. his mind was instantly active in the concoction of a story. "oh, well--he expressed the most profound regret for all that had occurred at glencardine, and is, of course, utterly puzzled. it appears that just before christmas he went home to connachan and visited your father several times. from him, i suppose, he heard how you had been discovered." "you told him nothing?" "i told him nothing," declared flockart--which was a fact. "did he express a wish to see me?" she inquired. "of course he did. is he not over head and ears in love with you? he believes you have treated him cruelly." "i--i know i have, mr. flockart," she admitted. "but i acted as any girl of honour would have done. i was compelled to take upon myself a great disgrace, and on doing so i released him from his promise to me." "most honourable!" the man declared with a pretence of admiration, yet underlying it all was a craftiness that surely was unsurpassed. that visit of his to northamptonshire was made with some ulterior motive, yet what it was the girl was unable to discover. she would surely have been cleverer than most people had she been able to discern the hidden, sinister motives of james flockart. the truth was that he had not seen murie, and the story of his anxiety he had only concocted on the spur of the moment. "walter asked me to give you a message," he went on. "he asked me to urge you to return to glencardine, and to withdraw that letter you wrote him before your departure." "to return to glencardine!" she repeated, staring into his face. "walter wishes me to do that! why?" "because he loves you. because he will intercede with your father on your behalf." "my father will hear nothing in my favour until--" and she paused. "until what?" "until i tell him the whole truth." "that you will never do," remarked flockart quickly. "ah! there you're mistaken," she responded. "in all probability i shall." "then, before you do so, pray weigh carefully the dire results," he urged in a changed tone. "oh, i've already done that long ago," she said. "i know that i am in your hands, utterly and irretrievably, mr. flockart, and the only way i can regain my freedom is by boldly telling the truth." "you must never do that! by heaven, you shall not!" he cried, looking fiercely into her clear eyes. "i know! i'm quite well aware of your attitude towards me. the claws cannot be entirely concealed in the cat's paw, you know;" and she laughed bitterly into his face. the corners of the man's mouth hardened. he was about to speak and show himself in his true colours; but by dint of great self-control he managed to smile and exclaim, "then you will take no heed of these wishes of the man who loves you so dearly, of the man who is still your best and most devoted friend? you prefer to remain here, and wear out your young life with vain regrets and shattered affections. come, gabrielle, do be sensible." the girl did not speak for several moments. "does walter really wish me to return?" she asked, looking straight at him, as though trying to discern whether he was really speaking the truth. "yes. he expressed to me a strong wish that you should either return to glencardine or go and live at park street." "he wishes to see me?" "of course. it would perhaps be better if you met him first, either down here or in london. why should you two not be happy?" he went on. "i know it is my fault you are consigned to this dismal life, and that you and walter are parted; but, believe me, gabrielle, i am at this moment endeavouring to bring you together again, and to reinstate you in sir henry's good graces. he is longing for you to return. when i saw him last at glencardine he told me that monsieur goslin was not so clever at typing or in grasping his meaning as you are, and he is only awaiting your return." "that may be so," answered the girl in a slow, distinct voice; "but perhaps you'll tell me, mr. flockart, the reason you evinced such an unwonted curiosity in my father's affairs?" "my dear girl," laughed the man, "surely that isn't a fair question. i had certain reasons of my own." "yes; assisted by lady heyburn, you thought that you could make money by obtaining knowledge of my father's secrets. oh yes, i know--i know more than you have ever imagined," declared the girl boldly. "you hope to get rid of monsieur goslin from glencardine and reinstate me--for your own ends. i see it all." the man bit his lip. with chagrin he recognised that he had blundered, and that she, shrewd and clever, had taken advantage of his error. he was, however, too clever to exhibit his annoyance. "you are quite wrong in your surmise, gabrielle," he said quickly. "walter murie loves you, and loves you well. therefore, with regret at my compulsory denunciation of yourself, i am now endeavouring to assist you." "thank you," she responded coldly, again turning away abruptly. "i require no assistance from a man such as yourself--a man who entrapped me, and who denounced me in order to save himself." "you will regret these words," he declared, as she walked away in the direction of woodnewton. she turned upon him in fierce anger, retorting, "and perhaps you, on your part, will regret your endeavour to entrap me a second time. i have promised to speak the truth, and i shall keep my promise. i am not afraid to sacrifice my own life to save my father's honour!" the man stood staring after her. these words of hers held him motionless. what if she flung her good name to the winds and actually carried out her threat? what if she really spoke the truth? ay, what then? chapter xxvii betrays the bond the girl hurried on, her heart filled with wonder, her eyes brimming with tears of indignation. the one thought occupying her whole mind was whether walter really wished to see her again. had flockart spoken the truth? the serious face of the man she loved so well rose before her blurred vision. she had been his--his very own--until she had sent off that fateful letter. in five minutes flockart had again overtaken her. his attitude was appealing. he urged her to at least see her lover again even if she refused to write or return to her father. "why do you come here to taunt me like this?" she cried, turning upon him angrily. "once, because you were my mother's friend, i believed in you. but you deceived me, and in consequence you hold me in your power. were it not for that i could have spoken to my father--have told him the truth and cleared myself. he now believes that i have betrayed his business secrets, while at the same time he considers you to be his friend!" "i am his friend, gabrielle," the man declared. "why tell me such a lie?" she asked reproachfully. "do you think i too am blind?" "certainly not. i give you credit for being quite as clever and as intelligent as you are dainty and charming. i----" "thank you!" she cried in indignation. "i require no compliments from you." "lady heyburn has expressed a wish to see you," he said. "she is still in san remo, and asked me to invite you to go down there for a few weeks. your aunt has written her, i think, complaining that you are not very comfortable at woodnewton." "i have not complained. why should aunt emily complain of me? you seem to be the bearer of messages from the whole of my family, mr. flockart." "i am here entirely in your own interests, my dear child," he declared with that patronising air which so irritated her. "not entirely, i think," she said, smiling bitterly. "i tell you, i much regret all that has happened, and----" "you regret!" she cried fiercely. "do you regret the end of that woman--you know whom i mean?" beneath her straight glance he quivered. she had referred to a subject which he fain would have buried for ever. this dainty neat-waisted girl knew a terrible secret. was it not only too true, as lady heyburn had vaguely suggested a dozen times, that her mouth ought to be effectually sealed? he had sealed it once, as he thought. her fear to explain to her father the incident of the opening of the safe had given him confidence that no word of the truth regarding the past would ever pass her lips. yet he saw that his own machinations were now likely to prove his undoing. the web which, with her ladyship's assistance, he had woven about her was now stretched to breaking-point. if it did yield, then the result must be ruin--and worse. therefore, he was straining every effort to again reinstate her in her father's good graces and restore in her mind something akin to confidence. but all his arguments, as he walked on at her side in the gathering gloom, proved useless. she was in no mood to listen to the man who had been her evil genius ever since her school-days. as he was speaking she was wondering if she dared go to walter murie and tell him everything. what would her lover think of her? what indeed? he would only cast her aside as worthless. no. far better that he should remain in ignorance and retain only sad memories of their brief happiness. "i am going to glencardine to-night," flockart went on. "i shall join the mail at peterborough. what shall i tell your father?" "tell him the truth," was her reply. "that, i know, you will not do. so why need we waste further words?" "do you actually refuse, then, to leave this dismal hole?" he demanded impatiently. "yes, until i speak, and tell my father the plain and ghastly story." "rubbish!" he ejaculated. "you'll never do that--unless you wish to stand beside me in a criminal dock." "well, rather that than be your cat's-paw longer, mr. flockart!" she cried, her face flushing with indignation. "oh, oh!" he laughed, still quite imperturbed. "come, come! this is scarcely a wise reply, my dear little girl!" "i wish you to leave me. you have insulted my intelligence enough this evening, surely--you, who only a moment ago declared yourself my friend!" slowly he selected a cigarette from his gold case, and, halting, lit it. "well, if you meet my well-meant efforts on your behalf with open antagonism like this i can't make any further suggestion." "no, please don't. go up to glencardine and do your worst for me. i am now fully able to take care of myself," she exclaimed in defiance. "you can also write to lady heyburn, and tell her that i am still, and that i always will remain, my blind father's friend." "but why don't you listen to reason, gabrielle?" he implored her. "i don't now seek to lessen or deny the wrongs i have done you in the past, nor do i attempt to conceal from you my own position. my only object is to bring you and walter together again. her ladyship knows the whole circumstances, and deeply regrets them." "her regret will be the more poignant some day, i assure you." "then you really intend to act vindictively?" "i shall act just as i think proper," she exclaimed, halting a moment and facing him. "please understand that though i have been forced in the past to act as you have indicated, because i feared you--because i had my reputation and my father's honour at stake--i hold you in terror no longer, mr. flockart." "well, i'm glad you've told me that," he said, laughing as though he treated her declaration with humour. "it's just as well, perhaps, that we should now thoroughly understand each other. yet if i were you i wouldn't do anything rash. by telling the truth you'd be the only sufferer, you know." "the only sufferer! why?" "well, you don't imagine i should be such a fool as to admit that what you said was true, do you?" she looked at him in surprise. it had never occurred to her that he, with his innate unscrupulousness and cunning, might deny her allegations, and might even be able to prove them false. "the truth could not be denied," she said simply. "recollect the cutting from the edinburgh paper." "truth is denied every day in courts of law," he retorted. "no. before you act foolishly, remember that, put to the test, your word would stand alone against mine and those of other people. "why, the very story you would tell would be so utterly amazing and startling that the world would declare you had invented it. reflect upon it for a moment, and you'll find, my dear girl, that silence is golden in this, as in any other circumstance in life." she raised her eyes to his, and met his gaze firmly. "so you defy me to speak?" she cried. "you think that i will still remain in this accursed bondage of yours?" "i utter no threats, my dear child," replied flockart. "i have never in my life threatened you. i merely venture to point out certain difficulties which you might have in substantiating any allegation which you might make against me. for that reason, if for none other, is it not better for us to be friends?" "i am not the friend of my father's enemy!" she declared. "you are quite heroic," he declared with a covert sneer. "if you really are bent upon providing the halfpenny newspapers with a fresh sensation, pray let me know in plenty of time, won't you?" "i've had sufficient of your taunts," cried the girl, bursting into a flood of hot tears. "leave me. i--i'll say no further word to you." "except to forgive me," he added. "why should i?" she asked through her tears. "because, for your own sake--for the sake of your future--it will surely be best," he pointed out. "you, no doubt, in ignorance of legal procedure, believed that what you alleged would be accepted in a court of justice. but reflect fully before you again threaten me. dry your eyes, or your aunt may suspect something wrong." she did not reply. what he said impressed her, and he did not fail to recognise that fact. he smiled within himself when he saw that he had triumphed. yet he had not gained his point. she had dashed away her tears with the little wisp of lace, annoyed with herself at betraying her indignation in that womanly way. she knew him, alas! too well. she mistrusted him, for she was well aware of how cleverly he had once conspired with lady heyburn, and with what ingenuity she herself had been drawn into the disgraceful and amazing affair. true it was that her story, if told in a criminal court, would prove so extraordinary that it would not be believed; true also that he would, of course, deny it, and that his denial would be borne out by the woman who, though her father's wife, was his worst enemy. the man placed his hand on her shoulder, saying, "may we not be friends, gabrielle?" she shook him off roughly, responding in the negative. "but we are not enemies--i mean we will not be enemies as we have been, shall we?" he urged. to this she made no reply. she only quickened her pace, for the twilight was fast deepening, and she wished to be back again at her aunt's house. why had that man followed her? why, indeed, had he troubled to come there? she could not discern his motive. they walked together in silence. he was watching her face, reading it like a book. then, when they neared the first thatched cottage at the entrance to the village, he halted, asking, "may we not now become friends, gabrielle? will you not listen, and take my advice? or will you still remain buried here?" "i have nothing further to say, mr. flockart, than what i have already said," was her defiant response. "i shall act as i think best." "and you will dare to speak, and place yourself in a ridiculous position, you mean?" "i shall use my own judgment in defending my father from his enemies," was her cold response as, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, she turned and left him, hurrying forward in the darkening twilight along the village street to her aunt's home. he, on his part, turned upon his heel with a muttered remark and set out again to walk towards nassington station, whence, after nearly an hour's wait in the village inn, he took train to peterborough. the girl had once again defied him. chapter xxviii the whispers again was it really true what flockart had told her? did walter actually wish to see her again? at one moment she believed in her lover's strong, passionate devotion to her, for had she not seen it displayed in a hundred different ways? but the next she recollected how that man flockart had taken advantage of her youth and inexperience in the past, how he had often lied so circumstantially that she had believed his words to be the truth. once, indeed, he had openly declared to her that one of his maxims was never to tell the truth unless obliged. after dinner, a simple meal served in the poky little dining-room, she made an excuse to go to her room, and there sat for a long time, deeply reflecting. should she write to walter? would it be judicious to explain flockart's visit, and how he had urged their reconciliation? if she wrote, would it lower her dignity in her lover's eyes? that was the great problem which now troubled her. she sat staring before her undecided. she recalled all that flockart had told her. he was the emissary of lady heyburn without a doubt. the girl had told him openly of her decision to speak the truth and expose him, but he had only laughed at her. alas! she knew his true character, unscrupulous and pitiless. but she placed him aside. recollection of walter--the man who had held her so often in his arms and pressed his hot lips to hers, the man who was her father's firm friend and whose uprightness and honesty of purpose she had ever admired--crowded upon her. should she write to him? rigid and staring, she sat in her chair, her little white hands clenched, as she tried to summon courage. it had been she who had written declaring that their secret engagement must be broken, she who had condemned herself. therefore, had she not a right to satisfy that longing she had had through months, the longing to write to him once again. the thought decided her; and, going to the table whereon the lamp was burning, she sat down, and after some reflection, penned a letter as follows:-- "my sweetheart, my darling, my own, my soul--mine--only mine,--i am wondering how and where you are! true, i wrote you a cruel letter; but it was imperative, and under the force of circumstance. i am full of regrets, and i only wish with all my heart that i might kiss you once again, and press you in my arms as i used to do. "but how are you? i have had you before my eyes to-night, and i feel quite sure that at this very moment you are thinking of me. you must know that i love you dearly. you gave me your heart, and it shall not belong to any other. i have tried to be brave and courageous; but, alas! i have failed. i love you, my darling, and i must see you soon--very soon. "mr. flockart came to see me to-day and says that you expressed to him a desire to meet me again. gratify that desire when you will, and you will find your gabrielle just the same--longing ever to see you, living with only the memories of your dear face. "can you doubt of my great, great love for you? you never wrote in reply to my letter, though i have waited for months. i know my letter was a cruel one, and to you quite unwarranted; but i had a reason for writing it, and the reason was because i felt that i ought not to deceive you any longer. "you see, darling, i am frank and open. yes, i have deceived you. i am terribly ashamed and downhearted. i have tried to conceal my grief, even from you; but it is impossible. i love you as much as i ever loved you, and i swear to you that i have never once wavered. "grim circumstance forced me to write to you as i did. forgive me, i beg of you. if it is true what mr. flockart says, then send me a telegram, and come here to see me. if it be false, then i shall know by your silence. "i love you, my own, my well-beloved! _au revoir_, my dearest heart. i look at your photograph which to-night smiles at me. yes, you love me! "with many fond and sweet kisses like those i gave you in the well-remembered days of our happiness. "my love--my king!" she read the letter carefully through, placed it in an envelope, and, marking it private, addressed it to walter's chambers in the temple, whence she knew it must be forwarded if he were away. then, putting on her tam o' shanter, she went out to the village grocer's, where she posted it, so that it left by the early morning mail. when would his welcome telegram arrive? she calculated that he would get the letter by mid-day, and by one o'clock she could receive his reply--his reassurance of love. so she went to her bed, with its white dimity hangings, more calm and composed than for months before. for a long time she lay awake, thinking of him, listening hour by hour to the chiming bells of the old norman church. they marked the passing of the night. then she dropped off to sleep, to be awakened by the sun streaming into the room. that same morning, away up in the highlands at glencardine, sir henry had groped his way across the library to his accustomed chair, and hill had placed before him one of the shallow drawers of the cabinet of seal-impressions. there were fully half a dozen which had been sent to him by the curator of the museum at norwich, sulphur-casts of seals recently acquired by that institution. the blind man had put aside that morning to examine them, and settled himself to his task with the keen and pleasurable anticipation of the expert. they were very fine specimens. the blind man, sitting alone, selected one, and, fingering it very carefully for a long time, at last made out its design and the inscription upon it. "the seal of abbot simon de luton, of the early thirteenth century," he said slowly to himself. "the wolf guards the head of st. edmund as it does in the seal of the benedictine abbey of bury st. edmunds, while the virgin with the child is over the canopy. and the verse is indeed curious for its quaintness:" + virgo . deum . fert . dux . capud . aufert . quod . lupus . hic . fert + then he again retraced the letters with his sensitive fingers to reassure himself that he had made no mistake. the next he drew towards him proved to be the seal of the vice-warden of the grey friars of cambridge, a pointed one used about the year , which to himself he declared, in heraldic language, to bear the device of "a cross raguly debruised by a spear, and a crown of thorns in bend dexter, and a sponge on a staff in bend sinister, between two threefold _flagella_ in base"--surely a formidable array of the instruments used in the passion. deeply interested, and speaking to himself aloud, as was his habit when alone, he examined them one after the other. among the collection were the seals of berengar de brolis, plebanus of pacina (in syracuse), and those of the commune of beauvais ( ); mathilde (or mahaut), daughter of henri duke of brabant ( ); the town of oudenbourg in west flanders, and of the vicar-provincial of the carmelite order at palermo ( ); jacobus de gnapet, bishop of rennes ( ); and of bondi marquis of sasolini of bologna ( ). he had almost concluded when goslin, the grey-bearded frenchman, having breakfasted alone in the dining-room, entered. "ah, _mon cher_ sir henry!" he exclaimed, "at work so early! the study of seals must be very fascinating to you, though i confess that, for myself, i could never see in them very much to interest one." "no. to the ordinary person, my dear goslin, it appears no doubt, a most dryasdust study, but to a man afflicted like myself it is the only study that he can pursue, for with his finger tips he can learn the devices and decipher the inscriptions," the blind baronet declared. "take, for instance, only this little collection of a dozen or so impressions which they have so kindly sent to me from norwich. each one of them tells me something. its device, its general character, its heraldry, its inscription, are all highly instructive. for the collector there are opportunities for the study of the historical allusions, the emblematology and imagery, the hagiology, the biographical and topographical episodes, and the other peculiarities and idiosyncrasies in all the seals he possesses." goslin, like most other people, had been many times bored by the old man's technical discourses upon his hobby. but he never showed it. he, just the same as other people, made pretence of being interested. "yes," he remarked, "they must be most instructive to the student. i recollect seeing a great quantity in the bargello at florence." "ah, a very fine collection--part of the medici collection, and contains some of the finest italian and spanish specimens," remarked the blind connoisseur. "birch of the british museum is quite right in declaring that the seal, portable and abounding in detail, not difficult of acquisition nor hard to read if we set about deciphering the story it has to tell, takes us back as we look upon it to the very time of its making, and sets us, as it were, face to face with the actual owners of the relic." the frenchman sighed. he saw he was in for a long dissertation; and, moving uneasily towards the window, changed the topic of conversation by saying, "i had a long letter from paris this morning. krail is back again, it appears." "ah, that man!" cried the other impatiently. "when will his extraordinary energies be suppressed? they are watching him carefully, i suppose." "of course," replied the frenchman. "he left paris about a month ago, but unfortunately the men watching him did not follow. he took train for berlin, and has been absent until now." "we ought to know where he's been, goslin," declared the elder man. "what fool was it who, keeping him under surveillance, allowed him to slip from paris?" "the russian tchernine." "i thought him a clever fellow, but it seems that he's a bungler after all." "but while we keep krail at arm's length, as we are doing, what have we to fear?" asked goslin. "yes, but how long can we keep him at arm's length?" queried sir henry. "you know the kind of man--one of the most extraordinarily inventive in europe. no secret is safe from him. do you know, goslin," he added, in a changed voice, "i live nowadays somehow in constant apprehension." "you've never possessed the same self-confidence since you found mademoiselle gabrielle with the safe open," he remarked. "no. murie, or some other man she knows, must have induced her to do that, and take copies of those documents. fortunately, i suspected an attempt, and baited the trap accordingly." "what caused you to suspect?" "because more than once both murie and the girl seemed to be seized by an unusual desire to pry into my business." "you don't think that our friend flockart had anything to do with the affair?" the frenchman suggested. "no, no. not in the least. i know flockart too well," declared the old man. "once i looked upon him as my enemy, but i have now come to the conclusion that he is a friend--a very good friend." the frenchman pulled a rather wry face, and remained silent. "i know," sir henry went on, "i know quite well that his constant association with my wife has caused a good deal of gossip; but i have dismissed it all with the contempt that such attempted scandal deserves. it has been put about by a pack of women who are jealous of my wife's good looks and her _chic_ in dress." "are not flockart and mademoiselle also good friends?" inquired goslin. "no. i happen to know that they are not, and that very fact in itself shows me that gabrielle, in trying to get at the secret of my business, was not aided by flockart, for it was he who exposed her." "yes," remarked the frenchman, "so you've told me before. have you heard from mademoiselle lately?" "only twice since she has left here," was the old man's bitter reply, "and that was twice too frequently. i've done with her, goslin--done with her entirely. never in all my life did i receive such a crushing blow as when i found that she, in whom i reposed the utmost confidence, had played her own father false, and might have ruined him!" "yes," remarked the other sympathetically, "it was a great blow to you, i know. but will you not forgive mademoiselle?" "forgive her!" he cried fiercely, "forgive her! never!" the grey-bearded frenchman, who had always been a great favourite with gabrielle, sighed slightly, and gave his shoulders a shrug of regret. "why do you ask that?" inquired sir henry, "when she herself admitted that she had been at the safe?" "because----" and the other hesitated. "well, for several reasons. the story of your quarrel with mademoiselle has leaked out." "the whispers--eh, goslin?" laughed the old man in defiance. "let the people believe what they will. my daughter shall never return to glencardine--never!" as he had been speaking the door had opened, and james flockart stood upon the threshold. he had overheard the blind man's words, and as he came forward he smiled, more in satisfaction than in greeting. chapter xxix contains a further mystery "my dear edgar, when i met you in the devonshire club last night i could scarcely believe my own eyes. fancy you turning up again!" "yes, strange, isn't it, how two men may drift apart for years, and then suddenly meet in a club, as we have done, murie?" "being with those fellows who were anxious to go along and see the show at the empire last night, i had no opportunity of having a chat with you, my dear old chap. that's why i asked you to look in." the two men were seated in walter's dingy chambers on the second floor in fig-tree court, temple. the room was an old and rather frowsy one, with shabby leather furniture from which the stuffing protruded, panelled walls, a carpet almost threadbare, and a formidable array of calf-bound volumes in the cases lining one wall. the place was heavy with tobacco-smoke as the pair, reclining in easy-chairs, were in the full enjoyment of very excellent cigars. walter's visitor was a tall, dark man, some six or seven years his senior, a rather spare, lantern-jawed young fellow, whose dark-grey clothes were of unmistakable foreign cut; and whose moustache was carefully trained to an upward trend. no second glance was required to decide that edgar hamilton was a person who, having lived a long time on the continent, had acquired the cosmopolitan manner both in gesture and in dress. "well," exclaimed murie at last, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips, "since we parted at oxford i've been called to the bar, as you see. as for practice--well, i haven't any. the gov'nor wants me to go in for politics, so i'm trying to please him by getting my hand in. i make an odd speech or two sometimes in out-of-the-world villages, and i hope, one day, to find myself the adopted candidate for some borough or other. last year i was sent round the world by my fond parents in order to obtain a broader view of life. is it not tacitus who says, '_sua cuique vita obscura est_'?" "yes, my dear fellow," replied hamilton, stretching himself lazily in his chair. "and surely we can say with martial, '_non est vivere, sed valere vita_'--i am well, therefore i am alive! mine has been a rather curious career up to the present. i only once heard of you after oxford--through arthur price, who was, you'll remember, at balliol. he wrote that he'd spoken one night to you when at supper at the savoy. you had a bevy of beauties with you, he said." both men laughed. in the old days, edgar hamilton had been essentially a ladies' man; but, since they had parted one evening on the station-platform at oxford, hamilton had gone up to town and completely out of the life of walter murie. they had not met until the previous evening, when walter, having dined at the devonshire--that comfortable old-world club in st. james's street which was the famous crockford's gaming-house in the days of the dandies--he had met his old friend in the strangers' smoking-room, the guest of a city stockbroker who was entertaining a party. a hurried greeting of surprise, and an invitation to call in at the temple resulted in that meeting on that grey afternoon. six years had gone since they had parted; and, judging from edgar's exterior, he had been pretty prosperous. walter was laughing and commenting upon it when his friend, removing his cigar from his lips, said, "my dear fellow, my success has been entirely due to one incident which is quite romantic. in fact, if anybody wrote it in a book people would declare it to be fiction." "that's interesting! tell me all about it. my own life has been humdrum enough in all conscience. as a budding politician, i have to browse upon blue-books and chew statistics." "and mine has been one of travel, adventure, and considerable excitement," declared hamilton. "six months after i left oxford i found myself out in transcaucasia as a newspaper correspondent. as you know, i often wrote articles for some of the more precious papers when at college. well, one of them sent me out to travel through the disturbed kurdish districts. i had a tough time from the start. i was out with a cossack party in thai aras valley, east of erivan, for six months, and wrote lots of articles which created a good deal of sensation here in england. you may have seen them, but they were anonymous. the life of excitement, sometimes fighting and at others in ambush in the mountains, suited me admirably, for i'm a born adventurer, i believe. one day, however, a strange thing happened. i was riding along alone through one of the mountain passes towards the caspian when i discovered three wild, fierce-looking kurds maltreating a girl, believing her to be a russian. i called upon them to release her, for she was little more than a child; and, as they did not, i shot two of the men. the third shot and plugged me rather badly in the leg; but i had the satisfaction that my shots attracted my cossack companions, who, coming quickly on the spot, killed all three of the girl's assailants, and released her." "by jove!" laughed murie. "was she pretty?" "not extraordinarily--a fair-haired girl of about fifteen, dressed in european clothes. i fainted from loss of blood, and don't remember anything else until i found myself in a tent, with two cossacks patching up my wound. when i came to, she rushed forward, and thanked me profusely for saving her. to my surprise, she spoke in french, and on inquiry i found that she was the daughter of a certain baron conrad de hetzendorf, an austrian, who possessed a house in budapest and a château at semlin, in south hungary. she told us a curious story. her father had some business in transcaucasia, and she had induced him to take her with him on his journey. only certain districts of the country were disturbed; and apparently, with their guide and escort, they had unwittingly entered the aras region--one of the most lawless of them all--in ignorance of what was in progress. she and her father, accompanied by a guide and four cossacks, had been riding along when they met a party of kurds, who had attacked them. both father and daughter had been seized, whereupon she had lost consciousness from fright, and when she came to again found that the four cossacks had been killed, her father had been taken off, and she was alone in the brutal hands of those three wild-looking tribesmen. as soon as she had told us this, the officer of the cossacks to which i had attached myself called the men together, and in a quarter of an hour the whole body went forth to chase the kurds and rescue the baron. one big cossack, in his long coat and astrakhan cap, was left to look after me, while nicosia--that was the girl's name--was also left to assist him. after three days they returned, bringing with them the baron, whose delight at finding his daughter safe and unharmed was unbounded. they had fought the kurds and defeated them, killing nearly twenty. ah, my dear murie, you haven't any notion of the lawless state of that country just then! and i fear it is pretty much the same now." "well, go on," urged his friend. "what about the girl? i suppose you fell in love with her, and all that, eh?" "no, you're mistaken there, old chap," was his reply. "when she explained to her father what had happened, the baron thanked me very warmly, and invited me to visit him in budapest when my leg grew strong again. he was a man of about fifty, who, i found, spoke english very well. nicosia also spoke english, for she had explained to me that her mother, now dead, had been a londoner. the baron's business in transcaucasia was, he told me vaguely, in connection with the survey of a new railway which the russian government was projecting eastward from erivan. for two days he remained with us; but during those days my wound was extremely painful owing to lack of surgical appliances, so we spoke of very little else besides the horrible atrocities committed by the kurds. he pressed me to visit him; and then, with an escort of our cossacks, he and his daughter left for tiflis; whence he took train back to hungary. "for six months i remained, still leading that roving, adventurous life. my leg was well again, but my journalistic commission was at an end, and one day i found myself in odessa, very short of funds. i recollected the baron's invitation to budapest, therefore i took train there, and found his residence to be one of those great white houses on the franz josef quay. he received me with marked enthusiasm, and compelled me to be his guest. during the first week i was there i told him, in confidence, my position, whereupon he offered me a very lucrative post as his secretary, a post which i have retained until this moment." "and the girl?" walter asked, much interested. "oh, she finished her education in dresden and in paris, and now lives mostly with her aunt in vienna," was hamilton's response. "quite recently she's become engaged to young count de solwegen, the son of one of the wealthiest men in austria." "i thought you'd probably become the happy lover." "lover!" cried his friend. "how could a poor devil like myself ever aspire to the hand of the daughter of the baron de hetzendorf? the name doesn't convey much to you, i suppose?" "no, i don't take much interest in unknown foreigners, i confess," replied walter, with a smile. "ah, you're not a cosmopolitan nor a financier, or you would know the thousand-and-one strings which are pulled by conrad de hetzendorf, or the curious stories afloat concerning him." "curious stories!" echoed murie. "tell me some. i'm always interested in anything mysterious." hamilton was silent for a few moments. "well, old chap, to tell you the truth, even though i've got such a comfortable and lucrative post, i'm, even after these years, considerably mystified." "how?" "by the real nature of the baron's business." "oh, he's a mysterious person, is he?" "very. though i'm his confidential secretary, and deal with his affairs in his absence, yet in some matters he is remarkably close, as though he fears me." "you live always in budapest, i suppose?" "no. in summer we are at the country house, a big place overlooking the danube outside semlin, and commanding a wide view of the great hungarian plain." "the baron transacts his business there, eh?" "from there or from budapest. his business is solely with an office in the boulevard des capucines in paris, and a registered telegraphic address also in paris." "well, there's nothing very mysterious in that, surely. some business matters must, of necessity, be conducted with secrecy." "i know all that, my dear fellow, but--" and he hesitated, as though fearing to take his friend into his confidence. "but what?" "well--but there, no! you'd laugh at me if i told you the real reason of my uneasiness." "i certainly won't, my dear hamilton," murie assured him. "we are friends to-day, dear old chap, just as we were at college. surely it is not the place of a man to poke fun at his friend?" the argument was apparently convincing. the baron's secretary smoked on in thoughtful silence, his eyes fixed upon the wall in front of him. "well," he said at last, "if you promise to view the matter in all seriousness, i'll tell you. briefly, it's this. of course, you've never been to semlin--or zimony, as they call it in the magyar tongue. to understand aright, i must describe the place. in the extreme south of hungary, where the river save joins the danube, the town of semlin guards the frontier. upon a steep hill, five kilometres from the town, stands the baron's residence, a long, rather inartistic white building, which, however, is very luxuriously furnished. comparatively modern, it stands near the ruins of a great old castle of hetzendorf, which commands a wide sweep of the danube. now, amid those ruins strange noises are sometimes heard, and it is said that upon all who hear them falls some terrible calamity. i'm not superstitious, but i've heard them--on three occasions! and somehow--well, somehow--i cannot get rid of an uncanny feeling that some catastrophe is to befall me! i can't go back to semlin. i'm unnerved, and dare not return there." "noises!" cried walter murie. "what are they like?" he asked quickly, starting from his chair, and staring at his friend. "they seem to emanate from nowhere, and are like deep but distant whispers. so plain they were that i could have sworn that some one was speaking, and in english, too!" "does the baron know?" "yes, i told him, and he appeared greatly alarmed. indeed, he gave me leave of absence to come home to england." "well," exclaimed murie, "what you tell me, old chap, is most extraordinary! why, there is almost an exactly similar legend connected with glencardine!" "glencardine!" cried his friend. "glencardine castle, in scotland! i've heard of that. do you know the place?" "the estate marches with my father's, therefore i know it well. how extraordinary that there should be almost exactly the same legend concerning a hungarian castle!" "who is the owner of glencardine?" "sir henry heyburn, a friend of mine." "heyburn!" echoed hamilton. "heyburn the blind man?" he gasped, grasping the arm of his chair and staring back at his companion. "and he is your friend? you know his daughter, then?" "yes, i know gabrielle," was walter's reply, as there flashed across him the recollection of that passionate letter to which he had not replied. "why?" "is she also your friend?" "she certainly is." hamilton was silent. he saw that he was treading dangerous ground. the legend of glencardine was the same as that of the old magyar stronghold of hetzendorf. gabrielle heyburn was murie's friend. therefore he resolved to say no more. gabrielle heyburn! chapter xxx reveals something to hamilton edgar hamilton sat with his eyes fixed upon the dingy, inartistic, smoke-begrimed windows of the chambers opposite. the man before him was acquainted with gabrielle heyburn! for over a year he had not been in london. he recollected the last occasion--recollected it, alas! only too well. his thin countenance wore a puzzled, anxious expression, the expression of a man face to face with a great difficulty. "tell me, walter," he said at last, "what kind of place is glencardine castle? what kind of man is sir henry heyburn?" "glencardine is one of the most beautiful estates in scotland. it lies between perth and stirling. the ruins of the ancient castle, where the great marquis of glencardine, who was such a figure in scottish history, was born, stands perched up above a deep, delightful glen; and some little distance off stands the modern house, built in great part from the ruins of the stronghold." "and there are noises heard there the same as at hetzendorf, you say?" "well, the countryfolk believe that, on certain nights, there can be heard in the castle courtyard distinct whispering--the counsel of the devil himself to certain conspirators who took the life of the notorious cardinal setoun." "has any one actually heard them?" "they say so--or, at any rate, several persons after declaring that they had heard them have died quite suddenly." hamilton pursed his lips. "well," he exclaimed, "that's really most remarkable! practically, the same legend is current in south hungary regarding hetzendorf. strange--very strange!" "very," remarked the heir to the great estate of connachan. "but, after all, cannot one very often trace the same legend through the folklore of various countries? i remember i once attended a lecture upon that very interesting subject." "oh, of course. many ancient legends have sprung from the same germ, so that often we have practically the same fairy-story all over europe. but this, it seems to me, is no fairy story." "well," laughed murie, "the history of glencardine castle and the historic family is so full of stirring episodes that i really don't wonder that the ruins are believed to be the abode of something supernatural. my father possesses some of the family papers, while sir henry, when he bought glencardine, also acquired a quantity. only a year ago he told me that he had had an application from a well-known historical writer for access to them, as he was about to write a book upon the family." "then you know sir henry well?" "very well indeed. i'm often his guest, and frequently shoot over the place." "i've heard that lady heyburn is a very pretty woman," remarked the other, glancing at his friend with a peculiar look. "some declare her to be beautiful; but to myself, i confess, she's not very attractive." "there are stories about her, eh?" hamilton said. "as there are about every good-looking woman. beauty cannot escape unjust criticism or the scars of lying tongues." "people pity sir henry, i've heard." "they, of course, sympathise with him, poor old gentleman, because he's blind. his is, indeed, a terrible affliction. only fancy the change from a brilliant parliamentary career to idleness, darkness, and knitting." "i suppose he's very wealthy?" "he must be. the price he paid for glencardine was a very heavy one; and, besides that, he has two other places, as well as a house in park street and a villa at san remo." "cotton, or steel, or soap, or some other domestic necessity, i suppose?" murie shrugged his shoulders. "nobody knows," he answered. "the source of sir henry's vast wealth is a profound mystery." his friend smiled, but said nothing. walter murie had risen to obtain matches, therefore he did not notice the curious expression upon his friend's face, a look which betrayed that he knew more than he intended to tell. "those noises heard in the castle puzzle me," he remarked after a few moments. "at glencardine they are known as the whispers," murie remarked. "by jove! i'd like to hear them." "i don't think there'd be much chance of that, old chap," laughed the other. "they're only heard by those doomed to an early death." "i may be. who knows?" he asked gloomily. "well, if i were you i wouldn't anticipate catastrophe." "no," said his friend in a more serious tone, "i've already heard those at hetzendorf, and--well, i confess they've aroused in my mind some very uncanny apprehensions." "but did you really hear them? are you sure they were not imagination? in the night sounds always become both magnified and distorted." "yes, i'm certain of what i heard. i was careful to convince myself that it was not imagination, but actual reality." walter murie smiled dubiously. "sir henry scouts the idea of the whispers being heard at glencardine," he said. "and, strangely enough, so does the baron. he's a most matter-of-fact man." "how curious that the cases are almost parallel, and yet so far apart! the baron has a daughter, and so has sir henry." "gabrielle is at glencardine, i suppose?" asked hamilton. "no, she's living with a maiden aunt at an out-of-the-world village in northamptonshire called woodnewton." "oh, i thought she always lived at glencardine, and acted as her father's right hand." "she did until a few months ago, when----" and he paused. "well," he went on, "i don't know exactly what occurred, except that she left suddenly, and has not since returned." "her mother, perhaps. no girl of spirit gets on well with her stepmother." "possibly that," walter said. he knew the truth, but had no desire to tell even his old friend of the allegation against the girl whom he loved. hamilton noted the name of the village, and sat wondering at what the young barrister had just told him. it had aroused suspicions within him--strange suspicions. they sat together for another half-hour, and before they parted arranged to lunch together at the savoy in two days' time. turning out of the temple, edgar hamilton walked along the strand to the metropole, in northumberland avenue, where he was staying. his mind was full of what his friend had said--full of that curious legend of glencardine which coincided so strangely with that of far-off hetzendorf. the jostling crowd in the busy london thoroughfare he did not see. he was away again on the hill outside the old-fashioned hungarian town, with the broad danube shining in the white moonbeams. he saw the grim walls that had for centuries withstood the brunt of battle with the turks, and from them came the whispering voice--the voice said to be that of the evil one. the tziganes--that brown-faced race of gipsy wanderers, the women with their bright-coloured skirts and head-dresses, and the men with the wonderful old silver filigree buttons upon their coats---had related to him many weird stories regarding hetzendorf and the meaning of those whispers. yet none of their stories was so curious as that which murie had just told him. similar sounds were actually heard in the old castle up in the highlands! his thoughts were wholly absorbed in that one extraordinary fact. he went to the smoking-room of the hotel, and, obtaining a railway-guide, searched it in vain. then, ordering from a waiter a map of england, he eagerly searched northamptonshire and discovered the whereabouts of woodnewton. therefore, that night he left london for oundle, and put up at the old-fashioned "talbot." at ten o'clock on the following morning, after making a detour, he alighted from a dogcart before the little inn called the westmorland arms at apethorpe, just outside the lodge-gates of apethorpe hall, and making excuse to the groom that he was going for a walk, he set off at a brisk pace over the little bridge and up the hill to woodnewton. the morning was dark and gloomy, with threatening rain, and the distance was somewhat greater than he had calculated from the map. at last, however, he came to the entrance to the long village street, with its church and its rows of low thatched cottages. a tiny inn, called the "white lion," stood before him, therefore he entered, and calling for some ale, commenced to chat with the old lady who kept the place. after the usual conventionalities about the weather, he said, "i suppose you don't have very many strangers in woodnewton, eh?" "not many, sir," was her reply. "we see a few people from oundle and northampton in the summer--holiday folk. but that's all." then, by dint of skilful questioning, he elucidated the fact that old miss heyburn lived in the tiled house further up the village, and that her niece, who lived with her, had passed along with her dog about a quarter of an hour before, and taken the footpath towards southwick. ascertaining this, he was all anxiety to follow her; but, knowing how sharp are village eyes upon a stranger, he was compelled to conceal his eagerness, light another cigarette, and continue his chat. at last, however, he wished the woman good-day, and, strolling half-way up the village, turned into a narrow lane which led across a farmyard to a footpath which ran across the fields, following a brook. eager to overtake the girl, he sped along as quickly as possible. "gabrielle heyburn!" he ejaculated, speaking to himself. her name was all that escaped his lips. a dozen times that morning he had repeated it, uttering it in a tone almost of wonder--almost of awe. across several ploughed fields he went, leaving the brook, and, skirting a high hedge to the side of a small wood, he followed the well-trodden path for nearly half-an-hour, when, of a sudden, he emerged from a narrow lane between two hedgerows into a large pasture. before him, he saw standing together, on the brink of the river nene, two figures--a man and a woman. the girl was dressed in blue serge, and wore a white woollen tam-o'-shanter, while the man had on a dark grey overcoat with a brown felt hat, and nearby, with his eye upon some sheep grazing some distance away, stood a big collie. hamilton started, and drew back. the pair were standing together in earnest conversation, the man facing him, the girl with her back turned. "what does this mean?" gasped hamilton aloud. "what can this secret meeting mean? why--yes, i'm certainly not mistaken--it's krail--felix krail, by all that's amazing!" chapter xxxi describes a curious circumstance to hamilton it was evident that the man krail, now smartly dressed in country tweeds, was telling the girl something which surprised her. he was speaking quickly, making involuntary gestures which betrayed his foreign birth, while she stood pale, surprised, and yet defiant. the baron's secretary was not near enough to overhear their words. indeed, he remained there in concealment in order to watch. why had gabrielle met felix krail--of all men? she was beautiful. yes, there could be no two opinions upon that point, edgar decided. and yet how strange it all was, how very remarkable, how romantic! the man was evidently endeavouring to impress upon the girl some plain truths to which, at first, she refused to listen. she shrugged her shoulders impatiently and swung her walking-stick before her in an attempt to remain unconcerned. but from where hamilton was standing he could plainly detect her agitation. whatever krail had told her had caused her much nervous anxiety. what could it be? across the meadows, beyond the river, could be seen the lantern-tower of old fotheringhay church, with the mound behind where once stood the castle where ill-fated mary met her doom. and as the baron's secretary watched, he saw that the foreigner's attitude was gradually changing from persuasive to threatening. he was speaking quickly, probably in french, making wild gestures with his hands, while she had drawn back with an expression of alarm. she was now, it seemed, frightened at the man, and to edgar hamilton this increased the interest tenfold. through his mind there flashed the recollection of a previous occasion when he had seen the man now before him. he was in different garb, and acting a very different part. but his face was still the same--a countenance which it was impossible to forget. he was watching the changing expression upon the girl's face. would that he could read the secret hidden behind those wonderful eyes! he had, quite unexpectedly, discovered a mysterious circumstance. why should krail meet her by accident at that lonely spot? the pair moved very slowly together along the path which, having left the way to southwick, ran along the very edge of the broad, winding river towards fotheringhay. until they had crossed the wide pasture-land and followed the bend of the stream hamilton dare not emerge from his place of concealment. they might glance back and discover him. if so, then to watch krail's movements further would be futile. he saw that, by the exercise of caution, he might perhaps learn something of deeper interest than he imagined. so he watched until they disappeared, and then sped along the path they had taken until he came to a clump of bushes which afforded further cover. from where he stood, however, he could see nothing. he could hear voices--a man's voice raised in distinct threats, and a woman's quick, defiant response. he walked round the bushes quickly, trying to get sight of the pair, but the river bent sharply at that point in such a manner that he could not get a glimpse of them. again he heard krail speaking rapidly in french, and still again the girl's response. then, next instant, there was a shrill scream and a loud splash. next moment, he had darted from his hiding-place to find the girl struggling in the water, while at the same time he caught sight of krail disappearing quickly around the path. had he glanced back he could not have seen the girl in the stream. at that point the bank was steep, and the stillness of the river and absence of rushes told that it was deep. the girl was throwing up her hand, shrieking for help; therefore, without a second's hesitation, hamilton, who was a good swimmer, threw off his coat, and, diving in, was soon at her side. by this time krail had hurried on, and could obtain no glimpse of what was in progress owing to the sharp bend of the river. after considerable splashing--hamilton urging her to remain calm--he succeeded in bringing her to land, where they both struggled up the bank dripping wet and more or less exhausted. some moments elapsed before either spoke; until, indeed, hamilton, looking straight into the girl's face and bursting out laughing, exclaimed, "well, i think i have the pleasure of being acquainted with you, but i must say that we both look like drowned rats!" "i look horrid!" she declared, staring at him half-dazed, putting her hands to her dripping hair. "i know i must. but i have to thank you for pulling me out. only fancy, mr. hamilton--you!" "oh, no thanks are required! what we must do is to get to some place and get our clothes dried," he said. "do you know this neighbourhood?" "oh, yes. straight over there, about a quarter of a mile away, is wyatt's farm. mrs. wyatt will look after us, i'm sure." and as she rose to her feet, regarding her companion shyly, her skirts clung around her and the water squelched from her shoes. "very well," he answered cheerily. "let's go and see what can be done towards getting some dry kit. i'm glad you're not too frightened. a good many girls would have fainted, and all that kind of thing." "i certainly should have gone under if you hadn't so fortunately come along!" she exclaimed. "i really don't know how to thank you sufficiently. you've actually saved my life, you know! if it were not for you i'd have been dead by this time, for i can't swim a stroke." "by jove!" he laughed, treating the whole affair as a huge joke, "how romantic it sounds! fancy meeting you again after all this time, and saving your life! i suppose the papers will be full of it if they get to know--gallant rescue, and all that kind of twaddle." "well, personally, i hope the papers won't get hold of this piece of intelligence," she said seriously, as they walked together, rather pitiable objects, across the wide grass-fields. he glanced at her pale face, her hair hanging dank and wet about it, and saw that, even under these disadvantageous conditions, she had grown more beautiful than before. of late he had heard of her--heard a good deal of her--but had never dreamed that they would meet again in that manner. "how did it happen?" he asked in pretence of ignorance of her companion's presence. she raised her fine eyes to his for a moment, and wavered beneath his inquiring gaze. "i--i--well, i really don't know," was her rather lame answer. "the bank was very slippery, and--well, i suppose i walked too near." her reply struck him as curious. why did she attempt to shield the man who, by his sudden flight, was self-convicted of an attempt upon her life? felix krail was not a complete stranger to her. why had their meeting been a clandestine one? this, and a thousand similar queries ran through his mind as they walked across the field in the direction of a long, low, thatched farmhouse which stood in the distance. "i'm a complete stranger in these parts," hamilton informed her. "i live nowadays mostly abroad, away above the danube, and am only home for a holiday." "and i'm afraid you've completely spoilt your clothes," she laughed, looking at his wet, muddy trousers and boots. "well, if i have, yours also are no further good." "oh, my blouse will wash, and i shall send my skirt to the cleaners, and it will come back like new," she answered. "women's outdoor clothing never suffers by a wetting. we'll get mrs. wyatt to dry them, and then i'll get home again to my aunt in woodnewton. do you know the place?" "i fancy i passed through it this morning. one of those long, lean villages, with a church at the end." "that's it--the dullest little place in all england, i believe." he was struck by her charm of manner. though bedraggled and dishevelled, she was nevertheless delightful, and treated her sudden immersion with careless unconcern. why had krail attempted to get rid of her in that manner? what motive had he? they reached the farmhouse, where mrs. wyatt, a stout, ruddy-faced woman, detecting their approach, met them upon the threshold. "lawks, miss heyburn! why, what's happened?" she asked in alarm. "i fell into the river, and this gentleman fished me out. that's all," laughed the girl. "we want to dry our things, if we may." in a few minutes, in bedrooms upstairs, they had exchanged their wet clothes for dry ones. then edgar in the farmer's sunday suit of black, and gabrielle in one of mrs. wyatt's stuff dresses, in the big folds of which her slim little figure was lost, met again in the spacious farmhouse-kitchen below. they laughed heartily at the ridiculous figure which each presented, and drank the glasses of hot milk which the farmer's wife pressed upon them. old miss heyburn had been mrs. wyatt's mistress years ago, when she was in service, therefore she was most solicitous after the girl's welfare, and truth to tell looked askance at the good-looking stranger who had accompanied her. gabrielle, too, was puzzled to know why mr. hamilton should be there. that he now lived abroad "beside the danube" was all the information he had vouchsafed regarding himself, yet from certain remarks he had dropped she was suspicious. she recollected only too vividly the occasion when they had met last, and what had occurred. they sat together on the bench outside the house, enjoying the full sunshine, while the farmer's wife chattered on. a big fire had been made in the kitchen, and their clothes were rapidly drying. hamilton, by careful questions, endeavoured to obtain from the girl some information concerning her dealings with the man krail. but she was too wary. it was evident that she had some distinct object in concealing the fact that he had deliberately flung her into the water after that heated altercation. felix krail! the very name caused him to clench his hands. fortunately, he knew the truth, therefore that dastardly attempt upon the girl's life should not go unpunished. as he sat there chatting with her, admiring her refinement and innate daintiness, he made a vow within himself to seek out that cowardly fugitive and meet him face to face. felix krail! what could be his object in ridding the world of the daughter of sir henry heyburn! what would the man gain thereby? he knew krail too well to imagine that he ever did anything without a motive of gain. so well did he play his cards always that the police could never lay hands upon him. yet his "friends," as he termed them, were among the most dangerous men in all europe--men who were unscrupulous, and would hesitate at nothing in order to accomplish the _coup_ which they had devised. what was the _coup_ in this particular instance? ay, that was the question. chapter xxxii outside the window late on the following afternoon gabrielle was seated at the old-fashioned piano in her aunt's tiny drawing-room, her fingers running idly over the keys, her thoughts wandering back to the exciting adventure of the previous morning. her aunt was out visiting some old people in connection with the village clothing club, therefore she sat gloomily amusing herself at the piano, and thinking--ever thinking. she had been playing almost mechanically berger's "amoureuse" valse and some dreamy music from _the merry widow_, when she suddenly stopped and sat back with her eyes fixed out of the window upon the cottages opposite. why was mr. hamilton in that neighbourhood? he had given her no further information concerning himself. he seemed to be disinclined to talk about his recent movements. he had sprung from nowhere just at the critical moment when she was in such deadly peril. then, after their clothes had been dried, they had walked together as far as the little bridge at the entrance to fotheringhay. there he had stopped, bent gallantly over her hand, congratulated her upon her escape, and as their ways lay in opposite directions--she back to woodnewton and he on to oundle--they had parted. "i hope, miss heyburn, that we may meet again one day," he had laughed cheerily as he raised his hat, "good-bye." then he had turned away, and had been lost to view round the bend of the road. she was safe. that man whom she had known long ago under such strange circumstances, whom she would probably never see again, had been her rescuer. of this curious and romantic fact she was now thinking. but where was walter? why had he not replied to her letter? ah! that was the one thought which oppressed her always, sleeping and waking, day and night. why had he not written? would he never write again? she had at first consoled herself with the thought that he was probably on the continent, and that her letter had not been forwarded. but as the days went on, and no reply came, the truth became more and more apparent that her lover--the man whom she adored and worshipped--had put her aside, had accepted her at her own estimate as worthless. a thousand times she had regretted the step she had taken in writing that cruel letter before she left glencardine. but it was all too late. she had tried to retract; but, alas! it was now impossible. tears welled in her splendid eyes at thought of the man whom she had loved so well. the world had, indeed, been cruel to her. her enemies had profited by her inexperience, and she had fallen an unhappy victim of an unscrupulous blackguard. yes, it was only too true. she did not try to conceal the ugly truth from herself. yet she had been compelled to keep walter in ignorance of the truth, for he loved her. a hardness showed at the corners of her sweet lips, and the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. then, bestirring herself with an effort, her white fingers ran over the keys again, and in her sweet, musical voice she sang "l'heure d'aimer," that pretty _valse chantée_ so popular in paris:-- voici l'heure d'aimer, l'heure des tendresses; dis-moi les mots très doux qui vont me griser, ah! prends-moi dans tes bras, fais-moi des caresses; je veux mourir pour revivre sous ton baiser. emporte-moi dans un rêve amoureux, bien loin sur la terre inconnue, pour que longtemps, même en rouvrant les yeux, ce rêve continue. croyons, aimons, vivons un jour; c'est si bon, mais si court! bonheur de vivre ici-bas diminue dans un moment d'amour. the hour of love! how full of burning love and sentiment! she stopped, reflecting on the meaning of those words. she was not like the average miss who, parrot-like, knows only a few french or italian songs. italian she loved even better than french, and could read dante and petrarch in the original, while she possessed an intimate knowledge of the poetry of italy from the mediaeval writers down to carducci and d'annunzio. with a sigh, she glanced around the small room, with its old-fashioned furniture, its antimacassars of the early victorian era, its wax flowers under their glass dome, and its gipsy-table covered with a hand-embroidered cloth. it was all so very dispiriting. the primness of the whatnot decorated with pieces of treasured china, the big gilt-framed overmantel, and the old punch-bowl filled with pot-pourri, all spoke mutely of the thin-nosed old spinster to whom the veriest speck of dust was an abomination. sighing still again, the girl turned once more to the old-fashioned instrument, with its faded crimson silk behind the walnut fretwork, and, playing the plaintive melody, sang an ancient serenade: di questo cor tu m'hai ferito il core a cento colpi, piu non val mentire. pensa che non sopporto piu il dolore, e se segu cosi, vado a morire. ti tengo nella mente a tutte l'ore, se lavoro, se velio, o sto a dormre ... e mentre dormo ancora un sonno grato, mi trovo tutto lacrime bagnato! while she sang, there was a rap at the front-door, and, just as she concluded, the prim maid entered with a letter upon a salver. in an instant her heart gave a bound. she recognised the handwriting. it was walter's. the moment the girl had left the room she tore open the envelope, and, holding her breath, read what was written within. the words were: "dearest heart,--your letter came to me after several wanderings. it has caused me to think and to wonder if, after all, i may be mistaken--if, after all, i have misjudged you, darling. i gave you my heart, it is true. but you spurned it--under compulsion, you say! why under compulsion? who is it who compels you to act against your will and against your better nature? i know that you love me as well and as truly as i love you yourself. i long to see you with just as great a longing. you are mine--mine, my own--and being mine, you must tell me the truth. "i forgive you, forgive you everything. but i cannot understand what flockart means by saying that i have spoken of you. i have not seen the man, nor do i wish to see him. gabrielle, do not trust him. he is your enemy, as he is mine. he has lied to you. as grim circumstance has forced you to treat me cruelly, let us hope that smiling fortune will be ours at last. the world is very small. i have just met my old friend edgar hamilton, who was at college with me, and who, i find, is secretary to some wealthy foreigner, a certain baron de hetzendorf. i have not seen him for years, and yet he turns up here, merry and prosperous, after struggling for a long time with adverse circumstances. "but, gabrielle, your letter has puzzled and alarmed me. the more i think of it, the more mystifying it all becomes. i must see you, and you must tell me the truth--the whole truth. we love each other, dear heart, and no one shall force you to lie again to me as you did in that letter you wrote from glencardine. you wish to see me, darling. you shall--and you shall tell me the truth. my dear love, _au revoir_--until we meet, which i hope may be almost as soon as you receive this letter.--my love, my sweetheart, i am your own walter." she sat staring at the letter. he demanded an explanation. he intended to come there and demand it! and the explanation was one which she dared not give. rather that she took her own life than tell him the ghastly circumstances. he had met an old chum named hamilton. was this the mr. hamilton who had snatched her from that deadly peril? the name of hetzendorf sounded to be austrian or german. how strange if mr. hamilton her rescuer were the same man who had been years ago her lover's college friend! she passed her white hand across her brow, trying to collect her senses. she had longed--ah, with such an intense longing!--for a response to that letter of hers, and here at last it had come. but what a response! he intended her to make confession. he demanded to know the actual truth. what could she do? how should she act? holding the letter in her hand, she glanced around the little room in utter despair. he loved her. his words of reassurance brought her great comfort. but he wished to know the truth. he suspected something. by her own action in writing those letters she had aroused suspicion against herself. she regretted, yet what was the use of regret? her own passionate words had revealed to him something which he had not suspected. and he was coming down there, to woodnewton, to demand the truth! he might even then be on his way! if he asked her point-blank, what could she reply? she dare not tell him the truth. there were now but two roads open--either death by her own hand or to lie to him. could she tell him an untruth? no. she loved him, therefore she could not resort to false declarations and deceit. better--far better--would it be that she took her own life. better, she thought, if mr. hamilton had not plunged into the river after her. if her life had ended, walter murie would at least have been spared the bitter knowledge of a disgraceful truth. her face grew pale and her mouth hardened at the thought. she loved him with all the fierce passion of her young heart. he was her hero, her idol. before her tear-dimmed eyes his dear, serious face rose, a sweet memory of what had been. tender remembrances of his fond kisses still lingered with her. she recollected how around her waist his strong arm would steal, and how slowly and yet irresistibly he would draw her in his arms in silent ecstasy. alas! that was all past and over. they loved each other, but she was now face to face with what she had so long dreaded--face to face with the inevitable. she must either confess the truth, and by so doing turn his love to hatred, or else remain silent and face the end. she reread the letter still seated at the piano, her elbows resting inertly upon the keys. then she lifted her pale face again to the window, gazing out blankly upon the village street, so dull, so silent, so uninteresting. the thought of mr. hamilton--the man who held a secret of hers, and who only a few hours before had rescued her from the peril in which felix krail had placed her--again recurred to her. was it not remarkable that he, walter's old friend, should come down into that neighbourhood? there was some motive in his visit! what could it be? he had spoken of hungary, a country which had always possessed for her a strange fascination. was it not quite likely that, being walter's friend, hamilton on his return to london would relate the exciting incident of the river? had he seen krail? and, if so, did he know him? those two points caused her the greatest apprehension. suppose he had recognised krail! suppose he had overheard that man's demands, and her defiant refusal, he would surely tell walter! she bit her lip, and her white fingers clenched themselves in desperation. why should all this misfortune fall upon her, to wreck her young life? other girls were gay, careless, and happy. they visited and motored and flirted and danced, and went to theatres in town and to suppers afterwards at the carlton or savoy, and had what they termed "a ripping good time." but to her poor little self all pleasure was debarred. only the grim shadows of life were hers. her mind had become filled with despair. why had this great calamity befallen her? why had she, by her own action in writing to her lover, placed herself in that terrible position from which there was no escape--save by death? the recollection of the whispers--those fatal whispers of glencardine--flashed through her distressed mind. was it actually true, as the countryfolk declared, that death overtook all those who overheard the counsels of the evil one? it really seemed as though there actually was more in the weird belief than she had acknowledged. her father had scouted the idea, yet old stewart, who had personally known instances, had declared that evil and disaster fell inevitably upon any one who chanced to hear those voices of the night. the recollection of that moonlight hour among the ruins, and the distinct voices whispering, caused a shudder to run through her. she had heard them with her own ears, and ever since that moment nothing but catastrophe upon catastrophe had fallen upon her. yes, she had heard the whispers, and she could not escape their evil influence any more than those other unfortunate persons to whom death had come so unexpectedly and swiftly. a shadow passed the window, causing her to start. the figure was that of a man. she rose from the piano with a cry, and stood erect, motionless, statuesque. chapter xxxiii is about the maison lÉnard the big, rather severely but well-furnished room overlooked the busy boulevard des capucines in paris. in front lay the great white façade of the grand hotel; below was all the bustle, life, and movement of paris on a bright sunny afternoon. within the room, at a large mahogany table, sat four grave-faced men, while a fifth stood at one of the long windows, his back turned to his companions. the short, broad-shouldered man looking forth into the street, in expectancy, was monsieur goslin. he had been speaking, and his words had evidently caused some surprise, even alarm, among his companions, for they now exchanged glances in silence. three of the men were well-dressed and prosperous-looking; while the fourth, a shrivelled old fellow, in faded clothes which seemed several sizes too large for him, looked needy and ill-fed as he nervously chafed his thin bony hands. next moment they all began chatting in french, though from their countenances it was plain that they were of various nationalities--one being german, the other italian, and the third, a sallow-faced man, had the appearance of a levantine. goslin alone remained silent and watchful. from where he stood he could see the people entering and leaving the grand hotel. he glanced impatiently at his watch, and then paced the room, his hand thoughtfully stroking his grey beard. only half an hour before he had alighted at the gare du nord, coming direct from far-off glencardine, and had driven there in an auto-cab to keep an appointment made by telegram. as he paced the big room, with its dark-green walls, its turkey carpet, and sombre furniture, his companions regarded him in wonder. they instinctively knew that he had some news of importance to impart. there was one absentee. until his arrival goslin refused to say anything. the youngest of the four assembled at the table was the italian, a rather thin, keen-faced, dark-moustached man of refined appearance. "_madonna mia!_" he cried, raising his face to the frenchman, "why, what has happened? this is unusual. besides, why should we wait? i've only just arrived from turin, and haven't had time to go to the hotel. let us get on. _avanti!_" "not until he is present," answered goslin, speaking earnestly in french. "i have a statement to make from sir henry. but i am not permitted to make it until all are here." then, glancing at his watch, he added, "his train was due at est station at . . he ought to be here at any moment." the shabby old man, by birth a pole, still sat chafing his chilly fingers. none who saw antoine volkonski, as he shuffled along the street, ever dreamed that he was head of the great financial house of volkonski frères of petersburg, whose huge loans to the russian government during the war with japan created a sensation throughout europe, and surely no casual observer looking at that little assembly would ever entertain suspicion that, between them, they could practically dictate to the money-market of europe. the italian seated next to him was the commendatore rudolphe cusani, head of the wealthy banking firm of montemartini of rome, which ranked next to the bank of italy. of the remaining two, one was a greek from smyrna, and the other, a rather well-dressed man with longish grey hair, josef frohnmeyer of hamburg, a name also to conjure with in the financial world. the impatient italian was urging goslin to explain why the meeting had been so hastily summoned when, without warning, the door opened and a tall, distinguished man, with carefully trained grey moustache, and wearing a heavy travelling ulster, entered. "ah, my dear baron!" cried the italian, jumping from his chair and taking the new-comer's hand, "we were waiting for you." and he drew a chair next to his. the man addressed tossed his soft felt travelling hat aside, saying, "the 'wire' reached me at a country house outside vienna, where i was visiting. but i came instantly." and he seated himself, while the chair at the head of the table was taken by the stout frenchman. "messieurs," goslin commenced, and--speaking in french--began apologising at being compelled to call them together so soon after their last meeting. "the matter, however, is of such urgency," he went on, "that this conference is absolutely necessary. i am here in sir henry's place, with a statement from him--an alarming statement. our enemies have unfortunately triumphed." "what do you mean?" cried the italian, starting to his feet. "simply this. poor sir henry has been the victim of treachery.--those papers which you, my dear volkonski, brought to me in secret at glencardine a month ago have been stolen!" "stolen!" gasped the shabby old man, his grey eyes starting from his head; "stolen! _dieu!_ think what that means to us--to me--to my house! they will be sold to the ministry of finance in petersburg, and i shall be ruined--ruined!" "not only you will be ruined!" remarked the man from hamburg, "but our control of the market will be at an end." "and together we lose over three million roubles," said goslin in as quiet a voice as he could assume. the six men--those men who dealt in millions, men whose names, every one of them, were as household words on the various bourses of europe and in banking circles, men who lent money to reigning sovereigns and to states, whose interests were world-wide and whose influences were greater than those of kings and ministers--looked at each other in blank despair. "we have to face this fact, as sir henry points out to you, that at petersburg the department of finance has no love for us. we put on the screw a little too heavily when we sold them secretly those three argentine cruisers. we made a mistake in not being content with smaller profit." "yes, if it had been a genuinely honest deal on their side," remarked the italian. "but it was not. in russia the crowd made quite as great a profit as we did." "and all three ships were sent to the bottom of the sea four months afterwards," added frohnmeyer with a grim laugh. "that isn't the question," goslin said. "what we have now to face is the peril of exposure. no one can, of course, allege that we have ever resorted to any sharper practices than those of other financial groups; but the fact of our alliance and our impregnable strength will, when it is known, arouse the fiercest antagonism in certain circles." "no one suspects the secret of our alliance," the italian ejaculated. "it must be kept--kept at all hazards." each man seated there knew that exposure of the tactics by which they were ruling the bourse would mean the sudden end of their great prosperity. "but this is not the first occasion that documents have been stolen from sir henry at glencardine," remarked the baron conrad de hetzendorf. "i remember the last time i went there to see him he explained how he had discovered his daughter with the safe open, and some of the papers actually in her hands." "unfortunately that is so," goslin answered. "there is every evidence that we owe our present peril to her initiative. she and her father are on bad terms, and it seems more than probable that though she is no longer at glencardine she has somehow contrived to get hold of the documents in question--at the instigation of her lover, we believe." "how do you know that the documents are stolen?" the baron asked. "because three days ago sir henry received an anonymous letter bearing the postmark of 'london, e.c.,' enclosing correct copies of the papers which our friend volkonski brought from petersburg, and asking what sum he was prepared to pay to obtain repossession of the originals. on receipt of the letter," continued goslin, "i rushed to the safe, to find the papers gone. the door had been unlocked and relocked by an unknown hand." "and how does suspicion attach to the girl's lover?" asked the man from hamburg. "well, he was alone in the library for half an hour about five days before. he called to see sir henry while he and i were out walking together in the park. it is believed that the girl has a key to the safe, which she handed to her lover in order that he might secure the papers and sell them in russia." "but young murie is the son of a wealthy man, i've heard," observed the baron. "certainly. but at present his allowance is small," was goslin's reply. "well, what's to be done?" inquired the italian. "done?" echoed goslin. "nothing can be done." "why?" they all asked almost in one breath. "because sir henry has replied, refusing to treat for the return of the papers." "was that not injudicious? why did he not allow us to discuss the affair first?" argued the levantine. "because an immediate answer by telegraph to a post-office in hampshire was demanded," goslin replied. "remember that to sir henry's remarkable foresight all our prosperity has been due. surely we may trust in his judicious treatment of the thief!" "that's all very well," protested volkonski; "but my fortune is at stake. if the ministry obtains those letters they will crush and ruin me." "sir henry is no novice," remarked the baron. "he fights an enemy with his own weapons. remember that greek deal of which the girl gained knowledge. he actually prepared bogus contracts and correspondence for the thief to steal. they were stolen, and, passing through a dozen hands, were at last offered in athens. the ministry there laughed at the thieves for their pains. let us hope the same result will be now obtained." "i fear not," goslin said quietly. "the documents stolen on the former occasion were worthless. the ones now in the hands of our enemies are genuine." "but," said the baron, "you, goslin, went to live at glencardine on purpose to protect our poor blind friend from his enemies!" "i know," said the man addressed. "i did my best--and failed. the footman hill, knowing young murie as a frequent guest at glencardine, the other day showed him into the library and left him there alone. it was then, no doubt, that he opened the safe with a false key and secured the documents." "then why not apply for a warrant for his arrest?" suggested the commendatore cusani. "surely your english laws do not allow thieves to go unpunished? in italy we should quickly lay hands on them." "but we have no evidence." "you have no suspicion that any other man may have committed the theft--that fellow flockart, for instance? i don't like him," added the baron. "he is altogether too friendly with everybody at glencardine." "i have already made full inquiries. flockart was in rome. he only returned to london the day before yesterday. no. everything points to the girl taking revenge upon her father, who, i am compelled to admit, has treated her with rather undue harshness. personally, i consider mademoiselle very charming and intelligent." they all admitted that her correspondence and replies to reports were marvels of clear, concise instruction. every man among them knew well her neat round handwriting, yet only goslin had ever seen her. the frenchman was asked to describe both the girl and her lover. this he did, declaring that gabrielle and walter were a very handsome pair. "whatever may be said," remarked old volkonski, "the girl was a most excellent assistant to sir henry. but it is, of course, the old story--a young girl's head turned by a handsome lover. yet surely the youth is not so poor that he became a thief of necessity. to me it seems rather as though he stole the documents at her instigation." "that is exactly sir henry's belief," goslin remarked with a sigh. "the poor old fellow is beside himself with grief and fear." "no wonder!" remarked the italian. "none of us would care to be betrayed by our own daughters." "but cannot a trap be laid to secure the thief before he approaches the people in russia?" suggested the crafty levantine. "yes, yes!" cried volkonski, his hands still clenched. "the ministry would give a hundred thousand roubles for them, because by their aid they could crush me--crush you all. remember, there are names there--names of some of the most prominent officials in the empire. think of the power of the ministry if they held that list in their hands!" "no," said the baron in a clear, distinct voice, his grey eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the wall opposite. "rather think of our positions, of the exultation of our enemies if this great combine of ours were exposed and broken! myself, i consider it folly that we have met here openly to-day. this is the first time we have all met, save in secret, and how do we know but some spy may be on the _boulevard_ outside noting who has entered here?" "_mille diavoli!_" gasped cusani, striking the table with his fist and sinking back into his chair. "i recollect i passed outside here a man i know--a man who knows me. he was standing on the kerb. he saw me. his name is krail--felix krail!" "is he still there?" cried the men, as with one accord they left their chairs and dashed eagerly across to the window. "krail!" cried the russian in alarm. "where is he?" "see!" the italian pointed out, "see the man in black yonder, standing there near the _kiosque_, smoking a cigarette. he is still watching. he has seen us meet here!" "ah!" said the baron in a hoarse voice, "i said so. to meet openly like this was far too great a risk. nobody knew anything of lénard et morellet of the boulevard des capucines except that they were unimportant financiers. to-morrow the world will know who they really are. messieurs, we are the victims of a very clever ruse. we have been so tricked that we have been actually summoned here and our identity disclosed!" the five monarchs of finance stood staring at each other in absolute silence. chapter xxxiv surprises mr. flockart "well, you and your friend felix have placed me in a very pleasant position, haven't you?" asked lady heyburn of flockart, who had just entered the green-and-white morning-room at park street. "i hope now that you're satisfied with your blunder!" the man addressed, in a well-cut suit of grey, a fancy vest, and patent-leather boots, still carrying his hat and stick in his hand, turned to her in surprise. "what do you mean?" he asked. "i arrived from paris at five this morning, and i've brought you good news." "nonsense!" cried the woman, starting from her chair in anger. "you can't deceive me any longer." "krail has discovered the whole game. the syndicate held a meeting at the office in paris. he and i watched the arrivals. we now know who they are, and exactly what they are doing. by jove! we never dreamed that your husband, blind though he is, is head of such a smart and influential group. why, they're the first in europe." "what does that matter? krail wants money, so do we; but even with all your wonderful schemes we get none!" "wait, my dear winnie, remain patient, and we shall obtain plenty." it was indeed strange for a woman within that smart town-house, and with her electric brougham at the door, to complain of poverty. the house had been a centre of political activity in the days before sir henry met with that terrible affliction. the room in which the pair stood had been the scene of many a private and momentous conference, and in the big drawing-room upstairs many a cabinet minister had bent over the hand of the fair lady heyburn. into the newly decorated room, with its original adams ceiling, its dead-white panelling and antique overmantel, shone the morning sun, weak and yellow as it always is in london in the spring-time. lady heyburn, dressed in a smart walking-gown of grey, pushed her fluffy fair hair from her brow, while upon her face was an expression which told of combined fear and anger. her visitor was surprised. after that watchful afternoon in the boulevard des capucines, he had sat in a corner of the café terminus listening to krail, who rubbed his hands with delight and declared that he now held the most powerful group in europe in the hollow of his hand. for the past six years or so gigantic _coups_ had been secured by that unassuming and apparently third-rate financial house of lénard et morellet. from a struggling firm they had within a year grown into one whose wealth seemed inexhaustible, and whose balances at the credit lyonnais, the société générale, and the comptoir d'escompte were possibly the largest of any of the customers of those great corporations. the financial world of europe had wondered. it was a mystery who was behind lénard et morellet, the pair of steady-going, highly respectable business men who lived in unostentatious comfort, the former at enghien, just outside paris, and the latter out in the country at melum. the mystery was so well and so carefully preserved that not even the bankers themselves could obtain knowledge of the truth. krail had, however, after nearly two years of clever watching and ingenious subterfuge, succeeded, by placing the group in a "hole" in calling them together. that they met, and often, was undoubted. but where they met, and how, was still a complete mystery. as flockart had sat that previous afternoon listening to krail's unscrupulous and self-confident proposals, he had remained in silent wonder at the man's audacious attitude. nothing deterred him, nothing daunted him. flockart had returned that night from paris, gone to his chambers in half-moon street, breakfasted, dressed, and had now called upon her ladyship in order to impart to her the good news. yet, instead of welcoming him, she only treated him with resentment and scorn. he knew the quick flash of those eyes, he had seen it before on other occasions. this was not the first time they had quarrelled, yet he, keen-witted and cunning, had always held her powerless to elude him, had always compelled her to give him the sums he so constantly demanded. that morning, however, she was distinctly resentful, distinctly defiant. for an instant he turned from her, biting his lip in annoyance. when facing her again, he smiled, asking, "tell me, winnie, what does all this mean?" "mean!" echoed the baronet's wife. "mean! how can you ask me that question? look at me--a ruined woman! and you----" "speak out!" he cried. "what has happened?" "you surely know what has happened. you have treated me like the cur you are--and that is speaking plainly. you've sacrificed me in order to save yourself." "from what?" "from exposure. to me, ruin is not a matter of days, but of hours." "you're speaking in enigmas. i don't understand you," he cried impatiently. "krail and i have at last been successful. we know now the true source of your husband's huge income, and in order to prevent exposure he must pay--and pay us well too." "yes," she laughed hysterically. "you tell me all this after you've blundered." "blundered! how?" he asked, surprised at her demeanour. "what's the use of beating about the bush?" asked her ladyship. "the girl is back at glencardine. she knows everything, thanks to your foolish self-confidence." "back at glencardine!" gasped flockart. "but she dare not speak. by heaven! if she does--then--then--" "and what, pray, can you do?" inquired the woman harshly. "it is i who have to suffer, i who am crushed, humiliated, ruined, while you and your precious friend shield yourselves behind your cloaks of honesty. you are sir henry's friend. he believes you as such--you!" and she laughed the hollow laugh of a woman who was staring death in the face. she was haggard and drawn, and her hands trembled with nervousness which she strove in vain to repress. lady heyburn was desperate. "he still believes in me, eh?" asked the man, thinking deeply, for his clever brain was already active to devise some means of escape from what appeared to be a distinctly awkward dilemma. he had never calculated the chances of gabrielle's return to her father's side. he had believed that impossible. "i understand that my husband will hear no word against you," replied the tall, fair-haired woman. "but when i speak he will listen, depend upon it." "you dare!" he cried, turning upon her in threatening attitude. "you dare utter a single word against me, and, by heaven! i'll tell what i know. the country shall ring with a scandal--the shame of your attitude towards the girl, and a crime for which you will be arraigned, with me, before an assize-court. remember!" the woman shrank from him. her face had blanched. she saw that he was equally as determined as she was desperate. james flockart always kept his threats. he was by no means a man to trifle with. for a moment she was thoughtful, then she laughed defiantly in his face. "speak! say what you will. but if you do, you suffer with me." "you say that exposure is imminent," he remarked. "how did the girl manage to return to glencardine?" "with walter's aid. he went down to woodnewton. what passed between them i have no idea. i only returned the day before yesterday from the south. all i know is that the girl is back with her father, and that he knows much more than he ought to know." "murie could not have assisted her," flockart declared decisively. "the old man suspects him of taking those russian papers from the safe." "how do you know he hasn't cleared himself of the suspicion? he may have done. the old man dotes upon the girl." "i know all that." "and she may have turned upon you, and told the truth about the safe incident. that's more than likely." "she dare not utter a word." "you're far too self-confident. it is your failing." "and when, pray, has it failed? tell me." "never, until the present moment. your bluff is perfect, yet there are moments when it cannot aid you, depend upon it. she told me one night long ago, in my own room, when she had disobeyed, defied, and annoyed me, that she would never rest until sir henry knew the truth, and that she would place before him proofs of the other affair. she has long intended to do this; and now, thanks to your attitude of passive inertness, she has accomplished her intentions." "what!" he gasped in distinct alarm, "has she told her father the truth?" "a telegram i received from sir henry late last night makes it only too plain that he knows something," responded the unhappy woman, staring straight before her. "it is your fault--your fault!" she went on, turning suddenly upon her companion again. "i warned you of the danger long ago." flockart stood motionless. the announcement which the woman had made staggered him. felix krail had come to him in paris, and after some hesitation, and with some reluctance, had described how he had followed the girl along the nene bank and thrown her into the deepest part of the river, knowing that she would be hampered by her skirts and that she could not swim. "she will not trouble us further. never fear!" he had said. "it will be thought a case of suicide through love. her mental depression is the common talk of the neighbourhood." and yet the girl was safe and now home again at glencardine! he reflected upon the ugly facts of "the other affair" to which her ladyship sometimes referred, and his face went ashen pale. just at the moment when success had come to them after all their ingenuity and all their endeavours--just at a moment when they could demand and obtain what terms they liked from sir henry to preserve the secret of the financial combine--came this catastrophe. "felix was a fool to have left his work only half-done," he remarked aloud, as though speaking to himself. "what work?" asked the hollow-eyed woman eagerly. but he did not satisfy her. to explain would only increase her alarm and render her even more desperate than she was. "did i not tell you often that, from her, we had all to fear?" cried the woman frantically. "but you would not listen. and now i am--i'm face to face with the inevitable. disaster is before me. no power can avert it. the girl will have a bitter and terrible revenge." "no," he cried quickly, with fierce determination. "no, i'll save you, winnie. the girl shall not speak. i'll go up to glencardine to-night and face it out. you will come with me." "i!" gasped the shrinking woman. "ah, no. i--i couldn't. i dare not face him. you know too well i dare not!" chapter xxxv discloses a secret the grey mists were still hanging upon the hills of glencardine, although it was already midday, for it had rained all night, and everywhere was damp and chilly. gabrielle, in her short tweed skirt, golf-cape, and motor-cap, had strolled, with walter murie at her side, from the house along the winding path to the old castle. from the contented expression upon her pale, refined countenance, it was plain that happiness, to a great extent, had been restored to her. when he had gone to woodnewton it was to fetch her back to glencardine. he had asked for an explanation, it was true; but when she had refused one he had not pressed it. that he was puzzled, sorely puzzled, was apparent. at first, sir henry had point-blank refused to receive his daughter. but on hearing her appealing voice he had to some extent relented; and, though strained relations still existed between them, yet happiness had come to her in the knowledge that walter's affection was still as strong as ever. young murie had, of course, heard from his mother the story told by lady heyburn concerning the offence of her stepdaughter. but he would not believe a single word against her. they had been strolling slowly, and she had been speaking expressing her heartfelt thanks for his action in taking her from that life of awful monotony at woodnewton. then he, on his part, had pressed her soft hand and repeated his promise of lifelong love. they had entered the old grass-grown courtyard of the castle, when suddenly she exclaimed, "how i wish, walter, that we might elucidate the secret of the whispers!" "it certainly would be intensely interesting if we could," he said, "the most curious thing is that my old friend edgar hamilton, who is secretary to the well-known baron conrad de hetzendorf, tells me that a similar legend is current in connection with the old château in hungary. he had heard the whispers himself." "most remarkable!" she exclaimed, gazing blankly around at the ponderous walls about her. "my idea always has been that beneath where we are standing there must be a chamber, for most mediaeval castles had a subterranean dungeon beneath the courtyard." "ah, if we could only find entrance to it!" cried the girl enthusiastically. "shall we try?" "have you not often tried, and failed?" he asked laughingly. "yes, but let's search again," she urged. "my strong belief is that entrance is not to be obtained from this side, but from the glen down below." "yes, no doubt in the ages long ago the hill was much steeper than it now is, and there were no trees or undergrowth. on that side it was impregnable. the river, however, in receding, silted up much earth and boulders at the bend, and has made the ascent possible." together they went to a breach in the ponderous walls and peered down into the ancient river-bed, now but a rippling burn. "very well," replied murie, "let us descend and explore." so they retraced their steps until, when about half-way to the house, they left the path and went down to the bottom of the beautiful glen until they were immediately beneath the old castle. the spot was remote and seldom visited. few ever came there, for it was approached by no path on that side of the burn, so that the keepers always passed along the opposite bank. they had no necessity to penetrate there. besides, it was too near the house. through the bracken and undergrowth, passing by big trees that in the ages had sprung up from seedlings dropped by the birds or sown by the winds, they slowly ascended to the frowning walls far above--the walls that had withstood so many sieges and the ravages of so many centuries. half a dozen times the girl's skirt became entangled in the briars, and once she tore her cape upon some thorns. but, enjoying the adventure, she went on, walter going first and clearing a way for her as best he could. "nobody has ever been up here before, i'm quite certain," gabrielle cried, halting, breathless, for a moment. "old stewart, who says he knows every inch of the estate, has never climbed here, i'm sure." "i don't expect he has," declared her lover. at last they found themselves beneath the foundations of one of the flanking-towers of the castle walls, whereupon he suggested that if they followed the wall right along and examined it closely they might discover some entrance. "i somehow fear there will not be any door on the exposed side," he added. the base of the walls was all along hidden by thick undergrowth, therefore the examination proved extremely difficult. nevertheless, keenly interested in their exploration, the pair kept on struggling and climbing until the perspiration rolled off both their faces. suddenly, walter uttered a cry of surprise. "why, look here! this seems like a track. people _have_ been up here after all!" and his companion saw that from the burn below, up through the bushes, ran a narrow winding path, which showed little sign of frequent use. walter went on before her, quickly following the path until it turned at right-angles and ended before a low door of rough wood which filled a small breach in the wall--a breach made, in all probability, at the last siege in the early seventeenth century. "this must lead somewhere!" cried walter excitedly; and, lifting the roughly constructed wooden latch, he pushed the door open, disclosing a cavernous darkness. a dank, earthy smell greeted their nostrils. it was certainly an uncanny place. "by jove!" cried walter, "i wonder where this leads to?" and, taking out his vestas, he struck one, and, holding it before him, went forward, passing through the breach in the broken wall into a stone passage which led to the left for a few yards and gave entrance to exactly what gabrielle had expected--a small, windowless stone chamber probably used in olden days as a dungeon. here they found, to their surprise, several old chairs, a rough table formed of two deal planks upon trestles, and a couple of half-burned candles in candlesticks which gabrielle recognised as belonging to the house. these were lit, and by their aid the place was thoroughly examined. upon the floor was a heap of black tinder where some papers had been burnt weeks or perhaps months ago. there were cigar-ends lying about, showing that whoever had been there had taken his ease. in a niche was a small tin box containing matches and fresh candles, while in a corner lay an old newspaper, limp and damp, bearing a date six months before. on the floor, too, were a number of pieces of paper--a letter torn to fragments. they tried to piece it together, laying it upon the table carefully, but were unsuccessful in discovering its import, save that it was in russian, from somebody in odessa, and addressed to sir henry. carrying the candles in their hands, they went into the narrow passage to explore the subterranean regions of the old place. but neither way could they proceed far, for the passage had fallen in at both ends and was blocked by rubbish. the only exit or entrance was by that narrow breach in the walls so cunningly concealed by the undergrowth and closed by the rudely made door of planks nailed together. above, in the stone roof of the chamber, there was a wide crack running obliquely, and through which any sound could be heard in the courtyard above. they remained in the narrow, low-roofed little cell for a full half-hour, making careful examination of everything, and discussing the probability of the whispers heard in the courtyard above emanating from that hidden chamber. for what purpose was the place used, and by whom? in all probability it was the very chamber in which cardinal setoun had been treacherously done to death. though they made a most minute investigation they discovered nothing further. up to a certain point their explorations had been crowned by success, yet the discovery rather tended to increase the mystery than diminish it. that the whispers were supernatural gabrielle had all along refused to believe. the question was, to what use that secret chamber was put? at last, more puzzled than ever, the pair, having extinguished the candles, emerged again into the light of day, closing and latching the little door after them. then, following the narrow secret path, they found that it wound through the bushes, and emerged by a circuitous way some distance along the glen, its entrance being carefully concealed by a big lichen-covered boulder which hid it from any one straying there by accident. so near was it to the house, and so well concealed, that no keeper had ever discovered it. "well," declared gabrielle, "we've certainly made a most interesting discovery this morning. but i wonder if it really does solve the mystery of the whispers?" "scarcely," walter admitted. "we have yet to discover to whom the secret of the existence of that chamber is known. no doubt the whispers are heard above through the crack in the roof. therefore, at present, we had better keep our knowledge strictly to ourselves." and to this the girl, of course, agreed. they found sir henry seated alone in the sunshine in one of the big bay-windows of the drawing-room, a pathetic figure, with his blank, bespectacled countenance turned towards the light, and his fingers busily knitting to employ the time which, alas! hung so heavily upon his hands. truth to tell, with flockart's influence upon him, he was not quite convinced of the sincerity of either gabrielle or walter murie. therefore, when they entered, and his daughter spoke to him; his greeting was not altogether cordial. "why, dear dad, how is it you're sitting here all alone? i would have gone for a walk with you had i known." "i'm expecting goslin," was the old man's snappy reply. "he left paris yesterday, and should certainly have been here by this time. i can't make out why he hasn't sent me a 'wire' explaining the delay." "he may have lost his connection in london," murie suggested. "perhaps so," remarked the baronet with a sigh, his fingers moving mechanically. murie could see that he was unnerved and unlike himself. he, of course, was unaware of the great interests depending upon the theft of those papers from his safe. but the old man was anxious to hear from goslin what had occurred at the urgent meeting of the secret syndicate in paris. gabrielle was chatting gaily with her father in an endeavour to cheer him up, when suddenly the door opened, and flockart, still in his travelling ulster, entered, exclaiming, "good-morning, sir henry." "why, my dear flockart, this is really quite unexpected. i--i thought you were abroad," cried the baronet, his face brightening as he stretched out his hand for his visitor to grasp. "so i have been. i only got back to town yesterday morning, and left euston last night." "well," said sir henry, "i'm very glad you are here again. i've missed you very much--very much indeed. i hope you'll make another long stay with us at glencardine." the man addressed raised his eyes to gabrielle's. she looked him straight in the face, defiant and unflinching. the day of her self-sacrifice to protect her helpless father's honour and welfare had come. she had suffered much in silence--suffered as no other girl would suffer; but she had tried to conceal the bitter truth. her spirit had been broken. she was obsessed by one fear, one idea. for a moment the girl held her breath. walter saw the sudden change in her countenance, and wondered. then, with a calmness that was surprising, she turned to her father, and in a clear, distinct voice said, "dad, now that mr. flockart has returned, i wish to tell you the truth concerning him--to warn you that he is not your friend, but your very worst enemy!" "what is that you say?" cried the man accused, glaring at her. "repeat those words, and i will tell the whole truth about yourself--here, before your lover!" the blind man frowned. he hated scenes. "come, come," he urged, "please do not quarrel. gabrielle, i think, dear, your words are scarcely fair to our friend." "father," she said firmly, her face pale as death, "i repeat them. that man standing there is as much your enemy as he is mine!" flockart laughed satirically. "then i will tell my story, and let your father judge whether you are a worthy daughter," he said. chapter xxxvi in which gabrielle tells a strange story gabrielle fell back in fear. her handsome countenance was blanched to the lips. this man intended to speak--to tell the terrible truth--and before her lover too! she clenched her hands and summoned all her courage. flockart laughed at her--laughed in triumph. "i think, gabrielle," he said, "that you should put an end to this deceit towards your poor blind father." "what do you mean?" cried walter in a fury, advancing towards flockart. "what has this question--whatever it is--to do with you? is it your place to stand between father and daughter?" "yes," answered the other in cool defiance, "it is. i am sir henry's friend." "his friend! his enemy!" "you are not my father's friend, mr. flockart," declared the girl, noticing the look of pain upon the afflicted old gentleman's face. "you have all along conspired against him for years, and you are actually conspiring with lady heyburn at this moment." "you lie!" he cried. "you say this in order to shield yourself. you know that your mother and i are aware of your crime, and have always shielded you." "crime!" gasped walter murie, utterly amazed. "what is this man saying, dearest?" but the girl stood, blanched and rigid, her jaw set, unable to utter a word. "let me tell you briefly," flockart went on. "lady heyburn and myself have been this girl's best friends; but now i must speak openly, in defence of the allegation she is making against me." "yes, speak!" urged sir henry. "speak and tell me the truth." "it is a painful truth, sir henry; would that i were not compelled to make such a charge. your daughter deliberately killed a young girl named edna bryant. she poisoned her on account of jealousy." "impossible!" cried sir henry, starting up. "i--i can't believe it, flockart. what are you saying? my daughter a murderess!" "yes, i repeat my words. and not only that, but lady heyburn and myself have kept her secret until--until now it is imperative that the truth should be told to you." "let me speak, dad--let me tell you----" "no," cried the old man, "i will hear flockart." and, turning to his wife's friend, he said hoarsely, "go on. tell me the truth." "the tragedy took place at a picnic, just before gabrielle left her school at amiens. she placed poison in the girl's wine. ah, it was a terrible revenge!" "i am innocent!" cried the girl in despair. "remember the letter which you wrote to your mother concerning her. you told lady heyburn that you hated her. do you deny writing that letter? because, if you do, it is still in existence." "i deny nothing which i have done," she answered. "you have told my father this in order to shield yourself. you have endeavoured, as the coward you are, to prejudice me in his eyes, just as you compelled me to lie to him when you opened his safe and copied certain of his papers!" "you opened the safe!" he protested. "why, i found you there myself!" "enough!" she exclaimed quite coolly. "i know the dread charge against me. i know too well the impossibility of clearing myself, especially in the face of that letter i wrote to lady heyburn; but it was you and she who entrapped me, and who held me in fear because of my inexperience." "tell us the truth, the whole truth, darling," urged murie, standing at her side and taking her hand confidently in his. "the truth!" she said, in a strange voice as though speaking to herself. "yes, let me tell you! i know that it will sound extraordinary, yet i swear to you, by the love you bear for me, walter, that the words i am about to utter are the actual truth." "i believe you," declared her lover reassuringly. "which is more than anyone else will," interposed flockart with a sneer, but perfectly confident. it was the hour of his triumph. she had defied him, and he therefore intended to ruin her once and for all. the girl was standing pale and erect, one hand grasping the back of a chair, the other held in her lover's clasp, while her father had risen, his expressionless face turned towards them, his hand groping until it touched a small table upon which stood an old punch-bowl full of sweet-smelling pot-pourri. "listen, dad," she said, heedless of flockart's remark. "hear me before you condemn me. i know that the charge made against me by this man is a terrible one. god alone knows what i have suffered these last two years, how i have prayed for deliverance from the hands of this man and his friends. it happened a few months before i left amiens. lady heyburn, you'll recollect, rented a pretty flat in the rue léonce-reynaud in paris. she obtained permission for me to leave school and visit her for a few weeks." "i recollect perfectly," remarked her father in a low voice. "well, there came many times to visit us an american girl named bryant, who was studying art, and who lived somewhere off the boulevard michel, as well as a frenchman named felix krail and an englishman called hamilton." "hamilton!" echoed murie. "was his name edgar hamilton--my friend?" "yes, the same," was her quiet reply. then she turned to murie, and said, "we all went about a great deal together, for it was summer-time, and we made many pleasant excursions in the district. edna bryant was a merry, cheerful girl, and i soon grew to be very friendly with her, until one day lady heyburn, when alone with me, repeated in strict confidence that the girl was secretly devoted to you, walter." "to me!" he cried. "true, i knew a miss bryant long ago, but for the past three years or so have entirely lost sight of her." "lady heyburn told me that you were very fond of the girl, and this, i confess, aroused my intense jealousy. i believed that the girl i had trusted so implicitly was unprincipled and fickle, and that she was trying to secure the man whom i had loved ever since a child. i had to return to school, and from there i wrote to lady heyburn, who had gone to dieppe, a letter saying hard things of the girl, and declaring that i would take secret revenge--that i would kill her rather than allow walter to be taken from me. a month afterwards i again returned to paris. that man standing there"--she indicated flockart--"was living at the hôtel continental, and was a frequent visitor. he told me that it was well known in london that walter admired miss bryant, a declaration that i admit drove me half-mad with jealousy." "it was a lie!" declared walter. "i never made love to the girl. i admired her, that's all." "well," laughed flockart, "go on. tell us your version of the affair." "i am telling you the truth," she cried, boldly facing him. one day lady heyburn, having arranged a cycling picnic, invited mr. hamilton, mr. kratil, mr. flockart, miss bryant, and myself, and we had a beautiful run to chantilly, a distance of about forty kilometres, where we first made a tour of the old château, and afterwards entered the cool shady fôret de pontarmé. while the others went away to explore the paths in the splendid wood i was left to spread the luncheon upon the ground, setting before each place a half-bottle of red wine which i found in the baskets. then, when all was ready, i called to them, but there was no response. they were all out of hearing. i left the spot, and searched for a full twenty minutes or so before i discovered them. first i found mr. krail and mr. flockart strolling together smoking, while the others were on ahead. they had lost their way among the trees. i led them back to the spot where luncheon was prepared; and, all of us being hungry, we quickly sat down, chatting and laughing merrily. of a sudden miss bryant stared straight before her, dropped her glass, and threw up her arms. 'heavens! why--ah, my throat!' she shrieked. 'i--i'm poisoned!' "in an instant all was confusion. the poor girl could not breathe. she tore at her throat, while her face became convulsed. we obtained water for her, but it was useless, for within five minutes she was stretched rigid upon the grass, unconscious, and a few moments later she was still--quite dead! ah, shall i ever forget the scene! the effect produced upon us was appalling. all was so sudden, so tragic, so horrible! "lady heyburn was the first to speak. 'gabrielle,' she said, 'what have you done? you have carried out the secret revenge which in your letter you threatened!' i saw myself trapped. those people had some motive in killing the girl and placing this crime upon myself! i could not speak, for i was too utterly dumfounded." "the fiends!" ejaculated walter fiercely. "then followed a hurried consultation, in which krail showed himself most solicitous on my behalf," the pale-faced girl went on. "aided by flockart, i think, he scraped away a hole in a pit full of dead leaves, and there the body must have been concealed just as it was. to me they all took a solemn vow to keep what they declared to be my secret. the bottle containing the wine from which the poor american girl had drunk was broken and hidden, the plates and food swiftly packed up, and we at once fled from the scene of the tragedy. with krail wheeling the girl's empty cycle, we reached the high road, where we all mounted and rode back in silence to paris. ah, shall i ever rid myself of the memory of that fatal afternoon?" she cried as she paused for breath. "fearing that he might be noticed taking along the empty cycle, krail threw it into the river near valmondois," she went on. "arrived back at the rue léonce-reynaud, i protested that nothing had been introduced into the wine. but they declared that, owing to my youth and the terrible scandal it would cause if i were arrested, they would never allow the matter to pass their lips, mr. hamilton, indeed, making the extraordinary declaration that such a crime had extenuating circumstances when love was at stake. i then saw that i had fallen the victim of some clever conspiracy; but so utterly overcome was i by the awful scene that i could make but faint protest. "ah! think of my horrible position--accused of a crime of which i was entirely innocent! the days slipped on, and i was sent back to amiens, and in due course came home here to dear old glencardine. from that day i have lived in constant fear, until on the night of the ball at connachan--you remember the evening, dad?--on that night mr. flockart returned in secret, beckoned me out upon the lawn, and showed me something which held me petrified in fear. it was a cutting from an edinburgh paper that evening reporting that two of the forest-guards at pontarmé had discovered the body of the missing miss bryant, and that the french police were making active inquiries." "he threatened you?" asked walter. "he told me to remain quiet, and that he and lady heyburn would do their best to shield me. for that reason, dad," she went on, turning to the blind man, "for that reason i feared to denounce him when i discovered him with your safe open, for that reason i was compelled to take all the blame and all your anger upon myself." the old man's brow knit. "where is my wife?" he asked. "i must speak to her before we go further. this is a very serious matter." "lady heyburn is still at park street," flockart replied. "i will hear no more," declared the blind baronet, holding up his hand, "not another word until my wife is present." chapter xxxvii increases the interest "but, dad," cried gabrielle, "i am telling you the truth! cannot you believe me, your daughter, before this man who is your enemy?" "because of my affliction i am, it seems, deceived by every one," was his hard response. to where they stood had come the sound of wheels upon the gravelled drive outside, and a moment later hill entered, announcing, "a gentleman to see you very urgently, sir henry. he is from baron de hetzendorf." "from the baron!" gasped the blind man. "i'll see him later." "why, it may be hamilton!" cried murie; who, looking through the door, saw his old friend in the corridor, and quickly called him in. as he faced flockart he drew himself up. the attitude of them all made it apparent to him that something unusual was in progress. "you've arrived at a very opportune moment, hamilton," murie said. "you have met miss heyburn before, and also flockart, i believe, at lady heyburn's, in paris." "yes, but----" "sir henry," walter said in a quiet tone, "this gentleman sent by the baron is his secretary, the same mr. edgar hamilton of whom gabrielle has just been speaking." "ah, then, perhaps he can furnish us with further facts regarding this most extraordinary statement of my daughter's," the blind man exclaimed. "gabrielle has just told her father the truth regarding a certain tragic occurrence in the forest of pontarmé. explain to us all you know, edgar." "what i know," said hamilton, "is very quickly told. has miss heyburn mentioned the man krail?" "yes, i have told them about him," the girl answered. "you have, however, perhaps omitted to mention one or two small facts in connection with the affair," he said. "do you not remember how, on that eventful afternoon in the forest, when searching for us, you first encountered krail walking with this man flockart at some distance from the others?" "yes, i recollect." "and do you remember that when we returned to sit down to luncheon flockart insisted that i should take the seat which was afterwards occupied by the unfortunate miss bryant? do you recollect how i spread a rug for her at that spot and preferred myself to stand? the reason of their invitation to me to sit there i did not discover until afterwards. that wine had been prepared for _me_, not for her." "for you!" the girl gasped, amazed. "yes. the plot was undoubtedly this--" "there was no plot," protested flockart, interrupting. "this girl killed edna bryant through intense jealousy." "i repeat that there was a foul and ingenious plot to kill me, and to entrap miss heyburn," hamilton said. "it was, of course, clear that miss heyburn was jealous of the girl, for she had written to her mother making threats against miss bryant's life. therefore, the plot was that i should drink the fatal wine, and that miss gabrielle should be declared to be the murderess, she having intended the wine to be partaken of by the girl she hated with such deadly hatred. the marked cordiality of krail and flockart that i should take that seat aroused within me some misgivings, although i had never dreamed of this dastardly and cowardly plot against me--not until i saw the result of their foul handiwork." "it's a lie! you are trying to implicate krail and myself! the girl is the only guilty person. she placed the wine there!" "she did not!" declared hamilton boldly. "she was not there when the bottle was changed by krail, but i was!" "if what you say is true, then you deliberately stood by and allowed the girl to drink." "i watched krail go to the spot where luncheon was laid out, but could not see what he did. if i had done so i should have saved the girl's life. you were a few yards off, awaiting him; therefore you knew his intentions, and you are as guilty of that girl's tragic death as he." "what!" cried flockart, his eyes glaring angrily, "do you declare, then, that i am a murderer?" "you yourself are the best judge of your own guilt," answered hamilton meaningly. "i deny that krail or myself had any hand in the affair." "you will have an opportunity of making that denial in a criminal court ere long," remarked the baron's secretary with a grim smile. "what," gasped lady heyburn's friend, his cheeks paling in an instant, "have you been so indiscreet as to inform the police?" "i have--a week ago. i made a statement to m. hamard of the sûreté in paris, and they have already made a discovery which you will find of interest and somewhat difficult to disprove." "and pray what is that?" hamilton smiled again, saying, "no, my dear sir, the police will tell you themselves all in due course. remember, you and your precious friend plotted to kill me." "but why, mr. hamilton?" inquired the blind man. "what was their motive?" "a very strong one," was the reply. "i had recognised in krail a man who had defrauded the baron de hetzendorf of fifty thousand kroners, and for whom the police were in active search, both for that and for several other serious charges of a similar character. krail knew this, and he and his friend--this gentleman here--had very ingeniously resolved to get rid of me by making it appear that miss gabrielle had poisoned me by accident." "a lie!" declared flockart fiercely, though his efforts to remain imperturbed were now palpable. "you will be given due opportunity of disproving my allegations," hamilton said. "you, coward that you are, placed the guilt upon an innocent, inexperienced girl. why? because, with lady heyburn's connivance, you with your cunning accomplice krail were endeavouring to discover sir henry's business secrets in order, first, to operate upon the valuable financial knowledge you would thus gain, and so make a big _coup_; and, secondly, when you had done this, it was your intention to expose the methods of sir henry and his friends. ah! don't imagine that you and krail have not been very well watched of late," laughed hamilton. "do you allege, then, that lady heyburn is privy to all this?" asked the blind man in distress. "it is not for me to judge, sir," was hamilton's reply. "i know! i know how i have been befooled!" cried the poor helpless man, "befooled because i am blind!" "not by me, sir henry," protested flockart. "by you and by every one else," he cried angrily. "but i know the truth at last--the truth how my poor little daughter has been used as an instrument by you in your nefarious operations." "but----" "hear me, i say!" went on the old man. "i ask my daughter to forgive me for misjudging her. i now know the truth. you obtained by some means a false key to my safe, and you copied certain documents which i had placed there in order to entrap any who might seek to learn my secrets. you fell into that trap, and though i confess i thought that gabrielle was the culprit, on murie's behalf, i only lately found out that you and your accomplice krail were in greece endeavouring to profit by knowledge obtained from here, my private house." "krail has been living in auchterarder of late, it appears," hamilton remarked, "and it is evidently he who, gaining access to the house one night recently, used his friend's false key, and obtained those confidential russian documents from your safe." "no doubt," declared sir henry. then, again addressing flockart, he asked, "where are those documents which you and your scoundrelly accomplice have stolen, and for the return of which you are trying to make me pay?" "i don't know anything about them," answered flockart sullenly, his face livid. "he'll know more about them when he is taken off by the two detectives from edinburgh who hold the extradition warrant," hamilton remarked with a grim smile. the fellow started at those words. his demeanour was that of a guilty man. "what do you mean?" he gasped, white as death. "you--you intend to give me into custody? if you do, i warn you that lady heyburn will suffer also." "she, like miss gabrielle, has only been your tool," hamilton declared. "it was she who, under compulsion, has furnished you with means for years, and whose association with you has caused something little short of a scandal. times without number she has tried to get rid of you and your evil influence in this household, but you have always defied her. now," he said firmly, looking the other straight in the face, "you have upon you those stolen documents which you have, by using an assumed name and a false address, offered to sell back to their owner, sir henry. you have threatened that if they are not purchased at the exorbitant price you demand you will sell them to the russian ministry of finance. that is the way you treat your friend and benefactor, the man who is blind and helpless! come, give them back to sir henry, and at once." "you must ask krail," stammered the man, now so cornered that all further excuse or denial had become impossible. "that's unnecessary. i happen to know that those papers are in your pocket at this moment, a fact which shows how watchful an eye we've been keeping upon you of late. you have brought them here so that your friend krail may come to terms with sir henry for their repossession. he arrived from london with you, and is at the 'strathavon arms' in the village, where he stayed before, and is well known." "flockart," demanded the blind man very seriously, "you have papers in your possession which are mine. return them to me." a dead silence fell. all eyes save those of sir henry were turned upon the man who until that moment had stood so defiant and so full of sarcasm. but in an instant, at mention of krail's presence in auchterarder, his demeanour had suddenly changed. he was full of alarm. "give them to me and leave my house," sir henry said, holding up his thin white hand. "i--i will--on one condition: if i may be allowed to go." "we shall not prevent you leaving," was the baronet's calm reply. the man fumbled nervously in the inner pocket of his coat, and at last brought out a sealed and rather bulgy foolscap envelope. "open it, gabrielle, and see what is within," her father said. she obeyed, and in a few moments explained the various documents it contained. "then let the man go," her father said. "but, sir henry," cried hamilton, "i object to this! krail is down in the village forming a plot to make you pay for the return of those papers. he arrived from london by the same train as this man. if we allow him to leave he will inform his accomplice, and both will escape." murie had his back to the door, the long window on the opposite side of the room being closed. "it was a promise of sir henry's," declared the unhappy adventurer. "which will be observed when krail has been brought face to face with sir henry," answered murie, at the same time calling hill and one of the gardeners who chanced to be working on the lawn outside. then, with a firmness which showed that they were determined, hamilton and murie conducted flockart to a small upstairs room, where hill and the gardener, with the assistance of stewart, who happened to have come into the kitchen, mounted guard over him. his position, once the honoured guest at glencardine, was the most ignominious conceivable. but sir henry sat in gratification that at least he had got back those documents and saved the reputation of his friend volkonski, as well as that of his co-partners. chapter xxxviii "that man's voice!" stokes the chauffeur had driven murie and hamilton in the car down to the village, where the last-named, after a conversation with the police inspector, went to the "strathavon arms," together with two constables who happened to be off duty, in plain clothes. they found krail sitting in the bar, calmly smoking, awaiting a message from his accomplice. upon hamilton's recognition he was, after a brief argument, arrested on the charge of theft from glencardine, placed in the car between the two stalwart scotch policemen, and conveyed in triumph to the castle, much, of course, against his will. he demanded to be taken straight to the police station; but as sir henry had ordered him to be brought to glencardine, and as sir henry was a magistrate, the inspector was bound to obey his orders. the man's cruel, colourless eyes seemed to contract closer as he sat in the car with his enemy hamilton facing him. he had never dreamed that they would ever meet again; but, now they had, he saw that the game was up. there was no hope of escape. he was being taken to meet sir henry heyburn, the very last man in all the world he wished to face. his sallow countenance was drawn, his lips were thin and bloodless, and upon his cheeks were two red spots which showed that he was now in a deadly terror. gabrielle, who had been weeping at the knees of her father, heard the whirr of the car coming up the drive; and, springing to the window, witnessed the arrival of the party. a moment later, krail, between the two constables, and with the local inspector standing respectfully at the rear, stood in the big, long library into which the blind man was led by his daughter. when all had assembled, sir henry, in a clear, distinct voice, said, "i have had you arrested and brought here in order to charge you with stealing certain documents from my safe yonder, which you opened by means of a duplicate key. your accomplice flockart has given evidence against you; therefore, to deny it is quite needless." "whatever he has said to you is lies," the foreigner replied, his accent being the more pronounced in his excitement. "i know nothing about it." "if you deny that," exclaimed hamilton quickly, "you will perhaps also deny that it was you who secretly poisoned miss bryant in the pontarmé forest, even though i myself saw you at the spot; and, further, that a witness has been found who actually saw you substitute the wine-bottles. you intended to kill me!" "what ridiculous nonsense you are talking!" cried the accused, who was dressed with his habitual shabby gentility. "the girl yonder, mademoiselle, killed miss bryant." "then why did you make that deliberate attempt upon my life at fotheringhay?" demanded the girl boldly. "had it not been for mr. hamilton, who must have seen us together and guessed that you intended foul play, i should certainly have been drowned." "he believed that you knew his secret, and he intended, both on his own behalf and on flockart's also, to close your lips," murie said. "with you out of the way, their attitude towards your father would have been easier; but with you still a living witness there was always danger to them. he thought your death would be believed to be suicide, for he knew your despondent state of mind." sir henry stood near the window, his face sphinx-like, as though turned to stone. "she fell in," was his lame excuse. "no, you threw me in!" declared the girl. "but i have feared you until now, and i therefore dared not to give information against you. ah, god alone knows how i have suffered!" "you dare now, eh?" he snarled, turning quickly upon her. "it really does not matter what you deny or what you admit," hamilton remarked. "the french authorities have applied for your extradition to france, and this evening you will be on your way to the extradition court at bow street, charged with a graver offence than the burglary at this house. the sûreté of paris make several interesting allegations against you--or against felix gerlach, which is your real name." "gerlach!" cried the blind man in a loud voice, groping forward. "ah," he shrieked, "then i was not mistaken when--when i thought i recognised the voice! that man's voice! _yes, it is his--his!_" in an instant krail had sprung forward towards the blind and defenceless man, but his captors were fortunately too quick and prevented him. then, at the inspector's orders, a pair of steel bracelets were quickly placed upon his wrists. "gerlach! felix gerlach!" repeated the blind baronet as though to himself, as he heard the snap of the lock upon the prisoner's wrists. the fellow burst out into a peal of harsh, discordant laughter. he was endeavouring to retain a defiant attitude even then. "you apparently know this man, dad?" gabrielle exclaimed in surprise. "know him!" echoed her father hoarsely. "know felix gerlach! yes, i have bitter cause to remember the man who stands there before you accused of the crime of murder." then he paused, and drew a long breath. "i unmasked him once, as a thief and a swindler, and he swore to be avenged," said the baronet in a bitter voice. "it was long ago. he came to me in london and offered me a concession which he said he had obtained from the ottoman government for the construction of a railroad from smyrna to the bosphorus. the documents appeared to be all right and in order, and after some negotiations he sold the concession to me and received ten thousand pounds in cash of the purchase-money in advance. a week afterwards i discovered that, though the concession had been granted by the minister of public works at the sublime porte, it had been sold to the eckmann group in vienna, and that the papers i held were merely copies with forged signatures and stamps. i applied to the police, this man was arrested in hamburg, and brought back to london, where he was tried, and, a previous conviction having been proved against him, sent to penal servitude for seven years. in the dock at the old bailey he swore to be avenged upon me and upon my family." "and he seems to have kept his word," walter remarked. "when he came out of prison he found me in the zenith of my political career," sir henry went on. "on that well-remembered night of my speech at the albert hall i can only surmise that he went there, heard me, and probably became fiercely resentful that he had found a man cleverer than himself. the fact remains that he must have gone in a cab in front of my carriage to park street, alighted before me, and secreted himself within the portico. it was midnight, and the street was deserted. my carriage stopped, i got out, and it then drove on to the mews. i was in the act of opening the door with my latch-key when, by an unknown hand, there was flung full into my eyes some corrosive fluid which burned terribly, and caused me excruciating pain. i heard a man's exultant voice cry, 'there! i promised you that, and you have it!' the voice i recognised as that of the blackguard standing before you. since that moment," he added in a blank, hoarse voice, "i have been totally blind!" "you got me seven years!" cried the foreigner with a harsh laugh, "so think yourself very lucky that i didn't kill you." "you placed upon me an affliction, a perpetual darkness, that to a man like myself is almost akin to death," replied his accuser very gravely. "secure from recognition, you wormed yourself into the confidence of my wife, for you were bent upon ruining her also; and you took as partner in your schemes that needy adventurer flockart. i now see it all quite plainly. hamilton had recognised you as gerlach, and you therefore formed a plot to get rid of him and throw the crime upon my poor unfortunate daughter, even though she was scarcely more than a child. in all probability, lady heyburn, in telling the girl the story regarding murie and miss bryant, believed it, and if so she would also suspect my daughter to be the actual criminal." "this is all utterly astounding, dad!" cried gabrielle. "if you knew who it was who deliberately blinded you, why didn't you prosecute him?" "because there was no witness of his dastardly act, my child. and i myself never saw him. therefore i was compelled to remain in silence, and allow the world to believe my affliction due to natural causes," was his blank response. the sallow-faced foreigner laughed again, laughed in the face of the man whose eyesight he had so deliberately taken. he could not speak. what had he to say? "well," remarked hamilton, "we have at least the satisfaction of knowing that both this man and his accomplice will stand their trial for their heartless crime in france, and that they will meet their just punishment according to the laws of god and of man." "and i," added walter, in a voice broken by emotion, as he again took gabrielle's hand tenderly, "have the supreme satisfaction of knowing that my darling is cleared of a foul, dastardly, and terrible charge." chapter xxxix contains the conclusion after long consultation--krail having been removed in custody back to the village--it was agreed that the only charges that could be substantiated against flockart were those of complicity in the ingenious attempt upon hamilton's life by which poor miss bryant had been sacrificed, and also in the theft of sir henry's papers. but was it worth while? at the baronet's suggestion, he was allowed freedom to leave the upstairs room where he had been detained by the three stalwart servants; and, without waiting to speak to any one, he had made his way down the drive. he had, as was afterwards found, left auchterarder station for london an hour later. the painful impression produced upon everybody by sir henry's statement of what had actually occurred on the night of the great meeting at the albert hall having somewhat subsided, murie mentioned to the blind man the legend of the whispers, and also the curious discovery which gabrielle and he had made earlier in the morning. "ah," laughed the old gentleman a trifle uneasily, "and so you've discovered the truth at last, eh?" "the truth--no!" murie said. "that is just what we are so very anxious to hear from you, sir henry." "well," he said, "you may rest your minds perfectly content that there's nothing supernatural about them. it was to my own advantage to cause weird reports and uncanny legends to be spread in order to preserve my secret, the secret of the whispers." "but what is the secret, sir henry?" asked hamilton eagerly. "we, curiously enough, have similar whispers at hetzendorf. i've heard them myself at the old château." "and of course you have believed in the story which my good friend the baron has caused to be spread, like myself: the legend that those who hear them die quickly and suddenly," said the old man, with a smile upon his grey face. "like myself, he wished to keep away all inquisitive persons from the spot." "but why?" asked murie. "well, truth to tell, the reason is very simple," he answered. "as we are speaking here in the strictest privacy, i will tell you something which i beg that neither of you will repeat. if you do it might result in my ruin." murie, hamilton, and gabrielle all gave their promise. "then it is this," he said. "i am head of a group of the leading financial houses in europe, who, remaining secret, are carrying on business in the guise of an unimportant house in paris. the members of the syndicate are all of them men of enormous financial strength, including baron de hetzendorf, to whom our friend hamilton here acts as confidential secretary. the strictest secrecy is necessary for the success of our great undertakings, which i may add are perfectly honest and legitimate. yet never, unless absolutely imperative, do we entrust documents or letters to the post. like the house of rothschild, we have our confidential messengers, and hold frequent meetings, no 'deal' being undertaken without we are all of us in full accord. monsieur goslin acts as confidential messenger, and brings me the views of my partners in paris, petersburg, and vienna. to this careful concealment of our plans, or of the fact that we are ever in touch with one another, is due the huge successes we have made from time to time--successes which have staggered the bourses of the continent and caused amazement in wall street. but being unfortunately afflicted as i am, i naturally cannot travel to meet the others, and, besides, we are compelled always to take fresh and most elaborate precautions in order to conceal the fact that we are in connection with each other. if that one fact ever leaked out it would at once stultify our endeavours and weaken our position. hence, at intervals, two or even three of my partners travel here, and i meet them at night in the little chamber which you, walter, discovered to-day, and which until the present has never been found, owing to the weird fables i have invented regarding the whispers. to hetzendorf, too, once or twice a year, perhaps, the members pay a secret visit in order to consult the baron, who, as you perhaps may know, unfortunately enjoys very precarious health." "then meetings of frohnmeyer, volkonski, and the rest were held here in secret sometimes?" echoed hamilton in surprise. "on certain occasions, when it is absolutely necessary that i should meet them," answered sir henry. "they stay at the station hotel in perth, coming over to auchterarder by the last train at night and leaving by the first train in the morning from crieff junction. they never approach the house, for fear that servants or one or other of the guests may recognise them, but go separately along the glen and up the path to the ruins. when we thus meet, our voices can be heard through the crack in the roof of the chamber in the courtyard above. on such occasions i take good care that stewart and his men are sent on a false alarm of poachers to another part of the estate, while i can find my way there myself with my stick," he laughed. "the baron, i believe, acts on the same principle at his château in hungary." "well," declared hamilton, "so well has the baron kept the secret that i have never had any suspicion until this moment. by jove! the invention of the whispers was certainly a clever mode of preserving the secret, for nobody cares deliberately to court disaster and death, especially among a superstitious populace like the villagers here and the hungarian peasantry." both gabrielle and her lover expressed their astonishment, the latter remarking how cleverly the weird legend of the whispers invented by sir henry had been made to fit historical fact. * * * * * when the eight o'clock train from stirling stopped at auchterarder station that evening, a tall, well-dressed man alighted, and inquired his way to the police-station. the porter knew by his accent that he was a londoner, but did not dream that he was "a gentleman from scotland yard." half an hour later, after a chat with the rural inspector, the pair went along to the cell behind the small village police-station in order that the stranger should read over to the prisoner the warrant he had brought with him from london--the application of the french police for the arrest and extradition of felix gerlach, _alias_ krail, _alias_ benoist, for the wilful murder of edna mary bryant in the forest of pontarmé, near chantilly. the inspector had related to the london detective the dramatic scene up at glencardine that day, and the officer of the criminal investigation department walked along to the cell much interested to see what manner of man was this, who was even more bold and ingenious in his criminal methods than many with whom his profession brought him daily into contact. he had hoped that he himself would have the credit of making the arrest, but found that the man wanted had already been apprehended on the charge of burglary at glencardine. the inspector unlocked the door and threw it open, but next instant the startling truth became plain. felix krail lay dead upon the flagstones. he had taken his life by poison--probably the same poison he had placed in the wine at the fatal picnic--rather than face his accuser and bear his just punishment. * * * * * many months have now passed. a good deal has occurred since that never-to-be-forgotten day, but it is all quickly related. james flockart, unmasked as he has been, never dared to return. the last heard of him was six months ago, in honduras, where for the first time in his life he had been compelled to work for his living, and had, three weeks after landing, succumbed to fever. at sir henry's urgent request, his wife came back to glencardine a week after the tragic end of gerlach, and was compelled to make full confession how, under the man's sinister influence, both she and flockart had been forced to act. to her husband she proved beyond all doubt that she had been in complete ignorance of the truth concerning the affair in the pontarmé forest until long afterwards. she had at first believed gabrielle guilty of the deed, but when she learned the truth and saw how deeply she had been implicated it was impossible for her then to withdraw. with a whole-hearted generosity seldom found in men, sir henry, after long reflection and a desperate struggle with himself, forgave her, and now has the satisfaction of knowing that she prefers quiet, healthful glencardine to the social gaieties of park street, paris, or san remo, while she and gabrielle have lately become devoted to each other. the secret syndicate, with sir henry heyburn at its head, still operates, for no word of its existence has leaked out to either financial circles or to the public, while the whispers of glencardine are still believed in and dreaded by the whole countryside across the ochils. edgar hamilton, though compelled to return to the baron, whose right hand he is, often travels to glencardine with confidential messages, and documents for signature, and is, of course, an ever-welcome guest. the unpretentious house of lénard et morellet of paris now and then effects deals so enormous that financial circles are staggered, and the world stands amazed. the true facts of who is actually behind that apparently unimportant firm are, however, still rigorously and ingeniously concealed. who would ever dream that that quiet, grey-faced man with the sightless eyes, living far away up in scotland, passing his hours of darkness with his old bronze seals or his knitting, was the brain which directed their marvellously successful operations! the laird of connachan died quite suddenly about seven months ago, and walter murie succeeded to the noble estate. gabrielle--sweet, almost child-like in her simple tastes and delightful charm, and more devoted to walter than ever--is now little lady murie, having been married in edinburgh a month ago. at the moment that i pen these final lines the pair are spending a blissful honeymoon at the great old château of hetzendorf, high up above the broad-flowing danube, the baron having kindly vacated the place and put it at their disposal for the summer. happy in each other's love and mutual trust, they spend the long blissful days in company, wandering often hand in hand, for when walter looks into those wonderful eyes of hers he sees mirrored there a perfect and abiding affection such as is indeed given few men to possess. together they have in secret explored the ruins of the ancient stronghold, and, by directions given them by the baron, have found there a stone chamber by no means dissimilar to that at glencardine. meanwhile, sir henry heyburn, impatient for his beloved daughter to be again near him and to assist him, passes his weary hours with his favourite hobby; his wife, full of sympathy, bearing him company. from her, however, he still withholds one secret, and one only--the secret of the house of whispers. [every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed. some typographical errors have been corrected; a list follows the text. no attempt has been made to correct or normalize all of the printed spelling of french names or words. (i.e. chateau, saint-beauve, etc.) (note of etext transcriber.)] castles and chateaux of old burgundy and the border provinces _works of francis miltoun_ [illustration] _rambles on the riviera_ $ . _rambles in normandy_ . _rambles in brittany_ . _the cathedrals and churches of the rhine_ . _the cathedrals of northern france_ . _the cathedrals of southern france_ . _in the land of mosques and minarets_ . _castles and chateaux of old touraine and the loire country_ . _castles and chateaux of old navarre and the basque provinces_ . _castles and chateaux of old burgundy and the border provinces_ . _italian highways and byways from a motor car_ . _the automobilist abroad_ _net_ . (_postage extra_) [illustration] _l. c. page and company_ _new england building, boston, mass._ [illustration: _chateau de montbéliard_ (see page ) ] castles and chateaux of old burgundy and the border provinces by francis miltoun author of "castles and chateaux of old touraine," "castles and chateaux of old navarre," "rambles in normandy," "italian highways and byways from a motor-car," etc. _with many illustrations reproduced from paintings made on the spot_ by blanche mcmanus [illustration] boston l. c. page & company _copyright, _, by l. c. page & company (incorporated) _all rights reserved_ first impression, november, _electrotyped and printed by the colonial press c. h. simonds & co., boston, u.s.a._ [illustration: contents] chapter page i. the realm of the burgundians ii. in the valley of the yonne iii. avallon, vezelay, and chastellux iv. semur-en-auxois, Époisses and bourbilly v. montbard and bussy-rabutin vi. "chastillon au noble duc" vii. tonnerre, tanlay and ancy-le-franc viii. in old burgundy ix. dijon the city of the dukes x. in the cote d'or: beaune, la rochepot and Épinac xi. maÇon, cluny and the charollais xii. in the beaujolais and lyonnais xiii. the franche comtÉ; auxonne and besanÇon xiv. on the swiss border: bugey and bresse xv. grenoble and vizille: the capital of the dauphins xvi. chambÉry and the lac du bourget xvii. in the shadow of la grande chartreuse xviii. annecy and lac leman xix. the mountain background of savoy xx. by the banks of the rhÔne xxi. in the alps of dauphiny xxii. in lower dauphiny index [illustration: list _of_ illustrations] page chateau de montbÉliard (_see page_ ) _frontispiece_ geographical limits covered by contents (map) x the heart of old burgundy (map) _facing_ chateau de saint fargeau _facing_ tour gaillarde, auxerre _facing_ chateau de chastellux _facing_ semur-en-auxois _facing_ chateau d'Époisses _facing_ arnay-le-duc _facing_ chateau de bussy-rabutin _facing_ chateau des ducs, chÂtillon _facing_ chateau de tanlay _facing_ chateau and gardens of ancy-le-franc chateau of ancy-le-franc _facing_ monograms from the chambre des fleurs burgundy through the ages (map) the dijonnais and the beaujolais (map) _facing_ key of vaulting, dijon cuisines at dijon chateau des ducs, dijon _facing_ clos vougeot.--chambertin hospice de beaune _facing_ chateau de la rochepot _facing_ chateau de sully _facing_ chateau de chaumont-la-guiche _facing_ hÔtel de ville, paray-le-monail _facing_ chateau de lamartine _facing_ chateau de noble palais granvelle, besanÇon _facing_ the lion of belfort women of bresse _facing_ chateau de voltaire, ferney _facing_ tower of the palais de justice, grenoble chateau d'uriage _facing_ chateau de vizille _facing_ portal of the chateau de chambÉry _facing_ portal st. dominique, chambÉry chateau de chambÉry _facing_ les charmettes chateau de chignin _facing_ abbey of hautecombe _facing_ maison des dauphins, tour-de-pin _facing_ chateau bayard _facing_ la tour sans venin chateau d'annecy _facing_ chateau de ripaille _facing_ Évian _facing_ aix-les-bains to albertville (map) montmelian chateau de miolans _facing_ conflans _facing_ seal of the native dauphins tower of philippe de valois, vienne _facing_ chateau de crussol _facing_ chateau de brianÇon _facing_ brianÇon; its chateau and old fortified bridge chateau queyras _facing_ chateau de beauvoir _facing_ chateau de la sone _facing_ [illustration: geographical limits covered _by_ contents] castles and chateaux of old burgundy and the border provinces chapter i the realm of the burgundians "_la plus belle comté, c'est flandre;_ _la plus belle duché, c'est bourgogne,_ _le plus beau royaume, c'est france._" this statement is of undeniable merit, as some of us, who so love _la belle france_--even though we be strangers--well know. the burgundy of charlemagne's time was a much vaster extent of territory than that of the period when the province came to play its own kingly part. from the borders of neustria to lombardia and provence it extended from the northwest to the southeast, and from austrasia and alamannia in the northeast to aquitania and septimania in the southwest. in other words, it embraced practically the entire watershed of the rhône and even included the upper reaches of the yonne and seine and a very large portion of the loire; in short, all of the great central plain lying between the alps and the cevennes. the old burgundian province was closely allied topographically, climatically and by ties of family, with many of its neighbouring political divisions. almost to the ile de france this extended on the north; to the east, the franche comté was but a dismemberment; whilst the nivernais and the bourbonnais to the west, through the lands and influence of their seigneurs, encroached more or less on burgundy or vice versa if one chooses to think of it in that way. to the southeast dombes, bresse and bugey, all closely allied with one another, bridged the leagues which separated burgundy from savoy, and, still farther on, dauphiny. the influence of the burgundian spirit was, however, over all. the neighbouring states, the nobility and the people alike, envied and emulated, as far as they were able, the luxurious life of the burgundian seigneurs later. if at one time or another they were actually enemies, they sooner, in many instances at least, allied themselves as friends or partisans, and the manner of life of the burgundians of the middle ages became their own. [illustration: map the heart _of_ old burgundy ] not in the royal domain of france itself, not in luxurious touraine, was there more love of splendour and the gorgeous trappings of the ceremonial of the middle ages than in burgundy. it has ever been a land of prosperity and plenty, to which, in these late days, must be added peace, for there is no region in all france of to-day where there is more contentment and comfort than in the wealthy and opulent departments of the côte d'or and the saône and loire which, since the revolution, have been carved out of the very heart of old burgundy. the french themselves are not commonly thought to be great travellers, but they love "_le voyage_" nevertheless, and they are as justifiably proud of their antiquities and their historical monuments as any other race on earth. that they love their _patrie_, and all that pertains to it, with a devotion seemingly inexplicable to a people who go in only for "spreadeaglism," goes without saying. "_qu'il est doux de courir le monde!_ _ah! qu'il est doux de voyager!_" sang the author of the libretto of "diamants de la couronne," and he certainly expressed the sentiment well. the parisians themselves know and love burgundy perhaps more than any other of the old mediæval provinces; that is, they seemingly love it for itself; such minor contempt as they have for a provençal, a norman or a breton does not exist with regard to a bourguignon. said michelet: "burgundy is a country where all are possessed of a pompous and solemn eloquence." this is a tribute to its men. and he continued: "it is a country of good livers and joyous seasons"--and this is an encomium of its bounty. the men of the modern world who own to burgundy as their _patrie_ are almost too numerous to catalogue, but all will recall the names of buffon, guyton de morveau, monge and carnot, rude, rameau, sambin, greuze and prud'hon. in the arts, too, burgundy has played its own special part, and if the chateau-builder did not here run riot as luxuriously as in touraine, he at least builded well and left innumerable examples behind which will please the lover of historic shrines no less than the more florid renaissance of the loire. in the eighteenth century, the heart of burgundy was traversed by the celebrated "_coches d'eau_" which, as a means of transportation for travellers, was considerably more of an approach to the ideal than the railway of to-day. these "_coches d'eau_" covered the distance from chalon to lyon via the saône. one reads in the "almanach de lyon et des provinces de lyonnois, forêz et beaujolais, pour l'année bissextile ," that two of these "_coches_" each week left lyon, on mondays and thursdays, making the journey to chalon without interruption via trévoux, mâcon and tournus. from lyon to chalon took the better part of two and a half days' time, but the descent was accomplished in less than two days. from chalon, by "_guimbarde_," it was an affair of eight days to paris via arnay-le-duc, saulieu, vermanton, auxerre, joigny and sens. by diligence all the way, the journey from the capital to lyon was made in five days in summer and six in winter. says mercier in his "tableau de paris": "when sunday came on, the journey mass was said at three o'clock in the morning at some tavern en route." the ways and means of travel in burgundy have considerably changed in the last two hundred years, but the old-time flavour of the road still hangs over all, and the traveller down through burgundy to-day, especially if he goes by road, may experience not a little of the charm which has all but disappeared from modern france and its interminably straight, level, tree-lined highways. often enough one may stop at some old posting inn famous in history and, as he wheels his way along, will see the same historic monuments, magnificent churches and chateaux as did that prolific letter writer, madame de sévigné. apropos of these mediæval and renaissance chateaux scattered up and down france, the sieur colin, in , produced a work entitled "le fidèle conducteur pour les voyages en france" in which he said that every hillside throughout the kingdom was dotted with a "_belle maison_" or a "_palais_." he, too, like some of us of a later day, believed france the land of _chateaux par excellence_. evelyn, the diarist ( - ), thought much the same thing and so recorded his opinion. the duchesse de longueville, ( - ), on her journey from paris called the first chateau passed on the way a "_palais des fées_," which it doubtless was in aspect, and mlle. de montpensier, in a lodging with which she was forced to put up at saint fargeau, named it "_plus beau d'un chateau_,"--a true enough estimate of many a _maison bourgeois_ of the time. at pouges-les-eaux, in the nivernais, just on the borders of burgundy, whilst she was still travelling south, mlle. de montpensier put up at the chateau of a family friend and partook of an excellent dinner. this really speaks much for the appointments of the house in which she stopped, though one is forced to imagine the other attributes. she seemingly had arrived late, for she wrote: "i was indeed greatly surprised and pleased with my welcome; one could hardly have expected such attentions at so unseemly an hour." la fontaine was a most conscientious traveller and said some grand things of the renaissance chateaux-builders of which literary history has neglected to make mention. lippomano, the venetian ambassador of the sixteenth century, professed to have met with a population uncivil and wanting in probity, but he exalted, nevertheless, to the highest the admirable chateaux of princes and seigneurs which he saw on the way through burgundy. zinzerling, a young german traveller, in the year , remarked much the same thing, but regretted that a certain class of sight-seers was even then wont to scribble names in public places. we of to-day who love old monuments have, then, no more reason to complain than had this observant traveller of three hundred years ago. madame laroche was an indefatigable traveller of a later day ( ), and her comments on the "_belles maisons de campagne_" in these parts (she was not a guest in royal chateaux, it seems) throw many interesting side lights on the people, the manners and the customs of her time. bertin in his "voyage de bourgogne" recounts a noble welcome which he received at the chateau of a burgundian seigneur--"salvos of musketry, with the seigneur and the ladies of his household awaiting on the _perron_." this would have made an ideal stage grouping. arthur young, the english agriculturist, travelling in france just previous to the revolution, had all manner of comment for the french dwelling of whatever rank, but his observations in general were more with reference to the _chaumières_ of peasants than with the chateaux of seigneurs. time was when france was more thickly bestrewn with great monasteries and abbeys than now. they were in many ways the rivals of the palatial country houses of the seigneurs, and their princely _abbés_ and priors and prelates frequently wielded a local power no less militant than that of their secular neighbours. great churches, abbeys, monasteries, fortresses, chateaux, donjons and barbican gates are hardly less frequently seen in france to-day than they were of old, although in many instances a ruin only exists to tell the tale of former splendour. this is as true of burgundy as it is of other parts of france; indeed, it is, perhaps, a more apt reference here than it would be with regard to normandy or picardy, where many a mediæval civic or religious shrine has been made into a warehouse or a beet-sugar factory. the closest comparison of this nature that one can make with respect to these parts is that some cistercian monastery has become a "wine-chateau" like the clos vougeot or beaune's hospice or hotel dieu, which, in truth, at certain periods, is nothing more nor less than a great wholesale wine-shop. mediæval french towns, as well in burgundy as elsewhere, were invariably built up on one of three plans. the first was an outgrowth of the remains and débris of a more ancient gaulish or roman civilization, and purely civic and secular. the second class of community came as a natural ally of some great abbey, seigneurial chateau, really a fortress or an episcopal foundation which demanded freedom from molestation as its undeniable right. it was in such latter places that the bishops and abbés held forth with a magnificence and splendour of surroundings scarcely less imposing than that of royalty itself, though their domains were naturally more restricted in area and the powers that the prelates wielded were often no less powerful than their militant neighbours. the third class of mediæval settlements were the _villes-neuves_, or the _villes-franches_, a class of communities usually exempt from the exactions of seigneurs and churchmen alike, a class of towns readily recognized by their nomenclature. by the sixteenth century the soil of france was covered with a myriad of residential chateaux which were the admiration and envy of the lords of all nations. there had sprung up beside the old feudal fortresses a splendid galaxy of luxurious dwellings having more the air of domesticity than of warfare, which was the chief characteristics of their predecessors. it was then that the word _chateau_ came to supplant that of _chastel_ in the old-time chronicles. richelieu and the fronde destroyed many a mediæval fane whose ruins were afterwards rebuilt by some later seigneur into a renaissance palace of great splendour. the italian builder lent his aid and his imported profusion of detail until there grew up all over france a distinct variety of dwelling which quite outdistanced anything that had gone before. this was true in respect to its general plan as well as with regard to the luxury of its decorative embellishments. fortresses were razed or remodelled, and the chateau--the french chateau as we know it to-day, distinct from the _chastel_--then first came into being. any review of the castle, chateau and palace architecture of france, and of the historic incident and the personages connected therewith, is bound to divide itself into a geographical or climatic category. to begin with the manner of building of the southland was only transplanted in northern soil experimentally, and it did not always take root so vigorously that it was able to live. the renaissance glories of touraine and the valley of the loire, though the outcome of various italian pilgrimages, were of a more florid and whimsical fashioning than anything in italy itself, either at the period of their inception or even later, and so they are to be considered as something distinctly french,--indeed, it was their very influence which was to radiate all over the chateau-building world of the fourteenth, fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. by contrast, the square and round donjon towers of the fortress-chateaux--like arques, falais and coucy--were more or less an indigenous growth taking their plan from nothing alien. midi and the centre of france, provence, the pyrenees and the valleys of the rhône and saône, gave birth, or development, to still another variety of mediæval architecture both military and domestic, whilst the rhine provinces developed the species along still other constructional lines. there was, to be sure, a certain reminiscence, or repetition of common details among all extensive works of mediæval building, but they existed only by sufferance and were seldom incorporated as constructive elements beyond the fact that towers were square or round, and that the most elaborately planned chateaux were built around an inner courtyard, or were surrounded by a _fosse_, or moat. in burgundy and the bourbonnais, and to some extent in the nivernais, there grew up a distinct method of castle-building which was only allied with the many other varieties scattered over france in the sense that the fabrics were intended to serve the same purposes as their contemporaries elsewhere. the solid square shafts flanking a barbican gate,--the same general effect observable of all fortified towns,--the profuse use of heavy renaissance sculpture in town houses, the interpolated flemish-gothic (seen so admirably at beaune and dijon), and above all, the burgundian school of sculptured figures and figurines were details which flowered hereabouts as they did nowhere else. so far as the actual numbers of the edifices go it is evident that throughout burgundy ecclesiastical architecture developed at the expense of the more luxuriously endowed civic and domestic varieties of touraine, which, we can not deny, must ever be considered the real "chateaux country." in touraine the splendour of ecclesiastical building took a second place to that of the domestic dwelling, or country or town house. for the most part, the romanesque domestic edifice has disappeared throughout burgundy. only at cluny are there any very considerable remains of the domestic architecture of the romans, and even here there is nothing very substantial, no tangible reminder of the palace of emperor or consul, only some fragments of more or less extensive edifices which were built by the art which the romans brought with them from beyond the alps when they overran gaul. if one knows how to read the signs, there may still be seen at cluny fragments of old roman walls of stone, brick, and even of wood, and the fact that they have already stood for ten or a dozen centuries speaks much for the excellence of their building. it was undoubtedly something just a bit better than the modern way of doing things. of all the domestic edifices of burgundy dating from the thirteenth century or earlier, that enclosing the "cuisines" (the only name by which this curious architectural detail is known) of the old palace of the dukes at dijon is credited by all authorities as being quite the most remarkable, indeed, the most typical, of its environment. after this comes the salle synodale at sens. these two, showing the civic and domestic details of the purely burgundian manner of building, represent their epoch at its very best. in dauphiny and savoy, and to a certain extent the indeterminate ground of bresse, dombes and bugey which linked burgundy therewith, military and civic architecture in the middle ages took on slightly different forms. nevertheless, the style was more nearly allied to that obtaining in mid-france than to that of the midi, or to anything specifically italian in motive, although savoy was for ages connected by liens of blood with the holder of the italian crown. it was only in that savoy became a french département, with the rather unsatisfactory nomenclature of mont blanc. it is true, however, that by holding to the name of mont blanc the new department would at least have impressed itself upon the travelling public, as well as the fact that the peak is really french. as it is, it is commonly thought to be swiss, though for a fact it is leagues from the swiss frontier. before a score of years had passed savoy again became subject to an italian prince. less than half a century later "la savoie" became a pearl in the french diadem for all time, forming the départements of haute savoie and savoie of to-day. the rectangular fortress-like chateau--indeed more a fortress than a chateau--was more often found in the plains than in the mountains. it is for this reason that the chateaux of the alpine valleys and hillsides of savoy and dauphiny differ from those of the rhône or the saône. the rhine castle of our imaginations may well stand for one type; the other is best represented by the great parallelogram of aigues-mortes, or better yet by the walls and towers of the cité at carcassonne. feudal chateaux up to the thirteenth century were almost always constructed upon an eminence; it was only with the beginning of this epoch that the seigneurs dared to build a country house without the protection of natural bulwarks. the two types are represented in this book, those of the plain and those of the mountain, though it is to be remembered that it is the specific castle-like edifice, and not the purely residential chateau that often exists in the mountainous regions to the exclusion of the other variety. after that comes the ornate country house, in many cases lacking utterly the defences which were the invariable attribute of the castle. miolans and montmelian in savoy stand for examples of the first mentioned class; chastellux, ancy-le-franc and tanlay in burgundy for the second. examples of the _hôtels privées_, the town houses of the seigneurs who for the most part spent their time in their _maisons de campagne_ of the large towns and provincial cities are not to be neglected, nor have they been by the author and artist who have made this book. as examples may be cited the maison des dauphins at tour-de-pin, that elaborate edifice at paray-le-monail, various examples at dijon and the svelt, though unpretending, palais des granvelle at besançon in the franche comté. to sum up the chateau architecture, and, to be comprehensive, all mediæval and renaissance architecture in france, we may say that it stands as something distinctly national, something that has absorbed much of the best of other lands but which has been fused with the ingenious daring of the gaul into a style which later went abroad to all nations of the globe as something distinctly french. it matters little whether proof of this be sought in touraine, burgundy or poitou, for while each may possess their eccentricities of style, and excellencies as varied as their climates, all are to-day distinctly french, and must be so considered from their inception. among these master works which go to give glory and renown to french architecture are not only the formidable castles and luxurious chateaux of kings and princes but also the great civic palaces and military works of contemporary epochs, for these, in many instances, combined the functions of a royal dwelling with their other condition. chapter ii in the valley of the yonne there is no more charming river valley in all france than that of the yonne, which wanders from mid-burgundy down to join the seine just above fontainebleau and the artists' haunts of moret and montigny. the present day département of the yonne was carved out of a part of the old senonais and auxerrois; the latter, a burgundian fief, and the former, a tiny countship under the suzerainty of the counts of champagne. manners and customs, and art and architecture, however, throughout the department favour burgundy in the south rather than the northern influences which radiated from the ile de france. this is true not only with respect to ecclesiastical, civic and military architecture, but doubly so with the domestic varieties ranging from the humble cottage to the more ambitious _manoirs_ and _gentilshommeries_, and finally, to the still more magnificent seigneurial chateaux. within the confines of this area are some of the most splendid examples extant of burgundian domestic architecture of the renaissance period. the yonne is singularly replete with feudal memories and monuments as well. one remarks this on all sides, whether one enters direct from paris or from the east or west. from the morvan and the gatinais down through the auxerrois, the tonnerrois and the Époisses is a definite sequence of architectural monuments which in a very remarkable way suggest that they were the outgrowth of a distinctly burgundian manner of building, something quite different from anything to be seen elsewhere. in the ninth century, when the feudality first began to recognize its full administrative powers, the local counts of the valley of the yonne were deputies merely who put into motion the machinery designed by the nobler powers, the royal vassals of the powerful fiefs of auxerre, sens, tonnerre and avallon. the actual lease of life of these greater powers varied considerably according to the individual fortunes of their seigneurs, but those of joigny and tonnerre endured until , and the latter is incorporated into a present day title which even red republicanism has not succeeded in wiping out. the real gateway to the yonne valley is properly enough sens, but sens itself is little or nothing burgundian with respect to its architectural glories in general. its salle synodale is the one example which is distinct from the northern born note which shows so plainly in the tower and façade of its great cathedral; mostly sens is reminiscent of the sway and tastes of the royal bourbons. a few leagues south of sens the aspect of all things changes precipitately. at villeneuve-sur-yonne one takes a gigantic step backward into the shadowy past. whether or no he arrives by the screeching railway or the scorching automobile of the twentieth century, from the moment he passes the feudal-built gateway which spans the main street--actually the great national highway which links paris with the swiss and italian frontiers--and gazes up at its battlemented crest, he is transported into the realms of romance. travellers there are, perhaps, who might prefer to arrive on foot, but there are not many such passionate pilgrims who would care to do this thing to-day. they had much better, however, adopt even this mode of travel should no other be available, for at villeneuve there are many aids in conjuring up the genuine old-time spirit of things. at the opposite end of this long main street is yet another great barbican gate, the twin of that at the northerly end. together they form the sole remaining vestiges of the rampart which enclosed the old villeneuve-le-roi, the title borne by the town of old. yet despite such notable landmarks, there are literally thousands of stranger tourists who rush by villeneuve by road and rail in a season and give never so much as a thought or a glance of the eye to its wonderful scenic and romantic splendours! before villeneuve was known as villa-longa, after its original roman nomenclature, but a newer and grander city grew up on the old emplacement with fortification walls and towers and gates, built at the orders of louis vii. it was then that it came to be known as the king's own city and was called villeneuve-le-roi. by a special charter granted at this time villeneuve, like lorris on the banks of the loire, was given unusual privileges which made it exempt from crown taxes, and allowed the inhabitants to hunt and fish freely--feudal favours which were none too readily granted in those days. louis himself gave the new city the name of villa-francia-regia, but the name was soon corrupted to villeneuve-le-roi. for many years the city served as the chief burgundian outpost in the north. the great tower, or citadel, a part of the royal chateau where the king lodged on his brief visits to his pet city, was intended at once to serve as a fortress and a symbol of dignity, and it played the double part admirably. attached to this tower on the north was the royal chateau de salles, a favourite abode of the royalties of the thirteenth century. little or nothing of this dwelling remains to-day save the walls of the chapel, and here and there an expanse of wall built up into some more humble edifice, but still recognizable as once having possessed a greater dignity. there are various fragmentary foundation walls of old towers and other dependencies of the chateau, and the old ramparts cropping out here and there, but there is no definitely formed building of a sufficiently commanding presence to warrant rank as a historical monument of the quality required by the governmental authorities in order to have its patronage and protection. philippe-auguste, in , assembled here a parliament where the celebrated ordonnance "stabilementum feudorum" was framed. this alone is enough to make villeneuve stand out large in the annals of feudalism, if indeed no monuments whatever existed to bring it to mind. it was the code by which the entire machinery of french feudalism was put into motion and kept in running order, and for this reason the chateau de salles, where the king was in residence when he gave his hand and seal to the document, should occupy a higher place than it usually does. the chateau de salles was called "royal" in distinction to the usual seigneurial chateau which was merely "noble." it was not so much a permanent residence of the french monarchs as a sort of a rest-house on the way down to their burgundian possession after they had become masters of the duchy. the donjon tower that one sees to-day is the chief, indeed the only definitely defined, fragment of this once royal chateau which still exists, but it is sufficiently impressive and grand in its proportions to suggest the magnitude of the entire fabric as it must once have been, and for that reason is all-sufficient in its appeal to the romantic and historic sense. situated as it was on the main highway between paris and dijon, villeneuve occupied a most important strategic position. it spanned this old route royale with its two city gates, and its ramparts stretched out on either side in a determinate fashion which allowed no one to enter or pass through it that might not be welcome. these graceful towered gateways which exist even to-day were the models from which many more of their kind were built in other parts of the royal domain, as at magny-en-vexin, at moret-sur-loing, and at mâcon. a dozen kilometres from villeneuve-sur-yonne is joigny, almost entirely surrounded by a beautiful wildwood, the forêt national de joigny. joigny was one of the last of the local fiefs to give up its ancient rights and privileges. the fief took rank as a vicomté. jeanne de valois founded a hospice here--the predecessor of the present hotel dieu--and the cardinal de gondi of unworthy fame built the local chateau in the early seventeenth century. the chateau de joigny, as became its dignified state, was nobly endowed, having been built to the cardinal's orders by the italian serlio in - . to-day the structure serves the functions of a schoolhouse and is little to be remarked save that one hunts it out knowing its history. there is this much to say for the schoolhouse-chateau at joigny; it partakes of the constructive and decorative elements of the genuine local manner of building regardless of its italian origin, and here, as at villeneuve, there is a distinct element of novelty in all domestic architecture which is quite different from the varieties to be remarked a little further north. there, the town houses are manifestly town houses, but at joigny, as often as not, when they advance beyond the rank of the most humble, they partake somewhat of the attributes of a castle and somewhat of those of a palace. this is probably because the conditions of life have become easier, or because, in general, wealth, even in mediæval times, was more evenly distributed. certainly the noblesse here, as we know, was more numerous than in many other sections. any one of a score of joigny's old renaissance houses, which line its main street and the immediate neighbourhood of its market-place, is suggestive of the opulent life of the seigneurs of old to almost as great a degree as the gondi chateau which has now become the École-communal. of all joigny's architectural beauties of the past none takes so high a rank as its magnificent gothic church of saint jean, whose vaultings are of the most remarkable known. since the ruling seigneur at the time the church was rebuilt was a churchman, this is perhaps readily enough accounted for. it demonstrates, too, the intimacy with which the affairs of church and state were bound together in those days. a luxurious local chateau of the purely residential order, not a fortress, demanded a worthy neighbouring church, and the seigneur, whether or not he himself was a churchman, often worked hand in hand with the local prelate to see that the same was supplied and embellished in a worthy manner. this is evident to the close observer wherever he may rest on his travels throughout the old french provinces, and here at joigny it is notably to be remarked. saint fargeau, in the commune of joigny, is unknown by name and situation to the majority, but for a chateau-town it may well be classed with many better, or at least more popularly, known. on the principal place, or square, rises a warm-coloured winsome fabric which is the very quintessence of mediævalism. it is a more or less battered relic of the tenth century, and is built in a rosy brick, a most unusual method of construction for its time. the history of the chateau de saint fargeau has been most momentous, its former dwellers therein taking rank with the most noble and influential of the old régime. jacques coeur, the celebrated silversmith of bourges and the intimate of charles vii, mademoiselle de montpensier, and the leader of the convention--lepelletier de saint fargeau--all lived for a time within its walls, to mention only three who have made romantic history, though widely dissimilar were their stations. an ornate park with various decorative dependencies surrounds the old chateau on three sides and the ensemble is as undeniably theatrical as one could hope to find in the real. in general the aspect is grandiose and it can readily enough be counted as one of the "show-chateaux" of france, and would be were it better known. mlle. de montpensier--"la grande mademoiselle"--was chatelaine of saint fargeau in the mid-seventeenth century. her comings and goings, to and from paris, were ever written down at length in court chronicles and many were the "incidents"--to give them a mild definition--which happened here in the valley of the yonne which made good reading. on one occasion when mademoiselle quitted paris for saint fargeau she came in a modest "_carosse sans armes_." it was for a fact a sort of sub-rosa sortie, but the historian was discreet on this occasion. travel in the old days had not a little of romanticism about it, but for a [illustration: _chateau de saint fargeau_] lady of quality to travel thus was, at the time, a thing unheard of. this princess of blood royal thus, for once in her life, travelled like a plebeian. closely bound up with the sennonais were the fiefs of auxerre and tonnerre, whose capitals are to-day of that class of important provincial cities of the third rank which play so great a part in the economic affairs of modern france. but their present commercial status should by no means discount their historic pasts, nor their charm for the lover of old monuments, since evidences remain at every street corner to remind one that their origin was in the days when knights were bold. the railway has since come, followed by electric lights and automobiles, all of which are once and again found in curious juxtaposition with a bit of mediæval or renaissance architecture, in a manner that is surprising if not shocking. regardless of the apparent modernity roundabout, however, there is still enough of the glamour of mediævalism left to subdue the garishness of twentieth century innovations. all this makes the charm of french travel,--this unlocked for combination of the new and the old that one so often meets. one can not find just this same sort of thing at paris, nor on the riviera, nor anywhere, in fact, except in these minor capitals of the old french provinces. the comté d'auxerre was created in by the roi robert, who, after the reunion of the burgundian kingdom with the french monarchy, gave it to renaud, comte de nevers, as the dot of one, adelais, who may have been his sister, or his cousin--history is not precise. the house of nevers possessed the countship until , when it came to archambaud, the ninth of the name, sire de bourbon. one of his heirs married a son of the duc de bourgogne and to him brought the county of auxerre, which thus became burgundian in fact. later it took on a separate entity again, or rather, it allied itself with the comtes de tonnerre at a price paid in and out of hand, it must not be neglected to state, of , _livres tournois_. the crown of france, through the comtes d'auxerre, came next into possession, but charles vii, under the treaty of arras, ceded the countship in turn to philippe-le-bon, duc de bourgogne. definite alliance with the royal domain came under louis xi, thus the province remained until the revolution. with such a history small wonder it is that auxerre has preserved more than fleeting memories of its past. of great civic and domestic establishments of mediævalism, auxerre is poverty-stricken nevertheless. the episcopal palace, now the préfecture, is the most imposing edifice of its class, and is indeed a worthy thing from every view-point. it has a covered _loggia_, or gallery running along its façade, making one think that it was built by, or for, an italian, which is not improbable, since it was conceived under the ministership of cardinal mazarin who would, could he have had his way, have made all things french take on an italian hue. from this _loggia_ there is a wide-spread, distant view of the broad valley of the yonne which here has widened out to considerable proportions. the history of this préfectural palace of to-day, save as it now serves its purpose as a governmental administrative building, is wholly allied with that of auxerre's magnificent cathedral and its battery of sister churches. within the edifice, filled with clerks and officials in every cranny, all busy writing out documents by hand and clogging the wheels of progress as much as inefficiency can, are still found certain of its ancient furnishings and fittings. the great salle des audiences is still intact and is a fine example of thirteenth century woodwork. the wainscotting of its walls and ceiling is remarkably worked with a finesse of detail that would be hard to duplicate to-day except at the expense of a lord of finance or a king of petrol. not even government contractors, no matter what price they are paid, could presume to supply anything half so fine. it was at auxerre that the art and craft of building noble edifices developed so highly among churchmen. the builders of the twelfth century were not only often monks but churchmen of rank as well. they occupied themselves not only with ecclesiastical architecture, but with painting and sculpture. one of the first of these clerical master-builders was geoffroy, bishop of auxerre, and three of his prebendarys were classed respectively as painters, glass-setters and metal-workers. the towering structure on the place du marché is to-day auxerre's nearest approach to a chateau of the romantic age, and this is only a mere tower to-day, a fragment left behind of a more extensive residential and fortified chateau which served its double purpose well in its time. it is something more than a mere belfry, or clock tower, however. it is called the tour gaillarde, and flanked at one time the principal breach in the rampart wall which surrounded the city. it is one of the finest specimens of its [illustration: _tour gaillarde, auxerre_] class extant, and is more than the rival of the great tour de l'horloge at rouen or the pair of towers over which conventional tourists rave, as they do over the bears in the bear-pit, at berne in switzerland. the entire edifice, the tower and that portion which has disappeared, formed originally the residence of the governor of the place, the personal representative of the counts who themselves, in default of a special residence in their capital, were forced to lodge therein on their seemingly brief visits. the names of the counts of tonnerre and auxerre appear frequently in the historical chronicles of their time, but references to their doings lead one to think that they chiefly idled their time away at paris. that this great tower made a part of some sort of a fortified dwelling there is no doubt, but that it was ever a part of a seigneurial chateau is not so certain. with respect to the part auxerre played in the military science of the middle ages it is interesting to recall that the drum, or _tambour_, is claimed as of local origin, or at least that it was here first known in france, in the fourteenth century. no precise date is given and one is inclined to think that its use with the army of edward iii at calais on the rd august, , was really its first appearance across the channel after all. above auxerre the yonne divides, or rather takes to itself the armançon and the seruin to swell its bulk as it flows down through the auxerrois. above lies the avallonnais, where another race of seigneurs contribute an altogether different series of episodes from that of their neighbours. it remains a patent fact, however, that the cities and towns of the valley of the yonne give one ample proof of the close alliance in manners and customs of all mid-france of mediæval times. the inhabitants of this region are not a race apart, but are traditionally a blend of the "natural" champenois and the "frank and loyal" burgundian,--"strictly keeping to their promises, and with a notable probity in business affairs," says a proud local historian. here in this delightful river valley were bred and nourished the celebrated painter, jean-cousin; the illustrious vauban, the builder of fortresses; the enigmatical chevaliere d'eon; the artist soufflot, architect of the pantheon; regnault de saint-jean d'angely, minister of napoleon; bourrienne, his secretary and afterwards minister of state under the bourbons. following the yonne still upwards towards its source one comes ultimately to clamecy. between auxerre and clamecy the riverside is strewn thickly with the remains of many an ancient feudal fortress or later chateaux. at mailly-le-chateau are the very scanty fragments of a former edifice built by the comtes d'auxerre in the fifteenth century, and at chatel-censoir is another of the same class. at coulanges-sur-yonne is the débris, a tower merely, of what must one day have been a really splendid edifice, though even locally one can get no specific information concerning its history. from clamecy the highroad crosses the bazois to chateau chinon in the nivernais. the name leads one to imagine much, but of chateaux it has none, though its nomenclature was derived from the emplacement of an ancient _oppidum gaulois_, a _castrum gallo-romain_ and later a feudal chateau. the road on to burgundy lies to the southwest via the avallonnais, or, leaving the watershed of the yonne for that of the upper seine, via tonnerre and châtillon-sur-seine lying to the eastward of auxerre. chapter iii avallon, vezelay and chastellux avallon owes its origin to the construction of a chateau-fort. it was built by robert-le-pieux, the son of hugues capet, in the tenth century. little by little the fortress has crumbled and very nearly disappeared. all that remains are the foundation walls on what is locally called the rocher d'avallon, virtually the pedestal upon which sits the present city. avallon, like neighbouring semur and vezelay, sits snugly and proudly behind its rampart of nature's ravines and gorges, a series of military defences ready-made which on more than one occasion in mediæval times served their purpose well. it was in the old chateau d'avallon that jacques d'epailly, called "forte Épice," was giving a great ball when philippe-le-bon beseiged the city. jacques treated the inhabitants with the utmost disrespect, even the ladies, and secretly quitted the ball just before the city troops surrendered. history says that the weak-hearted gallant sold out to the enemy and saved himself by the back door, and in spite of no documentary evidence to this effect the long arm of coincidence points to the dastardly act in an almost unmistakable manner. near avallon are still to be seen extensive roman remains. a roman camp, the camp des alleux, celebrated in gaulish and roman history, was here, and the old roman road between lyons and boulogne in belgica secundus passed near by. it is not so much with reference to avallon itself, quaint and picturesque as the city is, that one's interest lies hereabouts. more particularly it is in the neighbouring chateaux of chastellux and montréal. the seigneur de chastellux was one of the most powerful vassals of the duc de bourgogne. by hereditary custom the eldest of each new generation presented himself before the bishop of auxerre clad in a surplice covering his military accoutrements, and wearing a falcon at his wrist. in this garb he swore to support church and state, and for this devotion was vested in the title of chanoin d'auxerre, a title which supposedly served him in good stead in case of military disaster. it was thus that the maréchal de chastellux, a famous warrior, was, as late as , also a canon of the cathedral at auxerre. it was, too, in this grotesque costume that the chanoin-comte d'chastellux welcomed louis xiv on a certain visit to auxerre. at auxerre, in the cathedral, one sees a monument commemorative of the sires de chastellux. it was erected by césar de chastellux under the restoration, to replace the tomb torn down by the chapter in the fifteenth century. this desecration, by churchmen themselves, one must remember, took place in spite of the fact that a chastellux was even then a dignitary of the church. chastellux, beyond its magnificent chateau, is an indefinable, unconvincing little bourg, but from the very moment one sets foot within its quaintly named hotel de maréchal de chastellux he, or she, is permeated with the very spirit of romance and mediævalism. the bridge which crosses the cure in the middle of the village owns to the ripe old age of three hundred and fifty years, and is still rendering efficient service. this is something mature for a bridge, even in france, where many are doing their daily work as they have for centuries. will the modern "suspension" affairs do as well? that's what nobody knows! the hotel, or [illustration: _chateau de chastellux_] _auberge_ rather, can not be less aged than the bridge, though the manner in which it is conducted is not at all antiquated. a rocky, jagged pedestal, of a height of perhaps a hundred and fifty feet, holds aloft the fine mass of the chateau de chastellux. for eight centuries this fine old pile was in the making and, though manifestly non-contemporary as to its details, it holds itself together in a remarkably consistent manner and presents an ensemble and silhouette far more satisfactory to view than many a more popular historic monument of its class. its great round towers, their coiffes and the pignons and gables of the roof, give it all a _cachet_ which is so striking that one forgives, or ignores the fact that it is after all a work of various epochs. visitors here are welcome. one may stroll the corridors and apartments, the vast halls and the courtyard as fancy wills, except that one is always discreetly ciceroned by a guardian who may be a man, a woman, or even a small child. there is none of the espionage system about the surveillance, however, and one can but feel welcome. blazons in stone and wood and tapestries are everywhere. they are the best, or the worst, of their kind; one really doesn't stop to think which; the effect is undeniably what one would wish, and surely no carping critic has any right to exercise his functions here. there is not the least cause to complain if the furnishings are of non-contemporary periods like the exterior adornments, because the certain stamp of sincerity and genuineness over all defies undue criticism. the chateau de chastellux dates, primarily, from the thirteenth century, with many fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth century restorations or additions which are readily enough to be recognized. from its inception, the chateau has belonged to the family of beauvoir-de-chastellux, the cadet branch of anseric-de-montréal. practically triangular in form, as best served its original functions of a defensive habitation, this most theatrical of all burgundian chateaux is flanked by four great attached towers. the tour de l'horloge is a massive rectangular pile of the fifteenth century; the tour d'amboise is a round tower dating from ; the tour de l'hermitage and the tour des archives, each of them, also round, are of the sixteenth century. in the disposition and massiveness of these towers alone the chateau de chastellux is unique. another isolated tower, even more stupendous in its proportions, is known as the tour saint jean, and is a donjon of the ideally acceptable variety, dating from some period anterior to the chateau proper. moat-surrounded, the chateau is only to be entered by crossing an ornamental waterway. one arrives at the actual entrance by the usual all-eyed roadway ending at the _perron_ of the chateau where a simple bell-pull silently announces the ways and means of gaining entrance. the domestic appears at once and without questioning your right proceeds to do the honours as if it were for yourself alone that the place were kept open. the chief and most splendid apartment is the salle des gardes, to a great extent restored, but typical of the best of fifteenth century workmanship and appointments. its chimney-piece, as splendid in general effect as any to be seen in the loire chateaux, is but a re-made affair, but follows the best traditions and encloses moreover fragments of fifteenth century sculptures which are authentically of that period. the cornice of this majestic apartment bears the chastellux arms and those of their allied families, interwoven with the oft repeated inscription, _monréal à sire de chastellux_. in this same salle des gardes are hung a pair of ancient gobelins, and set into the floor is a dainty morsel of an antique mosaic found nearby. the modern billiard-room, also shown to the inquisitive, contains portraits of the chancelier d'aguesseau and his wife, and its fittings--aside from the green baize tables and their accessories--are well carried out after the style of louis xiii. good taste, or bad, one makes no comment, save to suggest that the billiard tables look out of place. in what the present dweller calls the salon rouge are portraits and souvenirs of a military ancestor comte césar de chastellux, who, judging from his dress and cast of countenance, must have been a warrior bold of the conventional type. after the salle des gardes the grand salon is the most effective apartment. its wall and ceiling decorations are the same that were completed in , and incorporated therein are fourteen portraits of the sires and comtes who one day lived and loved within these castle walls. these portraits are reproductions of others which were destroyed by the unchained devils of the french revolution who made way with so much valuable documentary evidence from which one might build up french mediæval history anew. the village church contains several tombal monuments of the chastellux. the chateau de montréal, or mont-royal, so closely allied with the fortunes of the chastellux, between avallon and chastellux, is built high on a mamelon overlooking the seruin, and is one of the most ancient and curious places in burgundy. the little town, of but five hundred inhabitants, is built up mostly of the material which came from one of the most ancient of the feudal chateaux of mid-france. this chateau was originally a primitive fortress, once the residence of queen brunhaut, the wife of the roi d'austrasie in . it was from this hill-top residence that the name montréal has been evolved. the sparse population of the place were benefited by special privileges from the earliest times and the _cité movenageuse_ itself was endowed with many admirable examples of administrative and domestic architecture. of the renaissance chateaux of the later seigneurs, here and there many portions remain built into other edifices, but there is no single example left which, as a whole, takes definite shape as a noble historical monument. there are a dozen old renaissance house-fronts, with here and there a supporting tower or wall which is unquestionably of mediæval times and might tell thrilling stories could stones but speak. in renaissance annals montréal was celebrated by the exploit of the dame de ragny ( ), who recaptured the place after it had been taken possession of by the ligeurs during the absence of her husband, the governor. at the entrance of the old bourg is a great gateway which originally led to the seigneurial enclosure. it is called the port d'en bas and has arches dating from the thirteenth century. montréal and its mediæval chateau was the cradle of the anseric-de-montréal family, who were dispossessed in to the profit of the ducs de bourgogne. it was to the cadet branch of this same family chastellux once belonged. to the west lies vezelay, one of the most remarkable conglomerate piles of ancient masonry to be seen in france to-day. it was a most luxurious abode in mediæval times, and its great church, with its ornate portal and façade, ranks as one of the most celebrated in europe. vezelay is on no well-worn tourist track; it is indeed chiefly unknown except to those who know well their ecclesiastical history. it was within this famous church that saint bernard awakened the fervour of the crusade in the breast of louis-le-jeune. the abbey church saw, too, philippe-auguste and richard coeur-de-lion start for their crusades, and even saint louis came here before setting out from aigues mortes for the land of the turk. this illustrious church quite crushes anything else in vezelay by its splendour, but nevertheless the history of its other monuments has been great, and the part played by the miniscule city itself has been no less important in more mundane matters. its mediæval trading-fairs were famous throughout the provinces of all france, and even afar. in the middle ages vezelay had a population of ten thousand souls; to-day a bare eight hundred call it their home town. the seigneurial chateau at vezelay is hardly in keeping to-day with its former proud estate. one mounts from the lower town by a winding street lined on either side by admirably conserved renaissance houses of an unpretentious class. the chateau, where lodged louis-le-jeune, has embedded in its façade two great shot launched from huguenot cannon during the siege of . another seigneurial "_hôtel privée_" has over its portal this inscription: "_comme colombe humble et simple seray_ _et à mon nom mes moeurs conformeray._" here in opulent basse-bourgogne, where the vassals of a seigneur were often as powerful as he, their dwellings were frequently quite as splendid as the official residence of the overlord. it is this genuinely unspoiled mediæval aspect of seemingly nearly all the houses of this curious old town of vezelay which give the place its charm. the porte neuve is a great dependent tower which formerly was attached to the residence of the governor--the chateau-fort in fact--and it still stands militant as of old, supported on either side by two enormous round towers and surmounted by a machicoulis and a serrated cornice which tells much of its efficiency as a mediæval defence. to the right are still very extensive remains of the fourteenth and fifteenth century ramparts. near vezelay is the chateau de bazoche, which possesses a profound interest for the student of military architecture in france by reason of its having been the birthplace of maréchal vauban, who became so celebrated as a fortress-builder that he, as much as anybody, may be considered the real welder of modern france. vauban's body is buried in the local churchyard, but his heart had the distinction of being torn from his body and given a glorious (?) burial along with countless other fragments of military heroes in the hotel des invalides at paris. bazoches is not a name that is on the tip of the tongue of every mentor and guide to french history, though the appearance of its chateau is such that one wonders that it is not more often cited by the guide-books which are supposed to point out the quaint and curious to vagabond travellers. there are many such who had rather worship at a shrine such as this than to spend their time loitering about the big hotels of the flash resorts with which the europe of the average tourist is becoming overcrowded. makers of guide-books and the managers of tourist agencies do not seem to know this. bazoches is a townlet of five hundred inhabitants, and not one of them cares whether you come or go. they do not even marvel that the chateau is the only thing in the place that ever brings a stranger there,--they ignore the fact that you are there, so by this reckoning one puts bazoches, the town and the chateau, down as something quite unspoiled. half the population lives in fine old gothic and renaissance houses which, to many of us, used to living under another species of rooftree, would seem a palace. what the chateau de bazoches lacks in great renown it makes up for in imposing effect. each angle meets in a svelt round tower of the typical picture-book and stage-carpenter fashion. each tower is coiffed with a peaked candle-snuffer cap and a row of machicoulis which gives the whole edifice a warlike look which is unmistakable. the finest detail of all is "la grande tour" supporting one end of the principle mass of the chateau, and half built into the hillside which backs it up on the rear. vauban bought an old feudal castle in and added to it after his own effective manner, thus making the chateau, as one sees it to-day, the powerful bulwark that it is. the chateau belongs to-day to the vibrave family, who keep open house for the visitor who would see within and without. the principle apartment is entirely furnished with the same belongings which served vauban for his personal use. another neighbouring chateau, bearing also the name chateau de vauban, was also the property of the maréchal. it dates from the sixteenth century, and though in no way historic, has many architectural details worthy of observation and remark. chapter iv semur-en-auxois, Époisses and bourbilly due east from avallon some thirty odd kilometres is semur-en-auxois. it is well described as a feudal city without and a banal one within. its mediæval walls and gates lead one to expect the same old-world atmosphere over all, but, aside from its churches and an occasional architectural display of a renaissance house-front, its cast of countenance, when seen from its decidedly bourgeois point of view, is, if not modern, at least matter-of-fact and unsympathetic. in spite of this its historical recollections are many and varied, and there are fragments galore of its once proud architectural glories which bespeak their prime importance, and also that the vandal hand of so-called progress and improvement has fallen heavily on all sides. the site of semur to a great extent gives it that far-away mediæval look; that, at least, could not be taken away from it. it possesses, moreover, one of the most astonishing [illustration: _semur-en-auxois_] silhouettes of any hill-top town in france. like constantine in north africa it is walled and battlemented by a series of natural defences in the form of ravines or gorges so profound that certainly no ordinary invading force could have entered the city. semur was formerly the capital of the auxois, and for some time held the same rank in the burgundian duchy. the city from within suggests little of mediævalism. prosperity and contentment do not make for a picturesque and romantic environment of the life of the twentieth century. it was different in the olden time. semur, by and large, is of the age of mediævalism, however, though one has to delve below the surface to discover this after having passed the great walls and portals of its natural and artificial ramparts. semur's bourg, donjon and chateau, as the respective quarters of the town are known, tell the story of its past, but they tell it only by suggestion. the ancient fortifications, as entire works, have disappeared, and the chateau has become a barracks or a hospital. only the chateau donjon and immediate dependencies, a group of towering walls, rise grim and silent as of old above the great arch of the bridge flung so daringly across the armançon at the bottom of the gorge. the last proprietor of semur's chateau was the marquis du chatelet, the husband of the even more celebrated madame du chatelet, who held so great a place in the life of voltaire. the philosopher, it seems, resided here for a time, and his room is still kept sacred and shown to visitors upon application. semur as much as anything is a reminder of the past rather than a living representation of what has gone before. within the city walls were enacted many momentous events of state while still it was the burgundian capital. again during the troublous times of the "ligue," henri iv transferred to its old chateau the parliament which had previously held its sittings at dijon. semur's monuments deserved a better fate than has befallen them, for they were magnificent and epoch-making, if not always from an artistic point of view, at least from an historic one. we made semur our headquarters for a little journey to Époisses, bourbilly and montbard, where formerly lived and died the naturalist buffon, in the celebrated chateau de montbard. Époisses lies but a few kilometres west of semur. its chateau is a magnificently artistic and historic shrine if there ever was such. in madame de sévigné wrote that she "here descended from her carriage: _chez son seigneur d'Époisses_." here she found herself so comfortably off that she forgot to go on to bourbilly, where she was expected and daily awaited. it was ten days later that she finally moved on; so one has but the best of opinions regarding the good cheer which was offered her. at the time it must have been an ideal country house, this mansion of the seigneur d'Époisses, as indeed it is to-day. the lady wrote further: "here there is the greatest liberty; one reads or walks or talks or works as he, or she, pleases." this is what everyone desires and so seldom gets when on a visit. as for the other natural and artificial charms which surrounded the place, one may well judge by a contemplation of it to-day. here in the chateau, or manor, or whatever manner of rank it actually takes in one's mind, you may see the room occupied by madame de sévigné on the occasion of her "pleasant visit." it is a "chambre aux fleurs" in truth, and that, too, is the name by which the apartment is officially known. above the mantel, garlanded with flowers carved in wood, one reads the following attributed to the fascinating marquise herself. the circumstance is authenticated in spite of the fantastic orthography. as a letter writer, at any rate, she made no such faults. "_nos plaisirs ne sont capparence_ _et souvent se cache nos pleurs_ _sous l'éclat de ces belles fleurs_ _qui ne sont que vaine éperance._" the chateau de bourbilly, where madame de sévigné was really bound at the time she lingered on "_chez son cher seigneur_," is a near neighbour of Époisses. it was the retreat of madame de chantal, the ancestress of madame de sévigné, the founder of the order of the visitation who has since become a saint of the church calendar--sainte jeanne-de-chantal. this fine seventeenth century chateau, with its pointed towers and its mansard, belonged successively to the families marigny, de mello, de thil, de savace, de la tremouille and rabutin-chantel, of which the sanctified jeanne and madame de sévigné were the most illustrious members. madame de sévigné, the amiable letter writer, sojourned here often on her voyages up and down france. she herself lived in the [illustration: _chateau d'Époisses_] chateau des rochers in brittany and her daughter, the comtesse de grignan, in provence, and they did not a little visiting between the two. bourbilly was a convenient and delightful halfway house. madame de sévigné can not be said to have made bourbilly her residence for long at any time. for a fact she was as frequently a guest at the neighbouring chateau de guitant, a feudal dwelling still inhabited by the de guitants, or at Époisses, as she was at bourbilly. in the chapel, which is of the sixteenth century, is the tomb of the baron de bussy-rabutin and some _reliques_ of sainte-jeanne-de-chantal. the latter has served to make of bourbilly a pilgrim shrine which, on the st august, draws a throng from all parts for the annual fête. there was a popular impression long current among french writers that madame de sévigné was born in the chateau de bourbilly. a line or two of that indefatigable penman, bussy, tended to make this ready of belief when he wrote of his cousin as "_une demoiselle de bourgogne egarée en bretagne_." she herself claimed to have been "transplanted," but it was a transplantation by marriage; she was most certainly not born at bourbilly, at any rate, for history, better informed than an unconvincing scribbler, states that she was born in paris, like molière and voltaire, who also have finally been claimed by the capital as her own. at all events, at bourbilly madame de sévigné was true enough on the land of the "_vieux chateau de ses pères, ses belles prairies, sa petite rivière, ses magnifiques bois_." it was her property in fact, or came to be, and she might have lived there had she chosen. she would not dispose of it when importuned to do so, and replied simply, but coldly (one reads this in the "letters"), "i will not sell the property for the reason that i wish to hand it down to my daughter." from this one would think that she had a great affection for it, but at times it was a "_vieux chateau_" and at others it was a "_horrible maison_." capricious woman! the letters of madame de sévigné written from here were not numerous, as she only "stopped over" on her various journeyings. when one recognizes the tastes and habits of the marquise, it is not to be wondered at that her visits to bourbilly were neither prolonged nor multiplied. turning one's itinerary south from semur one comes shortly to cussy-la-colonne, where "la colonne" is recognized by the archæologists as one of the most celebrated and most ancient monuments of burgundy. one learns from the inscription in franco-latin that the ancient monument (_antiquissimum hoc monumentum_) much damaged by the flapping wings of time, was rebuilt, as nearly as possible in its original form, by a prefect of the department of the côte d'or (collis aurei praefectus), m. charles arbaud, in the reign (sous l'empire) of charles x (imperante carolo x.... anno salutis mdcccxxv.) an astonishing mélange this of the tongue of cicero and modern administrative _patois_. the colonne de cussy, is rather a pagan memorial of a victory of the romans in the reign of diocletian, or, from another surmise, a funeral monument to a roman general dead on the eve of victory. in either case, there it stands fragmentary and wind and weather worn like the pillars of hercules or pompey. one simply notes cussy and its "colonne" _en passant_ on the road to saulieu and arnay-le-duc, where the ducs de bourgogne had one of their most favoured country houses, or manors. we only stopped at saulieu by chance anyway; we stopped for the night in fact because it was getting too late to push on farther, and we were glad indeed that we did. saulieu is a most ancient town and owes its name to a neighbouring wood. here was first erected a pagan temple to the sun; fragments of it have recently been found; and here one may still see the tracings of the old roman way crossing what was afterwards,--to the powerful colony at autun,--the duchy of burgundy. as a fortified place saulieu was most potent, but in a pest destroyed almost its total population. disaster after disaster fell upon it and the place never again achieved the prominence of its neighbouring contemporaries. it was here at saulieu in revolutionary times that the good people, as if in remembrance of the disasters which had befallen them under monarchial days, hailed with joy the arrival of the men of the marseilles battalion as they were marching on paris "to help capture capet's castle." before the church of saint saturnin the patriots' club had lighted a big bonfire, and the "men of the midi" were received with open arms and a warm welcome. "how good they were to us at saulieu," said one of the number, recounting his adventures upon his arrival at paris; "they gave us all the wine we could swallow and all the good things we could eat,--we had enough boeuf-à-la-daub to rise over our ears...." to-day the good folk of saulieu treat the stranger in not unsimilar fashion, and though the town lacks noble monuments it makes up for the deficiency in its good cheer. saulieu in this respect quite lives up to its reputation of old. this little capital of the morvan-bourguignon has ever owned to one or more distinguished vatel's. madame de sévigné, in , stopped here at a friend's country house, and, as she wrote, "_le fermier donne à tous un grand diner_." this was probably the manoir de guitant between bourbilly and saulieu. they were long at table, for it was a _diner des adieux_ given by her friend guitant to his visitors. she wrote further: "with the dinner one drank a great deal, and afterwards a great deal more; all went off with the greatest possible éclat. voila l'affaire!" evidently such a manner of parting did not produce sadness! a donjon tower with a duck-pond before it, opposite the hotel de la poste is all the mediævalism that one sees within the town at saulieu to-day. it is all that one's imagination can conjure up of the ideal donjon of mediævalism and interesting withal, though its history is most brief, indeed may be said to exist not at all in recorded form, for the chief references to saulieu's historic past date back to the pagan temple and the founding of the abbey of saint andoche in the eighth century. still heading south one comes in a dozen kilometres to a chateau of the fourteenth century, and the restorations of henri iv at thoisy-la-berchere. later restorations, by the marquis de montbossier, who occupies it to-day, have made of it one of the most attractive of the minor chateaux of france. one may visit it under certain conditions, whether the family is in residence or not, and will carry away memories of many splendid chimney pieces and wall tapestries. for the rest the furnishings are modern, which is saying that they are banal. this of course need not always be so, but when the renaissance is mixed with the art nouveau and the latest fantasies of dufayal it lacks appeal. this is as bad as "empire" and "mission," which seem to have set the pace for "club furniture" during the past decade. arnay-le-duc still to the south was the site of a ducal burgundian manor which almost reached the distinction of a palace. here the country loving dukes spent not a little of their leisure time when away from their capital. arnay-le-duc, more than any other town of its class in france, retains its almost undefiled feudal aspect to-day when viewed from beyond the walls. formerly it was the seat of a _bailliage_ and has conserved the débris of the feudal official residence. this is supported in addition by many fine examples of renaissance-burgundian architectural treasures which give the town at once the stamp of genuineness which it will take many years of progress to wholly eradicate. none of these fine structures, least of all the ducal manor, is perfectly conserved, but the remains are sufficiently ample and well cared for to merit the classification of still being reckoned habitable and of importance. the old manor of the dukes has now descended to more humble uses, but has lost little of the aristocratic bearing which it once owned. it was near this fortified bourgade of other days--fortified that the dukes might rest in peace when they repaired thither--that the infant henri iv, at the age of sixteen, received his baptism of fire and first gained his stripes under the direction of maréchal de cossé-brissac. chapter v montbard and bussy-rabutin montbard lies midway between semur and châtillon-sur-seine, on the great highroad leading from burgundy into champagne. the old chateau de montbard is represented only by the donjon tower which rises grimly above the modern edifice built around its base and the sprawling little town which clusters around its park gates at the edge of the tiny river brenne. the "grand seigneur" of montbard was but a simple man of letters, the naturalist buffon. here he found comfort and tranquillity, and loved the place and its old associations accordingly. here he lived, "having doffed his sword and cloak," and occupied himself only with his literary labours, though with a gallantry and _esprit_ which could but have produced the eloquent pages ascribed to him. buffon was a native of the town, and through him, more than anyone else, the town has since been heard of in history. having acquired the property of the old chateau, the donjon of which stood firm and broad on its base, he made of the latter his study, or _salon de travail_. this is the only remaining portion of the mediæval castle of montbard. the ancient walls which existed, though in a ruined state, were all either levelled or rebuilt by buffon into the dependent dwelling which he attached to the donjon. the revolution, too, did not a little towards wiping out a part of the structure, as indeed it did the tomb of the naturalist in the local churchyard. buffon, or, to give him his full title, georges-louis-leclerc-de-buffon lived here a life of retirement, amid a comfort, perhaps even of luxury, that caused his jealous critics to say that he worked in a velvet coat, and that he was a sort of eighteenth century "nature-fakir." this is probably an injustice. in louis xv made the "_terre de buffon_" a countship, but the naturalist chose not to reside in the village of the name, but to live at montbard some leagues away. montbard's actual celebrity came long before the time of buffon, for its chateau was built in the fourteenth century and was for centuries the possessor of an illustrious sequence of annals intimately associated with the dukedom of burgundy. jean-sans-peur, it is to be noted, passed a portion of his youth within its walls. this gives it at once rank as a royal chateau, though that was not actually its classification. the princesse anne, sister of philippe le bon, here married the duke of bedford in . all this would seem fame enough for montbard, but the local old men and women know no more of their remote rulers than they do of buffon; local pride is a very doubtful commodity. it is disconcerting for a stranger to accost some _bon homme_ or _bonne femme_ to learn the way to the chateau de buffon, and to receive in reply a simple stare and the observation, "i don't know the man." aside, to some crony, you may hear the observation, "who are these strangers and what do they want with their man buffon anyway?" this may seem an exaggeration, but it is not, and furthermore the thing may happen anywhere. glory is but as smoke, and local fame is often an infinitesimal thing. _vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas!_ buffon wrote his extensive "histoire naturelle" at montbard. it created much admiration at the time. to-day buffon, his work and his chateau are all but forgotten or ignored, and but few visitors come to continue the idolatry of jean jacques rousseau, who kissed the "_seuil de la noble demure_." not long since, within some few years at any rate, a former friend of alfred de musset quoted some little known lines of the poet on this "_berceau de la histoire naturelle_," with the result that quite recently the local authorities, in establishing the musée buffon, have caused them, to be carved on a panel in the naturalist's former study at the chateau. "buffon, que ton ombre pardonne a une témérité d'ajouter une fleur à la double couronne que sur ton front mit l'immortalité." buffon's additions to the old chateau were made for comfort, whatever they may have lacked of romanticism. the french pliny was evidently not in the least romantically inclined, or he would not have levelled these historic walls and the alleyed walks and gardens laid out in the profuse and formal manner of those of italy. the result is a poor substitute for a picturesque grass-grown ruin, or a faithfully restored mediæval castle. between the brenne and a canal which flows through the town rises an admirable feudal tower indicating the one time military and strategic importance of the site. it is called mont bard, and marks where once stood the fortress that surrendered in its time to the "ligueurs." near montbard is a hamlet which bears the illustrious name of buffon, but it is doubtful if even a few among its three hundred inhabitants know for whom it is named. still further away, on the châtillon road, is the little town of villaines-en-dumois, a bourg of no importance in the life of modernity. it is somnolent to an extreme, comfortable-looking and apparently prosperous. the grand route from paris to dijon passes it by a dozen kilometres to the left, and the railway likewise. coaching days left it out in the cold also, and modern travel hardly knows that it exists. in spite of this the town owns to something more than the trivial morsels of stone which many a township locally claims as a chateau. here was once a favourite summer residence of the burgundian dukes, and here to-day the shell, or framework, of the same edifice looks as though it might easily be made habitable. the property came later to the madame de longueville, the sister of the grand condé. there is nothing absolutely magnificent about it now, but the suggestion of its former estate is still there to a notable degree. the walls and towers, lacking roofs though they do, well suggest the princely part the edifice once played in the life of its time. in spite of the fact that the name of the town appears in none of the red or blue backed guide-books, enough is known of it to establish it as the former temporary seat of one of the most formal of the minor courts of europe, where--the records tell--etiquette was as strict as in the ducal palace at dijon. four great round towers are each surrounded by a half-filled moat, and the suggestion of the old chapel, in the shape of an expanse of wall which shows a remarkably beautiful ogival window, definitely remains to give the idea of the former luxury and magnificence with which the whole structure was endowed. a detached dwelling, said to be the house of the prior of a neighbouring monastery who attached himself to the little court, is in rather a better state of preservation than the chateau itself, and might indeed be made habitable by one with a modest purse and a desire to play the "grand seigneur" to-day in some petty gone-to-seed community. these opportunities exist all up and down france to-day, and this seems as likely a spot as any for one who wishes to transplant his, or her, household gods. beyond montbard is les laumes, a minor railway junction on the line to dijon, which is scarcely ever remembered by the traveller who passes it by. but, although there is nothing inspiring to be had from even a glance of the eye in any direction as one stops a brief moment at the station, nevertheless it is a prolific centre for a series of historical pilgrimages which, for pleasurable edification, would make the traveller remember it all his life did he give it more than a passing thought. one must know its history though, or many of the historic souvenirs will be passed by without an impression worth while. on mont auxois, rising up back of the town, stands a colossal statue of vercingetorix, in memory of a resistance which he here made against the usually redoubtable cæsar. six kilometres away there is one of the most romantically historic of all the minor chateaux of france and one not to be omitted from anybody's chateaux tour of france. it is the chateau de bussy-rabutin, to-day restored and reinhabited, though for long periods since its construction it was empty save for bats and mice. this restoration, which looks to-day like [illustration: _chateau de bussy-rabutin_] a part of the original fabric, was the conceit of the comte de bussy-rabutin, a cousin of madame de sévigné in the seventeenth century. it gives one the impression of being an exact replica of a seigneurial domain of its time. the main fabric is a vast square edifice with four towers, each marking one of the cardinal points. the tour du donjon to the east, and the tour de la chapelle to the west are bound to a heavy ungainly façade which the comte roger de bussy-rabutin built in . this ligature is a sort of a galleried arcade which itself dates from the reign of henri ii. as to its foundation the chateau probably dates from an ancestor who came into being in the twelfth century. in later centuries it frequently changed hands, until it came to leonard du rabutin, baron d'epiry, and father of the comte roger who did the real work of remodelling. it was this comte roger who has gone down to fame as the too-celebrated cousin of madame de sévigné. to-day, the chateau belongs to madame la comtesse de sarcus and although it is perhaps the most historic, at least in a romantic sense, of all the great renaissance establishments of these parts, it is known to modern map-makers as the chateau de savoigny. much of its early history is closely bound with that picturesque owner, comte de bussy-rabutin. in holy week in , at the age of forty-one, bussy became involved in some sort of a military scandal and was exiled from france. the following year he made peace with the powers that be and returned to court, when he composed the famous, or infamous, "histoire amoureuse des gaules," a work of supposed great wit and satirical purport, but scandalous to a degree unspeakable. it was written to curry favour with a certain fair lady, the marquise de monglat, who had an axe to grind among a certain coterie of court favourites. bussy stood her in great stead and the scheme worked to a charm up to a certain point, when louis xiv, not at all pleased with the unseemly satire, hurried its unthinking, or too willing, author off to the bastile and kept him there for five years, that no more of his lucubrations of a similar, or any other, nature should see the light. in bussy got back to his native land and was again heard of by boiling over once more with similar indiscretions at chazeu, near autun. finally he got home to the chateau and there remained for sixteen consecutive years, not a recluse exactly, and yet not daring to show his head at paris. it was a long time before he again regained favour in royal circles. the cour d'honneur of the chateau is reached by a monumental portal which traverses the middle of the _corps du logis_. above this are two marble busts, one of sainte-jeanne-de-chantal, which came originally from the couvent de visitation at dijon, and the other of colbert, the minister of louis xiv. the ancient salle des devises (now the modern billiard room) has a very beautiful pavement of hexagonal tiles, and a series of allegorical _devises_ which bussy had painted in by way of reproach to one of his feminine admirers. on other panels are painted various reproductions of royal chateaux and a portrait of bussy with his emblazoned arms. the salon des grands hommes de guerre, on the second floor, is well explained by its name. its decorations are chiefly interlaced monograms of bussy and the marquise monglat, setting off sixty odd portraits of famous french warriors, from duguesclin and dunois to bussy himself, who, though more wielder of the pen than the sword, chose to include himself in the collection. some of these are originals, contemporary with the period of their subjects; others are manifestly modern copies and mediocre at that, though the array of effigies is undeniably imposing. the chambre sévigné, as one infers, is consecrated to the memory of the most famous letter writer of her time. for ornamentation it has twenty-six portraits, one or more being by mignard, while that of "la grande mademoiselle," who became the duchesse de berry, is by coypel. below a portrait of madame de sévigné, bussy caused to be inscribed the following: "marie de rabutin: vive agreable et sage, fille de celse béninge de rabutin et marie de coulanges et femme de henri de sévigné." this, one may be justified in thinking, is quite a biography in brief, the sort of a description one might expect to find in a seventeenth century "who's who." beneath the portrait of her daughter--comtesse de grignan--the inscription reads thus: "françoise de sévigné; jolie, amiable, enfin marchant sur les pas de sa mere sur le chapitre des agreements, fille de henri de sévigné et de marie de rabutin et femme du comte de grignan." a rather more extended biography than the former, but condensed withal. another neighbouring room is known as the petite chambre sévigné, and contains some admirable sculptures and paintings. leading to the famous tour dorée is a long gallery furnished after the style of the time of henri ii, whilst a great circular room in the tower itself is richly decorated and furnished, including two _faisceaux_ of six standards, each bearing the bussy colours. legend and fable have furnished the motive of the frescoes of this curious apartment, and under one of them, "céphale et procris," in which one recognizes the features of bussy and the marquise, his particular friend, are the following lines: "eprouver si sa femme a le coeur précieux, c'est être impertinent autant que curieux: un peu d'obscurité vaut, en cette matière, mille fois mieux que la lumière." not logical, you say, and unprincipled. just that! but as a documentary expression of the life of the times it is probably genuine. here and elsewhere on the walls of the chateau are many really worthy works of art, portraits by mignard, lebrun, just, and others, including still another elaborate series of fourteen, representing richelieu, louis xiii, anne d'autriche, mazarin, louis xiv. again in the _plafond_ of the great tower are other frescoes representing the "petits amours" of the time, always with the interlaced cyphers of bussy and madame la comtesse. from the chambre sévigné a gallery leads to the tribune of the chapel. here is a portrait gallery of the kings of the third race, of the parents of bussy, and of the four burgundian dukes and duchesses of the race of valois. the chapel itself is formed of a part of the tour ronde where are two canvasses of poussin, a murillo and one of andrea del sarto. the gardens and park of the chateau are attributed to le notre, the garden-maker of versailles. this may or may not be so, the assertion is advanced cautiously, because the claim has so often falsely been made of other chateau properties. the gardens here, however, were certainly conceived after le notre's magnificent manner. there is a great ornamental water environing the chateau some sixty metres in length and twelve metres in width, and this of itself is enough to give great distinction to any garden-plot. chapter vi "chastillon au noble duc" (the war cry of the bourguignons) the importance of the ancient chastillon on the banks of the seine was entirely due to the prominence given to it by the burgundian dukes of the first race who made it their preferred habitation. the place was the ancient capital of the bailliage de la montague, the rampart and keep to the burgundian frontier from the tenth to the fifteenth century. the origin of the chateau des ducs is blanketed in the night of time. savants, even, can not agree as to the date of its commencement. one says that it and its name were derived from castico, a rich sequanais; and another that it comes from castell, an enclosed place; or from castellio--a small fortress. each seems plausible in the absence of anything more definite, though according to the castle's latest historian it owes its actual inception to the occupation of the romans who did build a castrum here in their time. during the pourparlers between henri iv and the league, the inhabitants of the city demanded of nicolas de gellan, governor of the place, the giving up of the castle which had for years been the cause of so much misery and misfortune. the place had been the culminative point of the attacks of centuries of warriors, and the inhabitants believed that they had so suffered that it was time to cry quits. when the surrender, or the turning over, of the castle took place, all the population, including women and children, marched en masse upon the structure, and wall by wall and stone by stone dismantled it, leaving it in the condition one sees it to-day. a castle of sorts still exists, but it is a mere wraith of its former self. there is this much to say for it, however, and that is that its stern, grim walls which still stand remain as silent witnesses to the fact that it was not despoiled from without but demolished from within. peace came soon after, and the people in submitting to the new régime would not hear of the rebuilding of the chateau, and so for three hundred years its battered walls and blank windows have stood the stresses of rigorous winters and broiling summers, a [illustration: _chateau des ducs, châtillon_] silent and conspicuous monument to the rights of the people. the majestic tower of the chateau, for something more than the mere outline of the ground-plan still exists, is bound to two others by a very considerable expanse of wall of the donjon, and by the _courtines_ which formerly joined the bastions with the main structure. the suggestion of the ample inner court is still there, and the foundations of still two other towers, as well as various ruined walls. a neighbouring edifice, the buildings formerly occupied by the canons of saint vorles, is inexplicably intermingled with the ruins of the chateau in a way that makes it difficult to tell where one leaves off and the other begins. the _chevet_ of the eglise de saint vorles and its churchyard also intermingle with the confines of the chateau in an extraordinary manner. to say the least, the juxtaposition of things secular and ecclesiastic is the least bit incongruous. châtillon's tour de gissey, practically an accessory to the chateau, is a noble work whose well-preserved existence is due entirely to the solidity of its construction. its lower ranges are of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, but its upper gallery and its row of _meurtrières_ were due to the military engineers of henri iv. who sought to make it the better serve the purpose of their royal master. within this tower are two fine apartments, of which the upper, known as the salle des gardes, was, before the revolution, the sepulchre of certain wealthy neighbouring families. within the limits of the plot which surrounds the chateau, the church and the tower, is the tomb of maréchal marmont, duc de raguse. the present edifice at châtillon occupied by the sous-préfecture was built, as a plaque on the wall indicates, by madame la comtesse de langeac in . it is a fine example of the architecture of the period which, in spite of glaring inconsistencies to be noted once and again, is unquestionably most effective, and suggests that after all the chateau filled its purpose well as a great town house of a wealthy noble. the building plays a public part to-day, and if it serves its present purpose half as well as its former, no one should complain. within this really superb and palatial structure is still to be seen the magnificent stairway of forged iron of the period of louis xvi. besides this are various apartments with finely sculptured wooden panels and rafters of the same epoch, all of which accessories were brought thither from the nearby chateau de courcelles-les-ranges, demolished during the revolution. the chateau de marmont at châtillon was formerly the princely residence of the maréchal de marmont, rebuilt from the fifteenth century chatelet occupied by the sires de rochefort, who were simply the appointed chatelains of the duc de bourgogne, to whom the property really belonged. in various successive eras the edifice was transformed, or added to, until it took its present form, the gradual transformation leaving little or no trace of its original plan. the maréchal de marmont, one of châtillon's most illustrious sons, would have transformed his native city into a burgundian versailles, or at least a "garden city." he did found a great agricultural enterprise, of which the chateau, its gardens and its park, formed the pivot. too enterprising for his times, the duc de raguse saw himself ruined, and then came the german invasion of ' , when, in a combat with the garibaldians, the chateau was burned. châtillon has perpetuated the name of its great man in the public _place_, and also by naming one of the principal streets for him, but has not yet erected a statue to him. this indeed may be a blessing in disguise. statues in trousers are seldom dignified, and this noble duke lived too late for cloak and sword or suit armour. the chateau de marmont, so called even to-day, was rebuilt after the fire and now serves a former maire of the city as his private residence. châtillon-sur-seine was--though all the world seems to have forgotten or ignored it--the seat of a convention in which proposed leaving france its original territorial limits of , a proposition of the ambassadors which was utterly rejected by napoleon. albeit that châtillon lies on the banks of the seine it is well within the confines of burgundy. roundabout is a most fascinating and little exploited region. thirty kilometres to the north is bar-sur-seine and to the northwest brienne-le-chateau, where the corsican first learned the rudiments of the art of war. "_la grand'ville de bar-sur-seine a fait trembler troyes en champaigne!_" poor _grand'ville_! to-day it is withered and all but dried up and blown away. poor grand'ville! it is the same of which froissart recounts that it lost in one day the houses of nine hundred "_nobles et de riches bourgeois_" by fire. without doubt these houses were of wooden frames and offered but little resistance to fire, as the period was . afterwards the town was rebuilt and became again populous and rich. then began the decadence, until to-day it is the least populous "_chef-lieu_" of the department. its population is, and ever has been, part bourguignon and part champagnois, the latter province being but a league to the northward, where, on the actual boundary, is found the curiously named little village of bourguignons. south from châtillon, across the great forest of the same name, one of the great national forests of france so paternally cared for by the minister for agriculture, is the actual source of the seine. here is what the engineers call a "chateau d'faux," though there is little enough of the real chateau of romance about it. it is simply a head-house with an iron _grille_ and various culverts and canals and what not which lead the bubbling waters of the seine to a wider bed lower down, there to continue their way, via paris, to the sea. a classic sculpture, typifying the source of the seine, has been erected commemorating the achievement of the engineers, but appropriate as the sentiment is it has not prevented the dishonouring hand of that abominable certain class of tourist of graving its names and dates thereon. the seine at this point is nothing very majestic. it is simply a "_humble filet que le nain vert, oberon, franchirait d'un bond sans mouiller ses grelots_." all frenchmen, and parisians in particular, have a reverence for every kilometre of the swift-flowing waters of the seine. this is perhaps difficult for the stranger, who may be familiar with greater if less historic streams at home, to appreciate until he has actually discussed the thing with some frenchman. then he learns that it is the frenchman's niagara, mississippi and yosemite and pike's peak all rolled into one so far as his worship goes. midway between châtillon and the source is duesme, a smug, unheard of little hamlet, the successor of a feudal bourg of great renown in its day. the sparse ruined walls still suggest the pride of place which it once held when capital of the powerful burgundian countship of duesme. its walls are still something more than mere outlines, but the manorial residence has become one of those "walled farms," so called, so frequently seen, and so unexpectedly, in the countryside of france. here and there a gate-post, a wall or a gable, is as of old, and two great ornamental vases support the entrance to the alleyed row of trees which leads from the highroad to the dwelling, suggesting, if in a vague way, the old adage, "other days, other ways." the fall of this fine old feudal residence has been great, but the present occupant--if he has a thought or care for such things--must be content indeed with such a princely farm-house. it must be a fine thing to raise chickens and other barn-yard livestock amid such surroundings! chapter vii tonnerre, tanlay and ancy-le-franc the origin of tonnerre was due to a chateau-fort built here on the right bank of the armançon, surrounded by a groupment of huddling dwellings which, in turn, were enclosed by a corselet wall of ramparts. tonnerre grew to its majority through the ambitions of a powerful line of counts who made the original fortress which they constructed the centre of a tiny capital of a feudal kingdom in miniature. from the suzerainty of the sennonais, of which it was a county, tonnerre came to bear the same title under control of the burgundians, in whose hands it remained until it passed to the house of luvois. only skimpy odds and ends remain of tonnerre's one-time flanking gates, walls and towers. its old chateau--which the counts invariably referred to, and with reason doubtless, as a palace--has been rebuilt and incorporated into the structure of the present hospital, itself a foundation by marguerite de bourgogne and dating back to . no doubt many of the wards which to-day shelter the ill and crippled were once the scene of princely revels. in the nineteenth century the structure was further remodelled and put in order, but it remains still, from an architectural point of view at least, an admirable example of renaissance building, though none of its attributes to be seen at a first glance are such as are usually associated with a great chateau of the noblesse of other days. at all events its functions of to-day are worthy, and it is far better to admire a mediæval chateau which has become a hospital than one which has been transformed into a military barracks or a prison for thieves and cutthroats, an indignity which has been thrust on many a grand old edifice in france deserving of a better fate. to-day such a hard sentence is seldom passed. the "commission des monuments historiques" sees to it that no such desecrations are further committed. within the hospice is the remarkably sculptured tomb of marguerite de bourgogne; as remarkably done in fact as the better known ducal tombs at dijon, and those of the Église de brou at bourg-en-bresse. the workmanship of these elaborate sculptures is typical of that known as the École de dijon. tonnerre's most remarkable sight is neither its chateau, nor its hospice, at least not according to the inhabitant. there is nothing to the native more curious or interesting to see than the celebrated fosse dionne (the fons dionysius of the ancients), a fountain which supplies the city with an abundance of fresh water coming from no one knows where, but spouting from the earth like a geyser, and with a sufficient force to turn a couple of water-mills. an ordinary enough bubbling spring is interesting to most of us, so that one enjoying an ancient and mysterious reputation is put down as a local curiosity well worth coming miles to see. half a dozen kilometres out from tonnerre, on the road to châtillon-sur-seine, is the chateau de tanlay, not known at all to the travellers by express trains who are whisked by to switzerland with never as much as a slow-up or a whistle as they pass the little station but a short distance from the park gates. the chateau de tanlay is a superb relic of a sixteenth century work. this was a period when architectural art had become debased not a little, but here there is scarcely a trace of its having fallen off from the best traditions of a couple of centuries before. it is this fact, and some others, that makes tanlay a sight not to be neglected by the lover of old chateaux. in the midst of a great flowered and shady park sits this admirable edifice belonging to the descendants of the family of coligny. it was here, to be precise, that the coligny and the prince de condé leagued themselves together against the wily catherine de medicis and her crew, and much bad blood was shed on both sides before they got en rapport again. the chateau de tanlay is perhaps the finest, certainly one of the most monumental, chateaux of burgundy. frankly renaissance, the best of it dating from , it was begun by coligny d'andelot, the brother of the "admiral." one of the most notable of its constructive features is the imposing tour de la ligue where, previous to that dread saint bartholomew's night, the colignys and the prince de condé and their followers plotted and planned their future actions, and those of their associated ligueurs. the marquis de tanlay, the present owner of the ancient lands of the courtneys of royal race, graciously opens the portal of the chateau that the world of curiosity-loving folk who pass by may enter if they will, and marvel at the delights within. the "terre de tanlay" in the thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth centuries belonged to the de courtneys, by whom, it was sold to louise de montmorency, the mother of the huguenot admiral of henri iv. this latter, in , ceded it to another of her sons, françois d'andelot, the coligny who began the work of construction of the chateau forthwith. in d'andelot bequeathed the unachieved work to anne de coligny, the wife of the marquis de mirabeau, who, still working on the original plans, left it uncompleted at his death in . his daughter catherine fell heir to the property, but sold it five years later to porticelli d'hémery--mazarin's surintendant des finances, who called in the architect lemuet to carry the work to a finish. this he did, or at least brought it practically to the condition in which it stands to-day. the name of hémery did not long survive as chatelain of the property, and the lands passed by letters patent to the thévenin family, its present owners, who were able to have the fief made into a marquisat. the chateau fortunately escaped revolutionary destruction and to-dayranks as one of the most beautiful examples of the renaissance-bourguignonne style of domestic architecture to be seen. the edifice in its construction and exterior decoration shows plainly its transition between the _moyen-age_ manner of building and that which is considerably more modern. it is towered and turreted after the defensive manner of the earliest times, and moat surrounded in a way which suggests that the ornamental water is something more than a mere accessory intended to please the eye. entrance is had by a bridge over this moat and finally into the cour d'honneur through a fortified gateway, as pleasingly artistic in its disposition as it is effective as a defence. chiefly, the chateau shows to-day d'hémery's construction of the seventeenth century, paid for, says one authority, by silver extorted from the poor subjects of his king in the form of general taxes. this may or may not be so, but as d'hémery's wealth was quickly acquired only when he had need of it to build this great chateau, it is quite likely that some of it came from sources which might never otherwise have produced a personal revenue. another distinct portion of the chateau is that arrived at through the cour d'honneur, and known as le petit chateau, a sort of distinct pavillion, a beautiful example of late renaissance work at least a century older than the main fabric. though non-contemporary in its parts, the chateau taken entire is intensely interesting and satisfying in every particular. furthermore, its sylvan site is still preserved much as it was in other days, and its alleyed walks are the same through which strolled the colignys and the de courtneys of old. no sacrilege has been committed here as in many other seigneurial parks, where more than one virgin forest has been cut down to make firewood, or perhaps sold to bring in gold which an impoverished scion of a noble house may have thought he needed. one avenue alone of this great park runs straight as the proverbial flight of an arrow, only ending at the chateau portal after a course of two kilometres straightaway. the park in turn is enclosed by a wall nearly six kilometres long, and the chief ornamental water is considerably over five hundred metres in length, and merits well its appellation of grand canal. this water which fills the moat and surrounds the chateau is not stagnant, but flows gently from the quincy to the armançon after first enveloping the property in its folds. the greater portion of the structure, that of lemuet, is imposingly grand with its central _corps de logis_ and its two wings which advance to join up with the extended members of the petit chateau, forming with them the grand cour d'honneur, more familiarly known as the cour verte. the actual entrance is known as the portail neuf ( ) and serves as the habitation of the concierge. at the right is the imposing tour de la ligue ( ) and to the left the tour des archives, each enclosing a large spiral stairway and surmounted by a dome terminated with a _lanternon_. at each end of the outer façade are two other towers, in form more svelt than those in the courtyard. in the vestibule within, as one enters the main building, are the marble busts of eight roman emperors, of little interest one thinks in a place where one would expect to find effigies of the former illustrious occupants of the chateau. various trophies of the chase are hung about the walls of this corridor and are certainly more in keeping with the general tone of things than the cold-cut visages of the noble romans before mentioned. a gallery of mythological paintings opens out of the vestibule and leads to the seventeenth century chapel, which contains a "descent from the cross," by peregrin, and other religious paintings of the flemish school. distributed throughout the various apartments are numerous paintings and portraits by mignard, nattier, philippe-de-champaigne, and others, and some pastels by quentin de la tour. the chimney-pieces throughout are notable for their gorgeousness; that in the chambre des archevèques, at least a dozen feet high, is decorated with two pairs of massive caryatides and other statuettes in relief. on another is a carven bust of coligny, the admiral, with a cast of countenance suggesting a sinister leer towards the statue of a sphinx which is supposed to represent the features of catherine de medicis. the paintings of the tour de la ligue, supposedly by primataccio, representing mythological divinities in the personages of the members of the court of the medicis, bespeak a questionable taste on the part of the colignys who caused them to be put there. it would seem as though spite had been carried too far, or that the artist was given carte blanche to run a riot of questionable fantasy for which no one stood responsible. all these gods and goddesses of the court are, if not repulsive, at least unseemly effigies. catherine herself is there as juno, her son charles ix as pluto, the admiral as hercules, guise as mars, and venus, of course, bears the features of the huntress, diane de poitiers. about as far south from tonnerre as tanlay is to the eastward is ancy-le-franc. it is in exactly the same position as tanlay; its charms are pretty generally unknown and unsung, but its sixteenth century chateau of the clermont-tonnerre family is one of the wonder works of its era. rather more admirably designed to begin with than many of its confrères, and considerably less overloaded with meaningless ornament, it has preserved very nearly its original aspect without and within. the finest apartments have been conserved and decorated to-day with many fine examples of the best of renaissance furnishings. this one may observe for himself if he, or she, is fortunate enough to gain entrance, a procedure not impossible of accomplishment though the edifice is not usually reckoned a sight by the guide-books. at present the marquis de clermont-tonnerre holds possession of the property, and keeps it up with no little suggestion of its former magnificent state. if not notable for its fine suggestive feudal nomenclature, ancy-le-franc certainly claims that distinction by reason of the memories of its chateau, which dates from the reign of henri ii. nearly three-quarters of a century were given to its inception. of a unique species of architecture, presenting from without the effect of a series of squat façades, ornamented at each corner with a two storied square pavillon, it is sober and dignified to excess. the interior arrangements are likewise unique and equally precise, though not severe. the whole is a blend of the best of dignified italian motives, for in truth there is little distinctively french about it, and nothing at all burgundian. [illustration] the structure was begun by the then ruling comtes de tonnerre in , and became in the property of the marquis de louvois, the minister of louis xiv, and already proprietor of the countship of tonnerre which came to him as a _dot_ upon his marriage with the rich heiress anne de souvre. the gardens and park, now dismembered, were once much more extensive and followed throughout the conventional italian motives of the period of their designing. enough is left of them to make the site truly enough sylvan, but with their curtailment a certain aspect of isolation has been lost, and the whole property presents rather the aspect of a country place of modest proportions than a great estate of vast extent. the chateau de ancy-le-franc is commonly accredited as one of the few edifices of its important rank which has preserved its general aspect uncontaminated and uncurtailed. no parasitical outgrowths, or additions, have been interpolated, and nothing really desirable has been lopped off. with chambord and dampierre, ancy-le-franc stands in this respect in a small and select company. ancy-le-franc is even now much the same as it was when androuet du cerceau included a drawing of it in his great work ( ), "les plus excellents bastiments de france." he was an architect as well as a writer, this androuet du cerceau, and he said further: "for my part i know no other minor edifice so much to my liking, not only for its general arrangements and surroundings, but for the dignified formalities which it possesses." comte antoine de clermont, grand maitre des eaux et forêts, built the chateau of ancy-le-franc on the plans of primataccio, probably in , certainly not later, though the exact date appears to be doubtful. that primataccio may have designed the building there is little doubt, as he is definitely known to have contributed to the royal chateaux of fontainebleau and chambord. for a matter of three-quarters of a century the edifice was in the construction period however, and since primataccio died in it is improbable that he carried out the decorations, a class of work upon which he made his great reputation, for the simple reason that they were additions or interpolations which came near the end of the construction period. this observation probably holds true with the decorations attributed to the italian at neighbouring tanlay. it may be that primataccio only furnished sketches for these decorations and that another hand actually executed them. historical records are often vague and indefinite with regard to such matters. again, since primataccio was chiefly known as a [illustration: _chateau of ancy-le-franc_] decorator the doubt is justly cast upon his actually having been the designer of ancy-le-franc. it is all very vague, one must admit that, in spite of claims and counterclaims. all things considered, this chateau ranks as one of the most notable in these parts. the surrounding walls bathe their forefoot in the waters of the armançon and thus give it a defence of value and importance, though the property was never used for anything more than a luxurious country dwelling. built, or at any rate designed, by an artist who was above all a painter, its walls and plafonds naturally took on an abundance of decorative detail. for this reason the chateau of ancy-le-franc, if for no other, is indeed remarkable. two of its great rooms have been celebrated for centuries among art-lovers and experts, the chambre des fleurs, with its elaborately panelled ceiling, and that of pastor fido, whose walls show eight great paintings depicting the scenes of a pastoral romance. the chambre du cardinal contains a portrait of richelieu, and the chambre des arts is garnished most ornately throughout. the monograms and _devises_ of the ceiling of the chambre des fleurs suggest the various alliances of the clermonts, but the painted arms are those of the louvois, who substituted their own _marque_ for that of the clermonts wherever it could readily be done. [illustration: _monograms from the chambre des fleurs_] the present marquis de clermont-tonnerre has ably restored the chateau of his ancestors and put the family arms for the great part back where they belong. his arms are as follows: "_de gueules aux deux clefs d'argent en sautoir avec la tiare pour cimier_." the motto is "_etsi omnes ego non_." these arms were originally conceded to sibaut ii de clermont by pope calixtus ii in recognition of his having chased the anti-pope gregoire viii from rome in . in the salle des empereurs romains are a series of paintings of roman emperors which makes one think that tanlay's sculptured roman busts must have set the fashion hereabouts or vice versa. the bibliothèque contains a remarkable folio showing plans and views of the chateaux of ancy-le-franc and tonnerre, the latter since destroyed as we have found. in the chapel, dedicated to sainte cécile, are a series of admirable painted panels of the apostles and prophets, a favourite religious decorative motif in these parts, as one readily recalls by noting the puits de moise and the tomb of the burgundian dukes at dijon, the inspiration doubtless of all other similar works since. the grand salon of to-day was once the sleeping apartment of louis xiv when one day he honoured the chateau with his presence. a dozen kilometres south from ancy-le-franc is nuits-sous-ravières. nuits, curiously enough, a name more frequently seen on the wine-lists of first class restaurants than elsewhere, here in the heart of burgundy, is supposedly of german origin. its original inhabitants were germans coming from neuss in prussia, whose inhabitants are called nuychtons, whilst those of nuits are known as nuitons. again, near berne, in switzerland, is a region known as nuitland, which would at least add strength to the assertion of a teuton origin for this smiling little wine-growing community of the celebrated cote d'or. nuits possesses a minor chateau which to all intents and purposes fulfils, at a cursory glance, its object admirably. it is a comfortably disposed and not unelegant country house of the sixteenth century, sitting in a fine, shady park and looks as habitable as it really is, though it possesses no historical souvenirs of note. a fortified gateway leads from the north end of the town towards champagne, nuits being on the borderland between the possessions of the ducs de bourgogne and those of the comtes de champagne. [illustration: burgundy through the ages] chapter viii in old burgundy burgundy has ever been known as a land of opulence. since the middle ages its _richesse_ has been sung by poets and people alike. there is an old burgundian proverb which runs as follows: _"riche de chalon_ _noble de vienne_ _preux de vergy_ _fin de neufchâtel_ et la maison de beaufremont d'où sont sortis les hauts barons" the burgundians were first of all vandals, but with their alliance with the romans in the fifth century they became a people distinct and apart, and of a notable degree of civilization. they established themselves first in savoy, a gift to them of the emperor valentinian, and made geneva the capital of their kingdom. a new burgundian kingdom of vast extent came into being under the frankish kings; this second dynasty of burgundian rulers finally came to the french throne itself. in the meantime they held, through their powerful line of dukes, the governorship of the entire province with a power that was absolute,--a power that was only equalled by that of independent sovereigns. the burgundians were no vassal race. the hereditary ducs de bourgogne reigned from to , during which period the duchy rose to unwonted heights of richness and luxury as well as esteem by its neighbours. under the frankish line the career of the province was no less brilliant, and when the king of france gave the duchy to his third son philippe, that prince showed himself so superior in ability that he would treat with his suzerain father only as an equal in power. in the reign of louis xiv the eldest son of the house of france bore again the title duc de bourgogne, his grandson, born in , being the last prince to be so acknowledged. burgundy in still formed one of the great "_gouvernements_" of the france of that day, and in addition was recognized in its own right as a pays d'État. with the new portioning out of old france under revolutionary rule the old burgundian province became the modern départements of the cote d'or, the saône et loire and the yonne. the burgundian nobles who made dijon their residence in renaissance times lived well, one may be sure, with such a rich larder as the heart of burgundy was, and is, at their door. there is no granary, no wine-cellar in france to rival those of the cote d'or. the shop-keepers of dijon, the _fournisseurs_ of the court, supplied only the best. the same is true of the shop-keepers of these parts to-day, whatever may be their line of trade. even the religious institutions of old were, if not universal providers, at least purveyors of many of the good things of the table. when the monks of saint béninge sent out their lay brothers, sandalled and cowled, to call in the streets of dijon the wines of the convent vineyards not a wine dealer was allowed to compete with them. this made for fair dealing, a fine quality of merchandise and a full measure at other times, no doubt. the monks who sold this product were accompanied by a surpliced cleric who fanfared a crowd around him and announced his wine by extolling its virtues as if he was chanting a litany. in burgundy there has come down from feudal times a series of sobriquets which, more than in any other part of france, have endured unto this time. there were the "_buveurs_" of auxerre, the "_escuyers_" of burgundy and the "_moqueurs_" of dijon. all of these are terms which are locally in use to-day. the bourguignons in the fifth century, by a preordained custom, wore, suspended by cords or chains from their belts, the keys of their houses, the knives which served them at table as well as for the hunt (forks were not then invented, or at any rate not in common use), their purse, more or less fat with silver and gold, their sword and their ink-well and pens; all this according to their respective stations in life. when one was condemned for a civil contravention before a judge he was made to deposit his belt and its dangling accessories as an act of acknowledgment of his incapacity to properly conduct his affairs. it was no sign of infamy or lack of probity, but simply an indication of a lack of business sagacity. it was the same, even, with royalty and the noblesse as with the common people, and the act was applied as well to women as men. the duchesse de bourgogne, widow of philippe-le-hardi, who died covered with debts brought about by his generosity, admitted also that she was willing to share the responsibilities of his faults by renouncing certain of her rights and deposition on his tomb of his _ceinture_, his keys and his purse. isabelle de bavière, who owed so much to a duc de bourgogne of the seventeenth century, was criticised exceedingly when she came among his people because of the luxury of possessing two "chemises de toile," the women of the court at the time--in burgundy at all events--dressing with the utmost simplicity. with what degree of simplicity one can only imagine! another luxury in these parts in mediæval times was the use of candles. what artificial light was made use of in a domestic manner came from resinous torches, and _cires_ and candles were used only in the churches, or perhaps in the oratories, or private chapels, of the chateaux. the homes of the burgundian _bourgeoisie_ were hardly as luxuriant or magnificent as those of the nobles, nor were they as comfortably disposed in many instances as one would expect to learn of this land of ease and plenty. frequently there was no board flooring, no tiles, no paving of flag stones, even. a simple hard-pounded clay floor served the humble householder for his _rez-de-chaussee_. in the more splendid renaissance town houses, or even in many neighbouring chateaux, it was not infrequent that the same state of affairs existed, but sheaves or bunches of straw were scattered about, giving the same sort of warmth that straw gives when spread in the bottom of an omnibus. if a visitor of importance was expected fresh straw was laid down, but this was about all that was done to make him comfortable. otherwise the straw was generally of the augean stable variety, since it was usually renewed but three times during the cold season, which here lasts from three to five months out of the twelve. in time a sort of woven or plaited straw carpet came into use, then square flags and tiles, and finally rugs, or _tapis_, which, in part, covered the chilly flooring. elsewhere, as the rugs came into the more wealthy houses, plain boards, sometimes polished, served their purpose much as they do now. only the rich had glazed windows. the first window glass used in france was imported from england in the twelfth century, at which time it was reckoned as one of the greatest of domestic luxuries. chimneys, too, were wanting from the houses of the poor. houses with windows without glass, and entirely without chimneys, must have lacked comfort to a very great degree. such indeed exist to-day, though, in many parts of france. this is fact! a sort of open grate in a lean-to outside the house, and iron barred open windows without even shutters are to be found in many places throughout the midi of france. one such the writer knows in a town of three thousand inhabitants, and it is occupied by a prosperous "decorated" frenchman. what comfort, or discomfort! the burgundian householder of mediæval times sat with his family huddled around a great brazier upon which burned wood or charcoal. the rising smoke disappeared through a hole in the centre of the roof in primitive redman's fashion. as late as the fifteenth century there were no individual chairs in any but the most prosperous and pretentious homes. their place was taken by benches, and these mostly without backs. chiefly the meaner houses were built of wood and thatched after the manner of such thatched roofs as exist to-day, but with less symmetry, one judges from the old prints. all the world and his wife retired early. this one learns from the burgundian proverb already old in the time of louis xii. "_lever à cinq, diner à neuf_ _souper à cinq, coucher à neuf_ _fait vivre d'ans nonante et neuf._" this is probably as true to-day as it was then if one had the courage to live up to it and find out. the ancient reputation of the wine of burgundy dates back centuries and centuries before the juice of the grape became the common drink of the french. during the famous schism which divided the church in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the duc de bourgogne, philippe-le-hardi, was deputed, in , to present to pope benoit xiii, then living at avignon in the comtat, "rich presents and twenty _queues_ of the wine of beaune." history and romance have been loud in their praises of the rich red wines of burgundy ever since the dawn of gormandizing. petrarch has said that his best inspirations and sentiments came from the wine of beaune, and the avignon popes lengthened their sojourn in their papal city on the banks of the rhone because of the easy transport and the low price of the fine wines of beaune. "there is not in italy," they said, "the wine of beaune nor the means of getting it." the heart of old burgundy, that is, the côte d'or of to-day, is the region of france the most densely wooded after the vosges. great forests exploited for their wood are everywhere, oak and beech predominating. only the _coteaux_, the low-lying hillsides, where the vines are chiefly grown, are bare of forest growth. two great rivers cross the province from north to south, and two from east to west, the aube, the dheune, the saône and the vingeanne, and the seine itself takes birth between saint seine and chanceaux, this last, like most of the great rivers of europe, being but a humble rivulet at the commencement. two canals furnish an economical means of communication, and are really remarkable waterways. the canal de bourgogne joins up the saône and the seine, and more important still is that which joins the rhône and rhine. eight "routes royales" crossed the province in old monarchical days, and where once rolled princely corteges now whiz automobiles without count. in the seventeenth century from paris to dijon was a journey of eight days in winter and seven in summer, by the _malle-poste_. one departure a week served what traffic there was, and the price was twenty-four _livres_ (francs) a head, with baggage charged at three _sols_ a pound. the departure from paris was from the old auberge "aux quatre fils aymon," and more frequently than not the announcements read that the coach would leave "as soon as possible" after the appointed hour. whatever feudal reminiscence may linger in the minds of the readers of old chronicles let no one forget that france in general, and burgundy in particular, is no longer a land of poverty where everybody but the capitalist has to pick up fagots for fires. far from it; the peasant hereabouts, the worker in the fields, may lack many of the commonly accepted luxuries of life, but he eats and drinks as abundantly as the seemingly more prosperous dweller in the towns, and if not of meat three times a day (the worn-out, threadbare argument of the english and american traveller who looks not below the surface in continental europe) it is because he doesn't crave it. that he is the better in mind and body for the lack of it goes without saying. the valley of the saône above dijon is a paradise of old fiefs of counts and dukes. almost every kilometre of its ample course bears a local name allied with some seigneur of feudal days. the whole watershed is historic, romantic ground. mantoche was the site of a cité romain; apremont gave birth to one of the most prolific of romancers, xavier de montepin, a litterateur who wrote mostly for concierges and shop girls of a couple of generations ago, but a name famous in the annals of french literature nevertheless. leaving the country of the minor counts the saône enters into basse bourgogne, taking on at various stages of its career the name of petite saône, saône supérieur or grande saône. all told it has a navigable length of nearly four hundred kilometres, making it one of france's mightiest _chemins qui marche_, to borrow napoleon's phrase. the entire heart of old burgundy above dijon, the plain that is, is most curiously sown with cultures of a variety that one would hardly expect to find. here and there a _chateau de commerce_, as the french distinguish the "_wine-chateaux_" from the purely domestic establishments and the "_monuments historiques_" of which the french government is so justly proud, crops up surrounded by its vineyards, with its next door neighbour, perhaps, an exploitation of hops, the principal ingredient of beer, as the grape is of wine. the paradox is as inexplicable, as is the fact that dijon is famous for mustard when not a grain of it is grown nearer the côte d'or than india. it is true that dijon is noted quite as much for its mustard and its gingerbread as for its sculpture. the École dijonnais is supreme in all three specialties. the historic figure, "mustardmaker to the pope," has caused many a "_rire bourguignon_"; nevertheless the preparing of dijon mustard is a good deal of a secret still, as all who know the subtleness of this particular condiment recognize full well. the mustard pots of dijon, even those of commonest clay, are veritable works of art. it would pay some one to collect them. the "fontaine de jouvence," which one may buy for thirty sous at the railway buffet, is indeed a gem; another, blazoned with the arms of burgundy, and the legend "moult me tarde," followed by "d'y gouster" is no less. chapter ix dijon, the city of the dukes [illustration: key of vaulting dijon] of no city of france are there more splendid ducal memories than of dijon. to the french historians it has ever been known as "the city of the glorious dukes." it is one of the cities which has best conserved its picturesque panoramic silhouette in europe. certainly no other of the cities of modern france can approach it in this respect. its strikingly mediæval skyline serrated with spires, donjon and gables innumerable gives it a _cachet_ all its own. its situation, too, is remarkable, lying as it does snugly wrapped between the mountain and the plain by the flanks of the gently rolling _coteaux_ round about. dijon is still a veritable reminder of the moyen-age in spite of the fact that countless of its palaces, towers and clochers have disappeared with the march of time and the insistent movement of progress. this was less true a generation or so ago. then the city's old ramparts were intact. to-day not more than a scant area of house front or garden wall suggests the one time part that the same stones played in the glory of war and siege. nearby, too, the contemplation of dijon evokes the same emotions in spite of a monotonous modernity to be seen in the new quarters of the town, where all is a dull drab in strong contrast to the liveliness of the colouring of the older parts. dijon, take it all in all, is indeed a museum of architectural splendours. "_nous allions admirant clochers, portails et tours,_ _et les vielles maisons dans les arrière cours._" thus said saint-beauve, and any who come this way to-day, and linger long enough in the city of the dukes, may well take it for their text. after many and diverse fortunes dijon became the capital of the duché de bourgogne in under duc robert, the first of the line of burgundian dukes, known as the dukes of the _première race royale_. this particular robert was the grandson of hugues capet. twelve princes in succession (until ) ruled the destinies of the dukedom from the capital, and showered upon its inhabitants benefits galore. at this time philippe de rouvres came into the control of the duchy, under the tutelage of his mother, jeanne de bourgogne. one reads in the "rôle des dépenses" of unmistakable facts which point to the luxury which surrounded the court of burgundy in the fourteenth century. particularly is this so with regard to the _garde-robe_ of philippe-le-hardi, wherein all his costumes, including the trappings of his horses, were garnished with real gold. many other attributes went to make up the gorgeous properties of this admirable stage setting. there was an elaborate "_chaine à porter reliques_" and "_la bonne ceinture de monseigneur saint louis_" to be counted among the _tresor_ of the court. amid all this sumptuousness there was a notable regard for the conservation and safeguarding of governmental funds and property. this is to be remarked the more because of the fact that the overlord generally took for his own, and that of his heirs, all that came within his immediate presence. the burgundian dukes at dijon administered their rule with prudence and good judgment in all particulars until the duché and the neighbouring comté (afterwards the franche comté) stood almost alone among the european states of their time in not being obliged to own to a profligate hierarchy of administrators. in all phases of their history the dijonnais have ever been jealous of their personal liberties. françois premier, a prisoner at madrid, had ceded burgundy as a part of unwillingly given ransom to charles quint, who had already acquired the franche comté. the dijon parliament would hear nothing of such a project, and energetically refused to ratify the treaty, sending their deputies to cognac, to the convention which had been called, in protest. dijon's chateau was first built by louis xi to hold in leash his "_bonne ville de dijon_." the edifice was only completed in , under louis xii. it was in its prime, judging from historical descriptions, a most curious example of fifteenth century military architecture. the dijonnais of late years demanded the suppression, and the clearing away, of the débris of this old royal chateau, believing (wrongly of course) that the ducal palace was sufficient to sustain the glory of their city. accordingly, there remains nothing to-day of the chateau of the louis but a scant funeral pile built up from the stones of the former chateau merely as a historical guide post, or rather, memorial of what has once been. historical enthusiasm and much palavering on the part of a certain body of local antiquarians against the popular wave of feeling, could accomplish no more of a restoration. for the past fifty years the ruin has been, it is true, something of an eye-sore, an ill-kept, badly guarded, encumbering ruin, and unless it may be better taken care of, it would be as well to have it removed. in form this chateau was a perfectly rectangular tower, sustained at each corner by a round tower of lesser proportions. as a whole it was one of the most massive works of its era in these parts. its defence towards the north was a great horse-shoe shaped redoubt, a most unusual and most efficient rampart. towards the city it was defended by a moat over which one entered the chateau proper by the traditional drawbridge. the vast monumental pile at dijon which bears the name of hôtel de ville to-day has been variously known as the palais des ducs, the logis du roi and the palais des États. it has served all three purposes and served them well and with becoming dignity. the exact origin of the structure has been left behind in the dim distance, but it is certain that it was the outgrowth of some sort of a foundation which existed as early as the tenth century, a period long before the coming of the so-called chateau. in the twelfth century hugues iii built the sainte chapelle, all vestiges of which, save certain decorative elements built into the eastern wall of the palais des ducs, have now disappeared. philippe-le-hardi, in , almost entirely rebuilt the palace as it then existed, and philippe-le-bon actually did complete the work in , when the great square tour de la terrasse, of a height of nearly fifty metres, was built. there is still existing another minor tower, the tour de bar, so named from the fact that for three years it was the prison of rené d'anjou, the duc de bar. in and this tower was nearly destroyed by fire, which carried away as well a great part of the main structure of that time. the edifice is to-day occupied by many civic departments, including the musée, the archives and the École des beaux arts, but the salle des gardes and the "cuisines des ducs" still remain, as to their general outlines of walls and ceilings, as they were when they served the dukes themselves. the present edifice, in spite of being known as the ducal palace, was not inhabited by any of the nobles of the first race; there is no part which dates from so early a period as that of the end even of their régime. the most ancient of the elements which formerly made up the collective block of buildings was the sainte chapelle, which was demolished in , and the _rez-de-chaussee_ of the tour de bar, which still exists. the lower part of this tower dates from the thirteenth century, the upper portions from the fourteenth. [illustration: cuisines at dijon] from the ducal account books it appears that the portions known as the "cuisines"--actually housing the musée lapidaire to-day--were constructed in , and it is this part of the old palace which is the most interesting because it best illustrates the manner of building hereabouts at that period. the burgundian court attached great importance to the service at table, and during the fifteenth century there was not in all of europe a line of princes who were better fed or got more satisfaction from the joys of the table. this is historic fact, not mere conjecture! the descriptions of the _festins_ which were given by the ducs de bourgogne and described in the "mémoires d'olivier de la marche" make interesting reading to one who knows anything of, and has any liking for, the chronicles of gastronomy. for such a bountiful serving at table as was habitual with the dukes, kitchens of the most ample proportions were demanded. it is recounted that on many occasions certain of the _mets_ were cooked in advance, but a prodigious supply of soups, ragouts and sauces, of fish, _volaille_, and _rotis_ were of necessity to be prepared at the moment of consumption. to produce these in their proper order and condition was the work of an army of cooks supported by a numerous "_batterie de cuisine_;" necessarily they required an ample room in which to work. the modern french cook demands the same thing to-day. details in this line do not change so rapidly in this "land of good cooks" as elsewhere, for the french chef is still supreme and cares not for labour or time-saving appliances. the "cuisines," as to their ground plan, form a perfect square, the roof being borne aloft by eight columns, which on three sides of the apartment serve as supporters also for the great twin-hooded chimneys. two _potagers_, or _braisers_, where the pots might be kept simmering, were at b on the plan, and the oven, or _foyer ardente_ was at c. d was a well, and e its means of access. the windows were at f and g, and h was a great central smoke-pipe, or opening in the roof, which served the same functions as the hole in the roof of the indian's wigwam. k was a serving table, made also of stone, to receive the dishes after being cooked; and, that they might not become literally stone cold before being finally served, this table had a sort of subterranean heating arrangement. the conglomerate structure of to-day which serves its civic functions so well is an outgrowth of all these varied components which made up the ducal residence of old. it was midway in its career that it became the parliament house of the États de bourgogne, so it took naturally to its new function when it came to uphold merely civic dignity. the apartment where sat the burgundian parliament, the salle des États, has been recently restored and decorated with a series of wall paintings depicting the glories of burgundy. it is a seemingly appropriate decoration and in every way admirably executed, though the name attached thereto may not be as famous as that of an abbey or a sargent. in general the character of the great pile of buildings to-day, on account of the heterogeneous aspect of the mass, forbids any strict estimate applicable to its artistic merits. the most that can be ventured is to comment on that which is definitely good. at many times during its career it has been remodelled and added to by many able hands. as a result there are naturally many worthy bits which may be discovered by close observation that in general run a fair chance of being overlooked. two pupils of mansart worked upon the remodelling of the structure, and mansart himself designed the colonnade and the vestibule of the salle des États. twelve principal buildings surrounding the main courtyard came into being from time to time, and in one [illustration: _chateau des ducs, dijon_] form or another they are all there to-day, though in the scantiest of fragments in some instances. an old-time iron gateway, or _grille_, still exists midway between the two principal façades of the doric order. the effect of this façade is heavy, but ornate: frankly it is bad architecture, but it is imposing. it is bad because it is a manifest italian interpolation with little or nothing in common with other decorative details to be seen, details which are of the transplanted french variety of renaissance, and that in truth is far and away ahead of anything in italy or any rank copy of anything of italian origin. the old place royale opened out fan-like before the building and gave a certain spectacular effect which saved it from ultra bad taste at that period. the place d'armes, before the present hotel de ville (which now occupies the principal part of the old ducal palace), and the place des ducs, at the rear, lend the same artistic aid which was performed by the place royale in its time. of the interior arrangements but little remains as it was of old save a range of vaulted rooms on the lower floor, the salle des gardes, the apartments of the tour de bar and the "cuisines." the public functions which have been performed by the structure in late years have nearly swept away the old glamour of romance and chivalry which might otherwise have hung about the place for ages, so that to-day it is, like many edifices of its class in france, simply a hive of office-holders and little-worked authorities of the state and civic administrations. it is difficult to see any romance in the visage of a modern town-clerk or a sergeant-at-arms. this old palace of the dukes was chiefly the work of dijon craftsmen, at least those portions which were built in the sixteenth century or immediately after. this is the more to be remarked because the gables and roof-tops are not unlike that flemish-gothic of the hospice de beaune which was built by alien hands. at dijon the northern portal was designed by brouhée and the roofing of the grande salle was made from the plans of sambin and chambrette, as was the doorway from the street to the chapel. the chambre dorée has a most beautiful ceiling of the time of françois premier, and the _boiseries_ and the _grisaille_ of the same apartment date from the period of louis xiii. there are two other notable ceilings in the edifice, those of the bibliothèque and the salle d'assises. dijon has ever been noted down by those who know as a city of a distinctly local and a really great and celebrated art. the École de dijon was a unique thing which had no counterpart elsewhere. under the liberally encouraging patronage of the ducs de bourgogne numerous habile artists banded together and constituted the local "École de dijon." it was a body of artists and craftsmen whose careers burned brilliantly throughout the best period of the renaissance, indeed up to its end, for the hôtel de vogué at dijon, of a very late period, shows the distinct local manner of building at its best. hugues sambin, who designed the palace of the burgundian parliament, was the best known of these dijon craftsmen--best known perhaps because of his architectural writings ( ), for his work was not indeed superior to that of his fellows. his dwelling exists to-day at dijon, in the rue de la vannerie, somewhat disfigured and not at all reminiscent of the great capabilities of his art which he so freely bestowed on the more magnificent structures of his clients. a tower, presumably a part of the house itself, rises close beside, and on its vaulting one sees the _devise_ "tout par compas," the same that may be seen in the hôtel de vogué, though it is declared that there is no other connection between the two save that sambin had a hand in the construction of both. the motto is undeniably a good one for an architect. the local museum contains one of the most important provincial collections in france. it occupies the ancient salle des gardes of the palais and encloses the tombs of jean-sans-peur and philippe-le-hardi. as examples of the sculptures of the burgundian school of the fifteenth century these ornate tombs are in the very first category. they were brought from the chartreux de dijon in . how they escaped revolutionary desecration is a marvel, but here they are to-day in all the glory of their admirable design and execution. if sargent's frieze of the prophets in the boston public library was not inspired by these cowled figures surrounding the ducal tombs at dijon, it must be a dull critic indeed who will not at least admit the suggestion of similarity. the mausoleum of philippe-le-hardi has a single recumbent effigy on the slab above, whilst that of jean-sans-peur is accompanied by another, that of his wife, marguerite de bavière. the tiny statuettes in the niches of the arcade below, and surrounding each of the tombs, are similar; finely chiselled, weeping, mourning figures, most exquisitely sculptured and disposed. the tomb of philippe-le-hardi is the older, and is the work of claus sluter and claus de werve; that of jean-sans-peur was conceived (half a century later) by jehan de la heurta and antoine moiturier. a statue of anne de bourgogne, the duchess of bedford, the daughter of jean-sans-peur, stands between these two royal tombs. it is worthy to note that the robe of the statue of marguerite de bavière is sown with that particular species of field daisy which we have come to know as the _marguerite_, so named from the predilection of the princess in question for that humble flower. dijon's maison de saint françois-de-sales may well be given passing consideration for reasons stated below. it dates from and thus belongs to an epoch when the art of the renaissance was at its height. it is an elaborately conceived edifice and, judging from the escutcheons of its façade, was the habitation, at one time or another, of some of the royal family of france. in spite of this the authorities have little definite to say with regard to its founders. on the svelt tourelle at the side one notes that the lead _épi_, or weather-vane, is intact, a remarkable fact when one considers that it has endured for nearly five centuries. all things considered, this dainty habitation is one of the most pleasing and ornate structures of its class. if it were at azay-le-rideau in touraine, or at beaugency on the loire, it would be heralded far and wide as one of the flowers of the renaissance. to rank it in any place but as one of the most charming _hôtels privés_, or small town chateaux, of burgundy would be a grave error. dijon possesses as well a most curious and little known structure, at least not known to the usual hurly burly world of tourists. it is near the palais de justice, enclosed behind a high protecting wall, through which easy access is to be had by a gateway opened on request. the edifice is mysteriously called the hôtel de venus, and is a diminutive edifice with its entire outer wall garlanded with flowers and emblems cut deep into its rather crumbly stones. just what the significance of this strange building was, and who, or what, were its antecedents, is in great doubt. dijon's bibliothèque occupies a part of the great town house built by odinet godran in . the departmental archives occupy the restored city dwelling of nicolas rollin, the chancellor of the first burgundian parliament. it is a reconstruction now of the eighteenth century, but originally came into being in the fifteenth. the principal apartment owns to a richly sculptured chimney-piece and an elaborate _plafond à caissons_, each the work of rancurelle, a seventeenth century sculptor of dijon. in the rue des forges are numerous old renaissance houses, many of them of a grandeur which entitles them to a higher rank than a mere _maison bourgeoise_. many of them indeed bear the proud names of the old burgundian noblesse. one is called the maison des ambassadeurs d'espagne, though just why, history is dark. one can readily surmise however, for it certainly is a luxuriously appointed dwelling in spite of the fact that it lacks a definite history. near the eglise notre dame are the maison milsand, the old hôtel des ambassadeurs d'angleterre; the hôtel du vogué is in the rue chaudronnerie, and also the maison des cariatides. all are admirable examples of the burgundian renaissance, which tells its history in its stones. and what history! the old hôtel des ambassadeurs d'angleterre was the residence of the duke of bedford when he married, in , anne de bourgogne. the alleys and the "park," supposedly designed by the famous "le notre, the man of gardens," who was responsible for those of versailles and vaux, are little changed to-day from what they were in the century of louis xiv. chapter x in the cÔte d'or: beaune, larochepot and Épinac in the heart of the cote d'or are found first of all the _bonnes villes de bons vins_ of the french, beaune, pommard, nuits, etc. here is a region which was literally sown with great country houses of wealthy seigneurs; each ancient seigneurie of any importance whatever had its own little fortress or block-house which stood forth as an advance post at some distance from the residence of the overlord. by this means only could the seigneurs command respect for their vineyards. one notes much the same condition of affairs to-day. if there are no forts nor block-houses any more, nor arrows shot from bows, nor melted lead poured down on one from some castle wall, there are at least high stone barriers and big dogs and guardians of all ranks to serve their masters as faithfully as did the _serfs_ and _vilains_ of old. one is glad to say, however, that the cote d'or of to-day is not an inhospitable region. the transformations of later years which have taken place hereabouts have been very considerable, and the historic names one recognizes best to-day are those used by the _chateaux de commerce_, and found reproduced on the labels on the bottles in the chic restaurants and hotels throughout the world. one can not, must not, pass these great enterprises by unnoted or with their praises unsung. their histories are often as interesting as those of the _maisons de plaisance_ of the seigneurs who despised trade and robbed and grafted for a livelihood. undoubtedly many of them did take the wide road to riches, for the feathering of political nests by the willing or unwilling aid of one's constituents is no new thing. the gatherers of the grape under the burgundians and the bourbons were not always the happy contented crew that they have so frequently been pictured on canvas. the novelists, the playwrights and the painters have limned the lily a little too strong at times. one judges of this from a chanson which has come down through centuries. "_allons en vendagne pour gagner cinq sous_ _coucher sur la paille, ramasser les poux_ _manger du fromage qui pue comme la rage._" it was said in the good old days that the grape-pickers were wont to eat as much as eight kilos of the grapes a day, to say nothing of drinking three litres of wine,--manifestly they were not so badly off, even at a wage of only five sous for a whole day's labour. south from dijon the itinerary through the core of the côte d'or passes in review a succession of names which one usually associates only with a wine list. if one has studied the map of france closely the surprise is not so great, but for many it will come as something unexpected to be able to breakfast at chambertin, lunch at nuits, dine at beaune and sleep at mersault or nolay. first off, on leaving the capital of the dukes, almost within sight of its palace towers, one comes to the great wine district of chénove, and more than all others of this region it is to be revered by the lover of the history and romance of feudal lords. sheltered, and almost enwrapped by the mountain background, it sits on the edge of the sunny plain where once the ducs de bourgogne marshalled their armies and their courtiers. not one of the very first wines of the côte d'or chénove comes from the bright particular vineyards or _closes_ of the burgundian dukes. their ancient cellars and _cuviers_ are still existent but the wines matured in them are to-day the growth of american roots, planted in the last dozen or twenty years to take the place of those destroyed by the phylloxera, the grafted stocks serving to give that classic body and flavour which have made the burgundian _crus_ famous. thus the favourite axiom is proved that it is the soil and not the grape which makes fine wine. here at chénove there is still to be seen the wine vats and presses which served the minions of philippe-le-hardi and charles-le-téméraire as they pressed their masters' wines, handling the great fifty foot levers and chanting much as do sailors as they march around the capstan. a block of stone weighing twenty-five tons was alternately raised and lowered with the grapes beneath in great hollowed-out troughs of stone or wood in no far different fashion from the methods of to-day. below chénove is fixin, glorious in memory because of a striking monument to napoleon, placed there by one of his fanatical admirers, commandant noisat. the clos de la perrière, and the clos du chapitre, two of the grand wines of the côte d'or, also help to give fixin its fame--how much, who shall say--although this napoleonic shrine is really a wonder of statuesque sculpture. an alley of pines leads up to a fountain behind whose basin rise stone seats and a rustic shelter destined to protect the effigy of napoleon, a bronze by the dijon sculptor, rude. the whole ensemble is most effective, far more so than the usual plaster, or cast-iron statues of the "little corporal" with which france is peopled. to carry the devotion still farther, monsieur noisat built the guardian's house in the form of the fortress of saint helena. gevrey is near by, with an old ducal chateau, still well preserved, and supported by an ivy-grown square tower. gevrey produces one of the most celebrated wines to be found on the lists of the _restaurants mondains_ throughout the world. it is the "chambertin of yellow seal," coming from the champs de bertin, a narrow strip of land sloping down the flank of the hillside to the plain below. another famous vineyard at gevrey which festoons itself between the height and the plain is that of crais-billon, which takes its name from the celebrated feudal fief of crébillon. the clos vougeot, the cradle of an equally well known burgundian wine, is scarce a half dozen kilometres away and may be classed among the historic chateaux of france. still enclosed with its rampart of whitewashed wall, the great square of vineyard remains to-day as it has been since first developed by the monks of citeaux. the property has, it is true, been dismembered and divided among many proprietors, but the two great square pavilions joined together originally gave the clos that distinctive aspect which, in no small measure, it retains unto this day. taken as a whole, it still possesses a proud mediæval aspect, though the modern porte-cochère, an iron gate which looks as though it was manufactured yesterday in south chicago--and perhaps was--somewhat discounts this. years ago, when the clos vougeot was the nucleus of the many vougeots of to-day, the grapes passed entirely through the wine-presses of the monks, who reserved the product entire to be used as presents to popes and princes. thus clos vougeot was the model for all other ambitious, monastic vineyards, and those mediæval monks who excelled all others of their time as wine-growers were the logical inheritors of that latin genius of antiquity which gave so much attention to the arts of agriculture. hard by vougeot is romanée-conti, first celebrated under the ancient régime when the [illustration: b. mcmanus clos vougeot chambertin] court-physician, fagon, ordered its wine as a stimulant for the jaded forces of louis xiv, a circumstance which practically developed a war between the wine growers of champagne and burgundy, with a victory for the côte d'or, as was proper. to-day we are backsliders, and "champagne" has again become fashionable with kings, emperors and the _nouveau riche_. the property known as romanée-conti has been thus known since the revolution, when this princely family of royal blood came into possession thereof. the old abbey is to-day, in part, turned into a beet-sugar factory, its thousand brothers and sisters now giving place to working men and women of the twentieth century, less picturesque and less faithful to their vocation, without doubt. moulin-a-vent was another of the near-by properties of the citeaux monks, and to-day preserves the great _colombier_, or pigeon-house, as all may note who travel these parts by road. it is the most conspicuous thing in the landscape for miles around, and looks as much like the tower of a military chateau as it does a dove-cote. the forêt nationale de citeaux was once the particular domain of the monastery, whose monks preserved and enveloped it with the same degree of devotion which they bestowed upon their vineyards, planting villages here and there, of which the most notably picturesque and unspoiled still alive is that of saint nicholas-les-citeaux, a red-roofed chimney-potted little village in close proximity to the uncouth fragments of the old conventual establishment. nuits, not to be confounded with nuits-sous-ravières, is more famous for its wine _crus_ than its monuments or its history. besides a picturesque belfry and hôtel-de-ville, both excellent examples of the local architecture, it has no monuments of remark, although a sort of reflected glamour hangs over it by reason of its proximity to the site of the ancient chateau de vergy, when it was the capital of the tiny province belonging to the celebrated burgundian family of this name. the metropolis of these parts is beaune. it has been called a "_vieille grande dame qui s'est faite ouvrière et marchande_." and beaune is, for a fact, all this. but by contrast with its commercialism its mediæval aspect is also well preserved in spite of the fact that its manorial magnificence is much depleted. the contrastingly modern and mediæval aspect, and to some extent its military character, makes beaune most interesting. the ramparts themselves have been turned into a series of encircling boulevards, but here and there a fragment of wall is left plunging sheer down to the moat below, which has not yet been filled up. this gives quite a suggestion of the part the old walls once played, an effect heightened the more by three or four massive towers and portals flanking the entrances and exits of the town. this at least gives a reminiscence of what the former city must have been when it was girded in its corselet of stone. here and there a sober and dignified _maison bourgeoise_ rears its renaissance head above a more humble and less appealing structure suggestive of an ancient prosperity as great, perhaps greater, than that which makes possible the comfortable lives of the city's fourteen thousand souls to-day. another civic monument of more than ordinary remark is the watch-tower, or belfry, a remainder of the cities of flanders, a most unusual architectural accessory to find in these parts, the only other neighbouring example recalled being at moulins in the allier. in spite of all this, beaune's historic tale has little of blood and thunder in its make-up; mostly its experiences have been of a peaceful nature, and only because the dukes so frequently took up their residence within its walls was it so admirably defended. beaune was originally the seat of the burgundian parliament. henri iv, who was particularly wroth with all things burgundian, treated the city with great severity after the revolt of maréchal de biron, razing its castle, one of the most imposing in the province, to the ground. as a part of the penalty biron was put to death. on the scaffold he said to his assistants "_va t'en! va t'en! ne me touche pas qu'il soit temps_." five minutes later his head fell into the basket and his king was avenged. since this time beaune has been little heard of save in the arts of peace; there is no city in france more calm to-day, nor "_plus bourgeoise_" than beaune, and by the use of the word _bourgeoise_ one does not attempt irony. the hospice de beaune is for all considerations a remarkable edifice; its functions have been many and various and its glories have been great. formerly the hospice stood for hospitality; to-day it is either a hospital, or a matter-of-fact business proposition; you may think of it as you like, according to your mood, and how it strikes you. the benedictine abbey de fécamp, like dauphiny's grande chartreuse, is but a business enterprise whose stocks and bonds in their inflated values take rank with calumet and hecla, monte carlo's casino, or other speculative projects. the same is true of the wine exploitation of the monks of citeaux at clos vougeot, and of the famous wine cellars of the hospice de beaune. we may like to think of the old romantic glamour that hangs over these shrines, but in truth it is but a pale reflected light. this is true from a certain point of view at any rate. beaune's hospice, with its queer mélange of churchly and heraldic symbols ranged along with its hispano-gothic details, is "more a _chateau-de-luxe_ than a poor-house," said a sixteenth century vagabond traveller who was entertained therein. and, taking our clue from this, we will so consider it. "it is worth being poor all one's life to finally come to such a refuge as this in which to end one's days," said louis xi. the foundation of the hospice dates from , as the date on its carven portal shows. it was started on its philanthropic and useful career by nicholas rollin and his wife guignonne de salins. it was then accounted, as it is to-day, "a superb foundation endowed with great wealth." the desire of the founders was that the occupants should be surrounded with as much of comfort and luxury as a thousand of _livres_ of income for each (a considerable sum for that far-away epoch) should allow. this fifteenth century hospice de beaune is one of the most celebrated examples of the wood-workers' manner of building of its time. the role that it plays among similar contemporary structures wherever found is supreme. it is only in flanders that any considerable number of similar architectural details of construction are found. the general view of the edifice from without hardly does justice to the many architectural excellencies which it possesses. the _heurtoir_, or door-knocker, in forged iron, still hanging before the portal, is the same that was first hung there in the fifteenth century, and which has responded to countless appeals of wayfarers. the iron work of the interior court is of the same period. with the inner courtyard the aspect changes. on one side is the flemish-gothic, or hispano-gothic, structure of old, one of the most ornate and satisfying combinations of wooden gables and _pignons_ and covered galleries one can find above ground to-day. frankly it is an importation from alien soil, a transplantation from the low countries, where the style was first developed during the spanish occupation in flanders. save for certain modifications in , and this portion of the edifice remains much as it was left by the passing of the good old times when knights, and monks as well, were bold. the grande salle, where the chancelier rollin first instituted the annual wine sale which still holds forth to-day, and the entrance portal were again restored in , but otherwise the aspect is of the time of the birth of the structure. the hospice de beaune is properly enough to be classed among the palaces and chateaux of burgundy, for its civic functions were many, besides which it was the princely residence of the chancellor of the burgundian parliament. the old collége de beaune, now disappeared, or transformed out of all semblance to its former self, was a one-time residence of the ducs de bourgogne, and in addition the first seat of the burgundian parliament when its sittings were known as the _jours généraux_. a near neighbour of beaune is corton. [illustration: _hospice de beaune_] "_c'est le chambertin de la côte de beaune_," said monillefert, writing of its wine. another neighbouring vineyard is that which surrounds the little village of pernand. its _cru_, called charlemagne, has considerably more than a local reputation. savigny-sous-beaune is another place-name which means little unless it be on a wine-card. the little town is set about with sumptuous _bourgeoise_ houses, and a local chateau bears the following inscription over its portal, "_les vins de savigny sont nourrisants, theologiques et morbifuges_." they have been drunk by countless _bon vivants_ through the ages, and the ducs de bourgogne were ever their greatest partisans. mention of them appears frequently in the accounts written of public and private fêtes; almost as frequently, one may note, as the more celebrated "_vin du hospice_." south from beaune is mersault, a tiny city of the côte de beaune. all about its clean-swept streets rise well-kept, pretentious dwellings, many of them the gabled variety so like the mediæval chateaux, though indeed they may date only from the last three-quarters of a century, or since the revolution. an old feudal castle--the typical feudal castle of romance--has been restored and remodelled, and now serves as mersault's hôtel de ville. all about is the smell of wine; barrels of it are on every curb, and running rivers of the lees course through every gutter. nolay, a trifle to the west, is scarcely known at all save as the name of a wine, and then it is not seen on every wine list of the popular restaurants. in the good old days it was the seat of a marquisat and was of course endowed with a seigneurial chateau. nothing of sufficient magnitude, seemingly, exists to-day, and so one does not linger, but turns his attention immediately to the magnificent chateau de la rochepot, which virtually dominates the landscape for leagues around. in contrast with the vast array of _chateaux de commerce_ scattered all through the côte d'or--the "golden hillside" of the romans--is the chateau de la rochepot, marvellous as to its site and most appealing from all points. it was at nolay that was born lazare carnot. it is the name of the _grand homme_ who is almost alone nolay's sole claim to fame. his ancestor has his statue on the little place, and his grandson--he who was president of the french republic--is also glorified by a fine, but rather sentimentally conceived, monument. lazare carnot was born in a humble little cottage of nolay, and this cottage, after all, is perhaps the town's most celebrated monument to the glorious name. the ancient home of the sires de la roche, the chateau de la rochepot, to-day belongs to captaine carnot, the son of the former president, who, thoroughly and consistently, has begun its restoration on model lines. the sire de la roche-nolay, who planned the work, hired one by the name of pot, it is said, to dig a well within the courtyard. the price demanded was so high that he was obliged to turn over the property itself in payment. it was by this means, says historic fact or legend, that the line of pots, big and little, came into possession. this philippe pot, by his marriage, brought the property to the montmorencys and himself to the high office of counsellor of anne de beaujeau. he became seigneur of the lands here in , and was afterwards better known as ambassador of the duc de bourgogne at london. his tomb was formerly in the abbey of citeaux, but has been transported to the louvre. after the rochepots' tenure the property came to the sullys, and in to the family de fargis. during the revolution it was acquired as a part of the _biens nationaux_ of the government, and in the donjon of the chateau was pulled down, the same which is to-day being rebuilt stone by stone on the same site. the present noble edifice is after all nothing more than a completion of the admirably planned reconstruction of the fifteenth century; the restoration, or rebuilding, of to-day being but the following out of the plans of the original architect, a procedure which has seldom been attempted or accomplished elsewhere. it was done with the sixteenth century fountain of the medicis in the luxembourg gardens (whose sculptures according to the original designs were only completed in ), but this is perhaps the only instance of a great mediæval chateau being thus carried to completion. the restorations of carcassonne, saint-michel and pierrefonds are in quite another category. the chateau la rochepot was a development of the ancient chastel-rocca, which stood on the same site in the twelfth century, and which drew its name originally from its situation. Épinac, just to the west of la rochepot, is in the heart of a veritable "black country"; not the "black country" of the midlands in england, but a more picturesque region, where the soot and grime of coal and its products mingle by turns with the brilliancy of foliage green and gold. in addition to drawing its fame from the mines roundabout, Épinac owes not a little of its distinction to its chateau, and a neighbouring chateau de sully which dates from the sixteenth century. the chateau de sully is a magnificent edifice built in for the maréchal de saulx-tavannes, and is to-day classed by the french government as a "monument historique." it was built from the plans of ribbonnier, a celebrated architect of langres in the sixteenth century, and terminated only in the reign of henri iv. it is an excellent type of the french renaissance of the latter half of the sixteenth century. in form it is a vast rectangle with square _pavilions_, or towers, at each angle set diagonally. though varied, its architecture is sober to a degree, particularly with respect to the _rez-de-chaussée_. the inner court of this admirable chateau is surrounded by an arcaded gallery whose rounded arches are separated by a double colonnette. the gardens are of the "jardin anglais" variety, so affected by the french at the time of the completion of the chateau, and are cut and crossed by many arms of the ornamental water which entirely surrounds the property. after the tenure of the family of tavannes, the property passed to those of rabutin and montaigu, and, for the last century, has been owned by the macmahons. there are some fragments lying about which belong to another edifice which dates from the thirteenth century, but not enough to give the stones the distinction of being called even a ruined chateau. Épinac's chateau dates from at least two centuries before the chateau de sully, and is a resurrection of an old chateau-fort. two great heavy towers remain to-day as the chief architectural features, beside an extent of main building through whose walls are cut a series of splendid gothic window frames. tradition has it that these towers were originally much more lofty, but at the period when barons, whether rightly or wrongly, held their sway over their peers and anyone else who might be around, if the local seigneur was beaten at a tourney, the penalty he paid was to cut the towers of his castle down one-half. this seems a good enough tale to tack to a mediæval castle, as good as a ghost tale, and as satisfactory as if it were a recorded fact of history, instead of mere legend. [illustration: _chateau de sully_] originally these towers of the chateau d'Épinac were of such an overwhelming height that they could be seen a hundred leagues around--this is local tradition again, and this time it is probably exaggeration. three hundred miles is a long bird's-eye view indeed! anyway a local couplet reads thus, and is seemingly justifiable: "_démène-toi, tourne toi, vire toi,_ _tu ne trouveras pas plus beau que moi._" Épinac, too, is noted for its bottles, the fat-bellied, ample litres in which ripe old burgundy is sold. "_dame jeans_" and "_flacons_" are here made by millions, which is only another way of referring to demijohns and bottles. of their variety of shapes and sizes one may judge by the song the workers sing as they ply their trade: "_messieurs, messieurs, laissez nous faire_ _on vous en donnera de toutes les façons._" the glass industry of Épinac, if not as old as its chateau, at least dates from the very earliest days of the art. retracing one's steps some forty kilometres to chalon-sur-saône one comes midway to chagny. the railroad guides chiefly make mention of chagny as a junction where one is awakened at uncomfortable hours in the night to change cars. some of us who have passed frequently that way can call attention to the fact that chagny possesses, among other wonders, certain architectural glories which are worthy of consideration by even the hurried twentieth century traveller. here is a fine twelfth century roman tower, a former dependency of some civic establishment, but now serving as the _clocher_ of the church, a svelt but all imposing square broad-based tower of the local manor from which the seigneur of other days, even though he was not a "grand seigneur," stretched forth his velvet-clad iron hand in mighty benediction over his good men and true. besides this there is a monstrosity of a cupola of the modern chateau which is hideous and prominent enough to be remarked from miles around. clearly, then, chagny is much more than a railway junction. no one who stops more than a passing hour here will regret it, although its historic shrines are not many nor beautiful to any high degree. chapter xi mÂcon, cluny and the charollais mâcon is a name well known to travellers across france, but its immediate environs are scarcely known at all save as they are recognized as a region devoted to the product of the vine. for a fact the romantic and historic lore which abounds within a short radius of the capital of the mâconnais makes it one of the most interesting regions of mid-france. lying just to the westward is the charollais, whose capital, charolles, the ancient fortress of the comtes de charolles, is surrounded by a veritable girdle of castles and donjons, the nearest two kilometres beyond the town. they formed in their prime an outer line of defence behind which the counts lived in comparative safety. montersine, the nearest of these works, a vast rectangular donjon with _echauguettes_, must certainly have been the most formidable. within ten leagues are the chateaux of lugny, rambeauteau and corcheval--one of the most ancient of the charollais. there are also terreaux-à-verostres, the renaissance chaumont at saint-bonnet-de-joux and, finally, the fortress of commune-sur-martigny-le-comte. of these, that of chaumont-la-guiche, two kilometres from saint-bonnet-de-joux, is quite the most splendid when it comes to best fulfilling the mission of a luxurious renaissance _maison de campagne_. it is to-day the magnificent twentieth century residence of the marquis de la guiche, but is a lineal descendant of the edifice built in the reign of françois premier and terminated by philibert de guiche, who died in . at the time of the saint bartholomew massacre he was bailli de mâcon, and, throughout, the mâconnais and the charollais took a firm stand against the killing off of the protestants as an unholy means to a christian end. before the chateau is an equestrian statue of its sixteenth century chatelain, and the stables, a great vaulted hall whose ceiling is upheld by more than fifty svelt colonnettes, are in no small way reminiscent of the still more extensive Écuries at chantilly. there is also, as a dependency of the chateau, a remarkably beautiful gothic chapel with fine old glass in its windows--gothic of a late construction, be it understood, but acceptable gothic nevertheless. at paray-le-monail--a place of sainted pilgrimage, because of the miracle of the sacré coeur which took place here--is to be seen the luxurious dwelling of a local seigneur who was closely allied to the comte de charolles. it is a palace in all but name, and were it on the well-worn travel track in touraine would be accounted one of the marvels of the brilliant array of renaissance dwellings there. it holds this distinction to-day among the comparatively few who know it, and, as it serves the public functions of a hôtel de ville, its future as a "monument historique" worthy of preservation seems assured. chateau or palace it may not be; it may be only a luxurious town house; who shall make the distinction after all? let the reader, or better yet, the visitor, to this admirable renaissance wonder-work be assured that it is more royally palatial than many which have sheltered the heads and persons of the most fastidious of monarchs. south from charolles, behind the hills of the brionnais, almost on the edge of the ancient forez, in part only burgundian, is the _coquette bourgade_ (a french expression absolutely untranslatable) of marcigny, all ochre and brown after the local colouring. it is a town of a great tree-bordered place, or square, with decrepit old houses overhanging its narrow streets, made famous in the past by a celebrated benedictine priory which received only the daughters of the nobility. of this monastery there remains only the prior's palace, a princely sort of abode which to-day has been turned into a hotel. here one may experience one of the greatest and most joyful surprises of french travel, and pick up his historical lore on the spot. leaving marcigny for semur-en-brionnais, one passes a vestige of the feudal past in the shape of an elaborately decorated feudal tower. at a distance this decorative effect seems to be produced by shot still clinging to the walls, an effect that may be seen also at arques in normandy and at tarascon in the midi. here this is an illusion. as one approaches nearer it is easy to see these round bosses transform themselves into _mascarons_, or sculptured decorative details, like the escutcheons and plaques so frequently seen stuck into the walls of so many civic edifices in italy. this old tower is of a different species, but manifestly it is a memorial of some sort. its peaked head rises above a sort of _pavillon_, or loft, like a gigantic pigeon-house. there is a diminutive barbican on one side, and on the other are narrow slits of gothic [illustration: _hôtel de ville, paray-le-monail_] windows, as if for defence rather than as a means of letting light and air within. "this is some ancient historic monument, no doubt?" you query of some passing peasant. and to be precise he answers: "yes, a tower." that is all the information you can get beneath its shadow, but you are content and go your way. it fulfils exactly your idea of what a mediæval donjon should be, and what it lacks in apparent authenticated history can be readily enough imagined by anyone with a predilection for such musings. leaving the charollais and the brionnais, one turns toward mâcon by the gateway of cluny. mediævalism here is rampant in memory, song and story, though the monuments are unfamiliar ones. it is an echo of the days when abbots and priors were often barons, and barons were magistrates who held the keys of life and death over other of mankind. these were the days, too, when the pope was the real ruler of many a kingdom with another titular head. large parcels of land, from the black sea to brittany, fiefs, countships and even dukedoms, were church property, and others held their brief sway therein only by the tolerance of the pontiff. seemingly exempt from this domination, the powerful monks of cluny knew no lord nor master. on one occasion a pope and a king of france, with numberless prelates and nobles in their train, took refuge in the old abbey, but not a brother put himself out in the least to do them honour. by the fifteenth century, the hour of decadence had rung out for cluny; no more was it true "_en tout pays où vent vente_ _l'abbe de cluni à rente._" it was at this time that the "_arbitres des rois_" lost their power. the great abbey of cluny may readily enough be included in any contemplation of the great civic and domestic establishments of these parts. the only difference is that in some cases the chatelains or chatelaines were princes or princesses instead of abbés or abbesses. cluny's destinies were presided over by an abbé, but kings and cardinals and popes all, at one time or another, came to dwell within its walls. when cluny was but a mere hamlet, in the year a.d., guillaume, duc d'aquitaine et comte d'auvergne, founded this abbey, which became one of the most celebrated in the universe. from the first its abbés were cardinals and princes of church and state. in pope innocent iv. visited the abbey with a train of twelve cardinals and scores of minor churchmen. the sainted louis and the queen, his mother, enjoyed hospitality within its walls, and the emperor of constantinople, and a throng of followers, all found a welcome here; and this without incommoding the four hundred monks who were attached to the foundation. pope gelasse ii died at the abbey, and the archbishop guy of vienne was here elected pope, under the name of calixtus ii, by a conclave assembled within its halls. to-day the pride of the former powerful abbey rests only on its laurels of other days. its superb basilica has practically disappeared. only its foundations, five hundred and fifty feet in length, are to be traced. the extensive library has disappeared, and only certain of the walls and roofs and a few minor apartments of the former palatial conventual buildings remain to suggest the one time glory. the rich plain of cluny was, in a.d., but a forest called the "vallé noire" when the abbé bernon with a dozen brothers founded the celebrated abbey of cluny, called the "cradle of modern civilization." of the conventual buildings the most remarkable features still standing are the south arm of the great transept of the abbey church, the massive octagonal tower, of a height of sixty metres, another slighter octagonal _clocher_, and the chapelle des bourbons. cluny's old houses, or such of them as remain, have been to a large extent rebuilt and remodelled, but still enough remains to suggest that the old monastic city was a place of luxury-loving and worldly citizens as well as monks. here and there a flying stair, a balcony, a loggia, or a _rez-de-chaussée_ arcade suggests a detail almost italian in its motive. colonnettes divide a range of windows and pilasters support stone balconies and terraces here and there in a most pleasing manner, and with a most surprising frequency,--a frequency which is the more pleasing, since, as has been said, scarcely anything of the sort is to be seen here in more than fragmentary form, though indeed all the architectural orders and devices of the ingenious mediæval builder are to be noted. the revolution respected cluny, but the empire and "la bande noire" condemned it to destruction. the abbatial palace, a palatial dependence of the abbey, where lodged visiting potentates and prelates, escaped entire destruction, and is to-day the chief ornament of the town. a national educational institution now occupies the halls and apartments of this great building where lords and seigneurs and churchmen once held their conclaves. a fine gothic portal leads to the inner court of this magnificent edifice, which was erected by two abbés, jean de bourbon and jacques d'amboise. each had built a separate dwelling on either side of the great portal. that of the cardinal de bourbon is unlovely enough, as such edifices go, but has an air of a certain sumptuousness notwithstanding. that of jacques d'amboise is a highly ornate work of the renaissance, and now serves as the hôtel de ville, whilst the other houses a local museum and library. a garden of the formal order surrounds the two edifices and covers a goodly bit of the ground formerly occupied by the other buildings attached to the abbey. entrance to this garden, and its palais abbatial, as the ensemble is officially known, is through a double romanesque portal, as much a militant note as the rest is religious. cluny's hôtel dieu is another remarkable souvenir of old. within are various monuments and statues of churchmen and nobles which give it at once a lien on one's regard. there is a luxurious monument to one of the abbés of cluny; another, that the cardinal de bouillon erected to his father, maurice de la tour d'auvergne, duc souverain de bouillon, prince souverain de sedan. here and there about the town an old feudal tower or house-front juts out in close communion with some banal modern façade, but the whole aspect of the city of some four thousand inhabitants to-day is, when viewed from a distant approach, as of a feudal city with no modernities whatever. near acquaintance disabuses one of this idea, but, regardless of this, the aspect of cluny, the monastery and the city, is one of imposing and harmonious grandeur, hardly to be likened to any similar ensemble in france or beyond the frontiers. near cluny, in the heart of the "black valley," is the chateau de cormatin, belonging to a m. gunsbourg, and containing an important collection of pictures and furniture, all of them antique, which are cordially submitted to the gaze of the curious upon a diplomatic request. rising from the plain, on the road to tournus, is the chateau de brançion, a feudal relic and not much more, but proclaiming its former military glory as if its history had been epoch-making, which it probably was not, as there is but scant reference to it in local annals. as one approaches mâcon by road from the north or west, great villas and "_chateaux de commerce_" line every kilometre of the way. some are ancient and historic, though in no really great sense; others are modern and banally, painfully, well-kept and whitewashed--only the _badigeon_ is pink or blue or green, painted one can readily believe by the artist (_sic_) descendants of the italians who once inhabited the region in large numbers. there are overhanging balconies on all sides; balustrades, terraces and loggias relieve the monotony of most of the façades, and indeed, it is as if a corner of italy had been transported to mid-france. mâcon is a picturesque ensemble of much that is ancient, but the smugness of the place, its undeniable air of modernity and prosperity, have done much to discount what few well conserved architectural charms it still possesses. this is true of great churches and palatial dwellings alike, though there are many undeniably fine bits here and there which, if one only knew, perhaps possess a history as thrilling as that enjoyed by many more noble edifices. for one of the best impressions of mâcon it is possible to have, there is nothing better than turner's painting "mâcon," or a photographic copy thereof. it is a drawing which until recently was never engraved. turner and his engravers never dared attempt it, so complex was the light and shadow of the vintage sun shining on the hillsides and valleys of the côte d'or. recently frank short made a mezzotint of it, and it stands to-day as one of the most expressive topographical drawings extant. mâcon was originally the capital of a _petit pays_, the mâconnais, and is to-day, in local parlance. in former times it was the governmental seat of a line of petty sovereigns, from the day of louis-le-débonnaire until the country passed into the hands of the ducal burgundians. from this time forth, though forming a component part of the great duchy, the region was settled frequently upon various members of the parent house as a vassal state where the younger branch might wield a little power of its own without complicating the affairs of the greater government. in revolutionary times mâcon was considered by the republicans as "a hateful aristocratic hole." this being so, one wonders that more souvenirs of royalty have not remained. in feudal times the city was enclosed by an _enceinte_ cut with six great gates, supported by an inner citadel. these walls and bastions were demolished later, and the city was almost alone among those of burgundy to freely open its doors to the ligueurs and henri iv. from this time on important historical events seem to have avoided mâcon. the site of mâcon's ancient citadel is now occupied by the préfecture. it was formerly the episcopal palace, a regal dwelling which the bishops of other days must have found greatly to their liking. it is the nearest thing to a chateau which mâcon possesses to-day. the hôtel de ville is a banal structure of the eighteenth century, the gift of the comte de montreval, formerly his family residence. the palais de justice is also a made-over _hôtel-privée_ and has some architectural distinctions, but there is nothing here to take rank among the castles and chateaux of the rest of the burgundian countryside. southwest from mâcon, scarce thirty kilometres away, is a romantic little corner of old france known to the french themselves--those who know it at all--as the pays de lamartine. the little townlets of milly and saint-pont were the cradle and the refuge of lamartine, who so loved this part of france extending from the loire to lac leman and the alps. the political world of the capital, into whose vortex the great litterateur was irresistibly drawn, had not a tithe of the effect upon his character as compared with that evoked by the solitudes of his burgundian _patrie_ and his alpes de chambéry. milly, here in the midst of the opulent plains and hillsides of burgundy, is a spot so calm and so simply environed that one can not but feel somewhat of the inspiration of the man who called it his "_chère maison_." a half a dozen kilometres from milly is saint-pont surrounded by a magnificent framing of rounded summits forming one of those grandiose landscapes of which lamartine so often wrote: "_oui, l'homme est trop petit, ce spectacle l'écrase._" here is the chateau de lamartine, not a tourist sight by any means, at least not an over-done one, but a shrine as worthy of contemplation and admiration as many another more grand and more popular. seated snugly at the foot of a wooded slope, the chateau, flanked with two great towers, lifts its serrated sky-line proudly above the reddish, ochre-washed walls (a colour dear to the folk of the mâconnais) high above the level of the roofs of the town below. a more massive square tower sets further to the rear, and a _tourelle_, with a pointed candle-snuffer roof, accentuates the militant aspect of the edifice, though indeed its claims rest entirely on the arts of peace to the exclusion of those of war. here, in the family chateau, alphonse-marie-louis-de-lamartine passed the happiest years of his life. this was at a time when the pomp of power which he afterwards tasted as minister of foreign affairs, after the abdication of louis philippe, had no attraction for him. "_il est sur la colline_ _une blanche maison,_ _une tour la domine,_ _un buisson d'aubepine_ _est tout son horizon._" as lamartine himself wrote: "nothing here will remind one of luxury; it is simply the aspect of a great farm where the owners live the simple life in a great block of a silent dwelling." these words describe the chateau de lamartine very well to-day. saint-pont and the chateau de lamartine are well worth half a day of anyone who is found at mâcon and not hard pressed to move on. near saint-pont is the ancient chateau de noble, belonging, in , to nicolas de pisa, and, in , to claude de la beaune. it is not a splendid structure in any architectural sense, but a most curious and appealing one. its chief distinction comes from its two pointed coiffed towers, one at either end of a high sloping gable. repairs and restorations made since the revolution have deprived it of the ancient ramparts which once entirely surrounded it, but the romantic and curious aspect of the main body of the structure, and those all-impressive, svelt, sky-piercing towers, make it seem too quaint to be real. certainly no more remarkable use of such adjuncts to a seigneurial chateau has ever been made than these towers. here they are not massive, nor particularly tall, but their proportions are seemingly just what they ought to be. they are, at any rate, entirely in accord with the rest of the structure, and that is what much modern architecture lacks. [illustration] chapter xii in the beaujolais and lyonnais south from chalon, by the banks of the saône, lies the beaujolais, a wine-growing region which partakes of many of the characteristics of the côte d'or itself. further south, beyond mâcon, the aspect of the lyonnais is something quite different. all is of a bustle and hustle of the feverish life of to-day, whilst in the beaujolais pursuits are agricultural. each of these regions is profoundly wealthy and prosperous, an outgrowth, naturally enough, of the opulent times of old, for here, as in the heart of burgundy, the conditions of life were ever ample and easy. throughout the countryside of the beaujolais and the mâconnais one notes a manner of building with respect to the meaner dwellings which, to say the least, is most curious. these small houses are built of a species of sun-dried bricks or lumps of clay. it seems satisfactory; as satisfactory as would be an adobe dwelling--in a dry climate. but here in times of flood those built in the river bottoms have been known to melt away like the sand castles of children at the seashore. the present département of the saône-et-loire was evolved from the very midst of the burgundian kingdom, and comprises chiefly the mediæval comtés of the autunnois, chalonnais, mâconnais and charollais. the romans were the real exploiters of all this region, and only with the pillage of the normans, and the successive civil and religious wars, did the break-up of burgundy really come to be an assured fact. chalon-sur-saône itself is most attractive--in parts. as a whole it is disappointing. françois premier built the fortifications of chalon in , and half a century later charles ix constructed the citadel--"to hold the town in subjection, and the inhabitants in ignorance." dijon was the city of the mediæval counts; chalon was a city of churchmen. nevertheless the bishops of the episcopal city bore the title of counts, and of its churches which remain none is more typical of the best of romanesque in france than the nave and side aisles of chalon's cathedral de saint vincent. chalon's monuments of the feudality are few indeed to-day; they and their histories have been well nigh forgotten, but here and there some fine old gable or portico springs into view unannounced, and one readily enough pictures again the life of the lords and ladies who lived within their walls, whilst to-day they are given over to matter of fact, work-a-day uses with little or no sentimental or romantic atmosphere about them. there is no distinct official edifice at chalon which takes up its position as a chateau, or _manoir_, at least none of great renown, though a rebuilt old church now transformed into a hotel of the second or third rate order is one of the most curiously adapted edifices of its class anywhere to be seen. what a great family the chalonnais were is recalled by the fact that in the sixteenth century all the folk of the city were regarded as cousins. this is taking the situation by and large, but certain it was that a community of family liens as well as interests did tend to make this relationship notable. furthermore each of the trades and _métiers_ herded by themselves in real clansman fashion, the nail-makers in the rue des cloutiers, the boiler-makers in the rue des chaudronniers and the barrel-makers in the rue des tonneliers. and there was a quarter, or faubourg, devoted to the priests and monks, as well as another where none but the nobility were allowed to be abroad. to the west of chalon are two famous vineyards, touches and mercurey, surrounded by mere hamlets, there being no populous centres nearer than givry or chalon. one remarks these two famous vineyards because of their repute, and because of the neighbouring superb ruin of the mediæval chateau de montaigu which crowns a hill lying between the two properties. in the neighbourhood of chalon are numerous little towns of no rank whatever as historic or artistic shrines, but bearing the suffix of _royal_. it is most curious to note that many have changed their nomenclature--as it was before the revolution. saint gengoux-le-royal and ten other parishes all dropped the royal, and became known as saint gengoux-le-national, etc. donzy-le-royal was not so fortunate in its position. saint gengoux has gained nothing by its spasm of republicanism. it is not more national to-day than cavaillon or carpentras, whereas the suffix royal meant, if it meant anything, that it was an indication of its ancient rank when it belonged directly to the crown of france. republicanism did not change its allegiance, only its name. the diligence from paris stopped at chalon-sur-saône in the old days and passengers made their way to lyons by the river. colbert it was who sought to develop the service of _coches d'eau_ on the saône between chalon and lyons. he carried the thing so far, in , that he suppressed the public diligence by land which had formerly made the journey between the two capitals. this was not accomplished without a live protestation from the residents of the terminal cities. in the last days of the _malle-poste_, when chalon was the end of the journey from paris, four steamboats of a primitive order competed for the privilege of carrying passengers from chalon to lyons. to-day the service has been suppressed; the "_piroschapes_," as they were called, have gone the way of the mail coaches. travel to-day is accomplished with more comfort and more expedition. below chalon, following down the saône, within a league, one comes to toisé, with a celebrated chateau, almost wholly ignored to-day when checking off the historical monuments of france. and this is true in spite of the fact that it was here within the walls of the chateau de toisé that was signed the famous treaty between henri iv and the duc de mayenne. the chateau is simply an admirable renaissance monument of its time with no very remarkable features or history save that noted above. this is enough to make it better known and more often visited, if only glanced at in passing. the author hopes the suggestion may be taken in earnest by those interested. midway between mâcon and chalon is tournus, the site of a chateau-fort built by the franks, and also of an abbey founded by charles-le-chauve in a.d. this monarch gave the abbey a charter as proprietor of the city of tournus in consideration of the monks putting it and its inhabitants under the protection of the virgin and saint philibert. he also made the congregation of monks of the order of saint benoit "_fermiers_" of this "_celestial domain_." the abbés of tournus were a powerful race, rivalling the princes and dukes of other fiefs, and owning allegiance only to the king and pope, more often to the latter than to the former. among them were numbered no less than eight cardinals in the fifty-nine who ruled the city and the "domain." the monastery itself has become a sort of institution, a secular lodging house, but its fine church still remains as one of the most famous romanesque-burgundian examples of its time. above tournus, high on the hill back of the town, sits a disused ancient fabric, a former benedictine abbey. its abbés had the right to wear the pontifical vestments, and to administer justice to the city and its neighbouring dependencies. more like an antique fortress than a religious foundation, it is the most ambitious and striking edifice now to be seen in tournus. tournus has an artistic shrine of great moment and interest, although its architectural details comport little with the really dignified examples of mediæval architecture. it is the birthplace of the painter greuze, and before its arcades rises a monument to his memory. the great painter of the idealist school was born here. in the local museum are nearly five hundred designs from his hand. opposite tournus, in mid-saône, is a strip of flat island known as the ile-de-la-palme, a morsel of alluvial soil respected by centuries of spring floods which have passed it by on either side, and indeed, often over its surface. the helvetians, quitting their country in ancient times, invaded gaul and made use of the ile-de-la-palme to cross the saône, aided by either pontoons or rafts. centuries later, after the bloody battle of fontenay, the son of louis-le-débonnaire held a conference on this isle with regard to the division of the conquered territory. thus it is that the ile-de-la-palme in the saône has something in common with that other historic island in the bidassoa where france and spain played a game of give and take in the sixteenth century. a short distance from the east bank of the saône is romenay in the heart of the chalonnais. it is a relic of an ancient fortified city, a townlet to-day of less than six hundred inhabitants, though once, judging from the remains of its oldtime ramparts, much more extensive and influential. saint trivier-de-courtes, like romenay, has little more than a bare half a thousand of population to-day, though it was once a noble outpost planted by the ducs de savoie, the masters of bresse, against the possible invasion of the burgundians and the french from the north. at bagé-le-chatel, between mâcon and bourg, rises a grim reminder of the feudality. it is the silhouette of the fine old castle of the ancient seigneurs de bagé. passing mâcon by, and still following the saône, one comes in a dozen or twenty kilometres to thoissey, a town which has not been greatly in evidence these latter days. it is a somnolent little city of the ancient principality of dombes, that disputed ground of the burgundians and the savoyards in the middle ages. only from the fact that it was the birthplace of commandant marchand of the ill-fated faschoda expedition would it ever have been mentioned in the public prints of the last generation. in good old monarchial days it was different. then thoissey set an aristocratic example to many a neighbour more prosperous and better known to-day. the princes de dombes had a chateau here, and they embellished the local hospice in a way that made it almost a rival of that other establishment of its class at beaune. throughout thoissey there were, and are still, many admirable examples of the town houses of the nobles and courtiers of the little state of dombes. thoissey was the miniature capital of a miniature kingdom. the local "college" still shows evidences of a luxuriant conception of architectural decoration with its finely sculptured window frames and doorways. the most striking incident of thoissey's career was when the seigneur de bagé attacked the seigneur de thoissey, who was at the time the sire de beaujeau, in his stronghold. the latter called the duc de bourbon to his aid and thus brought about an inter-province imbroglio which necessitated the intervention of the king of france as mediator, though without immediate success. the litigation finally went before pope clement vii (a french pope, by the way), and only in , a quarter of a century after the feud began, did the duc de bourbon, who meantime had become also the sire de beaujeau, succeed in throwing off his adversaries. thoissey during the time of the ligue, or more particularly its seigneur, threw in its lot with mayenne, who ultimately, when he finally went over to his royal master, caused the chateau de thoissey to be razed to earth. this is why to-day one sees only the heap of stones, locally called "the chateau," which, to be appreciated, require a healthy imagination and some knowledge of the situation. at belleville-sur-saône is a little strip of the earth's surface called by the french the finest panorama in the world and "le plus bel lieu de france." it is beautiful, even beyond words, a smiling radiant river valley with nearly all the artistic attributes which go to make up the ideal landscape. just how near it comes to being the finest view in the world is a matter of opinion. the new zealander thinks that he has that little corner of god's green earth, and so does many a down-east farmer, to say nothing of the man from the missouri valley and the occasional scotch highlander. the tiny little city of anse has few recollections for most travellers, but it possesses an admirable ruin of a chateau-fortress, with two towers bronzed by time and still proudly erect. this ruin, together with the memory that augustus once had a palace here in the ancient anita of the romans, and the neighbouring ruin of the chateau of the sires de villars over towards trévoux, are all that anse has to-day for the curious save its delightful situation in a bend of the saône. opposite belleville-sur-saône is montmerle. in the middle ages it was one of the sentinel cities which guarded the principality of dombes. sieges and assaults without number were its portion, from the bourguignons, the troops of the sire de beaujeau, the dauphinois and the counts and dukes of savoy. the imposing ruins of the former chateau-fortress tell the story of its mighty struggle which endured for nearly a century. for the most part the bulk of the material of which it was built has disappeared, or at least has been built up into other works, but the massive signal tower which once bolstered up the main portal still rises high above the waters of the saône. the tower supposedly dates from the twelfth century--the period to which belonged the chateau--and is distinguished by its hardiness and height rather than for its solidity and massiveness. at farcins, near-by, is a magnificent and still habitable chateau of the end of the reign of henri iv, built by jean de sève, conseiller du roi, on the plans of baptiste androuet du cerceau. from montmerle one may see the towers and roofs of half a dozen other minor chateaux of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries scattered here and there through the beaujolais, but nothing distinctive arrests one's attention until villefranche and trévoux are reached. the sires de beaujeau, from motives of policy if from no other, ever respected the privilege of villefranche (founded by humbert iv). the traditions of villefranche's old auberge du mouton are classic, and have been used time and again by playwright and novelist without even acknowledgment to history. it was here in the "free city" beside the rhone that edward ii swore to observe the city's claims of municipal liberty. villefranche has no other notable monuments save the hôtel de ville of to-day, which is an admirable renaissance town house, and another equally striking in the rue nationale. the latter is almost palatial in its proportions. just below villefranche is trévoux, the ancient capital of the principality of dombes. it comes into the lime-light here only because of its ruined castle on a height above the town which travellers by road or rail cannot fail to remark even if they do not think it worth while to become intimately acquainted. the old castle is situated on the summit of a hill to the west of the town, its two black-banded towers of the middle ages proclaiming loudly the era of its birth. the octagonal donjon is a master-work of its kind and dates from the twelfth century. since the revolution this remarkable donjon has been shorn of a good two-thirds of its former height, and the effect is now rather stubby. with another twenty metres to its credit it must indeed have been imposing, as well by its construction as its situation. it is no wonder that this powerful defence was able to resist the attack of the sire de varambon, who, after capturing the city, sought vainly to take the chateau in . it was a cruel victory indeed, for the wilful seigneur, not content with capturing the city, drove out all its wealthy and comfortably rich inhabitants and charged them a price of admission to get in again, mutilating their persons in a shocking manner if they did not disgorge all of their treasure as the price of this privilege. the local seigneur, his family and immediate retainers, were meanwhile huddled within the walls of the chateau and only escaped starvation at the hands of the victor by his having tired of the game of siege and by his withdrawal, carrying with him all the loot which he could gather together and transport. it was at trévoux that the jesuits compiled the celebrated dictionary and journal which made such a furor in the literary annals of the eighteenth century. with the exception of françois premier all of the french monarchs from philippe-auguste down to louis xiv acknowledged the independence of the principality of dombes, and owed them the allegiance of supplying men and money in case they were attacked. the parliament met at trévoux and the principality was one of the earliest and smallest political divisions of france to coin its own money. chapter xiii the franche comtÉ: auxonne and besanÇon east of dijon, from the centre of which radiated burgundian influence and power, was a proud and independent political division which, until , never allied itself intimately with the royal domain of the french kings nor with burgundy. from this time, as a part of the burgundian dukedom, it retained the right to be known as the franche comté, and was even then exempted from many impositions and duties demanded of other allied fiefs: "_burgundiæ comitatus, liber comitatus_," was its official title. it is characteristic of the independent spirit of the people of these parts that they should tell henri iv, who praised the wine they offered him, when he was making a stay among them, and was being entertained in besançon's citadel, that they had a much better one in the cellar which they were saving for a more august occasion. the franche comté is in no sense a tourist region; its varied topography has not been given even a glance of the eye by most conventional tourists, and its historical souvenirs have been almost entirely ignored by the makers of romances and stage-plays. switzerland-bound travellers have an excellent opportunity to become acquainted with this comparatively little known corner of old france as they rush across it by express train via pontarlier, but few avail themselves thereof. for this reason, if no other, the architectural monuments of the franche comté come upon one as genuine surprises. from dijon our way lay through genlis and auxonne to besançon, and there is no better way of approaching the heart of things, though it will require some courage on the part of travellers by train to accommodate themselves to the inconvenient hours of departure and arrival. the traveller by road will have a much easier and a much more enjoyable time of it; and right here is a suggestion of a new ground for touring automobilists who may be tired of well-worn roads. it is just as enjoyable to hunt out historic monuments with an automobile as with a cook's ticket and a railway train--more so, some of us think. it would certainly not have been possible for the makers of this book to have otherwise got over the ground covered herein, so let not the ultra-sentimentalist decry the modern mode of locomotion. winding its way between the confines of burgundy and the comté the highroad from paris to pontarlier and switzerland led us first to auxonne. genlis we passed _en route_ and almost had a thrill over it by recalling the notorious comtesse de genlis. we racked our brains a moment and then remembered that the celebrated "_bas bleu_" hailed from somewhere in picardy, so, then, this particular genlis had no further interest for us, above all in that there was no chateau in sight. auxonne (the old ad sonam of the romans, afterwards corrupted into assona, then assonium and finally as it is to-day) was but a dozen kilometres beyond genlis, and, sitting astride the great highway from paris to geneva, was early a fortified place of great strategic importance. vauban traced its last ramparts and it was thought likely to hold its rank for all time, but now the fortifications have disappeared and the city no longer takes its place as a frontier outpost, that honour having been usurped by besançon in the jura. of the military and feudal past there are still vivid memories at auxonne. the chateau-fort is still there, built in different epochs by louis xi, charles viii and louis xii, and these works combined to make an edifice seemingly all-resistant, or at least formidable to a high degree. the chateau is still there, in part at least--not much has actually been despoiled, but actually the railway station is more militant in aspect. the stranger coming to auxonne for the first time--unless he be prepared beforehand--will have grave doubts at first as to which is the chateau and which is the _gare_. the latter has a crenelated cornice, meurtrières pierced in its walls, and the vague appearance of bastions, all of which are also found in the real in the old chateau grimly overlooking the swift-flowing saône. the enormous flanking towers of the real chateau, in spite of the city having been shorn of its prime military rank, are still kept in condition for the service of long-range guns, for the french are ever in a state of preparedness for the invasion which may never come. the lesson of " " was well learned. on the great entrance portal of the chateau is blazoned a stone-sculptured hedgehog, the _devise_ of louis xii, and in opposing niches are two carven angels holding aloft an escutcheon. another doorway is hardly less impressive, though somewhat vague as to the purport of its ornament, which stands for nothing military or even civic. this introduction to the militant glory of the auxonne of other days is a ripe indication of the dignity with which the place was one day enhanced. of a population to-day of something less than five thousand souls, the city shelters nearly three thousand soldiers of all arms. its warlike aspect can hardly be said to have changed much from what it was of old in spite of the fact that its importance is lower down in the scale. another warlike reminder is the statue which rises proudly in the place d'armes. it is that of the sous-lieutenant bonaparte as he was upon his arrival at auxonne, a pallid youth just out of the military school of brienne. in the plain neighbouring upon auxonne, a sort of mid-france flanders, is a populous town with a momentous and romantic history, albeit its architectural monuments, save in fragments, are practically nil. the revolutionary authorities took away its old name and called it "belle defense," in memory of a heroic resistance opposed by the place to the invading duc de lorraine in . gallas had freed the saône with thirty thousand men, and with cardinal la valette at the head of his army (a cardinal whom richelieu had made a general) found dijon so well guarded that he turned on his steps and attacked what is to-day saint jean-de-losne. fifty thousand soldiers in all finally besieged the place, and less than fifteen hundred of the inhabitants, and a garrison of but a hundred and fifty, held them at bay. the duc d'enghien, the future grand condé, then governor of burgundy, was able to send a feeble body of reinforcements and thus turn the tide in favour of the besieged. for this great defence louis xiii exonerated the city from all future taxes, and the grand cross of the legion d'honneur was allowed to be incorporated into the city arms, as indeed it endures unto to-day. the tracings of the former fortifications are plainly marked, though the walls themselves have disappeared. dole is commonly thought of as but a great railway junction. besançon and montbéliard are the real objectives of this itinerary through the franche comté and the half-way houses are apt to be neglected. for fear of this we "stopped over" at dole. dole's historic souvenirs are many and have in more than one instance left behind their stories writ large in stone. the present hôtel de ville was the old palais du parlement, built in the sixteenth century, from the designs of boyvin, who was himself president of the chambre at the time. within the courtyard of this old parliament house is an impressive donjon of a century earlier, the tour de vergy, which offers as choice a lot of underground cells, or _oubliettes_, as one may see outside the chateau d'if or the castle of loches. the palais de justice at dole, with a magnificently carved portal, was formerly the couvent des cordeliers and dates from . the memory of besançon in the minds of most folk--provided they have any memory of it at all--will be recalled by the opening lines of stendhal's "rouge et noir." "_besançon n'est pas seulement une des plus jolies villes de france, elle abonde en gens de coeur et d'esprit._" the flowing doubs nearly surrounds the "roc" of besançon with a great horse-shoe loop which gives a natural isolation and makes its citadel more nearly redoubtable than was ever imagined by vauban, its builder. from an artistic point of view besançon's monuments are not many or varied if one excepts the palais granvelle and the military defences, which are made up in part of a number of mediæval towers and vauban's citadel. there are four great sentinel towers surrounding the city, all dating from the period of charles quint, but the city gates, piercing the fortification walls, were built also by vauban between - , and are by no means as ancient as they look. the palais granvelle, of the sixteenth century, has a fine dignified monumental aspect wholly impressive regardless of its lack of magnitude and the absence of a strict regard for the architectural orders. liberties have been taken here and there with its outlines which place it beyond the pale of a thoroughly consistent structure, but for all that it undeniably pleases the eye, and more. and what else has one a right to demand unless he is a pedant? in general the civic and domestic architecture of the franche comté are of a sobriety which gives them a distinction all their own; the opposite is true of the churches, taking that at pont-à-mousson as a concrete example. the street façade of the palais granvelle is undeniably fine, with a dignity born of simplicity. its interior façade, that giving on the courtyard, is freer in treatment, but still not [illustration: _palais granvelle, besançon_] violent, and its colonnaded cloister forms a quiet retreat in strong contrast with the bustle and noise which push by the portal scarce twenty feet away. the palais granvelle actually serves to-day the purpose of headquarters of besançon's société savante. nicolas perrenot, seigneur de granvelle, its builder ( - ), was the chancellor of charles quint, and brother of the cardinal de granvelle, minister of charles quint and philippe ii. he was descended from a noble burgundian family, not from a blacksmith as has faultily been given by more than one historian. charles quint, in writing to his son, after the death of his chancellor--"in his palace at besançon," said: "my son, i am extremely touched by the death of granvelle. in him you and i have lost a firm staff upon which to lean." the centre of the admirable town house of the sixteenth century is occupied by a vast courtyard surrounded by a series of doric columns in marble, supporting a range of low arcades. the principal façade is built of "_marbre du pays_," which is not marble or anything like it, but a very suitable stone for building nevertheless. it might be called "near-marble" by an enterprising modern contractor, and a fortune made off it by skilful advertising. it is better, at any rate, than armoured cement. the structure rises but two stories above the _rez-de-chaussée_, but is topped off with an "_attique_" (a word we all recognize even though it be french) and three great stone _lucarnes_, ornamented with light open-work _consoles à jour_. each story is decorated at equal intervals by a superimposed series of columns. the first is doric, the second ionic and the third corinthian, and each divides its particular story into five _travées_. the entrance portal is particularly to be remarked for its elegance. it is flanked on either side by a corinthian column and is surmounted by a pair of angel heads in bronze. drawing closer and closer to the frontier, the face of everything growing more and more warlike the while, one comes to montbéliard, practically a militant outpost of modern france, though actually its importance in this respect is overshadowed by neighbouring belfort. at belfort bartholdi's famous lion--a better stone lion by the way than thorwaldsen's at luzerne--crouches in his carven cradle in the hillside ready to spring at the first rumours of war. if france is ever invaded again it will not be by way of the gateway which is defended by belfort and montbéliard, that is certain! [illustration] montbéliard is a little fragment of germany that has become french. rudely grouped around the walls of the old chateau of the wurtemburgs, the town remains to-day an anomaly in france, more so than the greater strassbourg and metz are to germany, because they have become thoroughly germanized since "la guerre" and the "annexation," which are the half whispered words in which the natives still discuss the late unpleasantness. how did this little german stronghold become french? one may learn the story from "le maréchal de luxembourg et le prince d'orange," by pierre de ségur, better even than he may from the history books. the tale is too long to retell here but it is undeniably thrilling and good reading. the town, the chateau and the local duke were, it seems, all captured at one fell swoop. there was no defence, so it was not a very glorious victory, but it came to pass as a heroic episode and a wurtemburg castle thus came to be a french chateau. the chateau de montbéliard has all the marks of a heavy german castle. it has little indeed of the suggestion of the french manner of building in these parts or elsewhere. to-day it serves as a barracks for french soldiers, but its alien origin is manifest by its cut and trim. the history of montbéliard has been most curious. its name was derived from the latin mons peligardi (in german munpelgard) and the principality, as it once was, had a council of nine _maîtres-bourgeois_, as the city councilmen were called. the principality comprised the seigneuries of héricourt, blamont, chatelet and clémont. for a time it was a part of the duchy of lorraine, then it passed to the house of montfaucon, and then to the wurtemburgs, who built the castle. the treaties of luneville and paris made it possible for the tricolor to fly above the castle walls, otherwise it might have remained a german town with a burgomaster instead of a french _ville_ with a _maire_. the tour neuve of the chateau dates from and the tour bossue from . the main fabric was restored in such a manner that it would seem to have been practically remodelled, if not actually rebuilt, in . it preserves nevertheless the _cachet_ that one expects to see in a castle of its time, albeit that an alien flavour hovers around it still. it is worth continuing in this direction a step farther to belfort in the "territory," although it is actually beyond the confines of burgundy's "free county." belfort is worth seeing for the sake of its "lion," though if one is pressed for time he may take a ride in paris over to the rive gauche and see the same thing in the place de belfort, or at least a miniature replica of it. in the midst of the great entrenched camp of belfort rises "la chateau," as belfort's citadel is known. it sets broad on its base nearly five hundred metres above sea-level. the chateau and the "roc" were first fortified in the sixteenth century, since which time each year has added to the strength of the defences until to-day it is perhaps the most strongly fortified of all the frontier posts of france. it is at the base of the massive "roc" which bears aloft the chateau that is sculptured bartholdi's celebrated lion. its proportions are immense, at least seventy-five feet in length and perhaps forty in height. the ancient tour de la miotte is all that remains of a fortress of the middle ages, so belfort's claims rest on something more than its artistic monumental remains, though the silhouette and sky-line of the grouping of its chateau and citadel are imposingly effective and undeniably artistic. chapter xiv the swiss border: bugey and bresse "la bresse, le bugey, le val-romey et la principauté de dombes" was the high-sounding way in which that hinterland between burgundy and savoy was known in old monarchial days. of a common destiny with the two dukedoms, it was allied first with one and then with the other until the principality was nothing more than a name; independence was a myth, and allegiance, and perhaps something more, was demanded by the rulers of the neighbouring states. in roman times these four provinces were allied with the i-lyonnais, but by the burgundian conquerors forcibly became allied with the stronger power. bresse of itself belonged to the sires de bagé and in became a countship allied with the house of savoy, which in ceded it to the king of france. local diction perpetuates the following quatrain which well explains the relations of bresse with the surrounding provinces. "_pont-de-veyle et pont-de-vaux,_ _saint trivier at romeno_ _sont quat' villes bien renommo;_ _mias viv' mâcon pour beir_ _et bourg pour mangi._" bresse, more than any other of the subdivisions of mediæval and modern france, is endowed with renown for the sobriety and purity of the life of its people; and family ties are "respectable and respected," as the saying goes. above all has this been notably true of the nobility, who were ever looked up to with love and pride by those of lower stations. among the common people never has one been found to willingly ally himself, or herself, with another family who might have a blot on its escutcheon. the marriage vow and its usages are simple but devout, and in addition to the usual observations the peasant husband grants, as a part of the marriage contract, a black dress to be worn at toussaint and the jour des mortes, and to all family mourning celebrations. if a widow or widower seeks another partner the event is celebrated by a ball--for which the doubly wedded party pays. [illustration: _women of bresse_] the village fêtes of bresse, still continued in many an out-of-the-way little town, are the usual drinking and dancing _festins_ of the comic opera merry-making variety. they are simple and proper enough exhibitions, and never descend to the freedom of speech and manners that such exhibitions often do in the midi. none more than brillat-savarin has carried the fame of bresse abroad. a one-time member of the cour de cassation, he perhaps was better known to the world at large as the father of gastronomy in france. his "psychologie de gout," if nothing else, would warrant giving him this title. val-romey--the vallis romana of the emperors--and bugey had for overlords the sires de thoire et villars. it, too, came in time to the ducs de savoie, by gift and by heritage, and also was ceded in to henri iv, by virtue of the treaty of lyons. dombes, principality in little, although at first a part of the kingdom of burgundy, later fell by favour of circumstances to the sires of beaugé and afterwards to the sire de beaujeau. finally it turned its fortunes into the hands of the bourbons, when mademoiselle de montpensier came to rule its destinies. she turned it over to louis xiv as payment for his authorization for her marriage with monsieur de lauzun. the princess made this sacrifice of love in vain, and dombes fell to the duc de maine, while lauzun languished in the prison pignerolo, for the king did not abide by his back-handed favouritism. on the border between the mediæval dukedom and the principality of dombes, to-day the départements of the saône et loire and the ain, is a race apart from other mankind hereabouts. in numerous little villages, notably at boz and huchisi, one may still observe the dark saracen features of the ancients mingled with those of to-day. a monograph has recently appeared which defines these peoples as something quite unlike the other varied races now welded into the citizens of twentieth century france. modern vogue, style, fashion, or whatever you may choose to call it, is everywhere fast changing the old picturesque costume into something of the ready-made, big-store order, but to stroll about the highways and byways in these parts and see men in baggy turkish trousers with their coats and waistcoats tied together by strings or ribbons in place of conventional buttons, is as a whiff of the orient, or at least a reminder of the long ago. the women dress in a distinct, but perhaps not otherwise very remarkable, manner, save that an occasional "turk's-head" turban is seen, quite as oriental as the _culotte_ of the men. a blend of spain, of arabia, of persia and of turkey could not present a costume more droll than that of the "_chizerots_," as these people are known. another _petit pays_, and one of the most remarkably disposed, politically, of all the old provinces which go to make up modern france, is what is known even to-day as the pays de gex. it belonged successively to the house of joinville, to the comté de savoie and to the states of berne and geneva. the duc de savoie, by the treaty of , ceded it to france, but a strip is still neutral ground for both switzerland and france, which by common accord allows geneva full access to the territory in order to establish its communications with swiss territory on the west and south shores of lac leman, particularly to that region beyond saint-gingolphe. the name gex is evolved from the latin gesium, the capital of a kingdom owning but a length of six leagues and a width of about half as much. the bernese and the genevois conquered it in turn, and to-day its personality is _nil_ except that one recalls it as the head centre for the trade in gruyère cheese, the kind which we commonly call swiss cheese. it is in the pays de gex, on the railway line from gex to geneva, that one notes the name of fernay and endeavours to recall for just what it stands. at last it comes to one. fernay possesses a literary shrine of note that all who pass this way may well remember. the wonder is that one did not recall it with less effort. the whole town is virtually a monument to voltaire. it was he who built the town, practically; that is, he furnished the land and the means to erect many of the meaner houses which surround the chateau which he came himself to inhabit, and from which, for a time, the rays of his brilliant wit were shed over the whole literary world of the eighteenth century. after his flight from berlin, voltaire, the seigneur de fernay, founded fernay, within six kilometres of the frontier and geneva, and sought to attract swiss watch-makers thither that a similar industry might there be established on french soil. surely voltaire was more of a benefactor of his race than he is usually considered. the voltaire manor, or chateau, albeit that it is nothing grandly monumental, still exists with [illustration: _chateau de voltaire, ferney_] furniture and portraits of the time of the satirist. at the entrance to the chateau is a tiny chapel, built also by voltaire when he was in that particular mood. over its portal it bears the following words, "deo erexit voltaire mdcclxi." arsène houssaye called the words an impertinence, and, admitting voltaire's genius, one is inclined to assent to the dictum. "my church," said voltaire, "is erected to god, the only one throughout christendom; there are thousands to saint jean, to saint paul and to all the rest of the calendar, but not another in all the world to god." such a romantically storied region as this might naturally be expected to abound in historic souvenirs and monuments almost without end. to an extent this is true, but such souvenirs and recollections of the past more frequently present themselves than do actual castle walls, be they ruined or well-preserved. the antique lore of ancient bresse goes back to druidical days. stone axes, celtic tombs and medals, skeletons wearing bracelets and anklets of iron and copper have been found in great numbers, and from these have been built up a vague history of the earliest times. of roman remains there are still evident many outlines of the camps of the legionaries, innumerable evidences and tracings of old roman highroads, with here and there fragments of aqueducts, baths and temples. near bourg have been discovered various medals of the ancient colony of massilia, on the shores of the mediterranean, and one wonders what were the relations of the ostragoth peoples of bresse with the phoceans of marseilles. history is non-committal. there are no magnificent monumental remains of roman times left in these parts save occasional fragments and towers which presumably served for signalling purposes as a part of the fortifications of the saracens. for any architectural monuments of note one can not with certainty go back to a period earlier than that in which the burgundian power was at its height, or to the time of charles-le-chauve in the ninth century. the feudal memories of bresse are chiefly the ruins of the seigneurial chateau at chateauneuf, the chief-town of the val-romey. built high on the summit of a peak of rock and surrounded by deep-cut fosses, and walls which drop down sheer like the sides of a precipice, this chief feudal residence of the val-romey was more a fortress than a delectable domestic establishment, though it served the functions of both, as was frequently the case with the feudal edifice of its class. what it lacked in actual luxury or comfort it made up for in the added protection offered by its sturdy walls. this was notably true of all seigneurial residences which occupied isolated positions in the feudal epoch. its walls to-day, shorn of any æsthetic beauty which they may once have possessed, and crumbling and moss-grown on every side, still rise a hundred or more feet in air above their rocky foundations, and in many places have a thickness of a dozen or fifteen feet. they built well in those old days, before the era of armoured cement covered with stucco. modern builders make great claims for their product, but will it last? no man knows, and, from the fact that masonry cannot be built even to-day so as to stand up against shot and shell, one doubts if modern work is really as durable as that of a thousand years ago. the military architecture of feudal france, so often closely allied with that of the civic and domestic varieties, was preëminent in its time. the religious architecture, the monasteries and churches, of these parts have certainly more ornate reminders of the undeniable opulence of the region than the secular examples still existing. connecting bresse and the franche comté is a curious little battery of townlets that have never been mentioned in the guide-books, nor ever will be. a motor flight from bourg-en-bresse to besançon evolved the following: first came a smug little town named briefly pierre. it possesses a chateau, too, reckoned as one of the really remarkable examples of the style of burgundian building. it certainly looks all that is claimed for it, though we saw it only in the dim twilight of a may evening. the impression was all-satisfying, and, that being what one really travels for, one should be content. for a neighbour there was champdivers, which recalled a memory of odette de champdivers, the one time companion of the poor charles vi. during his latter unhappy days. truly this was proving for us a most romantic region, a region utterly neglected by the great world of tourists who pick out the big-type names on the map and make up their itineraries accordingly. on the banks of the doubs, near the border of bresse and the comté, lies molay, whose seigneur, jacques de molay, the grand master of the templars, died at the stake in paris during the playing of the great drama of . after molay a succession of dwellings continues to the important frontier town and fortress of dole, a decayed county-town whose official importance, even, has been absorbed by the fortified city and watch-making metropolis of besançon. dole will never be reckoned a city of celebrated art, but regardless of this its fine old renaissance houses and parliamentary palace of other days all follow the architectural scheme which makes the civic and secular edifices of mid-france the most luxurious of their epoch. bourg, the capital of bresse, has ever been one of the most important towns of france lying near the eastern frontier, though indeed as a fortified place the modern french military authorities give it scant value from a strategic point of view. six great national highways cross and recross the city, and many of the narrow streets of the days of the dukes have lately given way to avenues and boulevards. from this one puts bourg down as something very modern--which it is, in parts. built on the site of the ancient forum sebusianorum, the city came in time under the sway of burgundy, of the empire of the states of savoy, and finally definitely allied itself with france in . bourg is in the heart of bresse. its inhabitants are known as bressans de bresse, in contradistinction to those who live on the borders of the old province. "_viv mâcon pour beir et bourg pour mangi_"--mâcon for drinking and bourg for eating--say the bressans of bresse, and with good reason. the bressan costume is most peculiar, at least so far as that of the women is concerned; the men might be of normandy or poitou. only on a fête day will one see the real costume of the women of bresse, but on such occasions the mere sight of the triple-decked, steeple-like coiffe--a good replica of an ornamental fountain in miniature--will suggest nothing so much as the costume of a masquerade. the only palatial domestic or civic edifice notable in bourg to-day is the parliament building of the ancient États de la bresse. of the many princely dwellings of the time of the seigneurs de bagé, and of the savoyan princes of the sixteenth century, not a fragment remains, though the records tell of a splendid chateau-fort and an episcopal residence of like luxurious proportions which existed at the time of the union of bresse with france. this may be the edifice of the États which now shelters the musée lorin. the longbeards disagree as to this, but the casual observer will be quite willing to accept the suggestion. the monument is certainly a splendid one, even if its history is vague. the famous Église de brou at bourg is intimately bound with the life of the nobles of mediæval times, as closely indeed as if it had been a secular establishment where lived lords and ladies and their courts. a description of this classic wonder of architectural art can have no extended place here. it must suffice to recall that it was erected by philibert le beau in completion of a vow made by his mother marguerite de bourbon. within are the magnificently sculptured tombs of the two royalties and another of marguerite d'autriche. the sculpture of these famous tombs has been the subject of more than one monograph, and indeed the whole ornate structure--church, tombs and sculpture--is a never-ceasing source of supply to critics and archæologists. the italian style, in the most gracious of its flowering forms, is here united with the flamboyant flemish school in a profligate profusion. the Église de brou is one of the greatest marvels of renaissance architecture in all the world. north of bourg, on the road to louhans, through the heart of the bresse so dear to gastronomes, are the well conserved remains of the chateau de montcony, and those of more ruinous aspect which represent the departed glories of duretal. cuiseaux' monumental remains are even more scant, and the town itself hardly resembles a town of burgundy. it is more like a place in switzerland or the jura; indeed, to the latter region it once belonged, and only came to be burgundian when the princes of the house, through some petty quarrel, took it for their own by force, as was the way in those gallant, profligate days. cuiseaux does possess, however, a ruined aspect of wall and rampart which suggests that it must have been one of the most admirably defended places of the neighbourhood, judging from an old fifteenth century plan preserved in the bibliothèque nationale. then it was proud of its ramparts which possessed thirty-six protecting towers. to-day but two of these sentinels remain, and it were vainglorious to claim too much for them, particularly since the modern plan of the town makes it look as conventionally dull and uninteresting as an arab _ghourbi_ in the atlas, or an adobe village in arizona. at pont-de-vaux, between bourg and louhans, one comes to a trim little town, an outgrowth of the ancient village of vaux, belonging at one time to the sires de baugé, and later to the duc de savoie, charles iii, who made it a comté in . it afterwards grew to the dignity of a duché, so made by louis xiii. much is preserved to-day of the ancient manner of building, and, all in all, it is quite as satisfactory an example of a mediæval town as has been left untouched by the mature hand of progress of these late days. nantua is known to the traveller in modern france only as another of those lakeside resorts which are such delightful places of sojourn for those who would avoid for a time the strife of great cities. it is a gem of a town, set in a diadem of beauty which surrounds the tiny lake of the same name, but it has no historic monuments, if we except the tomb of charles le chauve in the church. this at least entitles it to a passing comment here, this and the memory of a happy afternoon we passed by the crystal waters of this brilliant lake. midway between bourg and mâcon is pont-de-veyle. this old feudal town was once the particular possession of a brilliant line of seigneurs of france and savoy, the last, under françois i, being the comte de furstemburg, who acquired it as a payment for certain levies of germans that he had furnished the french monarch. the ancient manor of the furstemburgs still exists, but it is hardly of a proportion or architectural merit to have distinction. here, too, are the reconstructed remains of the eighteenth century of a family chateau of the maréchal de lesdiguières, whose fortunes were more intimately bound up with gap and vizille than with this less accessible property. like vizille it has been "put into condition" in recent years, and, while lacking the mossy, romantic air of mediævalism, fulfils most of the demands of the worshipper at historic shrines. there is still standing here an old city gate dating from the thirteenth century, and this in turn is surmounted by a belfry of the sixteenth. the ensemble suggests that it was once a part of a more noble fortress-chateau. the maison des savoyards was probably a princely rest-house when the nobles of its era passed this way. beyond its name, and the elaborate decorations of its façade, there is nothing else to support the conjecture. its history, whatever it may have been, is lost in the confusion with which many ancient records are covered to-day. turning southwest on the highroad, from burgundy into savoy through the heart of dombes, one soon reaches châtillon-les-dombes. as its name indicates, it is a descendant of the town which grew up around an ancient seigneurial residence here of the fourteenth century. chiefly this is memory only, for the fragmentary débris takes on no distinction to-day beyond that of any other indiscriminate pile of stones and mortar. montluel, near-by, is in much the same category. it is famous only for the fact that it was here that amé vii was presented the duché de savoie by sigismond in , and that in troublous, mediæval days it was the safe haven for many political refugees from geneva and florence. montluel, in latin mons lupelli, was the capital of the fief of valbonne. the remains existing to-day, and locally called "le chateau," are those of an edifice which had an existence and a career of sorts in the eleventh century, but which since that date has no recorded history. to pont d'ain and belley is still on the direct road to savoy. on the great "route internationale" from paris to turin sits the ancient chateau of pont d'ain, which owes its name to the old bridge which once spanned the ain at this point. on an eminence high above the river is the old chateau built by the sires de coligny in , the ancestors of the great admiral. previously it had been the residence of the rulers of savoy, and to this luxurious dwelling the princesses of the house invariably came to give birth to the inheritors to the throne. louise de savoie, the mother of françois premier, was born here in , and here died philibert ii, duc de savoie, in , he whose death gave impetus to the erection of that magnificent mausoleum, the Église de brou. belley, a matter of fifty kilometres further on, is a veritable gateway through which passed the ancient route de savoie along which trotted the palfreys and rolled the coaches of renaissance days. lacking entirely mediæval monuments of note, belley ranks, judging from positive documentary evidence, as one of the most ancient towns of the border province lying between burgundy and savoy. its episcopate dates from the year a.d., and, if its feudal monuments have disappeared, its great episcopal palace of later centuries is certainly entitled to be considered an example of domestic architecture quite as appealing as many a feudal chateau of more warlike aspect. so strong a centre of the church as belley was bound to be prominent politically, and its bishops bore as well the title of princes of the empire. herein has been given an epitome of a round of travel in this forgotten and neglected border country lying between old burgundy, switzerland and savoy. what it lacks in elaborate examples of feudal and renaissance architecture it makes up for in storied facts of history, which though too extensive to be more than hinted at here are as thrilling and appealing as any chapter of the history of old france. for that reason, and the fact that some acquaintance with these tiny border provinces is necessary for a proper appreciation of the exterior relations of both burgundy and savoy, the détour has been made. chapter xv grenoble and vizille: the capital of the dauphins dauphiny owes its name as a province to the rightful name of the eldest sons of the french kings down to the middle of the nineteenth century. the actual origin of the application of the name seems to have been lost, though the comtes de vienne bore a dolphin on their blazon from the eleventh century to the fourteenth, when comte humbert, the last dauphin, made over his rights to the eldest son of philippe de valois, who acquired the country in , bestowing it upon his offspring as his patrimony. thus is logically explained the absorption of the title and its relations with the province, for it was then that it came first to be applied to that glorious mountain region of france lying between the high alpine valleys and the shores of the mediterranean. the dauphin, humbert ii, first established the parlement du dauphiné at saint marcellin in , but within three years it was transferred to grenoble, where it held rank as third among the provincial parliaments of france. [illustration: tourelle _du_ palais _de_ justice grenoble b. mcm. ' .] saint laurent, the grenoble suburb, not the mountain town hidden away in the fastness of the mountain _massif_ of chartreuse, occupies the site of an ancient gaulish foundation called cularo. its name was later changed to gratianopolis, out of compliment to the emperor gratian, which in time evolved itself into grenoble, the capital of "the good province of our most loyal dauphin." grenoble's chief architectural treasure is its present palais de justice, the ancient buildings of the old parliament of dauphiny and its cour des comptes. virtually it is a chateau of state and is, moreover, the most important monument of the french renaissance existing in the rhône valley. begun under louis xi, it was terminated under françois premier, when, following upon the italian wars, it was a place of sojourn for the kings of france. on entering the portal at the right one comes directly to the chambre du tribunal of to-day, its walls panelled with a wonderful series of wood-carvings coming from the ancient cour des comptes, the work of a german sculptor, paul jude, in . the portal to the left leads to the cour d'appel--the chambres des audiences solennelles--whose ceiling was designed in by jean lepautre, a great decorative artist of the court of louis xiv, and carved by one guillebaud, a native of grenoble. the ancient chapel, or such of it as remains, where the parliament heard mass, is reached through this room. the ancient chambre des comptes dates from the reign of charles viii. the grande salle on the upper floor is one of the notable works of its epoch with respect to its decorations, though the noble glass of its numerous windows was destroyed long years ago, leaving behind only a record of its magnificently designed _armoiries_ and inscriptions. the chief, out-of-the-ordinary, decorations still to be observed are the sculptured fronts of thirty-eight cupboard doors which enclose the provincial archives. from an artistic, no less than a utilitarian, point of view, they are certainly to be admired, even preferred, before the "elastic" book cases of to-day. much of the old palais des dauphins' former magnificent attributes in the shape of decorative details remain to charm the eye and senses to-day, but of the extensive range of apartments of former times only a bare three or four suggest by their groinings, carvings and chimney-pieces the splendour with which the elder sons of the kings of france were wont to surround themselves. a remarkably successful work of restoration of the façade was accomplished within a dozen years on the model of the best of renaissance details in other parts of the edifice, until to-day the whole presents a most effective ensemble. in grenoble's museum is a room devoted to portraits of the good and great of dauphiny. there are a dozen busts in marble of as many dauphins, a portrait of marie vignon, the wife of lesdiguières, and a crayon sketch of bayard, which is the earliest portrait of the "chevalier" extant. in the Église saint andre is the tomb of bayard. the funeral monument surmounting it was erected only in the seventeenth century. the official chapel of the dauphins has a great rectangular _clocher_ remaining to suggest its former proportions. this fine tower is surmounted by an octagonal upper story and is flanked at each corner with a _clocheton_ rising hardily into the rarefied atmosphere. the grim tower braves the tempests of winter to-day as it has since . grenoble's hôtel des trois dauphins is an historic monument as replete with interest as many of more splendour. it was here that napoleon lodged, with general bertrand, on the night when he passed through the city on that eventful return from elba when he sought to kindle the european war-flame anew. grenoble's sole vestige of ancient castle or chateau architecture, aside from the temporary royal abode of the french kings and the dauphins, is a round tower--la grosse tour ronde--now built into the hôtel de ville, the only existing relic of a still earlier palais des dauphins which in its time stood upon the site of the ancient roman remains of a structure built in the days of diocletian. grenoble's citadel possesses to-day only a square tower with _machicoulis_ to give it the distinction of a militant spirit. it was built in , but to-day has been reduced to a mere barrack's accessory of not the slightest military strength, a "_colombier militaire_," the authorities themselves cynically call it. vauban's ancient ramparts have now been turned into a series of those tree-planted promenades so common in france, but the militant aspect of grenoble is not allowed to be lost sight of, as a mere glance of the eye upward to the hillsides and mountain crests roundabout plainly indicates. grenoble, with its fort-crowned hill of "la bastille," has been called the ehrenbreitstein of the isère, a river which has played a momentous part in the history of savoy and dauphiny, but which is little known or recognized by those who follow the main lines of french travel. mont rachet forms the underpinning of "la bastille" and gives a foothold to an old feudal fortress now built around by a more modern work. below is the juncture of the isère and the drac, and the great plain in the midst of which rests the proud old capital of the dauphins. the site is truly remarkable and the strategic importance of the fortress was well enough made use of in mediæval times as a feudal stronghold. what its value for military purposes may actually be to-day is another story. the walls of the fortress certainly look grim enough, but it is probable that even the puniest of alpine mountain batteries could reduce it in short order. grenoble, as might be expected of a wealthy provincial capital, is surrounded by a near-by battery of palatial country houses which may well take rank as _chateaux de marque_. some are modern and some are remodelled from more ancient foundations, but all are of the imposing order which one associates with a mountain retreat. these of course are of a class quite distinct from the countless forts, fortresses, towers and donjons with which the whole countryside is strewn. uriage, a near neighbour, is a popular resort in little, in fact, a _ville d'eau_, as the french aptly name such places. the chateau d'uriage will for most folk have vastly more sympathetic interest than the semi-invalid attractions of the spa itself. it is at present the property of the saint ferreol family, and though not strictly to be reckoned as a sight, since it is not open to the public, it still remains one of the most striking residential chateaux of these parts. it was built by the seigneurs d'allemon under the old régime. its architecture is frankly of the nondescript order, a mélange of much that is good and some that is bad, but all of it effective when judged from a more or less distant view-point. with respect to its details it is a livid mass of non-contemporary elements to which the purist would give scant consideration, but the effect, always the most desirable quality after all, is undeniably satisfying. the situation heightens this effect, no doubt, but what would you? the high sloped roof, in place of the mansards one usually sees, may be considered an innovation in a structure of its epoch. it was so built, without question, that it might better shed the snows of winter, which here come early and stay late. the chateau de vizille, in a wooded park bordering upon the little industrial suburb of grenoble bearing the same name, is a most imposing pile, and is fairly reminiscent of its eighteenth century contemporaries in touraine and elsewhere in mid-france. it was the place of meeting of the États généraux of dauphiny in , one of the momentous preambles to the french revolution, a chapter of the great drama which was vigorously spoken and acted. it was on july , , under the presidency of the comte de marges, that were voted the preliminary paragraphs of the famous "declaration des droits de l'homme et du citoyen." the occasion is perpetuated in memory by a monument erected in the town to "la gloire de l'assemblée de vizille ... et prepare la revolution française." this was the first parliamentary vote against the sustaining of aristocratic hereditary government in favour of popular representation--really the general signal for revolution, a year before the convention at versailles. the massive pile, ornate but not burdensome, with its mansards, its towers and terraces, composes with its environment in a most agreeable manner. known originally as the chateau des lesdiguières, for it was built originally by that celebrated constable, vice-roi du dauphiné, the chateau de vizille was formerly the property of the family of casimir perier, that which gave a president to the later republic. in the early part of the seventeenth century a german traveller, abraham goelnitz, "greatly admired" the chateau, and compared it to that of the duc d'epernon at cadillac, which contained seventy rooms. that of the maréchal lesdiguières had a hundred and twenty-five, among them (at that time) a picture gallery, an arsenal with six hundred suits of armour, two thousand pikes and ten thousand muskets, as the inventory read. no wonder richelieu would have reduced the power of the local seigneurs when they could get, and keep together, such a store as that. vizille abounds in historical memories the most exciting; the very fact that it was the home of lesdiguières, the terrible companion of the baron des adrets--a dauphinese tyrant, a warrior-pillager and much more that history vouches for--explains this. "_viendrez ou je brulerai_," lesdiguières wrote to the recalcitrant vassals of his king who originally had a castle on the same site. and when they stepped out, leaving the edifice unharmed, he stepped in and threw it to the ground and built the less militant chateau which one sees to-day. this edifice as it now stands was practically the work of lesdiguières. the protestant governor of dauphiny was reckoned a "sly fox" by the duc de savoie, and doubtless with reason. it is a recorded fact of history that the governor built his chateau with the unpaid labour of the neighbouring peasants. this was in conformity with an old custom by which a governor of the crown could release his subject from taxes by the payment of a _corvée_, that is, labour for the state. he took it to mean that as the representative of the state the peasants were bound to work for him. and so they did. the charge goes home nevertheless that it was a case of official sinning. this "berceau de la liberté" is in form an elegant pavilion of the style current with louis xiii. originally it possessed certain decorative features, statues and bas reliefs, all more or less mutilated to-day. what is left gives an aspect of magnificence, but after all these features are of no very high artistic order. within, the decoration of the apartments and their furnishings rise to a considerably higher plane. everywhere may be seen the arms of the constable, three roses and a lion, the latter rampant, naturally, as becomes the device of a warrior. the later career of the chateau de vizille has been most ignoble. twice in the last century it suffered by fire, in and , and finally it was rented as a store-house for a manufacturing concern, later to become a boarding house controlled by a société anglaise. nothing good came of the last project and the enterprise failed, as might have been anticipated at the commencement. to-day the property is on the market, or was until very recently. chapter xvi chambÉry and the lac du bourget one comes to chambéry to see the chateau of the ducs de savoie, the modest villa "les charmettes," celebrated by the sojourn of jean jacques rousseau and madame de warens, and the fontaine des elephants. that is all chambéry has for those who would worship at picturesque or romantic shrines, save its accessibility to all savoy. to begin with the last mentioned attraction first, one may dispose of the fontaine des elephants in a word. it has absolutely no artistic or sentimental appeal, though the town residents worship before it as a buddhist does before buddha. the ducal splendour of the chateau and of "la sainte chapelle," which together form the mass commonly referred to as "the chateau," is indeed the first of chambéry's attractions. restorations of various epochs have made of the fabric something that will stand the changes of the seasons for generations yet to come and still preserve its mediæval characteristics. this is saying that the restoration of the chateau de chambéry has been intelligently conceived and well executed. the great portal, preceded by an ornate terrace, with a statue of the frères de maistre, is the chief and most splendid architectural detail. a good second is the old portal of the Église saint dominique, which has been incorporated into the chateau as has been the sainte chapelle. its chevet and its deep-set windows form the most striking externals of this conglomerate structure. one of the old towers forms another dominant note when viewed from without, but let no one who climbs to its upper platform for a view of the classic panorama of the city and its surroundings think that he, or she, treads the stones where trod lords and ladies of romantic times, for the stairway is a poor modern thing bolstered up by iron rods, as unlovely as a fire-escape ladder on an apartment house, and no more romantic. it was in the chateau de chambéry that was consummated the final ceremony by which savoy was made an independent duchy in . historians of all ranks have described the magnificence of the event in no sparing [illustration: _portal of the chateau de chambéry_] [illustration: _portal st. dominique, chambéry_] terms. it was the most gorgeous spectacle ever played upon the stage of which this fine old mediæval castle was the theatre. the final act of the ceremony took place before a throng of princes, prelates and various seigneurs and minor vassals of all the neighbouring kingdoms and principalities. the emperor sigismond, amadée viii, who was to be the new duke, dined alone upon a raised dais in the grande salle, and the service was made by "a richly dressed throng of seigneurs mounted on brilliantly caparisoned chargers." this is quoted from a historical chronicle, which however neglects to state the quality of the service. it is quite possible that it may not have been above reproach. here, a couple of centuries later, another victor-amadée married the princesse henriette, duchesse d'orléans. the bride to be had never met her future husband until they came together at a little village near-by, as she was journeying to the savoyan castle for the ceremony. says the chronicle: "when the princess saw the pageant, at the head of which marched victor-amadée, the fair young man of distinguished and martial bearing, without a moment's hesitation, casting to the winds all her previous instruction in matters of etiquette, [illustration: _chateau de chambéry_] she flew down the stairs and into the street and finally into the arms of the duke." the marriage was not, however, a happy one. the duke became disloyal to his vows and left his wife to pine and moan away her days in the ducal chateau whilst he went off campaigning for other hearts and lands. he acquired sicily, and became the first king of sicily and sardinia, and paved the way for the future greatness of his house, but this was not accomplished by adherence to the code of marital constancy. the chateau de chambéry was finally abandoned definitely by the savoyan dukes, who, when they became also monarchs of sardinia, took up their residence at turin. the "_beaux jours_" had passed never to return. henceforth its career was to be less brilliant, for it but rarely received even passing visits from its masters. in it was considerably damaged by fire; in it was, in a way, furbished up and put in order for the marriage of charles emmanuel and madame clotilde of france, but again, in , it was ravaged by fire. from to the chateau was the headquarters of the officialdom of the newly formed département du mont blanc, and in it was used as the préfecture of the département de la savoie. napoleon iii, journeying this way in , decided to make it an imperial residence and certain transformations to that end were undertaken, but it never came to real distinction again, save that it exists as an admirable example of a "monument historique" of the old régime. it was on the esplanade, beneath the windows of the chateau, that amadée vi won the title of the comte vert, because of the preponderant colours of his arms and costume in a tournament which was held here in . the third of chambéry's classic sights, "les charmettes," is the "delicious habitation" rendered so celebrated by rousseau. one arrives at "les charmettes" by a discreet and shady by-path. it has been preserved quite in its primitive state and is devoid of any pretence whatever. its charm is idealistic, romantic and intimate. nothing grandiose has place here. it is a simple two-story, sloping tiled-roof habitation of the countryside. as the "confessions" puts it, "les charmettes" was discovered thus: "_apres avoir un peu cherché nous nous fixâmes au charmettes ... à la porte de chambéry, mais retirée et solitaire, comme si l'on en était à cent lieus._" this dwelling where jean jacques passed so many of his "_rares bons jours_" of his [illustration: les charmettes · _mcmanus_ ] adventurous life has been bought by the city, and will henceforth be guarded as a public monument, a tourist shrine like the chateau des ducs and la grande chartreuse. here madame de warens will reign again in the effigy of a reproduction of quentin de la tour's famous portrait, possessed of that "_air caressant et tendre_" and "_sourire angelique_" which so captured the author of the "confessions." arthur young, that observant english agriculturalist, who travelled so extensively in france, paid a warm tribute to rousseau's good fairy when he wrote: "there was something so amiable in her character that in spite of her frailties her name rests among those few memories connected with us by ties more easily felt than described." in one of his stories alphonse daudet tells us of a _bourgeois_ who had purchased an old chateau, and was driven away from it by the ghosts of the family which had preceded him as proprietors. surely something of the same kind might have happened to that citizen of the united states who proposed to transport "les charmettes" to chicago. the offer was declined and that is how the city of chambéry came to possess it for all time. it is well that this took place, for there is hardly a house in europe in which one would imagine that the ghosts of history would so persistently survive. not only was "les charmettes" and madame de warens connected so intimately, but they were also associated with another name less known in the world of letters. hear what the "confessions" has to say: "he was a young man from viaud; his father, named vintzinried, was a self-styled captain of the chateau de chillon on lac leman. the son was a hair-dresser's assistant and was running about the world in that quality when he came to present himself to madame de warens, who received him well, as she did all travellers, and especially those from her own country. he was a big, dull blond, well-made enough, his face insipid, his intelligence the same, speaking like a beautiful leander ... vain, stupid, ignorant, insolent." for the rest one is referred to the "confessions." within a radius of fifty kilometres of chambéry there are more than thirty historic chateaux or fortresses of the middle ages and the renaissance. many are in an admirable, if not perfect, state of preservation, and all offer something of historic and artistic interest, though manifestly not all can be included in a rush across france. this fact is patent; that a picturesquely disposed and imposing castle or chateau adds much to the pleasing aspect of a landscape, and here in this land of mountain peaks and smiling valleys the prospect is as varied as one could hope to find. built often on a mountain slope--and as often on a mountain peak--frequently within sight of one another, the dwellers therein would have been glad of some means of "wireless" communication between their houses, for not always were the seigneurs at war with their neighbours. off to the southward, towards saint michel de maurienne, is one of the most conspicuous of these hill-top chateaux. chignin is still the proud relic of an ancient chateau which is a land-mark for miles around. it has no history worth recounting, but is as much like the conventional rhine castle of reality and imagination as any to be seen away from the banks of that turgid stream. on a lofty eminence are four great towers to remind one of the more extensive structure to which they were once connected. these ruins, and another rebuilt tower of the old chateau of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, are now practically all devoted to the religious usages of the chartreux, but in spite of this they present a militant aspect such as one usually associates with things secular. the round of lac bourget, which environs chambéry on the north, suggests many historic souvenirs of the dukes and the days when they held their court at the chateau de chambéry. [illustration: _chateau de chignin_] between chambéry and aix-les-bains, just beside that wide dusty road along which scorch the twentieth century _nouveau riche_, who with their villas and gigantic hotels have all but spoiled this idyllic corner of old europe, rise the walls of the chateau de montagny, captured in by the allied armies marching against france, and which still conserves, embedded in its portal, a great shot, one of a broadside which finally battered in its door. if one would see war-like souvenirs still more barbarous, a cast of the eye off towards montmélian and miolans will awaken even more bloody ones. their story is told elsewhere in these pages. at bourget du lac, a dozen kilometres out, are the ruins of the chateau de bourget, within sight of the ancient lacus castilion, and a near neighbour of the celebrated abbey of hautecombe. comte amé v was born in the chateau de bourget in . it had previously belonged to the seigneur de la rochette, and during the thirteenth century was occupied continually by the princes of the house of savoy. as may be judged by all who view, its site was most ravishing, and though one may not even imagine what its architectural display may actually have been it is known that amé v bestowed much care and wealth upon it when he came to man's estate. a pupil of giotto's was brought from italy to superintend the decorations, and evidences have been found in the ruined tower at the right of the present heap of ruins which suggest some of the decorative splendour which the building one day possessed. in spite of its fragmentary condition the ruin of the chateau de bourget is one of the most romantically disposed souvenirs of its era in savoy, and one may well echo the words of a local poet who has praised it with all sincerity. "_o lac, te souvient-il ... des beaux jours du vieux castel._" the chronicles, too, have much to say of the brilliant succession of seigneurs who came to visit the comtes de savoie here in their wildwood retreat, "a line of counts as noble, rich and powerful as sovereigns of kingdoms." the sepulchre of the savoyan counts in the old abbey of hautecombe must naturally form a part of any pilgrimage to the neighbouring chateau. for no reason whatever can it be neglected by the visitor to these parts, the less so by the chateau-worshipper just because it is a religious foundation. it is in fact the mausoleum of the princes of the house of savoy. within its walls are buried various members [illustration: _abbey of hautecombe_] of the dynasty who would have made of it the valhalla of their time. "_il est un coin de terre, au pied d'une montagne_ _que baigne le lac du bourget_ * * * * * _hautecombe! port calme! o royal monastere!_ _abri des fils de saint bernard._" at the extreme northerly end of the lac du bourget is the ancient manoir de châtillon, sitting high on an isolated and wooded hillside above the gently lapping waters, and in full view of the snow-capped mountains of the alpine chain to the eastward. here was born, towards the end of the twelfth century, geoffroi de châtillon, son of jean de châtillon and cassandra cribelli, sister of pope urban iii. in every way the edifice is an ideally picturesque one, as much so because of its site and its historical foundation. as an architectural glory it is a mélange of many sorts, with scarce a definite æsthetic attribute. it is as an historical guide-post that it appears in its best light. its chief deity, geoffroi, became a canon and chancellor of the chapter at milan; later he entered the religious retreat of hautecombe, from which gregory ix finally drew him forth to make him a cardinal-bishop. he ultimately succeeded to the pontifical robes and tiara himself as celestin iv ( ). he died eighteen days later, poisoned, it is said, so his reign at the head of christendom was perhaps the briefest on record. bordeau, another ruined memory of mediævalism, also overlooks the lac du bourget from near-by. aix-les-bains is of course the lode-stone which draws the majority of travellers to this corner of the world. it is but a city of pleasure, a modern "spa," the outgrowth of another of roman times when they took "_cures_" more seriously. it has the reputation to-day, among those who are really in the whirl of things, as being the gayest, if not the most profligate--and there is some suspicion of that--watering place in europe. judging from prices alone, and admitting the disposition or willingness of those who would be gay to pay high prices without a murmur, this is probably so. the site of aix-les-bains is lovely, and its waters really beneficial--so the doctors say, and probably with truth. its casino is only second to that of monte carlo. the chief charm of aix-les-bains after all is, or ought to be, its accessibility to the historic masterpieces roundabout, and its delightful situation by the shores of the "_lac bleu_" whose praises were so loudly sung by lamartine in "raphael." north from chambéry and east from aix-les-bains, is a mountain region known as les bauges, a little known and less exploited region. it is a charming isolated corner of savoy, where once roamed the gorgeous equipages of the ducs de savoie, who here hunted the wild boar, the deer and the bears and foxes to their hearts' content. to-day pretty much all game of this nature has disappeared, save an occasional _sanglier_, or wild boar, which, when met with, usually turns tail and runs. midway in this mountain land between aix-les-bains and albertville is le chatelard, a tiny townlet on the banks of a mountain torrent, the chéran. on a hill above the town, at a height of nearly three thousand feet above the sea level, are the insignificant remains of the chateau of thomas de savoie. scant remains they are to be sure, endowed with a history as scant, since little written word is to be met with concerning them. otherwise the chateau is a very satisfactory historical monument. after climbing a tortuous winding path one comes suddenly upon a great walled barrier through which opens a door on which is to be read: on est prie de fermer les portes (j'exige). the last line is delicious. of course one would close the doors after the mere intimation that it was desired that they should be closed. the proprietor says that he demands it, but he takes no measures to see that his demands are carried out. what pretence! all the same the pilgrimage is worth the making, but it's not an easy jaunt. chapter xvii in the shadow of la grande chartreuse one may leave rousseau's smiling valley above chambéry and journey to grenoble via la grande chartreuse, or by the valley of the isère, as fancy dictates. in either case one should double back and cover the other route or much will otherwise be missed that will be regretted. grenoble is militant from heel to toe. its garrison is of vast numbers, soldiers of all ranks and all arms are everywhere, and every hill round-about bristles with a fortification or a battery of masked guns. every foot of the region is historic ground, and whether one crosses from savoy to dauphiny or from dauphiny to savoy the borderland is at all times reminiscent of the historic past. the cradle of the dauphin princes of france is not only a region of mountains and valleys, but it is a land where a numerous and warlike nobility was able to withstand invaders and oppressors to the last. like scotland, dauphiny was never conquered; at least it lost no measure of its original independence by its alliances until it was cut up into the present-day departments of modern france. dauphiny is possessed of multiple aspects. it has the sun-burnt character of provence in the south, with montelimar and grignan as its chief centres; it has its _coteaux_ and _falaises_, like those of normandy, around crest and die; and its "petite hollande" neighbouring upon tour-de-pin where the dauphins once had a gem of a little rest-house which still exists to-day. the mountains of dauphiny rival the alps of switzerland--the famous barre des Écrins is only a shade less dominant than mont blanc itself. the chief singer of the praises of dauphiny has ever been lamartine. no one has pictured its varied aspects better. "l'oeil embrasse au matin l'horizon qu'il domine et regarde, à travers les branches de noyer, les eaux bleuir au loin et la plaine ondoyer. * * * * * on voit à mille pieds au dessous de leurs branches la grande plaine bleue avec ses routes blanches les moissons jaunes d'or, les bois comme un point noir, l'isère renvoyant le ciel comme un miroir." [illustration: _maison des dauphins, tour-de-pin_] the very topographical aspect of dauphiny has bespoken romance and chivalry at all times. the mass of la grande chartreuse was dedicated to religious devotion, but those of other mountain chains, and the plains and valleys lying between, were strewn with castle towers and donjons almost to the total exclusion of church spires. coming south from chambéry by the valley of the graisivaudan, by the side of the rushing waters of the isère hurrying on its way to join the greater rhône at valence, the point of view is manifestly one which suggests feudalism in all its militant glory, rather than the recognition of the fact that it is overshadowed by the height of la grande chartreuse, whose influences were wholly dissimilar. it was the valley of graisivaudan that louis xii rather impulsively called the most beautiful garden of france: "_charmé par la divinité de ses plantements et les tours en serpentant qu'y fait la rivière isère_." stendhal, too, compared it to the finest valleys of piedmont. one may differ, but it is a very beautiful prospect indeed which opens out from barraux or pontcharra, midway between grenoble and chambéry. near pontcharra is the chateau bayard, where was born and lived the famous "_chevalier, sans peur et sans reproche_." as an historic monument of rank its position is pre-eminent, though not much can be said of its architectural pretence. still here it is, on the route from grenoble to gap by the famous col. bayard, also celebrated in history, almost as much so as the famous breche de roland in the pyrenees. it was through this cleft in the mountain that napoleon marched on that eventful journey from golfe jouan to paris in the attempt to rise again to power. it was not far from the crest, the pass between the two principal valleys of the french alps, that napoleon made the first important additions to the few followers who had gathered around him on his doubtful journey. the troops sent out from grenoble opposed his progress, whereupon he advanced towards them, bareheaded and alone, and demanded to know if they, his former fellows in arms, would kill their leader. not one of them would fire, though the order was actually given. with one common inspiration they went over to him _en masse_, with the classic cry of "_vive l'empereur!_" and continued their way towards the capital, where, just before grenoble, they were also joined by the forces of labedoyère, with their colonel at their head, sent out to stop them. on the shores of the grand lac de laffrey, as the marvellous mountain road swings by on its _corniche_, one notes a marble tablet on which is carven the following words, which are quite worth copying down. no further explanatory inscription is to be seen, simply the words: "_soldats! je suis votre empereur. ne me reconnaissez vous pas! s'il en est un parmi vous qui veuille tuer son general, me voila!_" ( mars .) in spite of the significance of the words the driver of a cart going the same way as ourselves professed an utter ignorance of their meaning. passing strange, this, but true! is it for this that history is written? the ruins of the chateau de bayard sit imposingly on a height commanding a wide-spread panorama of the valley below, and the distant barrier of mountain peaks on every side. the walls and turrets are mouldering to-day, as they have been for generations, but local historians and antiquarians have on more than one occasion written of the rooms and gardens where strolled and played the youthful warrior, and acquired the principles which afterwards led to so great a fame. of the ancient chateau of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, where ( - ) was born the chevalier bayard, but a crumbling portal and tower remain sufficiently well preserved to suggest the dignity it once had. they attach themselves to two minor structures, one of which was probably the chapel, and the other, perhaps, the salle des gardes. within the walls which enclose the latter are also the apartments which were occupied by the warrior-knight in his youth, doubtless the same as that in which his mother, helene alleman, gave him birth. the guardian claims all this, and, since this is what you come to see, you accept the assertion gratefully, though history itself vouches for nothing so precise. a bridge which crosses the river breda at this point has on its parapet an equestrian statue representing the infant bayard. the "bon chevalier" was descended from a local lord who bore the name of bayart, but some careless chronicler changed the final consonant of aymon terrail's title (seigneur de bayart), and the name of his better known progeny has thus gone to history. the family was of antique extraction; "of a noble and antique chivalry," as one learns from the old historians of dauphiny. "the prowess of a terrail" has passed into a local proverb. so the infant terrail who was to become the future bayard came to his glorious calling by good right. at the age of six or seven the young terrail went to live with his uncle, bishop of grenoble, but at twelve returned to the paternal chateau, where his inclinations became the "_plus belliqueuses_," whereas, before, his infant predilections were of a studious kind. henceforth he was for war, and he came rightly enough by his liking, for one of his ancestors, philippe terrail, died gloriously at poitiers, another at crécy, another at verneuil and another, already known as "Épée terrail" to the english, died at the side of louis xi. young pierre was asked by his father ( ) what profession he would adopt, and it was then that he replied that the war spirit was bred in him and that he would never renounce it. his uncle, the bishop, presented him to the duc charles de savoie, who was holding court at the moment at chambéry, and by his mere riding up on his horse before the duke, he was immediately accepted as a page of his suite. opposite pontcharra, on the opposite bank of the isère, is the comparatively modern fort barraux, which looks far more ideally picturesque than the historic castle of the bayards. history has not been silent with regard to the fortifying of these mountain peaks of dauphiny and savoy. the fortress was first built on this site by charles emmanuel, duc de savoie, though an opposing army was drawn up before him under the command of the celebrated connetable lesdiguières. being reproved by his king, henri iv, for his dilatoriness in allowing the enemy to so entrench itself whilst he and his men stood idly by, the connetable sagaciously and brilliantly replied, "your majesty has need of a fortress on the savoyan side to hold in check that of montmélian, and since charles emmanuel has been good enough to commence the building of one, let us wait until it is finished." the wait was not long, and the completed fortress, after a very slight struggle, came to the french king. the remarkable feudal chateau de rochefort-en-montagne, above pontcharra, is a ruin scarcely equalled, as a ruin, by any other above ground to-day. it has a majestic sadness and appeal, crumbled and dishonoured though it is. to paint the picture one must hold the brush himself. little satisfaction can be got from the contemplation of another's sketch of this noble ruin. grand and imposing it is, however, though but a mere echo of the splendid edifices of the renaissance in the loire valley, and yet its firm, flat ground plan, its massive portal and its massive round tower are all reminiscent of the best of the renaissance castle builder's art. the point should be recognized nevertheless that it is of the mountain and not of the plain. this will account for many of its vagaries of detail as compared with the more familiar chateaux of the loire. the surroundings are varied and beautiful, and the grim gaunt drabness of the proud old walls give at once a note of melancholy memory which sounds perhaps the stronger because this fine old feudal monument is but a shell as compared contrastingly with the better preserved examples of its era to be seen in mid-france. the property belongs to-day to the rochefort-lucay family, of which henri rochefort, the publicist, is best known. it is not, however, habitable in any sense, but it could be made so with a more reasonable expenditure than one usually puts into a great country house, so let us hope that its fortunes will some day come into their own again. just below grenoble are sassenage and saint donat, quite unknown and unworshipped. they deserve a better fame. sassenage, but six kilometres from grenoble, is what the french call "_propre, riant_" and "_aise_." it is all this, as a round of a fortnight's excursions in different directions, in and out of grenoble, proved to us. there is nothing else quite in its class, and its chateau is a wonderfully chiselled sermon in stone, as its portal and façade demonstrate readily enough to the most casual observer. a most curious emblem is here to be noted. it is worthy of being added to those carved porcupines and salamanders of louis xii and françois premier. in this case it is a mythological, or traditional, figure, half woman and half snake, and possessed of two tails. it is a most unpleasant architectural decoration and perpetuates the mythical character of a local legend. one is glad to know that it is not an emblem personal to the family of the present owner. some kilometres to the south is the tour sans venin, one of the ancient wonders of dauphiny, though it is little more than a single flank of wall to-day. the natives, skeptical when they first heard the tale of roland the paladin, built the edifice of which this wall formed a part, and built it of wonderful stone, [illustration] or earth, warranted to chase away reptiles and vermin. imagination, no doubt, played its part, but one can readily enough accept the properties as desirable ones for a building material to possess. saint donat, still further down the valley, has hardly a memory for one save that he remembers having heard of it in connection with the rather merry life of diane de poitiers. to-day it is nothing but a no-account little dauphinese village. it is not even a railway junction. it has however an old mill built up out of an old _rendez-vous de chasse_ where the fickle diane had more than one escapade. like many another old ruin of dauphiny the chateau de saint donat is reminiscent of the local manner of building. it is nothing luxurious, but massive, and, withal, a seemingly efficient stronghold for the time in which it was built, or would have been had it ever been called upon to serve its purpose to the full. it seems a fatal destiny that a chateau should be no longer a chateau, for here in dauphiny no inconsiderable number of mediæval dwellings of this class have been turned into factories of one sort or another. here in the _salles_ and _chambres_, as the apartments are still named on the spot, are machines and workmen spinning silk and weaving ribbons for the great paris department stores. the chambre de diane, however, is still preserved as a show-place in much the same manner in which it was originally conceived. it is a circular apartment, rather daringly attached to the main building. a sort of alcove, or addition, is built out into the open still further, and one only reaches it by three steps up from the floor. three secret doors separate the sleeping apartment itself from the connecting corridor. if there is anything of the sentiment of the enchanting huntress diane hanging about the apartment to-day one quite forgets it by reason of its being drowned out by the noise of the whirring mill-wheels below. the twentieth century is far from the time when romance dwelt in purling brooks or stalked through marble halls. "other days, other ways" is a trite saying which applies as well to chateaux as other things. to-day, in dauphiny in particular, a purling brook or a mountain torrent is more valued for its "_force motrice_" than for any other virtues, and a chateau that can be readily transformed into a silk-mill is a better business proposition than would be its value as a ruin. this is the practical, if sad, point of view. there are no coal mines in dauphiny, but the _houille blanche_, as the french call water-power, is a product highly valued. sentiment and romance are apt to be little valued in comparison. chapter xviii annecy and lac leman the immediate environs of the lac du bourget, the lac d'annecy and the french shores of lac leman,--more popularly known to the world of tourism as the lake of geneva--offer a succession of picturesque sights and scenes, presented always with a historic accompaniment that few who have come within the spell of their charms will ever forget. it is not that these savoyan lakes are more beautiful than any others; it is not that they are grander; nor is it that they are particularly "unspoiled," considering them from a certain point of view, for in the season they are very much visited by the french themselves and loved accordingly. the charm which makes them so attractive lies in the blend of the historic past with the modernity of the twentieth century. the mélange is less offensive here than in most other places, and their contrasting of the old and the new, the historic and the romantic, with the modern ways and means of travel and accessibility, gives this mountain lakeland an unusual appeal. on almost every side are the modern appointments of great hotels; there are "good roads" everywhere for the automobilist, and the main lines of railway crossing france to italy give an accessibility and comfortable manner of approach which is not excelled by the region of the swiss and italian lakes themselves. annecy, the metropolis of these parts, has an old chateau that is much better conserved than that of chambéry so far as the presentation of it as a whole is concerned. it is more nearly a perfect unit, and less of a conglomerate restoration than the former. the chateau d'annecy was the ancient residence of the comtes de genevois, but in the seigniory passed to the house of savoy. robert de geneve, known to ecclesiastical history as pope clement vii, the first of the avignon popes, was born here in . the military history of the chateau d'annecy is intimately bound up with that of the town because of the fact that as a matter of protection the first settlement grouped itself confidingly around the walls which sheltered the seigneurial presence. populace and the guardians of the chateau together were thus enabled to throw off the troops which turned back on annecy after the defeat at conflans in , but no resistance whatever was made to henri iv and his followers, who entered without a blow being dealt, and "found the inhabitants agreeable and warm of welcome." this was perhaps a matter of mood; it might not have so happened the day before or the day after, but their cordiality was certainly to the credit of all concerned from a humane point of view, whatever devotees of the war-game may think. in comte louis de sales commanded the chateau when the maréchal de chatillon marched against it. the besieged made a stiff fight and only capitulated after being able to make such terms as practically turned defeat into victory. on the morrow the comte de sales escorted his troops to the chateau de conflans, "with all the honours of war." after a brilliant career of centuries the ancient residence of the comtes de genevois, and the princes de savoie-nemours who came after, has become a barracks for a battalion of chasseurs alpins. fortunately for the æsthetic proprieties, it has lost nothing of its seigneurial aspect of old as have so many of its contemporaries when put to a similar use. really, annecy's chateau, its well lined walls, its ramparts and towers, and above all, its situation, close to the water's edge, where the ensemble of its fabric mingles so well with artistically disposed foreground, has an appeal possessed by but few structures of its class. if one would see the town and lake of annecy at their best they should be viewed of a september afternoon, when the oblique rays of the autumn sun first begin to gild the heavy square towers of the ancient chateau of the ducs de nemours. behind rise the roofs and spires of the town set off with the reddish golden leaves of the chestnuts of la puya. all is a blend of the warm colouring of the southland with the sterner, more angular outlines of the north. the contrasting effect is to be remarked. to the left, regarding the town from the water's edge, or better yet from a boat upon the lake, rises the villa de la tour, where died eugene sue; and farther away the grange du hameau de chavoires, where lingered for a time jean jacques rousseau. all around, through the chestnut woods, are scattered glistening _villas_ and _manoirs_ and _granges_, with, away off in the distance, the towering walls of the feudal chateau de saint bernard. another marvellous silhouette to be had from the bosom of the lake is midway along the western shore, where the ramparts of tournette and the crenelated walls of the dents du lanfont and charbonne are, after midday, lighted up as with yellow fire. the brown and yellow roof and façade of an old benedictine convent, now become a hotel, rise above the verdure of the foreshore, and the whole is as tranquil as if the twentieth century were yet to be born. on the opposite shore of the lake is the chateau de duingt, with its white towers piercing the sky in quite the idyllic manner. the chateau de duingt is a pretentious country residence belonging to the genevois family which in the seventeenth century gave a bishop to the neighbourhood, a bishop, it is true, who was excommunicated and shorn of all his rights by the comte de savoie, amadée v, but a bishop nevertheless. the environs of the lac d'annecy have ever been a retreat for litterateurs and artist folk. ernest renan lodged here in the _hôtellerie_ of the famous abbey, where he occupied a _chambre de prieur_. josé-maria héredia came here in company with taine; ferdinand fabre passed many months here in an isolated little house on the very shores of the lake; albert besnard, the painter, has recently built a studio here, and a quaint and altogether charming villa; paul chabas, too, has resorted hither recently for the same purpose, and indeed scores have found out this accessible but tranquil little corner of savoy. another parisian, a monsieur noblemaire, has acquired the picturesque savoyard manoir de thoron, built sometime during the seventeenth century, and lives indeed the life of a noble under the old régime amid the very same luxuriant and agreeable surroundings. faverges, at the lower end of the lac d'annecy, backed up by the sombre forêt de doussard, and in plain view of the snowy top of mont blanc off to the eastward, is at once a _ville industrielle_ and a reminiscent old feudal town. its interest is the more entrancing because of the contrasting elements which go to make up its architectural aspect and the life of its present day inhabitants. a mediæval chateau elbows a modern silk factory, and the idle gossip of the workers as they take their little walks abroad on the little _place_ blends strangely enough with the amorous escapades of henri iv which still live in local legend. on the road from faverges to thone, by the switch-back mountain road, following the valley of the fier, is the manoir de la tour, where on a fine mid-summer morning in jean jacques rousseau climbed a cherry tree and bombarded the coquettish mademoiselle graffeny and mademoiselle galley with the rich, ripe--not overripe--fruit. we know this because jean jacques himself said so, and for that reason this little human note makes a pilgrimage hither the pleasurable occupation that it is. the fine old manor is still intact. but the cherry tree? no one knows. may be it was a mythical cherry tree like that of the george washington legend. in spite of this the guardian will show visitors many cherry trees, and one may take his choice. lac leman is commonly thought a swiss lake, as is mont blanc usually referred to as a swiss mountain--which it isn't. a good third of the shore line of lac leman is french--"_leman français_," it is called. practically the whole southern, or french, shore of the lake of geneva--or lake leman, as we had best think of it since it is thus known to european geographers--is replete with a fascinating appeal which the swiss shore entirely lacks. it is difficult to explain this, but it is a fact. the region literally bristles with old castle walls and donjons, though their histories have not in every instance been preserved, nor have they always been so momentous as to have impressed themselves vividly in the minds of the general reader or the conventional traveller. perhaps they are all the more charming for that. the writer thinks they are. mont blanc dominates the entire region on the east, and may be considered the good genius of savoy and upper dauphiny, as it is of french-speaking switzerland and the high alpine valleys of italy. the french shore of lac leman, the département of haute-savoie, is cut off from geneva by the neutral pays de gex, and from switzerland on the east by the torrent of the morge, just beyond saint gingolph. for fifty-two kilometres stretches this french shore, or the "côte de la savoie" as the swiss call it, and its whole extent is as romantic and fair a land as it is possible to conceive. one may come from geneva by boat; that indeed is the ideal way to make one's entrance to haute savoie, unless one rolls in over the superb roads comfortably ensconced on the soft cushions of a luxurious automobile, a procedure which is commonly thought to be unromantic, but which, it is the belief of the writer, is the only way of knowing well the highways and byways of a beloved land, always excepting, of course, the ideal method of walking. not many will undertake the latter, least of all the stranger tourist, who, perforce, is hurried on his way by insistent conditions over which he really has but little control. walking tours have been made with pleasure and profit in switzerland before now; the suggestion is made that the thing be attempted on the "côte de la savoie" sometime and see what happens. one should leave the geneva boat at hermance, the last swiss station on the west. after that, one is on french soil. touges is a simple landing place, but rising high above the greenswarded banks are the donjon and imposing gables of the chateau de beauregard belonging to the marquis leon costa. it is in a perfect state of conservation. it was here that was born, in , marquis joseph costa, a celebrated historian, whose fame rests principally on a work entitled "comment l'education des femmes peut-elle rendre les hommes meilleurs?" this is considered an all-absorbing question even to-day. at nernier is a charming souvenir of lamartine. it was here he lodged in , in a humble thatched cottage--one of the few in france, one fancies, as they are seldom seen--at a franc a day, "_la table et le couvert compris_." there are some artists and literary folk living cheaply in france to-day, but the _pension_ is not nearly as _bon marché_ as that. a little farther on, beyond the green hillside of boisy, is the tiny savoyan city of yvoire, with a great square mass of an old chateau, now moss-grown and more or less crumbled with age. near-by are excevenex, sciez and the magnificently environed chateau de coudrée, surrounded by a leafy park, a veritable royal domain in aspect. back a few kilometres from the shore of the lake is douvaine, about midway between geneva and thonon. here is the ancient chateau de troches, on the very limits of the comté de genevois, to the seigneurs of which house it formerly belonged. it served many times as the meeting place of the princes of savoy, and has been frequently cited in the historical chronicles. in victor amadée ii made troches and douvaine a barony in favour of françois marie antoine passerat, whose family were originally of lucca in italy. the descendants of the same family have held the property until very recent times, perhaps hold it to-day. throughout this region of the chablais, as it is known, on towards thonon, and beyond, are numerous well preserved chateaux (_chateaux debout_ the french appropriately call them in distinction to the ruined chateaux which abound in even greater numbers), and others, here and there arising a crumbled wall or tower above the dense foliage of the hillsides round about. certain of these old manors and chateaux of the genevois, the chablais and faucigny have, in recent years, after centuries of comparative ruin, taken on new life as country houses and "villas" of commoners--as sad a fall for a proud chateau as to become a barracks or a poorhouse if the transformations have not been undertaken in good taste. still others remain at least as undefiled memories of the _chateaux orgueilleux_ of other days. a remodelled, restored chateau of the middle ages may be sympathetic and appealing, but the work must be well done and all _art nouveau_ instincts suppressed. there are other examples which have been allowed to tumble to actual ruin, mere heaps of stones without form or outline, and others, like allinges, la rochette, de la roche and faucigny, possessing only a crumbling tower perched upon a height which dominates the valley and the plain below and tell only the story of their former greatness by suggestion. chiefly however these can be classed as nothing more pretentious than ruins. thonon-les-bains, midway along the extent of the french shore, is renowned as a "_ville d'eau_." in all ways it quite rivals many of the swiss stations on the opposite shore. it sits high on a sheaf of rock, the first buttresses of the alps, and enjoys a wide-spread view extending to the other shore, and beyond to the swiss jura and the bernese oberland. a dainty esplanade shaded with lindens is the chief thoroughfare and centre of life of this attractive little lakeside resort. here once stood an old chateau of the ducs de savoie. the court frequently repaired thither because of the purity of the air and the altogether delightful surroundings. it was one of the later line of dukes who exploited the mineral springs which have given thonon its latter-day renown. back of thonon rises a curiously disposed table-land known as the colline des allinges. it alternates bare rock with a heather-like vegetation in a colouring as wonderful as any artist's palette could conceive. the ruins of two fortress-chateaux crown the height of the plateau, one coming down from a period of great antiquity, whilst the other is of more recent date, with a well preserved portal and a drawbridge. within the precincts of this latter are still to be seen the ruins of a chapel rich in memories of saint françois-de-sales, who spent a considerable part of his apostleship here in the chablais. to-day, the old chateau and its chapel are a place of pious pilgrimage, but with the piety left out it is the chief and most popular excursion for mere sight-seers coming out from thonon. this mere fact does not, however, detract from its historic, religious and romantic significance, so let no one omit it for that reason. the chateau de ripaille, beyond thonon towards Évian, is a grander shrine by far. it was the retreat of a duc de savoie who was finally withdrawn from his hiding place that he might be crowned with the papal tiara. the incident is historically authenticated, and the very substantial remains of the old chateau to-day--monumental even--make it one of the most interesting shrines of its class in all france. the chateau de ripaille was originally built by amadée viii as a _rendez-vous de chasse_. "near the couvent des augustins he built himself a chateau of seven rooms and seven towers, after the death of his wife, marie de bourgogne, in ," say the chronicles. here amadée shut himself up with six fellowmen, either widowers or celibates, who formed his sole counsellors and society. the council of bale of sent the cardinal d'arles and twenty-five prelates to offer the self-deposed monarch the papal crown. the attractions of the position, or the inducements offered, were seemingly too great to be resisted, and, as felix v, he was made pontiff in the Église de ripaille in the same year. soon the cramped quarters of the chateau and all the town were filled with a splendid pageant of ambassadors, prelates and dignitaries. all were anxious to salute in person the new head of the church. france, england, castile, the swiss cantons, austria, bohemia, savoy and piedmont recognized the new pope, but the rest of christendom remained faithful to eugene iv. ripaille and thonon received such an influx of celebrities as it had never known before, nor since. the towered and buttressed walls remain in evidence to-day, but within all is hollow as a sepulchre. the great portal by which one passed from the chapel to the dwelling is monumental from every point of view. what it lacks in architectural excellence it makes up in its imposing proportions, and moreover possesses an individual note which is rare in modern works of a similar nature. the chief centre after thonon, going east, is Évian, with which most travellers in france are familiar only as a name on the label on the bottle of the most excellent mineral water on sale in the hotels and restaurants. the "eau d'Évian" is about the only table water universally sold in europe that isn't "fizzy," and is accordingly popular--and expensive. Évian, sitting snug under the flank of mont bénant, a four thousand foot peak, its shore front dotted with little latteen-rigged, swallow-sailed boats is the "biarritz de lac leman," but a biarritz framed with a luxuriant vegetation, whereas its basque prototype is, in this respect, its antithesis. twenty thousand visitors come to Évian "for the waters" each year now, but in , when the delightful tapffer wrote his "voyages en zig zag," it was difficult for his joyous band of students to find the change for a hundred franc note. aside from its fame as a watering-place Évian has no little architectural charm. the waters of Évian and their medicinal properties were discovered by a local hermit of the fifteenth century who loved the daughter of the neighbouring baron de la rochette. this daughter, beatrix, also loved the hermit, all in quite conventional fashion, as real love affairs go, but the obscure origin of the young man was no passport to the good graces of the young lady's noble father, who had fallen ill with the gout or some other malady of high living and was more irascible than stern parents usually are. so acute was the old man's malady that he caused it to be heralded afar that he would give his daughter in marriage to him who would effect a cure. this was a new phase of the marriage market up to that time, but the hermit, arnold, at a venture, suggested to the baron that he had but to bathe in the alkaline waters of Évian to be cured of all his real or imaginary ills. the miraculous, or curative, properties of the waters, or whatever it was, did their work, and the lovers were united, and the smiling little city of Évian on the shores of lac leman has progressed and prospered ever since. the origin of Évian is lost in the darkness of time, though its nomenclature is supposed to have descended from the ancient _patois_ evoua (water), which the romans, who came long before the present crop of flighty tourists, translated as aquianum. from this one gathers that Évian is historic. and it is, as much so as most cities who claim, an antique ancestry. from the thirteenth century Évian possessed its chateau-fort, surrounded by its sturdy bulwarks and a moat. some vestiges still remain of this first fortification, but the wars between the dauphin of the viennois and the comtes de genevois necessitated still stronger ones, which were built under amadée v and amadée vi. within the confines of the town are three distinctly defined structures which may be classed as mediæval chateaux: the chateau de blonay, the tour de fonbonne, and the manoir gribaldi, belonging to the archbishops of vienne. this last has been stuccoed and whitewashed in outrageous fashion, so that unless the rigours of a hard winter have softened its violent colouring, it is to-day as crude and unlovely as a stage setting seen in broad daylight. it has moreover been incorporated into the great palatial hotel which, next to the more splendid hotel splendid on the height, is the chief land-mark seen from afar. _sic transit!_ Évian's parish church, capped with an enormous tower, is most curious. a great place, or square, has been formed out of the ancient lands of the seigneurie of blonay, which belonged to baron louis de blonay, vice-roi de sardaigne. the seigneurial residence itself has been transformed, basely enough, one thinks, into a casino and theatre, with an _art nouveau_ façade. not often does such a debasement of a historic shrine take place in france to-day. sometimes a fine old gothic or renaissance house will disappear altogether, and sometimes a chateau, a donjon or even a church may be turned to unlikely public uses, such as a hospital, a prison or a barracks. this is bad enough, but for an historic monument to be turned into a music hall and a gambling room seems the basest of desecration. that's a great deal against Évian, but it must stand. another property once belonging to the same proprietor, and known as the manoir de blonay, a name continually recurring in the annals of the chablais, is to be noted beyond the town, near the little village of maxilly. beyond Évian is "la tour ronde," a name given to a structure on the edge of the lake. the nomenclature explains itself. a dismantled donjon of the conventional build rises grim and militant among a serried row of coquettish villas, chalets and hotels, but uncouth as it is, using the word in a liberal sense, it forms a contrasting note which redounds to its benefit as compared with the latest craze for fantastic building which has been incorporated into many of the houses which line the shores of the lake. your modern tourist often cares as much for an armoured cement, green tiled villa with a plaster cat on its ridge pole as he does for a great square manoir of classic outline, or a donjon with a _chemin de rond_ at its sky line and a half-lowered portcullis at its entrance. meillerie, just beyond the tour ronde, is ever under the glamour cast over it by jean jacques rousseau. a souvenir of the hero of "la nouvelle heloise" is here, the vestiges of the grotto where saint preux sought a refuge. as a sight it may compare favourably with other grottos of its class, but that is not saying that it is anything remarkable. chapter xix the mountain background of savoy "la savoie," say the french, is "la suisse française," and indeed it is, as anyone can see and appreciate. with respect to topography, climate and nearly all else this is true. and its historic souvenirs, if sometimes less romantic, are more definite and far more interesting, in spite of the fact that the sentimentally inclined have not as yet overrun the region; it may with confidence be said that they have not even discovered it. the amalgamation of savoy with france was fortunate for all concerned. as president carnot said, when on a speech-making tour through the region in : "can any of us without emotion recall those memorable days when the convention received the people of this province with the welcome: 'generous savoyards! in you we cherish friends and brothers; never more shall you be separated from us.'" savoy was ever more french in spirit than italian in spite of its variable alliances. leaving the resorts like aix-les-bains, annecy and Évian behind, and following the turbulent isère to its icy cradle beneath the haunches of mont saint bernard, one may literally leave the well-worn travel track behind, the railway itself striking off italy-wards via a gap in the mountain chain to the southeast, where it ultimately burrows through the massif of the chain of which mont cenis forms the most notable peak. [illustration] just at the confines of dauphiny and savoy the isère sweeps majestically around the forefoot of the fortress of montmélian, which guards the mountain gateway to the snowbound upper valleys. montmélian can be seen from a great distance; from a great distance even one may imagine that he hears the echoes of the cries of the victims of the cruel seigneurs de montmélian who once lived within its walls. their barbarous acts were many, and historic facts, not merely legendary tales, perpetuate them. it is the knowledge that such things once existed that makes the suggestion of course, but these are the emotions one usually likes to have nourished when viewing a mediæval castle. [illustration] montmélian's chateau-fort played a very important role in the history of savoy. it was one of the finest fortresses of the states of savoy, and was the chief point of attack of françois premier, who, in , succeeded finally in taking it, but by treason from within. the french from the moment of their occupation gave it a heavy garrison, and henri ii still further strengthened its massive walls, as did also henri iv later on. he called it "a marvellously strong place; a stronger one has never yet been seen." in montmélian's proud fortress-chateau, also, were born amadée iii and amadée iv, princes of savoy. once it was considered, and with reason apparently, the strongest fortress of savoy, and was for ages the wall against which the viennois dauphins battled vainly. treason opened its doors to françois premier and treason delivered it to henri iv. this last giving over of the chateau was brought about by the wife of sully, who by "sweet insinuations" got into the good graces of the wife of brandes, the governor, and between them planned to win him over. in it was again attacked and taken by the french, costing them the bagatelle of eight thousand men, for lives were cheap in those days compared to castles. it was a hollow victory, too, for the french, for they marched out again after the peace of ryswick. in the early years of the eighteenth century the french again came into possession and immediately began the work of demolishing the defensive walls, leaving only the residential chateau, that which in its emasculated form exists to-day. thus disappeared from the scene, said the celebrated historian, leon menabrea, a fortress to whose annals are attached the names most grand and the events most important in savoyan history. the montmayeurs, the feudal family which first made montmélian its stronghold, have left a vivid and imperishable memory in the annals of savoy. they were a warlike race to begin with, and bore the eagle and the motto unguibus et rostro in their family arms. legend recounts that the last of the seigneurs, having lost a case at law, invited the president of the court, one fésigny, to dinner. either before, or after, he cut off the judge's head, enclosed it in a sack bearing a label which read: "here is a new piece of evidence for the court to digest," and deposited it on the public highway circling below the rocky foundations of montmélian. this episode took place in , and the ignoble seigneur naturally fled the country immediately. his reputation has ever lived after him in the region where the historic fact, or legend, of the "dernier des montmayeurs" is still current. near the rock-cradled chateau of montmélian is la rochette; there one sees the vast remains of a chateau which was overthrown by louis xiii. this chateau, called also the chateau des hulls, occupies one of the most strikingly imposing sites imaginable, and only in a lesser degree than montmélian presents all the qualities which one would naturally suppose to be necessary in order to make such a work impregnable. it was heroically defended by pierre de la chambre, but the defence availed nothing, and now what is left has been built up into--of all things--a silk-mill. its outlines might well be that of a mediæval chateau even now; site and silhouette each have this stamp, and it will take little exercise of the imagination to picture the smoke from its chimneys as coming from the fires which may have been lighted at some epoch before the invention of the steam engine. there is nothing, from a distant point of view, to suggest that the old chateau des hulls is the murky, work-a-day hive of industry that it is. above montmélian is saint pierre d'albigny, where rises the ancient and formidable chateau of the sires de miolans. in the eighteenth century it was a prison of state incarcerating many famous personages, among them the celebrated marquis de sade, the story of whose escape would make as thrilling a chapter as was ever read in a romance of the cloak and sword variety. another famous, or infamous, prisoner was the unfortunate lavin, the minister of finance of charles-emmanuel iii, who was imprisoned because of his fine, but unappreciated, talent for copying bank-notes. for twenty-four years lavin languished in the dungeons of miolans; indeed it was within these walls that he passed the greater part of his life after becoming of age. for this reason miolans may be called the bastille of savoy. miolans is typical of the middle ages. it can be seen, it is said, fifty kilometres away, either up or down the isère. this one can well believe. it can only be compared to a castled burg of the rhine or meuse: it is like nothing else in modern france. the great moats surround it as of old, its drawbridge, its _chemin-de-ronde_, its _cachets_, dungeons and _oubliettes_ are quite undespoiled, and its chapel as bright and inspiring as if its functions served to-day as in the time of the seigneurs of the joint house of miolans and montmayeur, a family one of the most ancient in savoy, but which became extinct in . the sardinian government in --when savoy belonged still to the crown of sardinia--sold the edifice for the paltry sum of five thousand francs, scarcely more than the price of a first rate piano. the buyer preserved and made habitable, in a way, the mediæval fabric, but not without considerably lessening its genuine old-time flavour. this is not apparent from afar, and only to the expert near at hand, so the castle lives to-day as one of the most thrillingly romantic piles of its class in all the mountain background of savoy. to-day the castle, for it is more a feudal castle than a modern chateau after all, is still in private hands, but no incongruous details have been further incorporated and the chatelain as lovingly cares for it as does that of langeais in touraine, perhaps the best restored, and the best kept, of all the habitable mediæval castles in the pleasant land of france. in the time of the savoyan dukes each of these upper valleys was deprived of communication with its neighbours, because of either the utter lack of roads, or of their abominable up-keep. a sort of petty state or kingdom grew up in many of these shut-in localities, each possessing its individual life, and, above all, ecclesiastical independence. the sovereigns of each had their own particular lands and ruled with velvet glove or iron hand as the mood might strike them or the case might demand. still higher up above montmélian, which may properly be considered the barrier between the lower and the upper valleys of the tarentaise and the maurienne, are scores of these chateaux, as appealing, and with reason, as many more noble in outline and record elsewhere. at grésy is one of these; at bathie is a fine feudal ruin with a round and square tower of most imposing presence; blay has another, with a wall surmounted by a range of tripled tourelles; feisons has yet another, and a castle wall or an isolated tower is ever in view whichever way one turns the head. the roadway through albertville and moutiers leads into italy over the petit saint bernard; that by the valley of the maurienne over the mont cenis. here, just as lans-le-bourg is reached, you may still see the signboards along the road reading: "route impériale no. : frontière sarde à kilom." it would seem as though lans-le-bourg had not yet heard that the empire had fallen, nor of the creation of the unified italian kingdom. still penetrating toward the heart of the savoyan alps one soon reaches albertville, primarily a place of war, secondly a centre for excursions in upper savoy. this gives the modern note. for that of mediævalism one has to go outside the town to conflans, where sits the old town high on a rocky promontory, with a picturesque citadel-fortress filled with souvenirs of warlike times. the chateau du manuel flanks the old fortress on one side, and the garrison barracks of to-day was at one time an old convent of bernardins. this structure of itself is enough, and more, to attract one thither. it is built of red brick, with a range of curiously patterned twin windows. besides these attributes the faubourg has also the chateau rouge, another of the resting places of the savoyan dukes. the historic souvenirs of conflans and its chateau are many and momentous. it defended the entrance to the tarentaise, and was able to resist the terrible battering sieges of the troops of françois premier and henri iv, which was more than miolans could do, in spite of the fact that it was supposedly a more efficient stronghold. the town itself was erected into a principality in favour of the archbishops of the tarentaise, and in , following upon the treaty of paris, which gave back to sardinia a part of its estates, the administrative authorities of savoy took up their seat here. all around are modern forts and batteries only to be arrived at by military roads climbing the mountain-side in perilous fashion, but they have nothing of sentiment or romance about them and so one can only marvel that such things be. the neighbouring fort barraux is one of the marvels of modern fortresses, rebuilt out of an old chateau-fort. this fortress was originally constructed before the end of the sixteenth century by charles-emmanuel de savoie, and taken over, almost without a struggle, by lesdiguières, almost before the masons had finished their work for the ducal master. "wait," said the maréchal to his king, "we will not be in a hurry. it were better that we should have a finished fortress on our hands than one half built." and with a supreme confidence lesdiguières waited six months and then simply walked up and "took it" and presented it to his royal master. at montvallezen-sur-séez, in the tarentaise, there existed, in the seventeenth century, a sort of a monkish chateau, at least it was a purely secular dwelling, a sort of retreat for the canon of the hospice of saint bernard. it was built in by the canon ducloz, and though all but the tower has disappeared, history tells much of the luxury and comfort which once found a place here in this "logement du vicar." the tower rises five stories in height and contains a heavy staircase lighted on each landing by a single window. from this one judges that the tower must have been intended as a defence or last refuge for the dwellers in the chateau in case they were attacked by bandits or other evil doers. on arriving at the final floor, the walls are pierced with ten windows. a carven tablet reproduced herewith tells as much of the actual history of the tower as is known. +-------------------+ | hoc . opvs | | | | f. f. r. d . loes | | | | dvclot | | | | cubernator | | | | domus . sati | | | | bernardi | | | | + | +-------------------+ chapter xx by the banks of the rhÔne the boundary between dauphiny and provence was by no means vague; it was a well defined territorial limit, but in the old days, as with those of the present, the climatic and topographic limits between the two regions were not so readily defined. the rhône, the mightiest of french rivers when measured by the force and, at times, the bulk of its current, played a momentous historic part in the development of all the region lying within its watershed, and for that reason the cities lying midway upon its banks had much intercourse one with another. [illustration] vienne, on the left bank of this swift-flowing river, was the capital of the counts of the viennois, and the birthplace of the earliest of the "native" dauphins, who afterwards transferred their seat of power to grenoble. for this reason it is obvious that the history of vienne and that of the surrounding territory was intimately bound up with the later mountain province of dauphiny, whose capital was gratianopolis. as the capital of this mountain empire evolved itself into grenoble, and the power of the dauphins gradually waned at vienne, comte humbert, who was then ruler at vienne, transferred his sceptre to the heir of philippe de valois who built his palace in the ancient mountain stronghold of the romans in preference to continuing the seat of governmental dignity and rule by the banks of the mighty rhône. from this one gathers, and rightly, that vienne is one of the most ancient cities of dauphiny, and indeed of all the rhône valley. its history has been mentioned by cæsar: "_accolit alpinis opulenta vienna calonis._" in the fifth century it was the capital of the first burgundian kingdom, and at a later period the official residence of the native dauphins, the race that came before those eldest sons of the french kings who wielded their power from their palace at grenoble. vienne's architectural monuments are many and of all states of nobility, but of palaces, castles and chateaux it contains only the scantiest of memories. down by the river, at the terminus of the ugly wire-rope suspension bridge, the modern useful successor of the more æsthetic works of the mediæval "brothers of the bridge," is a most remarkable tower known as the "tour de mau conseil." it has for a legend the tale that pontius pilate threw himself from its topmost story. history, more explicit than the over-enthusiastic native, says that it was only the shore-end or gatehouse of a chateau which guarded the river crossing, and was built by philippe de valois. there is a discrepancy here of some centuries, so with all due respect to local pride one had best stick to historic fact. there is a chateau de pilate, so-called, on the banks of the rhône just below saint vallier, a few leagues away, of which the traditional legend is also kept green. it may be only a story anyway, but if one is bound to have it repeated, it had best be applied at this latter point. this tower of philippe de valois as it exists [illustration: _tower of philippe de valois, vienne_] to-day, also known as the "clef de l'empire," is thus much more explicitly named, for it was in a way a sort of guardian outpost which controlled the entrance and exit to and from the neighbouring lyonnais. vienne, being the outgrowth of a city of great antiquity, its roman remains are numerous and splendid, from the bare outlines of its amphitheatre to its almost perfectly preserved temple d'auguste. monuments of its feudal epoch are not wanting either, though no splendid domestic or civic chateau exists to-day in its entirety. instead there are scattered here and there about the town many fragmentary reminders of the days of the first burgundian kingdom, and of the later city of the counts and dauphins. in a.d. the ruler of the province, boson, comte de vienne, arles et provence, by his ambition and energy, was proclaimed king by the barons and bishops assembled in the chateau de mantaille, belonging to the archbishop of vienne and situated at saint rambert, between vienne and valence. in the rue de l'hopital one sees two coiffed towers rising high above the surrounding gables. they are all that remain of the semi-barbarian comte boson's palace. in the passage entered by an antique portal, and running between two rows of rather squalid buildings, there is a slab which bears the following inscription: +-------------------------+ | le palais de boson | | servit d'hotel de ville | | de - . | +-------------------------+ it is not a very convincing souvenir, but the sight of the great round towers, rising above the canyon-like alleys roundabout, at least lends aid to the acceptance of the assertion by one who does not demand more clearly defined proofs. in the rue boson is another edifice which may have something in common with the life of the first burgundian court. it is a house which combines many non-contemporary features and possesses a marvellously built winding renaissance stairway and two great towers, one a mere watch-tower, seemingly, the other strongly fortified. frankly these towers might be accessories of some church edifice, or yet the chimneys of a factory, or of an iron furnace, since, even considering their situation, there is nothing distinctively feudal about them. they are, however, of manifest ancient origin and served either military or chateau-like functions. of that there is no doubt in spite of their ungainliness. valence is a _bruyante_, grandiose city, which, without the rhône or the mountains, might be tours or lille so far as its local life goes, and this in spite of the fact that it is on the border line between the north and the south. "_À valence le midi commence_" is the classic phrase with which every earnest traveller in france is familiar, though indeed for three or four months of the year valence is surrounded by snow-capped mountains. "the women of valence are _vive et piquante_" is also another trite saying, but the city itself has nothing but its historic past to recommend it in the eyes of the sentimental traveller of the twentieth century. the strategic position of valence has made it in times past the scene of much historic action. with this importance in full view it is really astonishing that the city possesses so few historic monuments. almost at the juncture of the isère and the rhône, valence to-day bustles its days away with a feverish local life that, in a way, reminds one of a great city like lyons, to which indeed it plays second fiddle. there are few strangers except those who have come to town from places lying within a strictly local radius, and there is a smug air of satisfaction on the face of every inhabitant. things have changed at valence of late years, for it was once one of the first cities of dauphiny where religious reform penetrated in the later years of the sixteenth century, and even in the preceding century it had already placed itself under the protection of louis xi, fearing that some internal upheaval might seriously affect its local life. valence has always played for safety and that is why it lacks any particularly imposing or edifying aspect to-day. when napoleon was staying at the military school at valence he wrote of it as a city "_sombre, severe et sans grace_." there is no cause to modify the view to-day. almost the sole example of domestic architecture at valence worthy to be included in any portrait gallery of great renaissance houses, is that which is somewhat vulgarly known as the "maison des têtes." it was built in by the art-loving françois premier, not for himself but as a recompense for some less wealthy noble who had served him during his momentous italian journey. the name applied to this historic house is most curious, but is obvious from the decoration of its façade. who its owner may actually have been has strangely enough been overlooked by those whose business it is to write such things down. certain it is that he was fortunate to have a patron who would bestow upon him so luxurious a dwelling as it must once have been. perhaps, to go deeper into the question, the edifice was one of those "_discrets chateaux_" which françois had a way of building up and down france, where he might repair unbeknownst to the world or even his court. surely, here, in a tortuous back street of the dull little city of valence, in the sixteenth century, one might well consider himself sheltered from the few inquisitive glances which might be cast on his trail. the _oeil de boeuf_, that paris spy or coterie of spies, did not exist for the monarch at valence. the maison des têtes is the more remarkable by reason of its modest proportions and the exceedingly ornate and bizarre decorations of its façade. below and above the window-frames is an elaborate sculptured frieze, and between the _arceaux_ of the windows, even, are equally finely chiselled motives. there is a series of medallions of five philosophers and poets of antiquity, flanked on either side by a head of a roman emperor and another of louis xi. two mutilated effigies, nearly life size, occupy niches on a level with the second story, and directly beneath the roof are posed four enormous heads, typifying the winds of the four quarters. this interesting façade, no less than the vague history which attaches to the house itself, is in a comparative state of dilapidation. it seems a pity that in a city so poor in artistic shrines it were not better preserved and cared for. but there it is--valence again! as a matter of fact the lower floor is occupied by a mean sort of a wine-shop, which assuredly casts an unseeming slur upon the proud position that the edifice once held. nearly opposite the maison des têtes is the house where the young napoleon lodged in - . just above valence, at the confluence of the isère and the rhône, is the magnificent feudal ruin of crussol, the guardian of the gateway leading from the south to the north. it sits at a great height above the swirling waters of the current on a peak of rock, and from the aspect of its projecting, fang-like gable is locally known as the "corne de crussol." [illustration: _chateau de crussol_] for years this typical feudal castle and military stronghold of great power belonged to the family of crussol, the old ducs d'uzes. so vast was it originally in extent that it contained a whole village within its walls, and indeed there was no other protection for those who called the duke master, as the castle had appropriated to itself the entire mountain-top plateau. certainly crussol must have been as nearly impregnable a fortress as any of its class ever built, for from its eastern flank one may drop down a sheer thousand feet and then fall into the whirlpool waters of the rhône. this was sure and sudden death to any who might lose their footing from above, but it was also an unscalable bulwark against attack. the panorama which opens out from the platform of the ruined chateau is remarkable and extends from the alps on the east to the cevennes on the west, and from the vivarais on the north to the distant blue of the vercors on the south, and perhaps, at times, even to mont ventoux in vaucluse. chapter xxi in the alps of dauphiny in the high alpine valleys back of the barre des Écrins is a frontier land little known even to the venturesome tourist by road, who with his modern means of travel, the automobile, goes everywhere. the conventional tour of europe follows out certain preconceived lines, and if it embraces the passing of the alps from france into italy it is usually made by the shortest and most direct route. if the saint bernard or the mont cenis route seems the shortest and quickest, few there are who will spend a day longer and pass by the highway crossed by hannibal, even though they would experience much that was delectable _en route_. southeast from grenoble and vizille is bourg d'oisans, the end of a branch railway line, and a diminutive, though exceedingly popular, french alpine station. to the traveller by road it is the gateway to the high alpine valleys of dauphiny, whose heart is the palpitating mountain fortress of briançon, the most elevated of all french cities. the highroad between bourg d'oisans and briançon, really the only direct communication between the two places, was begun by napoleon, that far-seeing road-builder whom future generations of travellers in france have good reason to rise up and call blessed. the roadway climbs up over the lautret pass, leaving the galibier--the highest carriage road in europe except the stelvio--to the left, finally descending the southeastern slope and entering briançon via monetier-les-bains, just opposite the famous barre des Écrins, the highest of the french alps, a peak of something over thirteen thousand feet, the first ascent of which is credited to whymper as late as . briançon's chateau, or rather fort du chateau, is no chateau at all, being a mere perpetuation of a name. its history is most vivid and interesting nevertheless. briançon itself is one vast fortress, or a nest of them. the bugle call and the tramp of feet are the chief sounds to awaken mountain echoes roundabout. it has rightfully been called the gibraltar of the alps, and commands the passage from france into italy. the town sits most ravishingly placed just above the pebbly bed of the incipient durance, which rushes down to the mediterranean in a mighty torrent. save briançon's barrier of forts and fortresses and mountain peaks roundabout, the town is a sad, dull place indeed, where winter endures for quite half the year, and, until the last century, it was entirely cut off from the world, save the exit and entrance by the single carriage road which rises from gap via embrun and argentière. charles le chauve died here at briançon in the edifice which stood upon the site of the present fort du chateau, and to that circumstance the place owes its chief historic distinction. above the city, a dozen kilometres away only, rises the famous international highroad into italy. on one side of the mountain the waters flow through the valley of the po into the adriatic, and on the other, via the durance and the rhône, to the mediterranean. "adieu, ma soeur la durance, nous nous séparons sur ce mont: tu vas ravager la provence, moi féconder le piedmont." on the extreme height of the pass is the famous napoleon obelisk, commemorating the passage of the first consul in , though indeed the pass was one of the chief thoroughfares crossing the alps for long centuries before. in charles viii crossed here with the army with which he invaded italy. there remains little of actual monumental aspect at briançon which has come down from other days. there is still something left of the old chateau of the seigneurs de briançon, but not much. this was the same edifice in which charles le chauve died, and the mountain retreat of the lords of the tarentaise. the general outlines of its walls are still to be traced, and there is always the magnificent site to help one build it up anew, but that is all. the donjon is built on a peak of triangular rock rising sheer from the torrent at the bottom of the gorge which has cut its way through the town from the source higher up under the montagne de la madeleine. the donjon is still there in all its solidity and sadness, but it takes a climb of two hundred and fifty steps up an exceedingly steep stair to reach the platform of rock on which it sits, and this after one has actually arrived at the base. the retreat was practically untakable by the enemy, and the seigneurs conceived the idea of making it still more difficult of access by ignoring any convenient and comfortable means of approach. this must have been a great annoyance to themselves, but those were the days before time was money, so what matter? the old roman way through the tarentaise ran close along by the base of the chateau. there are four distinct ruined elements to-day from which one may build up anew the silhouette of this mediæval stronghold. chiefly these elements have been crumbled by stress of time, but here and there a reminder more definite in form, a gaunt finger of stone, points skyward,--a battery of them in fact surround the actual donjon. the bridge on which the roman road crossed the durance was fortified, but was built of wood brought from the neighbouring mountain sides. it is supposed that the present stone structure is the direct successor of this wooden bridge, though it possesses the antique look which may well claim a thousand years. aymon, the seigneur de briançon, when occupying the donjon on the heights, committed many extortions for toll on travellers passing this way. it was a sort of scandalous graft of the eleventh century which finally induced héraclius, archbishop of the tarentaise, to petition [illustration: _chateau de briançon_] humbert ii, the overlord, comte de maurienne, to call his brother lord to a more reasonable method of procedure. this was to the comte de maurienne's liking, for he fell upon him tooth and nail and drove aymon from his castle, leaving it in the ruined and dismantled condition in which it stands to-day. [illustration] this toll of roads and bridges was, by inherited right, the privilege of many local seigneurs throughout the feudality, but here the demand was so excessive, so much greater than the traffic could stand, to put it in modern parlance, that the concession was suppressed in the same fashion as has been often brought to bear on latter day monopolies badly administered. this thing doesn't happen often, but with the precedent of the toll bridge at briançon it has been steadily growing as a commendable practice. incidentally the seigneur of briançon was killed in the struggle which deprived him of what he thought his right, but that was seemingly a small matter; the main thing was to do away with the oppression, and the lord of the maurienne, being one of those who did things thoroughly, went at the root of the evil. it is to his credit that he did not continue the toll-gathering for his own benefit. the enormous flanks of wall of the chateau de briançon, which still stand, show a thickness in some instances of thirty feet, and the mortar of eight centuries still holds the blocks firmly together here and there. what a comparison between the ancient and modern manner of building! the same strategic position which first gave a foothold to the seigneurial chateau was newly fortified in , in order to resist the troops of françois i. the french by chance, or skill, finally took the position, and occupied it for a quarter of a century, until the time when savoy was returned to emmanuel-philibert by the victory of saint quentin. again it was captured in by lesdiguières, the date of the conquest of savoy by henri iv. the walls of the chateau which are to be remarked to-day are probably of the eleventh and twelfth centuries; all other works are of the later fortifications, or of the more modern military structure of the present war system of france. briançon from the plain below has the appearance and dignity of a monumental and prosperous city. near-by this aspect is lost entirely. as the french say, it is like a shako stuck rakishly over the ear of a grenadier. one may take his choice of view points, but at all events briançon is marvellously imposing and romantic looking from a distance. roundabout on every peak and monticule are forts bristling with guns, all pointing italy-wards; whilst on the height of mont genèvre the italians in turn train their cannon on briançon's chateau and the plain beyond. south from briançon runs the great _route nationale_ from dauphiny and the alps to provence and the mediterranean. it is replete with historic and romantic souvenirs, but like all the rest of these more or less poverty-stricken mountain regions, it lacks any great or splendid domestic or civic monuments on its route. souvenirs of mediæval times there are, and many, but they were born of warlike deeds rather than peaceful ones. midway between briançon and embrun is mont dauphin, another key to the italian gateway. the fortress is a conspicuous point of rock sitting strategically at the mouth of the river guil at its junction with the durance. the fortress was the work of vauban, and its bastions are built of a curious pink marble found in the valley of the queyras. no doubt but that the fortress is impregnable, or was when built, but it would avail little to-day against modern explosives. up the valley of the guil is the region known as the val de queyras, one of the "protestant valleys" of dauphiny, where the religious wars under lesdiguières, during the reign of henri iv, raged fast and furious. chateau queyras, as its name indicates, is the seat of a mediæval pile which, if not stupendous with respect to its outlines, is at least more than satisfying when viewed from afar. it is an ancient feudal castle and befits its name, in looks at least, and was once the seat of the seigneurs of chateau-vieille ville. like the fort of mont dauphin it seemingly was built to guard the passage to the frontier by the col lacroix and the col de traversette. here as early as louis ii of dauphiny cut a tunnel below the col to make the road between the french valleys and the rich plains of the po the easier of passage. south of chateau queyras is saint véran, the highest collection of human habitations in france, and one of the most elevated in europe. it is commonly called the highest commune in europe where the peasants eat white bread. approximately its elevation is seven thousand feet, still some thousands below leadville, one recalls. because of its altitude also, it has been called the most pious village in france. this may or may not be so, but at any rate the place has ever been on the verge of changing its religion from protestant to catholic and from catholic to protestant. what is in the rarefied atmosphere, one wonders, to induce such fickleness in matters spiritual! embrun, of all the towns of this part of dauphiny, is the most illustrious and famous. this is perhaps as much from its association with louis xi as for any other reason, for it is reckoned one of the dullest towns in france. the general aspect of embrun is most singular as it snuggles intimately around the drab walls of an old donjon, the sole relic of its ancient feudal glory. the roof and gables of the houses of the town rise abruptly from the low levels to the height on which sits the donjon and the shrine dedicated to the divinity of louis xi, "our dear lady of embrun," as he called her. to know more of what passed in the mind of louis xi with regard to embrun and its divinity one should re-turn the pages of "quentin durward." the monarch indeed resided so long in dauphiny, at one place or another, that many of the most affecting scenes of his life were enacted here. a roman city was here in ancient times, and from this grew up a great strategic military base. not a morsel of the débris of the roman town remains, but the cathedral still preserves the best of roman principles of building in the stones of its pillars and vaulting. the donjon of the old chateau, the tour brune, as it is called, is not far from the cathedral, within the confines of the military barracks. it is, therefore, not accessible to the general public, unless by chance one makes the acquaintance of some genial alpin-chasseur who can be induced to do the honours--of course with permission of his superior, which on this particular occasion was, for us, not easy to get. the thing was finally "arranged." military property in france is not for the vulgar eye, leastwise not in the vicinity of a frontier boundary. the tour brune is accredited as the most ancient military edifice in dauphiny. gotran, roi de bourgogne, built it and ravished the valleys roundabout, using it as a base from which to make his pillaging sorties and then as a retreat in case he was hard pressed. this was according to the ethics of guerrilla warfare at that time, and probably is to-day. as a mere habitation, the tour brune could hardly have been very comfortable. it certainly never partook of any luxurious appointments or accessories, judging from its build alone. the metropolis of the upper valley of the durance is gap, whose chief romantic memory, since indeed it has no worthy architectural monuments to-day, is recalled by the magnificent marble statue of the connetable de lesdiguières on the mausoleum of this dauphinese hero, now installed in the préfecture, having been brought thither from the warrior's natal chateau in the neighbourhood. it shows the protestant defender of the rights of henri iv in dauphiny clad in the full regalia of his fighting armour. it is worthy of record to note that from being a protestant governor of dauphiny, lesdiguières changed faith as did his royal master and became a catholic, acquiring at the same time the title of connetable de france as a mark of favour for his devotion to the tenets of his sovereign. there is another chateau de lesdiguières, which lies out on the road running from grenoble to gap, via corps and vizille, and is nothing at all grand or monumental in aspect. for a fact, the chateau at vizille was his preferred domicile, and the present shapeless, ruined mass, though built by the connetable, was intended merely to be a mausoleum rather than a dwelling. he was actually buried here, his body having been brought hither from italy, but the revolution threw his ashes to the winds and his funeral monument was removed to gap. chapter xxii in lower dauphiny there is not a village or a town in dauphiny, be it ever so humble, but which guards some vestige or tradition of some feudal chateau or fortress of the neighbourhood. nor are ocular evidences wanting which even he who runs may read. this is far from stating that the region is strewn with noble and luxurious monuments as are touraine or anjou, but nevertheless he, or she, who knows how to translate the story of the stones may make up history to any extent he likes, and yet never finish the volume. and much of the tale will be as vivid and thrilling as that of the western and southern provinces, which are usually given the palm for romance. on almost any site around one's horizon a seigneur might have built himself a chateau, an all but impregnable stronghold where he might sustain successfully the powers vested in him as a vassal of the dauphin. this was the usual procedure, and if many of these classic strongholds have disappeared, there are enough remaining to suggest the frequency and solidity of mediæval building in these parts, a species of castle building which here in the mountains differed not a little from that of the lowlands. it is just this view-point that makes the study of the chateaux of dauphiny the more interesting. even the imperfectly preserved ruins which crown many a peak and hill-top are suggestive of this unique and effective manner of castle building, and though many have fallen from sheer decay in later years, it is chiefly because they were undermined or overthrown in some great or petty quarrel, and not because their design was not well thought out nor their workmanship thorough. the picks of louis xi caused more actual depredation than has the stress of time. often but a local legend remains to tell the tale. chambaraud, mantailles, and beaufort have disappeared, and moras, thodure and vireville, all of them reminiscent of the prowess of the feudal barons, are in truth but dim reminiscences of their once proud estate. between grenoble and vienne is the chateau de bressieux, most picturesque, the first great requirement of a castle. it dates, in part, from the twelfth century. that is its second qualification. antiquity comes after picturesqueness in its appeal to even the traveller of conventional mould. the barons of bressieux were by the right of their title members of the parliament of dauphiny. the situation of their chateau assured them the full and free exercise of their power, right or wrong, and, like all the dauphinese seigneurs, they were practically rulers of a lilliputian empire. it seems that the celebrated mandrin, a brigand so dignified that he was ranked as a "_gentilhomme_," married into the family of bressieux. history has apparently been unjust to mandrin, "the _escroc_ who possessed the manners of a dandy," but at any rate there be those in dauphiny to-day who revere his memory before that of bayard. saint marcellin, in the lower valley of the isère, is italian in its general aspect and layout. its house walls, its roof-tops and its arcaded streets are what most folk will at once call italian. be this as it may, it was originally the stronghold of the native dauphins and the place in their _royaume_ where they lived the most at ease and ate and drank the best. this is not conjecture or a far-away twentieth century estimate, but a quotation from recorded history. the only thing one recalls of saint marcellin in the eating line to-day is an exceedingly pungent variety of goat's milk cheese. it is not for that that most of us make of the quaint little dauphinese city a place of pilgrimage. saint marcellin was the seat of the ancient dauphinese parliament, but since it was three times destroyed by fire, it actually possesses but few of its old-time monumental records in stone. beauvoir, scarce a kilometre away from saint marcellin, was the site of an incomparable chateau-fort which, it is sad to state, the enthusiasm of louis xi for pulling things down did not leave unspoiled. to-day the chateau is a reminiscence only, but the situation, at the juncture of the iseret, the isère and the cuman, tells the possibilities of its storied past in the eye's rapid review. there is little doubt that mere attack could have had but small effect on its sturdy walls, and that its having been destroyed or injured in any way must have been the result of weakness or lack of courage on the part of those who held it from within. only two definite architectural details of this great fortress remain as they were in those warlike [illustration: _chateau de beauvoir_] times, the tower of the chapel and a flank of wall containing a series of ogival windows. still in the vallée saint marcellinoise, as this junction of the three rivers is known, one sees the ignoble pile which marks the site of the former chateau of the seigneur de flandaines, one of the allies of the dauphins, descended from one of the proudest families of the region. the seigneur de flandaines would build himself a stronghold so sturdy that no one might take it from him, nor no one drive him out; primarily this was the formula upon which all castles were built. this was the very sentiment that the seigneur expressed to louis xi at the time when the latter was but a prince of dauphiny: "_lou vassa de fe valan mais que lousignous in buro._" it was only another way of saying (in the local _patois_) that a vassal clothed in armour was worth considerably more than one who dressed only in velvet. the dauphin took this to mean much, but he had a mighty envy for the seigneur de flandaines, and sought forthwith the ways and means by which to turn him out of his fortress abode. the dauphin invited the seigneur to a court ball and plied him and his retainers with food and drink, not only to excess, but to the point of insensibility. after this the troops of the dauphin marched on flandaines, took it without the least resistance, turned it over to the crowbars of the house-breakers, and went back and told their prince that their work was finished. in the chateau de rochechinard, near flandaines, the dame de beaujeau, emulator of the policy of louis xi, martyred the poor zizim, son of mohamet ii and brother of bajazet. the history of the affair entire is not to be recounted here, but the turk was exiled in france and chose this "pays de franguistan," of which he had read, as the preferred place of his future abode. louis xi arranged with one of his dauphinese familiars to take the infidel into his chateau. the alien was at first enchanted with his new life and played the zither and sang songs to the fair ladies of dauphiny all the long day with all the gallantry of a noble of france. he went further: he would have married with one of the most gracious he had met: "it was a thing a thousand times more to be sought for than the control of the ottoman empire," he said. for the moment it was the one thing that the turk desired in life. proof goes further and states that for the purpose he became converted to christianity. and the rest? the fair lady of dauphiny did not marry the turk; so he was sent a hundred leagues away in further exile and the daughter of the béranger-sasseange married and forgot--in fact she married three times before she eradicated the complete memory of the affair. to-day the walls of rochechinard are half buried in an undergrowth of vine and shrubs and are nothing more than a sad reminder of the history which has gone before. three leagues from saint marcellin and beauvoir is saint antoine, a sixteenth century townlet of fifteen hundred souls which has endured much, as it has always existed unto this day. it possesses one of the most remarkable and astonishing flamboyant-gothic churches in all christendom. during the middle ages saint antoine was a place of pilgrimage for popes and princes, and the dauphins, by reason of their intimate associations with the distinguished visitors to their country, gained both riches and power from the circumstance. when dauphiny came to be united to the crown of france the tradition of saint antoine and its life-giving wine continued, and neither françois premier nor louis xi neglected to make the journey thither. in the case of françois premier there may have been another good, or at least sufficient, reason, for saint vallier and diane de poitiers were but a few hours away. but that's another point of view, a by-path which need not be followed here, since it would lead us too far astray. following still the valley of the isère, one comes to the chateau de la sone, at one time one of the strongest fortifications of the lower valley. it was the key to the royonnais, and a subterranean passage led from its platform underneath the bed of the isère itself to a chateau of the dauphins on the opposite bank. with the establishment of a silk-mill here in the chateau in all romance fled, and there being no more need for a subterranean exit, the passage-way was allowed to fill up. to-day one takes the assertion on faith; there is nothing to prove it one way or another. it was here within these walls that vaucanson ( - ), the "_sorcier-mécanicien_," invented the chain without end, which revolutionized the silk-spinning industry. the aspect of the chateau to-day, declassed though it is, is most picturesque. it is the very ideal of a riverside castle, for it bears the proud profile of a fortress of no mean pretensions even now, far more than it does that of a luxurious dwelling or a banal factory. it is one of those structures one loves to know intimately, and not ignore just because it has become a commoner among the noble chateaux of history. two very curious twin towns are romans and bourg-de-péage, separated by the rapidly flowing waters of the isère. if such a groupment of old houses and rooftops were in switzerland or germany, and were presided over by some burgrave or seneschal, all the world of tourists would rave over their atmosphere of mediævalism. being in france, and off the main lines of travel, they are largely ignored, even by the french themselves. it is to be remarked that their history and romance have been such that the souvenirs and monuments which still exist in these curious old towns are most appealing. in that they are now seeking to attract visitors, a better fate is perhaps in store for romans and bourg-de-péage than has been their portion during the last decade of popular touring. chateaux of a minor sort there are galore at romans. noble and opulent _hôtels privées_ in almost every street reflect the glories of the days of the dauphins, still but little dimmed. here and there an elaborately sculptured façade without, or a courtyard within, bespeaks a lineal dignity that of later years has somewhat paled before the exigencies of modern life. romans of late years has become a _ville commercante_ and has broken the bounds of its old ramparts and flowed over into new quarters and suburbs which have little enough the character of the old town. this is a feature to be remarked of most french towns which are not actually somnolent, though true enough it is that in population they may have gained very little on the centuries gone by. the demand is for new living conditions, as well as those of trade, and so perforce a certain part of the population has to go outside to live in comfort. it was from the castle of mazard at romans, now a poor undignified ruin, that the last of the _native_ dauphins signed his abdication in favour of philippe de valois, who acquired the province for the french crown. the event was induced by the loss of his infant son, who, by some mysterious agent, fell into the swift-flowing isère at the base of the castle walls. overwhelmed with grief, the father would no longer hold the reins of state, and turned his patrimony over to the french king with content and satisfaction, stipulating only that the french heir to the throne should be known as the dauphin henceforth, a state of affairs which obtained until the reign of louis philippe. south from romans lies die, which in spite of its great antiquity has conserved little of its ancient feudal memories. there are some ancient walls with a supporting tower here and there, but this is all that remains to suggest the power that once radiated from the _dea vocontiorum_ of the ancients. from die down towards the rhône, through the valley of the drome, is however a pathway still strewn with many reminders of the feudality. where the valley of quint enters that of the drome, are pontaix and sainte croix, each of them possessed of a fine old ruin of a chateau on a hill overlooking the town and the river-bed below. outside the stage setting of an opera no one ever saw quite so romantically disposed a landscape as here. the hills and vales bordering upon the rhine actually grow pale before this little stretch of a dozen kilometres along the banks of the drome. the village of sainte croix, and its chateau, is the more notable of the two mentioned, and played an important rôle in the military history of the diois. first of all the romans laid the foundations of the fortress one sees on the height above the crooked streets of the town. this was originally a work intended to protect their communications from their capital city at vienne, on the banks of the rhône, with milan, beyond the alpine frontier. formerly, it was a stronghold of the emperor of the occident, and in the emperor frederick ii gave it to the bishop of saint paul-trois-chateaux, who, by the end of the century, had transferred it to the house of poitiers. catholics and protestants occupied it turn by turn during the religious wars, when, after the taking of la rochelle, richelieu razed it, as he did so many another feudal monument up and down the length and breadth of france. a great modern--comparatively modern--pile situated at the entrance of the village, has nothing in common with the old fortress on the height, and, though to-day it well presents the suggestion of a fortified mediæval manor, it is in reality nothing but a walled farm, a transformation from an old antonian convent suppressed at the revolution. index _adrets, baron des_, _aguesseau, chancelier d'_, aix-les-bains, , - , albertville, , _allemon, seigneurs d'_, allinges, _amboise, jacques d'_, ancy-le-franc, , - _andelot family_, - _angely, regnault de saint-jean d'_, _anjou, rené d'_, annecy, - , anse, apremont, _arbaud, charles_, argentière, _arles, cardinal d'_, arnay-le-duc, , , - autun, , , auxerre, , , , - , , , , _auxerre, comtes d'_, , , _auxerre, geoffroy, bishop of_, auxois, the, auxonne, , - avallon, , - , , avignon, bagé-le-chatel, _bagé, seigneurs de_, , , , _bar, duc de_, bar-sur-seine, - barraux, fort, , - , _bartholdi_, , bathie, _bavière, family_, , , bayard, chateau de, - _bayard, chevalier_, - , - , bazoche and its chateau, - beaufort, _beaujeau, anne de_, , _beaujeau, sire de_, , , beaujolais, the, , beaune, , , , , , , , - , _beaune, claude de la_, beauregard, chateau de, beauvoir, , _bedford, duke of_, , , belfort, , , - belleville-sur-saône, - belley, , - _benoit xiii_, _berry, duchesse de_, _bertin_, _bertrand, general_, besançon, , , , , , - , _besnard, albert_, _biron, maréchal de_, blamont, blay, _blonay, baron de_, blonay, chateau de, blonay, manoir de, bordeau, boulogne, bourbilly and its chateau, , , - , _bourbon, house of_, , , , , bourbonnais, the, , bourg-de-péage, bourg d'oisans, - bourg-en-bresse, , , , - , , bourges, bourget du lac and its chateau, - bourgogne, canal de, bourguignons, _bourrienne_, _boyvin_, boz, brançion, chateau de, - _brandes_, bresse, , , , - , - bressieux, chateau de, - _briançon, seigneurs de_, - brienne-le-chateau, , _brillat-savarin_, _brouhée_, _buffon_, , , - bugey, , , , _burgundy, house of_, , , , , , , , , , , , , - , - , , , , , , bussy-rabutin, chateau de, - _bussy-rabutin family_, , - _calixtus ii_, , _capet, hughes_, , _carnot, lazare_, , - , carpentras, cavaillon, _celestin iv_, _cerceau, androuet du_, - , _chabas, paul_, chablais, the, , , chalon-sur-saône, , , , - , , , chambaraud, chambertin, , , chambéry, - , , , , chambord, , _chambre, pierre de la_, _chambrette_, _champagne, counts of_, , champdivers, _champdivers, odette de_, chagny, - chanceaux, _chantel, mme. de_ (st. jeanne de), , , chantilly, charbonne, _charles i_ (le chauve), , , , , _charles vi_, _charles vii_, , _charles viii_, , , _charles ix_, , _charles x_, _charles v_ (emperor), , , charolles, , , chastellux, chateau de, , - , chastillon (see châtillon) chateau des ducs (see chastillon) chateauneuf, - _chateau-vieille ville, seigneurs de_, chatel-censoir, chatelet, _chatelet family_, châtillon-sur-seine, , , , - , châtillon-les-dombes, _châtillon, house of_, - , chaumont-la-guiche, chazeu, chénove, - chéran, the, chignin, chateau de, chinon, chateau, clamecy, _clement vii_, , clémont, _clermont family_, , , - clos de la perrière, clos du chapitre, clos vougeot, , - , cluny and its abbey, - , - _coeur, jacques_, cognac, _colbert_, , _coligny family_, - , , , , _colin, sieur_, _condé, prince de_, , , conflans, , - corcheval, cormatin, chateau de, corps, corton, - _cossé-brissac, maréchal_, _costa, marquis leon and joseph_, coucy, coudrée, chateau de, coulanges-sur-yonne, courcelles-les-ranges, chateau de, _courtney family_, - , _cousin, jean_, _coypel_, crais-billon, crest, crussol, - cuiseaux, cure, the, cussy-la-colonne, - dampierre, _daudet, alphonse_, dauphiny, , , , - , - , , , , , , - de la roche, dents du lanfont, dheune, the, die, , - dijon, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , dole, - , dombes, principality of, , , , , , - , , , , donzy, doussard, forêt de, douvaine, _ducloz, canon_, duesme, - dufayal, _duguesclin_, duingt, chateau de, _dunois_, duretal, _edward iii_, embrun, , , - _eon, chevalier d'_, _epailly, jacques d'_, Épinac, - _epiry, baron d'_, Époisses, , - _eugene iv_, _evelyn_, Évian, , - , excevenex, _fabre, ferdinand_, _fagon_, falais, farcins, _fargis family, de_, faucigny, faverges, fécamp, abbey de, feisons, _felix v_, fernay, - _fésigny_, fixin, - _flandaines, seigneur de_, - franche, comté, , , , - , _françois i_, , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , _froissart_, _furstemburg, comte de_, - _gallas_, _galley, mlle._, gap, , , , - gatinais, the, _gellan, nicolas de_, _gelasse ii_, geneva, , - , , , - _genevois, comtes de_, - , , , genlis, , gevrey, gex, - , givry, _godran, odinet_, _goelnitz, abraham_, _gondi, cardinal de_, _graffeny, mlle._, grange du hameau de chavoires, _granville family_, _gregory viii_, _gregory ix_, grenoble, - , , , , , , , , , , grésy, _greuze_, , gribaldi, manoir, grignan, _grignan, comtesse de_, , guiche family, de, _guillebaud_, guitant, chateau de, , _gunsbourg, m._, hautecombe, abbey of, , _hémery, porticelli d'_, - _henri ii_, , , , _henri iv_, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _héredia, josé-maria_, héricourt, hermance, _heurta, jehan de la_, _houssaye, arsène_, huchisi, _hugues iii_, hulls, chateau des (see la rochette) _humbert iv_, ile-de-la-palme, - _innocent iv_, _jean-sans-peur_, , - joigny, , , - _joinville, house of_, _jude, paul_, _just_, labedoyère, _la fontaine_, _lamartine_, - , , , - lamartine, chateau de, - _langeac, comtesse de_, _langres_, lans-le-bourg, _laroche, madame_, la rochepot, chateau de, - la rochette, , - la tour ronde, - _lauzun_, _la valette, cardinal_, _lavin_, _lebrun_, le chatelard, _lemuet_, , _le notre_, , _lepautre, jean_, _lepelletier de saint fargeau_, les bauges, lesdiguières, chateaux de, - _lesdiguières, maréchal de_, , , - , , , , , - les laumes, _lippomano_, _longueville, duchesse de_, , lorraine, duchy of, lorris, louhans, , louis i (le débonnaire), , _louis vii_ (le jeune), , _louis ix_ (saint), , _louis xi_, , , , , , , , , - , , , , , _louis xii_, , , , , _louis xiii_, , , , , , _louis xiv_, , , , , , , , , , , - , _louis xv_, _louis xvi_, _louis philippe_, , _louvois, marquis de_, , lugny, _luvois family_, _macmahon family_, mâcon, , , , , - , , , , , , , , magny-en-vexin, mailly-le-chateau, _maine, duc de_, _mandrin_, _mansart_, mantaille, chateau de, mantailles, mantoche, manuel, chateau de, _marchand, commandant_, marcigny, - _marges, comte de_, _marigny family_, marmont, chateau de (see châtillon) _marmont, maréchal_, , _maurienne, comte de_, - maxilly, _mayenne, duc de_, , _mazard, castle of_, _mazarin, cardinal_, , , _medicis, catherine de_, , meillerie, _mello family, de_, _menabrea, leon_, _mercier_, mercurey, mersault, , - _michelet_, _mignard_, , , milly, miolans, chateau de, , , - , _mirabeau, marquis de_, molay, _molière_, _moiturier, antoine_, _monetier-les-bains_, _monge_, _monglat, marquise de_, , , , _monillefert_, montagny, chateau de, montaigu, chateau de, _montaigu family_, montbard and its chateau, , - , montbéliard, , - _montbossier, marquis de_, montcony, mont dauphin, montelimar, _montepin, xavier de_, montersine, _montfaucon family_, montluel, montmayeur family, , montmélian, , , , - , , montmerle, - _montmorency family_, , _montpensier, mlle. de_, , , , montréal, chateau de, , - _montréal, family of_, , _montreval, comte de_, _montvallezen-sur-séez_, moras, moret-sur-loing, _morveau, guyton de_, moulin-à-vent, moulins-en-allier, moutiers, _murillo_, _musset, alfred de_, nantua, _napoleon i_, , , - , , , - , , , , - _napoleon iii_, _nattier_, _nemours, ducs de_, - nernier, - _nevers, renaud, comte de_, noble, chateau de, - _noblemaire, m._, _noisat, commandant_, - nolay, - nuits, , , nuits-sous-ravières, - _orléans, henrietta, duchesse d'_, paray-le-monail, , _passerat, baron_, _peregrin_, _perier, casimir_, pernand, _perrenot, nicolas_, _philibert le beau_, _philibert ii_, _philippe-auguste_, , , _philippe-de-champaigne_, _philippe-le-bon_, , , _philippe-le-hardi_, , , , , - , _philippe ii_, pierre, _pisa, nicolas de_, _poitiers, diane de_, , - , pommard, pontaix, pontarlier, , pontcharra, , , pont d'ain, pont-de-vaux, - pont-de-veyle, - _pot, philippe_, pouges-les-eaux, _poussin_, _primataccio_, , - _prud'hon_, _quentin de la tour_, queyras, chateau, - quincy, the, _rabutin family_, _rabutin-chantel family_, , _ragny, dame de_, _raguse, duc de_, , rambeauteau, _rameau_, _rancurelle_, _renan, ernest_, _ribbonnier_, _richard coeur-de-lion_, _richelieu_, , , , , , ripaille, chateau de, - _roche, sires de la_, rochechinard, chateau de, - _rochefort, sires de_, rochefort-en-montague, chateau de, - _rochefort-lucay family_, _rochette family, de la_, , _rollin, nicolas_, , , romanée-conti, - romans, - romenay, rouge, chateau, _rousseau, jean jacques_, , , - , , , , _rude_, , _sade, marquis de_, saint antoine, - _saint-beauve_, saint béninge, _saint bernard_, saint bernard, chateau de, saint-bonnet-de-joux, sainte croix, - saint donat, , - saint fargeau, , - _saint ferreol family_, _saint françois-de-sales_, saint gengoux, saint gingolph, saint jean-de-losne, saint laurent, saint marcellin, , - , saint michel de maurienne, saint nicholas-les-citeaux, saint pierre d'albigny, saint-pont, - saint rambert, saint seine, saint trivier-de-courtes, saint vallier, , saint véran, _saint vorles, canons of_, _sales, comte louis de_, _salins, guignonne de_, _sambin, hugues_, , , - _sarcus, comtesse de_, _sarto, andrea del_, sassenage, - saulieu, , - _saulx-tavannes, maréchal de_, _savace family, de_, savegny-sous-beaune, savoigny, chateau de, savoy, , , , , , , , - , , - , , , , , - , _savoy, house of_, , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , sciez, _ségur, pierre de_, semur-en-brionnais, - semur-en-auxois, , - , , sennonais, the, , , sens, , , , _serlio_, seruin, the, , _sève, jean de_, _sévigné, mme. de_, , - , , , _short, frank_, _sigismond, emperor_, , _sluter, claus_, sone, chateau de la, - _soufflot_, _souvre, anne de_, _stendhal_, , _sue, eugene_, sully, chateau de, - _sully family_, , taine, tanlay, chateau de, , - , , _tapffer_, tarentaise, the, - , , _tavannes family_, - _terrail family_, - terreaux-à-verostres, _thil family, de_, _thévenin family_, thodure, _thoire et villars, sires de_, thoissey, - thoisy-la-berchere, thone, thonon-les-bains, - , , , thoron, manoir de, _thorwaldsen_, toisé, - touches, touges, tour de fonbonne, tour-de-pin, , tour, manoir de la, - _tour, quentin de la_, tour sans venin, - tour, villa de la, tournette, tournus, , , - trévoux, , , - tonnerre, , , , - , , _tonnerre family_, , , , , , , _tremouille family, de la_, troches, chateau de, _turner_, _urban iii_, uriage, - _uzes, ducs de_, valbonne, valence, , , - _valentinian, emperor_, _valois, jeanne de_, _valois, philippe de_, , , , val-romey, , , _varambon, sire de_, _vatel family_, vauban, chateau de, - _vauban, maréchal_, , - , , , , , _vaucanson_, vergy, chateau de, vermanton, vezelay, , - _vibrave family_, vienne, - , , _vienne, archbishops of_, _vienne, comtes de_, , , _vienne, guy of_ (see _calixtus ii_) villaines-en-dumois, - _villars, sires de_, villeneuve-sur-yonne, - villefranche, - vireville, vizille, chateau de, , - , , _voltaire_, , , - _warens, mme. de_, , _werve, claus de_, _whymper_, wurtemburgs, chateau of the, - _young, arthur_, , yvoire, _zinzerling_, _zizim_, - * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: forêz et beaujolais, pour l'annee=> forêz et beaujolais, pour l'année {pg } le fidele conducteur=> le fidèle conducteur {pg } mon nom mes mes=> mon nom mes {pg } francherait d'un bond=> franchirait d'un bond {pg } distict pavillon=> distict pavillion {pg } d'ou sont sortis=> d'où sont sortis {pg } hôtels privées=> hôtels privés {pg } restaurants mondaines=> restaurants mondains {pg } toutes les facons=> toutes les façons {pg } en tout pays ou vent vente=> en tout pays où vent vente {pg } rez-de-chausée=> rez-de-chaussée {pg } ce spectacle l'ecrase=> ce spectacle l'écrase {pg } rez-de-chaussêe=> rez-de-chaussée {pg } la principaute de dombes=> la principauté de dombes {pg } mias viv' macon pour beir=> mias viv' mâcon pour beir {pg } chateaux débout=> chateaux debout {pg } surounded by=> surrounded by {pg } comem si l'on=> comme si l'on {pg } rendezvous de chasse=> rendez-vous de chasse {pg } route imperiale=> route impériale {pg } said the marechal to his king=> said the maréchal to his king {pg } guerilla warfare=> guerrilla warfare {pg } penelope brandling by vernon lee a tale of the welsh coast in the eighteenth century london t. fisher unwin paternoster square m cm iii to augustine bulteau this story of northern wreckers, in return for a piece of parian marble picked up in the mediterranean surf at palo grandfey, near f., in switzerland. _may_ , . having reached an age when the morrow is more than uncertain, and knowing how soon all verbal tradition becomes blurred and distorted, i, sophia penelope, daughter of jacques de morat, a cadet of the counts of that name, sometime a captain in the service of king louis xv., and of sophia hamilton, his wife; and furthermore, widow of the late sir eustace brandling, ninth baronet, of st. salvat's castle, in the county of glamorgan, have yielded to the wishes of my dear surviving sons, and am preparing to consign to paper, for the benefit of their children and grandchildren, some account of those circumstances in my life which decided that the lot of this family should so long have been cast in foreign parts and remote colonies, instead of in its ancestral and legitimate home. i can the better fulfil this last duty to my dear ones, living and dead, that i have by me a journal which, as it chanced, i was in the habit of keeping at that period; and require to draw upon my memory only for such details as happen to be missing in that casual record of my daily life some fifty years ago. and first of all let me explain to my children's children that i began to keep this journal two years after my marriage with their grandfather, with the idea of sending it regularly to my dearest mother, from whom, for the first time in my young life, i was separated by my husband's unexpected succession and our removal from switzerland to his newly-inherited estates in wales. let me also explain that before this event, which took place in the spring of seventeen hundred and seventy-two, sir eustace brandling was merely a young englishman of handsome person, gentlemanly bearing, an uncommon knowledge of the liberal arts and sciences, and a most blameless and amiable temper, but with no expectations of fortune in the future, and only a modest competence in the present. so that it was regarded in our canton and among our relations as a proof of my dear mother's high-flown and romantic temper, and of the unpractical influence of the writings of rousseau and other philosophers, that she should have allowed her only child to contract such a marriage. and at the time of its celebration it did indeed appear improbable that we should ever cease residing with my dearest mother on her little domain of grandfey; still more that our existence of pastoral and philosophic happiness should ever be exchanged for the nightmare of dishonour and misery which followed it. the beginning of our calamities was, as i said, on the death of sir thomas brandling, my husband's only brother. i have preserved a most vivid recollection of the day which brought us that news, perhaps because, looked back upon ever after, it seemed the definite boundary of a whole part of our life, left so quickly and utterly behind, as the shore is left even with the first few strokes of the oars. my dear mother and i were in the laundry, where the maids were busy putting by the freshly ironed linen. my mother, who was ever more skilful with her hands, as she was nimbler in her thoughts, than i, had put aside all the most delicate pieces and the lace to dress and iron herself; while i, who had made a number of large bundles of lavender (our garden had never produced it in so great profusion), was standing on a chair and placing them in the shelves of the presses, between each bale of sheets and table linen which the maids had lifted up to me. when, looking through the open glass door, i saw vincent, the farm servant, hurrying along the lime walk, and across the kitchen garden, and waving a packet at us. he had been to the city to buy sugar, i remember, for the raspberry jam, which my mother, an excellent cook, had decided to sweeten a second time, for fear of its turning. "he seems very excited," said my mother, looking out. "i declare he has a book or packet, perhaps it is the _journal des savants_ for eustace, or that opera by monsieur gluck, which your uncle promised you. i hope he has not forgotten the nutmegs." i write down these childish details because i cherished them for years, as one might cherish a blade of grass or a leaf, carelessly put as a marker in a book, and belonging to a country one will never revisit. "it is a letter for eustace," said my mother, "and very heavy too. i am glad vincent had more money than necessary, for it must have cost a lot at the post." and going under my husband's laboratory window she asked whether he wanted the letter at once, or would wait to open it at dinner time. "i am only cleaning my instruments," he answered, "let me have the letter now." his voice, as i hear it through all those years, sounds so happy and boyish. it was altered, and it seemed at the time naturally enough, when he presently came down to the laundry and said very briefly, "my brother is dead ... it is supposed a stab from a drunken sailor at bristol. a shocking business. it is my uncle hubert who writes." he had sat down by the ironing table and spoke in short, dry sentences. there was something extraordinary about his voice, not grief, but agitation, which somehow made it utterly impossible for me to do what would have been natural under the circumstances, to put my arms round his neck and tell him i shared his trouble. instead of which every word he uttered seemed to ward me off as with the sword's point, and to cover himself, as a fencer covers his vitals. "get some brandy for him, penelope. he is feeling faint," said my mother, tossing me her keys. i obeyed, feeling that she understood and i did not, as often happened between us. i was a few minutes away, for i had to cross the yard to the dwelling house, and then i found that my mother had given me the wrong keys. i filled a glass from a jar of cherries we had just put up, and returned to the laundry. my husband was white, but did not look at all faint. he was leaning his elbow on the deal table covered with blanket, and nervously folding and stretching a ruffle which lay by the bowl of starch. when i came in he suddenly stopped speaking, and my mother saw that i noticed it. "eustace was saying, my dear," she said, "that he will have to go--almost immediately--to england, on account of the property. he wanted to go on alone, and fetch you later, when things should be a little to rights. but i was telling him, penelope, that i felt sure you would recognise it as your duty to go with him from the very first, and help him through any difficulties." my dear mother had resumed her ironing; and as she said these last words, her voice trembled a little, and she stooped very attentively over the cap she was smoothing. eustace was sitting there, so unlike himself suddenly, and muttered nervously, "i really can see no occasion, maman, for anything of the sort." i cannot say what possessed me; i verily think a presentiment of the future. but i put down the plate and glass, looked from my mother to my husband, and burst into a childish flood of tears. i heard my husband give a little peevish "ah!" rise, leave the room, and then bang the door of his laboratory upstairs behind him. and then i felt my dear mother's arms about me, and her kiss on my cheek. i mopped my eyes with my apron, but at first i could not see properly for the tears. when i was able to see again what struck me was the scene through the long window, open down to the ground. it was a lovely evening, and the air full of the sweetness of lime blossom. the low sunlight made the plaster of our big old house a pale golden, and the old woodwork of its wooden eaves, wide and shaped like an inverted boat, as is the swiss fashion, of a beautiful rosy purple. the dogs were lying on the house steps, by the great tubs of hydrangeas and flowering pomegranates; and beyond the sanded yard i could see the bent back of vincent stooping among the hives in the kitchen garden. the grass beyond was brilliant green, all powdered with hemlock flower; and the sun made a deep track in the avenue, along which the cows were trotting home to be milked. i felt my heart break, as once or twice i had foolishly done as a child, and in a manner in which i have never felt it again despite all my later miseries. i suppose it was that i was only then really ceasing to be a child, though i had been married two years. it was evidently in my mother's thoughts, for she followed my glance with hers, and then said very solemnly, and kissing me again (she had not let go of me all this while), "my poor little penelope! you must learn to be a woman. you will want all your strength and all your courage to help your husband." that was really the end, or the beginning. there were some weeks of plan-making and preparations, a bad dream which has faded away from my memory. and then, at the beginning of august of that year-- --my husband and i started from grandfey for st. salvat's. i _september_ , . this is my first night in what, henceforward, is going to be my home. the thought should be a happy and a solemn one; but it merely goes on and on in my head like the words of a song in some unknown language. eustace has gone below to his uncles; and i am alone in this great room, and also, i imagine, in the whole wing of this great house. the wax lights on the dressing-table, and the unsnuffed dip with which the old housekeeper lit us through endless passages, leave all the corners dark. but the moonlight pours in through the vast, cage-like window. the moon is shining on a strip of sea above the tree-tops, and the noise of the sea is quite close; a noise quite unlike that of any running water, and methinks very melancholy and hopeless in expression. i tried to enjoy it like a play, or a romance which one reads; and indeed, the whole impression of this castle is marvellously romantic. when eustace had unstrapped my packages, and in his tender manner placed all my little properties in order, he took me in his arms, meaning thereby to welcome me to my new home and the house of his fathers. we were standing by the window, and i tried, foolishly it seems, to hide my weakness of spirit (for i confess to having felt a great longing to cry) by pointing to that piece of moonlit sea, and repeating a line of ossian, at the beginning of the description of the pirates crossing the sea to the house of erved. foolishly, for although that passage is a favourite with eustace, indeed one we often read during our courtship, he was annoyed at my thinking of such matters, i suppose, at such a moment; and answered with that kind of irritated deprecation that is so new to me; embracing me indeed once more, but leaving me immediately to go to his uncles. foolish penelope! it is this no doubt which makes me feel lonely just now; and i can hear you, dearest mother, chiding me laughingly, for giving so much weight to such an incident. eustace will return presently, as gentle and sympathising as ever, and all will be right with me. meanwhile, i will note down the events of this day, so memorable in my life. we seemed to ride for innumerable hours, i in the hired chaise, and my husband on the horse he had bought at bristol. the road wound endlessly up and down, through a green country, with barely a pale patch of reaped field, and all veiled in mist and driving rain. there seemed no villages anywhere, only at distances of miles, a scant cottage or two of grey stone and thatch; and once or twice during all those hours, a desolate square tower among distant trees; and all along rough hedges and grey walls with stones projecting like battlements. inland mountain lines like cliffs, dim in the rain; and at last, over the pale green fields, the sea--quite pale, almost white. we had to ask our way more than once, losing it again in this vague country without landmarks, where everything appeared and disappeared in mist. i had begun to feel as if st. salvat's had no real existence, when eustace rode up to the chaise window and pointed out the top of a tower, and a piece of battlemented wall, emerging from the misty woods, and a minute after we were at a tall gate tower, with a broken escutcheon and a drawbridge, which clanked up behind us so soon as we were over. we stopped in a great castle yard, with paved paths across a kind of bowling green, and at the steps of the house, built unevenly all round, battlemented and turreted, with huge projecting windows made of little panes. there were a lot of men upon the steps, who surrounded the postchaise; they were roughly and variously dressed, some like fishermen and keepers, but none as i had hitherto seen the gentlemen of this country. but as we stopped, another came down the steps with a masterful air, pushed them aside, opened the chaise, lifted me out, and made me a very fine bow as i stood quite astonished at the suddenness of his ways. he was dressed entirely in black broadcloth, with a frizzled wig and bands, as clergymen are dressed here, and black cloth gaiters. "may it please the fair lady brandling," he said, with a fine gesture, "to accept the hearty welcome of her old uncle hubert, and of her other kinsmen." the others came trooping round awkwardly, with little show of manners. but the one called hubert, the clergyman, gave me his arm, waived them away, said something about my being tired from the long ride, and swept, nay, almost carried me up the great staircase and through the passages to the room where dinner was spread. of this he excused himself from partaking, alleging the lateness of the hour and his feeble digestion; but he sat over against my husband and me while we were eating, drank wine with me, and kept up a ceaseless flow of conversation, rather fulsomely affable methought and packed with needless witticisms; but which freed me from the embarrassment produced by the novelty of the situation, by my husband's almost utter silence, and also, i must add, by the man's own scrutinising examination of me. i was heartily glad when, the glasses being removed, he summoned the housekeeper, and with another very fine bow, committed me to her charge. eustace begged to be excused for accompanying me to my chamber, and promised to return and drink his wine presently with his kinsmen. and now, dear mother, i have told you of our arrival at st. salvat's; and i have confessed to you my childish fear of i know not what. "mere bodily fatigue!" i hear you briskly exclaiming, and chiding me for such childish feelings. but if you were here, dearest mother, you would take me also in your arms, and i should know that you knew it was not all foolishness and cowardice, that you would know what it is, for the first time in my little life, to be without you. _october_ , . it has stopped raining at last, and eustace, who is again the kindest and most considerate of men, has taken me all over the castle and the grounds, or at least a great part. st. salvat's is even more romantically situated than i had thought; and with its towers and battlements hidden in deep woods, it makes one think of castles, like that of otranto, which one reads of in novels; nay, i was the more reminded of the latter work of fiction (which eustace believes to be from the pen of the accomplished mr. walpole, whom we knew in paris), that there are, let into the stonework on either side of the porch, huge heads of warriors, filleted and crowned with laurel, which though purporting to be those of the emperors augustus and trajan, yet look as if they might fit into some gigantic helmet such as we read of in that admirable tale. from the house, which has been built at various times (eustace is of opinion mainly in the time of the famous cardinal wolsey, as the architecture, it appears, is similar to that of his majesty's palace at hampton court), into the old castle; from the house, as i say, the gardens descend in great terraces and steps into the woods and to the sea. the gardens are indeed very much neglected, and will require no doubt, a considerable expenditure of labour; but i am secretly charmed by their wild luxuriance: a great vine and a pear tree hang about the mullioned windows almost unpruned, and the box and bay trees have grown into thickets in the extraordinary kindliness of this warm, moist climate. there is in the middle of the terraces, a pond all overgrown with lilies, and with a broken leaden statue of a nymph. here, when he was a child, eustace was wont to watch for the transformation into a fairy of a great water snake which was said to have lived in that pond for centuries; but i well remember his awakening my compassion by telling me how, one day, his brother thomas, wishing to displease him, trapped the poor harmless creature and cruelly skinned it alive. "that is the place of my poor water snake," eustace said to-day; and it was the first time since our coming, that he has alluded to his own or his family's past. poor eustace! i am deeply touched by the evident painful memories awakened by return to st. salvat's, which have over-clouded his reserved and sensitive nature, in a manner i had not noticed (thank heaven) since our marriage. but to return to the castle, or rather its grounds. what chiefly delights my romantic temper are the woods in which it is hidden, and its singular position, on an utterly isolated little bay of this wild and dangerous coast. you go down the terraces into a narrow ravine, lined with every manner of fern, and full of venerable trees; past the little church of which our uncle hubert is the incumbent, alongside some ruined buildings, once the quarters of the brandlings' troopers, across a field full of yellow bog flowers, and on to a high wall. and on the other side of that wall, quite unexpected, is the white, misty sea, dashing against a bit of sand and low pale rocks, where our uncles' fishing boats are drawn up, and chafing, further off against the sunken reefs of this murderous coast. and to the right and the left, great clumps of wind-bent trees and sharp cliffs appear and disappear in the faint, misty sunshine. as we stood on the sea wall, listening to the rustle of the waves, a ship, with three masts and full sail, passed slowly at a great distance, to my very great pleasure. "where is she going, do you know?" i asked rather childishly. "to bristol," answered eustace curtly. "it is perhaps, some west indiaman, laden with sugar, and spirits, and coffee and cotton. all the vessels bound for bristol sail in front of st. salvat's." "and is not the coast very dangerous?" i asked, for the sight of that gallant ship had fascinated me. "are there not wrecks sometimes along those reefs we see there?" "sometimes!" exclaimed eustace sadly. "why at seasons, almost daily. all that wood which makes the blue flame you like so much, is the timber of wrecked vessels, picked up along this coast." my eye rested on the boats drawn up on the sand of the little cove: stout black boats, such as eustace had pointed out to me at bristol as pilchard boats. "and when there is a wreck?" i asked, "do your uncles go out to save the poor people with those boats?" "alas, dear lady brandling," answered an unexpected voice at my elbow, "it is not given to poor weak mortals like us to contend with the decrees of a just, though wrathful providence." i turned round and there stood, leaning on the sea wall, with his big liquorice-coloured eyes fixed on me, and a smile (methought) of polite acquiescence in shipwrecks, our uncle, the reverend hubert, in his fine black coat and frizzled white wig. _october_ , . we have been here over a fortnight now, and although it feels as if i never could grow accustomed to all this strangeness, it seems months; and those years at grandfey, all my life before my marriage, and before our journey, a vivid dream. where shall i begin? during the first week eustace and i had our meals, as seemed but natural, in the great hall with his uncles and his one cousin. for two days things went decently enough. the uncles--simon, edward, gwyn, david, and the cousin, evan, son of david, were evidently under considerable restraint, and fear (methought) of the reverend hubert, who seems somehow a creature from another planet. the latter sat by eustace and me, at the high end of the table; the others, and with them the bailiff lloyd, at the lower. the service was rough but clean, and the behaviour, although gloomily constrained, decent and gentlemanly. but little by little a spirit of rebellion seemed to arise. it began by young evan, a sandy-haired lad of seventeen, coming to dinner with hands unwashed and red from skinning, as he told us, an otter; and on the reverend hubert bidding him go wash before appearing in my presence, his father, david, taking his part, forcing the lad into his chair, and saying something in the unintelligible welsh language, which contained some rudeness towards me, for he plainly nodded in my direction and struck the table with his fist. at this the reverend hubert got up, took the boy evan by the shoulders and led him to the door, without one of the party demurring. "the lovely lady brandling," he said, turning to me as he resumed his place, "must forgive this young caliban, unaccustomed like the one of the play, to beautiful princesses." i notice he loves to lard his speech with literary reminiscences, and is indeed a better read person than one would expect to meet in such a place. this was, however, only the beginning. uncle david appeared next night undoubtedly in liquor, and was with difficulty constrained to decent behaviour. simon, a heavy, lubberly creature, arrived all covered with mud, in shirtsleeves, and smelling vilely of stale fish. then it was the turn of edward, a great black man, with a scar on his cheek, to light his pipe at table, and pinch the welsh serving wench as she passed, and whisper to her in welsh some jest which made the others roar. eustace and hubert, between whom i sat at the far end, pretended not to notice, though eustace reddened visibly, and hubert took an odd green colour, which seems to be the complexion of his anger. and then while our clergyman uncle and eustace busily fell to discussing literature, and even (in a manner which, under other circumstances, would have made me laugh) quoting the classics, the conversation at the lower end became loud and violent in welsh. "they are discussing the likelihood of a shoal of pilchards," said hubert to me with a faint uneasy smile. "my brothers, i grieve to say, dear lady brandling, are but country bred, and very rough diamonds; and the saxon, as they call our christian language, is a difficulty to their heathenishness." "so great a difficulty, apparently," i answered, suddenly rising from the table, for i felt indignant with the want of spirit of my two gentlemen, "that methinks i shall in future leave them to their familiar welsh, and order my meals in my parlour, where you two gentlemen may, if you choose, have them with me." eustace turned crimson, bit his lip; uncle hubert went very green; and i own i myself was astonished at my decision of tone and attitude: it was like an unknown _me_ speaking with my voice. contrary to my expectation, neither eustace nor hubert manifested any vexation with me. we went upstairs and sat down to cards as if nothing had happened. but the next day hubert brought me a long message of apology, which i confess sounded very much of his making up, from uncle david. but added that he quite agreed that it was better that eustace and i should have our meals above, "and leave the hogs to their wash." "only," he said, with that politeness which i like so little (though heaven knows politeness ought to be a welcome drug in this place), "i trust my dear young niece will not cast me out of the paradise i have, after so many years, tasted of; and allow her old rough uncle hubert occasionally to breathe the air of refinement she has brought to this castle." yet i notice he has but rarely eaten with eustace and me; coming up, however, to drink wine (or pretend, for he never empties his glass and complains he has but a weak head), or play cards, or hear me sing to the harpsichord, a performance of which he seems inordinately fond. i cannot help wondering what eustace and he discuss, besides literature, over their wine. for eustace must surely intend, sooner or later, to resume his position of master of st. salvat's, and dispose, some way, of the crew of caliban uncles. _october_ , . i ought to say something to my dear mother (though i am getting doubtful of distressing her with my small and temporary troubles) about the domestic economy of st. salvat's. this is odd enough, to my thinking. the greater part of the castle is unoccupied, and from what i have seen, quite out of repair; nor should i have deemed it possible that so many fine dwelling-rooms could ever have been filled and choked up, as is here the case, with lumber, and, indeed, litter, of all kinds. the uncles, all except hubert, are lodged in the great south wing, and i should guess in a manner more suitable to their looks than to their birth, while eustace and i occupy his mother's apartments, done up in the late reign, in the north wing looking on the sea. the centre of the castle is taken up by the great hall, going from ground to ceiling, so that the two halves are virtually isolated; certainly isolated so far as i am concerned, since the fear of eavesdropping on my uncles' brawling has already stopped my using the gallery which runs under the ceiling of the hall, and connects my apartments with the main staircase. the dairy, still-room, pantry, and even the kitchen are in outhouses, from which the serving men bring in the food often in pouring rain in an incredibly reckless manner. i say "serving men," because one of the peculiarities of st. salvat's (for i can scarce believe it to be an universal practice in england or even in wales) is the predominance of the male sex. but let not your fancy construe this as a sign of grandeur, or conjure up bevies of lacqueys in long coats and silver badges! like master, like man; the men at st. salvat's have the same unkempt, sea-wolfish look as the masters, are equally foul in their habits and possess even less english. by some strange freak the cook only is not of these parts, indeed, a mulatto, knowing only spanish. "all good sea-faring folk, able to man the boats on a stormy night," explained uncle gwyn, as if it were quite natural that the castle of st. salvat's should be a headquarters of pilchard fishing! i have only seen the mulatto at a distance, and at first believed him to be an invention of uncle simon's, the wag of the family, who informed me he had him off a notorious pirate ship, where he had learnt to grill d----d french frogs during the late war and serve them up with capers. the small number of women servants is scarce to be regretted, judging by the few there are. though whether, indeed, these sluts should be judged at all as serving women i feel inclined to doubt; for no secret is made of the dairymaid and the laundress being the sultanas of uncles simon and gwyn, with whom they often sit to meals; while the little waiting wench at first allotted to me was too obviously courted by the oaf evan to be kept in my service. uncle hubert had indeed thought it needful to explain to me that the gentry of these parts all live worse than heathens, and has attempted (but the subject gave me little satisfaction) to confirm this by the _chronique galante_ of the neighbourhood; 'tis wonderful how quick the man is at taking a hint, and adapting his views to his listeners', at least to mine. to come back to the maids, if such a name can be applied here, i find the only reputable woman in the castle (her age, and something in her manner give her a claim to such an adjective) is mrs. davies, the supposed housekeeper, who now attends on my (luckily very simple) wants. she was the foster-mother and nurse of my brother-in-law, the late baronet; and 'tis plain there was no love lost betwixt eustace and her. indeed, i seem to guess she may have helped to make his infancy the sad and solitary one it was. yet, for all this suspicion, and a confused impression (which i can't account for) that the woman is set over us to spy, i am bound to say that of all people here, not excepting uncle hubert here, mrs. davies is the one most to my taste. she has been notably beautiful, and despite considerable age, has an uncommon active and erect bearing; and there is about her harsh, dark face, and silent, abrupt manners, something which puts me at ease by its strength and straightforwardness. this seems curious after saying she has been _set to spy_; but 'tis my impression that in this heathenish country spying, aye, and i can fancy robbing and murdering, might be done with a clean conscience as a duty towards one's masters; and hubert, and the memory of sir thomas, are the real masters, and not eustace and i.... will it always be so? things look like it; and yet, at the bottom of my soul, i find a hope, almost an expectation, that with god's grace i shall clean out this augean stable, and burn out these wasp's nests.... _october_ . on my asking about prayers, a practice i had noticed in every family since my arrival in england, uncle hubert excused himself by explaining that most of the common folk about here had followed mr. wesley's sect, and for the rest few of the household understood english. the same reason methought prevented his fulfilling his clergyman's office in public; and when three sundays had passed, i got to think that the church in the glen was never opened at all. to my surprise last night, being saturday, the reverend hubert invited us very solemnly to divine service the following morning; invited, for his manner was very much that of a man requesting one's company at a concert or theatrical entertainment. i am just returned, and i confess my astonishment. uncle hubert, though in a style by no means to my taste, and with no kind of real religious spirit, is undoubtedly a preacher of uncommon genius, nor was there any possibility, methought, that his extempore sermon was learned by heart. the flowing rhetorical style, more like that of romish divines, was of a piece also with his conversation, and he had the look of enjoyment of one conscious of his own powers. i own the interest of the performance (for such i felt it) was so great that it was only on reflection i perceived the utter and almost indecent inappropriateness thereof. despite the lack of english, the entire household, save the mulatto, were present, mostly asleep in constrained attitudes; and the other uncles, all except david and gwyn, lay snoring in their pews. my own impression was oddly disagreeable; but on the service ending, i brought myself to compliment our uncle. "you should have been a bishop," i said, "at your age, uncle hubert." he sighed deeply, "a bishop? i ought to have--i might have been--everything, anything--save for this cursed place and my own weakness. but doubtless," he added, hypocritically, "it is a just decree of providence that has decided thus. but it is hard sometimes. there are two natures in us, occasionally, and the one vanquishes and overwhelms the other. in me," and here he began to laugh, "the fisherman for pilchards has got the better of the fisherman for souls." "fishing appears to have wondrous attractions," i answered negligently. he turned and looked at me scrutinisingly. "we have all had the passion, we brandlings," he said, "except that superfine gentleman yonder," nodding at eustace. and added, in a loud, emphatic voice, "and none of us has been a more devoted fisherman, you will admit, dear eustace, than your lamented father." eustace, i thought, turned pale, but it might have been the greenish light through the bottle-glass windows of the little church, on whose damp floor we three were standing before the tombs of the brandlings of former times, quaint pyramids of kneeling figures, sons and daughters tapering downwards from the kneeling father and mother; and recumbent knights, obliterated by centuries in the ruined roofless chapel, so that the dog at their feet, the sword by their side, let alone their poor washed features, were scarce distinguishable.... "they look like drowned people," i said, and indeed the green light through the trees and the bottle glass, and the greenish damp stains all round, made the church seem like a sea cave, with the sea moaning round it. "where have you seen drowned people, penelope?" asked eustace, and i felt a little reproved for the horridness of my imaginings. "nowhere," i hastily answered; "just a fancy that passed through my head. and you said there are so many wrecks on this coast, you know." "we are all wrecks on the ocean of time," remarked the reverend hubert, "overwhelmed by its flood." "you are the bishop now," i laughed, "not the pilchard fisher," and we went through the damp churchyard of huddled grassy mounds and crooked gravestones under the big trees of the glen. "eustace," i said that evening, "i wish i might not be buried down there," and then, considering that all his ancestors were, i felt sorry. but he clasped my arm very tenderly, and exclaimed with a look of deep pain, "for god's sake do not speak of such things, my love. even in jest the words make me feel faint and sick." poor eustace! i fear he is not well; and that what he has found at st. salvat's is eating into his spirits. _november_ , . i have been feeling doubtful, for some days past, whether to send my diary regularly to my mother, lest she should be distressed (at that great distance) by my account of this place and our life here. yet i felt as if something had suddenly happened, a window suddenly closed or a door slammed in my face, when eustace begged me to-day to be very reserved in anything i wrote in my letters. "these country postmasters," he said, not without hesitation, "are not to be trusted with any secrets; they are known to amuse their leisure and entertain their gossips with the letters which pass through their hands." he laughed, but not very naturally. "some day," he said, "i will be sending a special messenger to cardiff, and then your diary--for i know that you are keeping one--shall go to your mother. but for the present i would not say more than needful about ... about our surroundings, my dear penelope." i felt childishly vexed. "'tis that hateful uncle hubert;" i cried, "that reads our letters, eustace! i feel sure of it!" "nonsense," answered eustace. "i tell you that it is a well-known habit among postmasters and postmistresses in this country," and he went away a little displeased, as i thought. my poor journal! and yet i shall continue writing it, and perhaps even more frankly now it will be read only by me; for while i write i seem to be talking to my dearest mother, and to be a little less solitary.... ii _december_ , . winter has come on: a melancholy, wet and stormy winter, without the glitter of snow and ice; and with the sea moaning or roaring by turns. i think with longing (though i hope poor eustace does not guess how near i sometimes am to crying for homesickness) of our sledging parties with the dear cheerful neighbours at grandfey; of the skating on the ponds, and the long walks on the crisp frozen snow, when eustace and i would snowball or make long slides, laughing like children. at st. salvat's there are no neighbours; or if there are (but the nearest large house is ten miles off, and belongs to a noble lord who never leaves london) they do not show themselves. i do not even know what there is or is not in the country that lies inland; in fact, since our coming, i have never left the grounds and park of st. salvat's, nor gone beyond the old fortified walls which encircle them. my very curiosity has gradually faded. i have never pressed hubert for the saddle horse and the equipage (the coach-house contains only broken-down coaches of the days of king george i.) which he promised rather vaguely to procure for me on our first coming; i have no wish to pass beyond that drawbridge; like a caged bird, i have grown accustomed to my prison. since the bad weather i have even ceased my rambles in the shrubberies and on the grass-grown terraces: the path to the sea has been slippery with mud; besides i hate that melancholy winter sea, always threatening or complaining. i stay within doors for days together, without pleasure or profit, reading old plays and novels which i throw aside, or putting a few stitches into useless tambour work; i who could formerly not live a day within doors, nor do whatever i set to do without childish strenuousness! these two or three days past i have been trying to find diversion in reading the history of these parts, where the brandlings--kings of this part of wales in the time of king arthur, crusaders later, and great barons fighting at crecy and at agincourt--once played so great a part, and now they have dwindled into common smugglers, for 'tis my growing persuasion that such is the real trade hidden under the name of pilchard fishing--defrauders of the king's exchequer, and who knows? for all hubert's rank as magistrate, no better than thieves and outlawed ruffians. hubert has been showing me the family archives. he lays great store by all these deeds and papers, and one is surprised in a house so utterly given over to neglect, to find anything in such good order. he saved the archives himself he tells me, when (as i have always forgotten to note down) the library of the castle was burnt down on the occasion of my late brother-in-law's _wake_; a barbarous funereal feast habitual in these parts, and during which a drunken guest set fire to the draperies of the coffin. i did not ask whether the body of sir thomas, which had been brought by sea from bristol after his violent end there, had been destroyed in this extraordinary pyre; and i judge that it was from eustace's silence and hubert's evident avoidance of the point. perhaps he is conscious that his efforts were directed to a different object, for it is well nigh miraculous how he should have saved those shelves full of documents and all that number of valuable books bound with the brandling arms. "you must have risked your life in the flames!" i exclaimed with admiration at the man's heroism. he bid me look at his hands, which indeed bear traces of dreadful burning. "i care about my ancestors," he answered, "perhaps more, to say the truth, than for my living kinsfolk. besides," he added, "i ought to say that i had taken the precaution to remove the most valuable books before giving over the library to their drunken rites. as it was, they burnt my poor dead nephew to ashes like the phoenix of the poets, only that he, poor lad, will not arise from them till the day of judgment!" _january_ , . a horrid circumstance has just happened, and oddly enough in that same library which had been burnt, all but its ancient walls, at my brother-in-law's funeral, i had persuaded eustace to turn it into a laboratory, for i think a certain melancholy may be due to the restless idleness in which he has been living ever since we came here. in building one of the furnaces the masons had to make a deep cavity in the wall; and there, what should appear, but a number of skeletons, nine or ten, walled up erect in the thickness of the masonry. i was taking the air on the terrace outside, and hearing the men's exclamations, ran to the spot. it was a ghastly sight. but my uncle simon, who was smoking his pipe in the great empty room, burst into uncontrollable laughter over my horror; and going up to a little heap of mouldering bones which had fallen out with the plaster, picked up a green and spongy shin and brought it to me. "here's some material for eustace ready to hand!" he cried with a vile oath. "let him try whether he can bring these pretty fellows to life again in his devil's cooking pots," and he thrust the horrid object under my nose. at this moment hubert appeared, and, with his wolf's eyes, took in all at a glance. "fie, fie," he cried, striking that horrid relic out of his brother's hand, "are these fit sights for a lady, you hog, simon?" and taking me brusquely by the hand, leads me away, and, in the pantry, tries to make me swallow a dose of brandy, with much petting and cosseting. "our ancestors, dear lady brandling (for so he affects to call me), were but rough soldiers, though princes of these parts; and the relics of their games scarce fit for your pretty eyes. but have a sup of brandy, my dear, 'twill set you right." i loathed the mealy-mouthed black creature, methought, worse than drunken simon, and worse almost than those horrid dead men. "no, thank you, uncle," i said, "my stomach is stronger than you think. my ancestors also were soldiers--soldiers on the field of battle--though i never heard of their bricking up their enemies in the house wall." "nay, nay," he cried, "but that was an evil habit of those days, dear lady brandling, hundreds and thousands of years ago, when we were sovereign princes." "hundreds and thousands of years ago?" i answered, for i hated him at that moment, "ah well, i had thought it was scarce so far removed from us as all that." _january_ , . a curious feeling has been tormenting me of late, of self-reproach for i scarce know what, of lack of helpfulness, almost of disloyalty towards my husband. since we have been here, indeed i think ever since the first announcement of sir thomas's death, eustace has altered in his manner towards me; a whole side of his life has, i feel, been hidden from me. have i a right to it? this is what has been debating in my mind. a man may have concerns which it is no duty of his to share with a wife; not because she is only a wife, and he a husband, for my dear eustace's mind is too enlightened and generous, too thoroughly imbued with the noble doctrines of our days, to admit of such a difference. but there is one of my mother's sayings which has worked very deeply into my mind. it was on the eve of my wedding. "remember, dear little penelope," she said, "that no degree of love, however pure, noble, and perfect, can really make two souls into one soul. all appearance to the contrary is a mere delusion and dangerous. every human soul has its own nature, its necessary laws, and demands liberty and privacy to develop them; and were this not the case, no soul, however loving and courageous, could ever help another, for it would have no strength, no understanding, no life, with which to bring help. remember this, my child, till the moment come when you shall understand it, and, i hope, act in the light of its comprehension." well, methinks that ever since that day when the letter arrived which changed our destiny, i have not merely remembered, but learned to understand these words. so that i have fought against the soreness of feeling that, on some matters at least, i was excluded from my husband's confidence. after two years of such utter openness of heart as has existed between us three--our mother, eustace, and, younger and weaker though i felt, myself--such free discussion of all ideas and interests, of his scientific work, even to details which i could not grasp, after this there is undoubtedly something strange in the absolute reserve, indeed the utter silence, he maintains about everything concerning his family, his property, and our position and circumstances, the more so that, at the time of our marriage he often confided to me details connected with it. thus, in that past which seems already so remote, he has often described to me this very house, these very rooms, told me his childish solitude and terrors, and spoken quite freely of the unhappy life of his mother by the side of his cruel and violent father, and among his father's brutal besotted companions; he had told me of the horrid heartlessness with which his only brother played upon his sensitiveness and abused his weakness, and of the evil habits, the odious scenes of intemperance and violence from which he was screened by his poor mother, and finally saved by her generous decision to part with him and have him educated abroad. he had mentioned the continual brawls of his uncles. but since his succession to the property, never a word has alluded to any of these things, nor to the knowledge he had given me of them. once or twice, when i have mentioned, quite naturally, his dead brother, his mother (i am actually occupying her apartments, sleeping in her bed, and only yesterday eustace spent the afternoon mending and tuning her harpsichord for me), he has let the subject drop, or diverted the conversation in an unmistakable manner. nay, what is more significant, and more puzzling, eustace has never given me a clue to whether he knew of the arrangements, the life, we should find here; before our arrival, he had never mentioned that the castle was, to all intents and purposes, in the hands of his kinsmen; nor has he dropped a word in explanation of so extraordinary a circumstance. and i have never asked him whether he knew to what manner of life he was bringing me, whether he intends it to continue, what are his reasons and plans. i have respected his reserve. but have i been perfectly loyal in hiding my wonder, my disappointment, my sorrow? _february_ , . i cannot make up my mind about uncle hubert. is he our fellow-victim or the ringleader of this usurping gang of ruffians? the more i see, the more i hesitate upon the point. but, as time goes on, i hesitate less and less in my dislike of him, although i own it often seems unreasonable and ungrateful. the man not only tries to make himself agreeable to us, but i almost think he feels kindly. he has a real appreciation of eustace's genius; and, indeed, it is this, most likely, which sometimes causes me to think well, though i fear never _kindly_, of him. it is quite wonderful how he lights up whenever he can get eustace (no easy matter) to speak on philosophic subjects; it is a kind of transfiguration, and all the obliquity and fawningness about the creature vanishes. he has a good knowledge of mathematics, eustace tells me, is a skilful mechanic, and would evidently enjoy assisting my husband in his experiments if he would let him. towards myself he has, i do believe, a kind of sentiment, and what is worse, of paternal sentiment! _worse_ because my whole nature recoils from him. he is most passionately fond of music, plays fairly on the viol, and takes quite a childish pleasure in making me sing and play. i ought indeed to be grateful towards him, for his presence, although distasteful i think to both of us, is a boon, in so far as it relieves the strain of feeling that there is a secret--a something which has come between my husband and me. alas, alas! that the presence of a third person, of a person such as hubert, should ever have come to be a boon! but i dare not face this thought. it is worse than any of the bad realities and bad probabilities of this bad place. if only hubert would not make me presents, forcing me thus to feel how hugely i hate having to accept anything from him. it began (almost as a bribe, methought) in the shape of a fine gold watch and equipage the very day after uncle edward's misbehaviour. then, some time after, a cut of handsome lyons brocade, enough for a gown, though heaven knows there is no occasion for such finery at st. salvat's! and this evening, after listening to me through some songs of monsieur piccini, and teaching me some of the plaintive airs of the welsh peasantry, the man drew from his coat a fine shagreen case, which proved to contain a string of large and very regularly shaped and sorted pearls. i felt i could not bear it. "are they pearls of my mother-in-law's?" i asked without thanking him, and in a tone anything, i fear, but grateful. instead of being angry and turning green, as i expected, uncle hubert looked merely very much hurt and answered: "had they been heirlooms it would have been your husband, not your uncle, to hand them you. eustace is the head of the family, not i." "the less said about the family and its head," i answered hotly, "the better, uncle hubert," and i felt sorry the moment after. "i do not deny it," he replied very quietly, in a manner which cut me to the quick. "at any rate these pearls are _mine_, and i hope you will accept them from me as a token of admiration and regard--or," and he fell back into his cringing yet bantering manner which i hate so, "shall we say, as is written on the fairing cups and saucers, 'a present for a good girl from bristol.'" how i hate uncle hubert! i had left the pearls on the harpsichord. this morning i found the green shagreen case on the dressing table; hubert evidently refuses to let me off his present. but i doubt whether i shall ever muster up civility enough to wear them. 'tis a pity, for lack of wearing makes pearls tarnish. i have just opened the case to look at them. this is very curious. the case is new, has the smell of new leather; and the diamond clasp looks recently furbished, even to a little chalk about it. but--the man must be oddly ignorant in such matters--the pearls, seen by daylight, have evidently not come from a jeweller's. for they are yellow, tarnished, unworn for years; they have been lying in this house, and, heirlooms or not, there is something wrong about them. i have been glad of a pretext, however poor, of returning them. "uncle hubert," i said, handing him the case, "you must put these pearls in a box with holes in it, and put them back in the sea." i never saw so strange a look in a man's face. "back in the sea! what do you mean, dear lady brandling?" he cries. "why do you suspect these pearls of coming from the sea?" "all pearls _do_ come from the sea, i thought, and that's why sea water cures them when they have got tarnished from lack of wearing." he burst into an awkward laugh, "to think," he says, "that i had actually forgotten that pearls were not a kind of stone, that they came out of shell fish." _february_ , . god help me and forgive my ingratitude for the great, unspeakable blessing he has given me. but this also, it would seem, is to become a source of estrangement between me and eustace. ever since this great hope has arisen in my soul, there has come with it the belief also that this child, which he used so greatly to long for (vainly trying to hide his disappointment out of gentleness towards me) would bring us once more together. perhaps it was wicked graspingness to count upon two happinesses when one had been granted to me. be this as it may, my ingratitude has been horribly chastened. i told my husband this morning. he was surprised; taken aback; but gave no sign of joy. "are you quite sure?" he repeated anxiously. and on my reiterating my certainty, he merely ejaculated, "ah ... 'tis an unfortunate moment," and added, catching himself up, "the best will be that i send you, when the time approaches, to bristol or to bath. i shall be sure of your being well seen to there." i nearly burst into tears, not at this proposal, but at the evident manner in which the thought of our child suggested only small difficulties and worries to his mind. "to bristol! to bath!" i exclaimed, "and you speak as if you intended leaving me there alone! but eustace, why should not our child be born in your house and mine?" i felt my eyes blaze with long pent up impatience. "because, my dear little penelope," he answered coldly and sharply, "it is the custom of _your country and mine_ that ladies of your condition should have every advantage of medical skill and attendance, and therefore remove to town for such purpose." "would it not be worth while to break through such a habit," i asked, "to have a physician here at the proper time? besides," i added, "i promised, and in your presence, that should this event ever take place, i should send for my mother." "i shall be delighted," he answered, always in the same tone, "if my mother-in-law finds it worth while to make so great a journey as that from switzerland to bath--for bath is the more suitable place, upon consideration. but seeing that, as i have twice said before, you will have every care you may require, i really think the suggestion would be a mere indiscretion--to all parties." he was busy arranging the instruments in his laboratory. i should have left him; but i felt my heart swell and overflow, and remained standing by him in silence. "it is too cold for you here," he said very tenderly after a moment, "had you not better go back to your rooms?" i could not answer. but after a moment, "eustace, eustace!" i cried, "don't you care? aren't you glad? why do you talk only of plans and difficulties? why do you want to send me away, to leave me all alone when our child is born?" he gave a sigh, partly of impatience. "do not let us discuss this again, dear penelope," he said, "and oblige me by not talking nonsense. of course i am glad; it goes without saying. and if i send you away--if i deprive myself of the joy of being with you, believe me, it is because i cannot help it. my presence is required here. and now," he added, putting his arm round my waist, but with small genuine tenderness, methought, "now let us have done with this subject, my dear, and do me the kindness to return to your warm room." o god, o god, take pity on my loneliness! for with the dearest of mothers, and what was once the kindest of husbands, and the joy of this coming child, i am surely the loneliest of women! _february_ , . god forgive me, i say again, and with greater reason, for i now recognise that my sense of loneliness and of estrangement; all my selfish misery, has been the fruit of my own lack of courage and of loving kindness. this child, though yet unborn, has brought me strength and counsel; the certainty of its existence seems, in a way, to have changed me; and i look back upon myself such as i was but a few weeks ago, as upon some one different, an immature girl, without responsibilities or power to help. and now i feel as if i _could_ help, and as if i must. for i am the stronger of the two. what has befallen eustace? i can but vaguely guess; yet this i know, that without my help eustace is a lost man; his happiness, his courage, his honour, going or gone. my mother used to tell us, i remember, the legend of a clan in her own country, where the future chieftain, on coming of age, was put into possession of some secret so terrible that it turned him from a light-hearted boy into a serious and joyless man. st. salvat's has wrought on eustace in some similar manner. on arriving here, or, indeed, before arriving, he has learned something which has poisoned his life and sapped his manhood. what that something is, i can in a measure guess, and it seems to me as if i ought to help him either to struggle with or else to bear it, although _bearing it_ seems little to my taste. it is some time since i have seen through the silly fiction of the pilchard fishery of st. salvat's; and although i have not been out of my way to manifest this knowledge, i have not hidden it, methinks, from eustace or even from uncle hubert. the rooms and rooms crammed with apparent lumber, the going and coming of carriers' wagons (so that my husband's cases of instruments and my new _pianoforte_ arrived from bristol as by magic), the amount of money (the very maids gambling for gold in the laundry) in this beggarly house; and the nocturnal and mysterious nature of the fishing expeditions, would open the eyes even of one as foolish and inexperienced as i; nor is any care taken to deceive me. st. salvat's castle is simply the headquarters of the smuggling business, presided over by my uncles and doubtless constituting the chief resource of this poor untilled corner of the world. breaking his majesty's laws and defrauding his exchequer are certainly offences; but i confess that they seem to me pardonable ones, when one thinks of the deeds of violence by which our ancestors mostly made their fortunes, let alone the arts of intrigue by which so many of our polished equals increase theirs. perhaps it was being told the prowess of our alpine smugglers, carrying their packs through snow-fields and along hidden crevasses, and letting themselves down from immeasurable rocks; perhaps it was these stories told to me in my childhood by the farm servants which have left me thus lax in my notions. this much i know, that the certainty of the uncles being smugglers, even if smuggling involve, as it must, occasional acts of violence against the officers of the excise, does not increase the loathing which i feel towards the uncles. nor would this fact, taken in itself, suffice to explain eustace's melancholy. what preys upon his mind must rather be the disgust and disgrace of finding his house and property put to such uses by such men. for eustace is a man of thought, not of action; and i can understand that the problem how to change this order of things must weigh upon him in proportion as he feels himself so little fitted for its solution. with this is doubtless mingled a sense of responsibility towards me, and perhaps (for his dreamer's conscience is most tender) of exaggerated shame for bringing me here. if this be as i think, it is for me to help my husband to break the bad spell which st. salvat's has cast over him. and i will and can! the child will help me. for no child of mine shall ever be born into slavery and disgrace such as, i feel, is ours. iii _april_ , . the spring gales have begun, and with them the "fishing" as it is called, has become constant. rough weather, i suppose, is favourable to the smuggling operations, as it leaves this terrible coast in the hands of those who know every inch of its reefs and rocks and quicksands, and who possess the only safe landing-place for miles, the little cove beyond the churchyard in the glen. be this as it may, these expeditions have left the castle wonderfully peaceful; the sound of brawling no longer rises perpetually from the big hall and the courtyards. the uncles are away for days and nights at a time, taking with them every male creature about the place. even hubert, seized, as he says, by a fit of his master passion, has not appeared for days. the sluttish maids and the old rheumatic gardener are lodged in the outhouses, or are taking a holiday in the neighbouring villages; and the house has been, methinks, given over to ourselves and mrs. davies, who waits assiduously in her silent manner, and no doubt keeps the uncles informed of all our doings. it is three days that eustace and i have been alone together. but the knowledge of what he will not confess, and of what i have not the courage to ask, sits between us at meals, makes us constrained during our walks, even like the presence of a living stranger. _april_ , . the gales have been getting worse and worse; and the sound of the sea, the wind in the trees and chimneys, has been filling the castle with lamentation. this evening, at the harpsichord, i could no longer hear, or at least no longer listen to, my own voice. i shut the instrument and sat idle by the fire, while every beam and rafter strained and groaned like the timbers of a ship in the storm. my husband also was quite unstrung. he walked up and down, without a word. suddenly a thought entered my mind; it is extraordinary and inhuman that it should not have done so before. "i hope hubert and the uncles are not out to-night," i said. eustace stopped in his walking, straight before the fire and stared long into it. "perhaps they have returned already," he answered. "i hope so," and with the excuse of some notes to put in order in his study, he bid me good-night and hoped i should go to bed soon. but shall i be able to sleep on such a night! _april_ st. i understand now. but, good god, what new and frightful mysteries and doubts! it was late when i went to bed last night; and, against all expectation, i fell into a heavy sleep. i was awakened out of dreams of shipwreck by a great light in my eyes. the moon had risen, almost full, and dispelled the clouds. and the storm was over. indeed, i think it was the stillness, after so many days of raging noise, which had wakened me as much as the moonlight. i was alone; for eustace, these weeks past, has slept in the closet next door, as he reads deep into the night and says my condition requires unbroken rest. it was so beautiful and peaceful, i seemed drawn into the light. i rose and stood in the big uncurtained window, which, with its black mullions casting their shadows on the floor, looked more than ever like a great glass cage. it was so lovely and mild that i threw back a lattice and looked out: the salt smell and the sea breeze left by the storm rushed up and met me. beyond the trees the moonlight was striking upon the white of the breakers, for though the gale was over the sea was still pounding furiously upon the reefs. my eyes had sought at first the moon, the moonlit offing; to my amazement, they fell the next instant on a great ship quite close to shore. she seemed in rapid movement, pitching and rolling with all her might; but after a moment i noticed that she did not move forward, but remained stationary above the same tree tops. she seemed enchanted, or rather she looked like some captive creature struggling desperately to get free. i was too much taken up by the strangeness of the sight to reflect that no sane crew would have anchored in such a spot, and no anchorage have held in the turmoil of such a sea. moreover, i knew too little of such matters to guess that the ship must have run upon one of the reefs, and that every breaker must lift her up to crash and shiver herself upon its sawlike edge; indeed i had no notion of any danger; and when i saw lights on the ship, and others moving against her hull, my only thought was that i was watching the smugglers at their work. as i did so, a sudden doubt, of which i felt ashamed, leaped into my mind; and, feeling indignant with myself the while, i crept to the door of the dressing-room. was eustace there? i noiselessly turned the handle and pushed open the door. i cannot say what were my feelings, whether most of shame or of a kind of terror when, by the light of a lamp, i saw my husband kneeling by the side of his camp bed, with his head buried in the pillow, like a man in agony. he was completely dressed. on hearing the door open he started to his feet and cried in a terrible voice "what do you want with me?" i was overwhelmed with shame at my evil thoughts. "o eustace," i answered foolishly, and without thinking of the bearing of my words, "the ship! i only wanted to call you to look at the ship." he paid no attention to my presence. "the ship! the ship!" he cries--"is she gone?" and rushes to the window. the ship, sure enough, was gone. where she had been her three great masts still projected from the water. slowly they disappeared, and another sharp black point, which must have been her bowsprit as she heeled over, rose and sank in its turn. how long we stood, eustace and i, silently watching, i cannot tell. "there were lights alongside," i exclaimed, "the uncles' boats must have been there. there has been time to save the crew. o eustace, let us run down and help!" but eustace held me very tight. "do not be a fool, penelope. you will catch your death of cold and endanger the child. the people of the ship are saved or drowned by this time." _june_ , . but a few months ago i wrote in this diary that no child of mine should ever be born into slavery and dishonour. alas, poor foolish penelope! what ill-omened words were those! and yet i cannot believe that god would have visited their presumptuousness upon me with such horrid irony. may god, who knows all things, must know that those words were even more justified than i dreamed of at the time: the slavery and dishonour surpassing my most evil apprehensions. indeed, may it not be that in taking away our child while yet unborn he did so in his mercy to it and to its wretched parents? surely. and if my husband surprised me, some months back, by his indifference in the face of what we were about to gain, 'tis he, perhaps, who is surprised in his turn at the strange resignation with which i take my loss. for indeed, i am resigned, am acquiescent, and, below the regrets which come shuddering across me, i feel a marvellous peacefulness in the depths of my being. no! no child should ever be born in such a house, into such a life as this.... * * * * * i am still shattered in body (i understand that for days recovery was given up as hopeless), and my mind seems misty, and like what a ghost's might be, after so many hours of unconsciousness, and of what, had it endured, would have been called death. but little by little shreds of recollection are coming back to me, and i will write them down. some strangely sweet ones. the sense, even as life was slipping away, that all eustace's love and tenderness had returned; that it was he (for no physician could be got, or was allowed, in this dreadful place) he himself who wrestled for me with death, and brought me back to life. moments return to my memory of surpassing, unspeakable sweetness, which penetrated through all pain: being lifted in his arms, handled like a child; seeing his eyes, which seemed to hold and surround me like his arms; and hearing his words as when he thanked god, over and over again, and almost like one demented, for having caused him to study medicine. i felt i was re-entering life upon the strong, full tide of incomparable love. let me not seem ungrateful, for i am not. most strangely there has mingled in this great flood of life-giving tenderness the sense also of the affection of poor mrs. davies. i call her _poor_, because there is, i know not why, something oddly pathetic in her sudden devotion to me. when i met her wild eyes grown quite tender and heard her crooning exclamations in her unintelligible language, i had, even in the midst of my own weakness, the sort of half pitying gratitude which we feel for the love of an animal, of something strong and naturally savage, grown very gentle towards one. _july_ , . is that hideous thing true? did it ever happen? or is some shred of nightmare returning ever and again out of the black depths of my sickness? it comes and goes, and every time new doubts--hope it may be a dream, fear it may be reality--come with it. it was three days after the shipwreck; the weather had calmed, and for the first time i ventured abroad into the park. that much and a little more is real, and bears in my mind the indescribable quality of certainty. i had wandered down the glen and through the churchyard, and i remember pausing before the great stone cross, covered with curious basket work patterns, and wondering whether when it was made--a thousand years ago--women about to be mothers had felt as great perplexity and loneliness as i, and at the same time, as great joy. i crossed the piece of boggy meadow, vivid green in the fitful sunshine, and climbed upon the sea-wall and sat down. i was tired; and the solitude, the sunshine, the faint silken rustle of the sea on the reefs, the salt smell--all filled me with a languid happiness quite unspeakable. all this i know, i am certain of, as the scratching of my pen; in fact, those moments on the sea-wall are, in a manner, the latest thing of which i have vivid certainty; all that came later--my illness, the news of my miscarriage, my recovery, and even this present moment, seeming comparatively unreal. i do not know how long i may have sat there. i was listening to the sea, to the wind in my hair, and watching the foam running in little feathery balls along the sand, when i heard voices, and saw three men wading among the rocks a little way off, as if in search of something. my eyes followed them lazily, and then i saw close under me, what i had taken at first for a heap of seaweed and sea refuse cast upon the sand, but which, as my eyes fixed it, became--or methought it became--something hideous and terrible; so that for very horror i could not shriek. and then, while my eyes were fixed on it, methought (for as i write it seems a dream) the three men waded over in its direction, and one silently pointed it out to the other. they came round, one turned a moment, and instead of a human face, i saw under his looped-up hat a loosely fitting black mask. then they gathered round that thing the three of them, and touched it with a boat-hook, muttering to each other. then one stooped down and did i know not what, stuffing, as he did so, something into the pockets of his coat, and then put out a hand to one of his companions, receiving back something narrow, which caught a glint of sun. they all three stooped together; methought the water against the sands and the pale foam heaps suddenly changed colour, but that must surely be my nightmare. "better like that," a voice said in english. between them they raised the thing up and carried it through the shallow water to a boat moored by the rocks. and then my voice became loosened. i gave a cry, which seemed to echo all round, and i jumped down from the sea-wall, and flew across the meadow and tore up the glen, till i fell full length by the neglected pond with the broken leaden nymph. for as they took _it_ up, the thing had divided in two, and somehow i had known the one was a mother and the other a child; one was i, and the other i still carried within me. and the voice which had said "better like that" was hubert's. but as i write, i know it must have been a vision of my sickness. * * * * * "eustace," i asked, "how did it begin? did i dream--or did you find me lying by the fountain on the terrace--the fountain of your poor water snake?" "forget it, dearest," eustace said, very quietly and sweetly, and with the old gentle truthfulness in his eyes. "you must have over-walked that hot morning and got a sunstroke or fainted with fatigue. we did find you by the fountain--that is to say, our good mrs. davies did." and davies merely nodded. _july_ , . shall i ever know whether it really happened? methinks that had i certainty i could face, stand up to, it. but to go on sinking and weltering in this hideous doubt! _august_ , . the certainty has come; and god in heaven, what undreamed certainties besides! i did not really want it, though i told myself i did. for i felt that mrs. davies knew, that she was watching her opportunity to tell me; and i, a coward, evading what i must some day learn. at last it has come. it was this morning. this morning! it seems weeks and months ago--a whole lifetime passed since! she was brushing my hair, one of the many services required by my weakness, and which she performs with wonderful tenderness. we saw one another's face, but only reflected in the mirror; and i recognised when she was going to speak. "lady brandling," she said in her odd welsh way--"lady brandling fell ill because she saw some things from the sea-wall." i knew what she meant--for are not my own thoughts for ever going over that same ground? but the sense of being surrounded by enemies, the whole horrid mystery about this accursed place, have taught me caution and even cunning. davies has been as a mother to me in my illness; but i remembered my first impression of her unfriendliness towards eustace and me, and of her being put to spy upon us. so i affected not to understand; and indeed, her singular mixture of english and welsh, her outlandish modes of address, gave some countenance to the pretence. "what do you mean, davies?" i asked, but without looking up in the glass for fear of meeting her eyes there. "what has the sea-wall to do with my illness? it was not there you found me when i fainted. you told me it was by the fountain." the old woman took a paper from her stays, and out of it a muddy piece of linen which she spread out on the dressing-table in front of me. it was a handkerchief of mine; and i understood that she had found it, treasured it as a sign of what i had witnessed. the place, the moment, might mean my death-warrant; for what i thought i saw had been really seen. "it was on the sea-wall the morning that lady brandling fainted in the shrubbery," she answered. and i felt that her eyes were on my face, asking what i had seen that day. i made a prodigious effort over myself. "and why have you kept it in that state instead of washing it? did you--was it picked up then or only now? _i suppose some one else found it?"_ merciful god! how every word of that last sentence beat itself out in my heart and throat!--and yet i heard the words pronounced lightly, indifferently. "i picked it up myself, my lady," answered mrs. davies. "i went down to the sea-wall after i had put lady brandling to bed. i thought she might have left something there. i thought i should like to go there before the others came. i thought lady brandling had seen something. i want lady brandling to tell me truly if she saw something on the sea-wall." i felt it was a struggle, perhaps a struggle for life and death between her and me. i took a comb in my hand, to press it and steady me; and i looked up in the mirror and faced davies's eyes, ready, i knew, to fix themselves on mine. "perhaps i may answer your question later, davies," i said. "but first you must answer mine: am i right in thinking that you were set to spy upon my husband and me from the moment we first came to st. salvat's?" a great change came over davies's face. whatever her intentions, she had not expected this, and did not know how to meet it. i felt that, were her intentions evil, i now held her in my hands, powerless for the time being. but to my infinite surprise, and after only a short silence, she looked into my eyes quite simply and answered without hesitating. "lady brandling is right. i was set to spy on lady brandling at the beginning. i did not love lady brandling at the beginning; her husband was taking the place of sir thomas. but i love lady brandling now." i could have sworn that it was true, for she has shown it throughout my illness. but i kept my counsel and answered very coldly, "it is not a question whether you love me or not, davies. you acknowledge that you were the spy of mr. hubert and his brothers. and if you were not spying for their benefit, why were you watching me as i came up the glen the day i was taken ill? why did you go to the sea-wall to see in case i had left anything behind; and why did you treasure this handkerchief as a proof that i had been there?" mrs. davies hesitated; but only, i believe, because she found it difficult to make her situation clear. "lady brandling must try and understand," she answered. "i was not spying for mr. hubert. i have not spied for mr. hubert for a long while. i kept the handkerchief to show lady brandling that i knew what had made her faint that day. also to show her that others did not know. lady brandling is safe. she must know that they do not yet know. if they know what lady brandling perhaps shall have seen, lady brandling and her husband are dead people, like the people in the ship; dead like sir thomas." dead like sir thomas! i repeated to myself. but i still kept my eyes fixed on hers in the glass, where she stood behind me, brush in hand. "davies," i said, "you must explain if i am to understand. you tell me you love me now though you did not love me at first. you tell me you were placed to spy over me by mr. hubert, and you tell me that you were not spying for him when you went to see whether i had left anything on the sea-wall. you have been good and kind beyond words during my sickness, and i desire to believe in you. but i dare not. why should i believe that you have really changed so completely? why should i believe that you are with _me_, and against _them_?" mrs. davies's face changed strangely. it seemed to me to express deep perplexity and almost agonised helplessness. she twisted her fingers and raised her shoulders. she was wrestling with my unbelief. suddenly she leaned over the dressing table close to me. "listen," she said. "i have learned things since then. hubert told me lies, but i learned. i am against _them_ because i know they tried to kill my son." a look of incredulity must have passed over my face, for she added, "aye; they only tried to kill one of my sons, hugh, who i thought had gone overboard, whom they thought they had drowned, but who has come and told me. but--" and she fixed her eyes on mine, "they _did_ kill my other son; i know that now. my other son of the heart, not the belly. and that son, my lady, was your brother-in-law, sir thomas brandling." and then davies made a strange imperious gesture, and i must needs listen to her talk. i have since pieced it together out of her odd enigmatic sentences. my late brother-in-law, after years of passive connivance in _their_ doings, which paid for his debaucheries in foreign lands, became restive, or was suspected by his uncles, and condemned by them to death as a danger to their evil association. sir thomas was decoyed home, and, according to their habit in case of mutiny, taken out, a prisoner, to the deepest part of the channel, and drowned. the report was spread that he had been killed in a drunken brawl at bristol, a show of legal proceedings was instituted by his uncle in that city (naturally to no effect, there being no murderer there to discover), and a corpse brought back by them for solemn burial at st. salvat's. but instead of being interred in the family vault, the body of the false sir thomas was destroyed by the burning of the chapel during his wake. the suspicions of mrs. davies appeared to have been awakened by this fact, and by the additional one that she was not allowed to see the corpse of her beloved foster-son. her own son hugh, sir thomas's foster brother, disappeared about this time; and hubert appears to have made the distracted mother believe that her own boy was the murderer of sir thomas, and had met with death at his hands; the whole unlikely story being further garnished for the poor credulous woman with a doubt that the murder of her foster-son had been, in some manner, the result of a conspiracy to bring about the succession of my husband. all this she seems to have believed at the time of our coming, and for this reason to have lent herself most willingly to spy upon my husband and me, in hopes of getting the proofs of his guilt. but her suspicions gradually changed, and her whole attitude in the matter was utterly reversed when, a few days before the wreck of the great indiaman and my adventure on the sea-wall, her son, whom she believed dead, had stolen back in disguise and told her of an expedition in which the uncles had carried a man to the high seas, gagged and bound, and drowned him: a man who was not one of their crew and whose stature and the colour of whose hair answered to those of the nominal master of st. salvat's. her son, in an altercation over some booty, had let out his suspicion to my uncles, and had escaped death only by timely flight masked under accidental drowning from a fishing boat. since this revelation davies's devotion to the dead sir thomas had transferred itself to eustace and me, and her one thought had become revenge against the men who had killed her darling. davies told me all this, as i said, in short, enigmatic sentences; and i scarcely know whether her tale seemed to me more inevitably true or more utterly false in its hideous complication of unlikely horrors. when she had done: "davies," i ask her solemnly, "you have been a spy, you have, by your saying, been the accomplice of the most horrid criminals that ever disgraced the world. why should i believe one word of what you tell me?" davies hesitated as before, then looked me full in the face "if lady brandling cannot believe what it is needful that she should believe, let her ask her husband whether i am telling her a lie. lady brandling's husband knows, and he is afraid of telling _her_ because he is afraid of them." davies had been kneeling by the dressing-table, as if to make herself heard to me without speaking above a whisper. i mustered all my courage, for these last words touched me closer, filled me with a far more real and nearer horror than all her hideous tales. "davies," i said, "kindly finish brushing my hair. when it is brushed i can do it up myself; and you may go and wash that handkerchief." the old woman rose from her knees without a word, and finished brushing my hair very carefully. then she handed me the hairpins and combs ceremoniously. as she did so she murmured beneath her breath: "lady brandling is a courageous lady. i love lady brandling for her courage." she curtsied and withdrew. when the door was well closed on her i felt i could bear the strain no more; i leaned my head on the dressing table and burst into a flood of silent tears. at that moment eustace came in. "good god!" he said, "what is the matter?" taking my hand and trying to raise me up. but i hid my face. "oh, eustace," i answered, "when i think of our child!" but what i was saying, god help me, was not true. _october_ , . what frightful suspicions are these which i have allowed to creep insidiously into my mind! did he or did he not know? does he know yet? every time we meet i feel my eyes seeking his face, scanning his features, and furtively trying to read their meaning, alas! alas! as if he were a stranger. and i spend my days piecing together bits of the past, and every day they make a different and more perplexing pattern. i remember his change of manner on receiving the news of his brother's death, and the gloom which hung over him during our journey and after our arrival here. i thought then that it was the unexpected return to the scenes of his unhappy childhood; and that his constraint and silence with me were due to his difficulty in dealing with the shocking state of things he found awaiting him. it seemed natural enough that eustace, a thinker, a dreamer even, should feel harassed at his inability to clean out this den of iniquity. but why have remained here? good god, is my husband a mere pensioner of all this hideousness, as his wretched brother seems to have been? and even for that miserable debauched creature the day came when he turned against his masters, and faced death, perhaps like a gentleman. death.... how unjust i am grown to eustace! i ought to try and put myself in his place, and see things as he would see them, not with the horrified eyes of a stranger. like me, he may have believed at first that st. salvat's was merely a nest of smugglers.... or he may have had only vague fears of worse, haunting him like bad dreams of his childhood.... besides, this frightful trade in drowned men and their goods has, from what davies tells me, been for centuries the chief employment of this dreadful coast. whole villages, and several of the first families of the country, practised it turn about with smuggling. davies was ready with a string of names, she expressed no special horror and her conscience perhaps represents that of these people; an unlawful trade, but not without its side of peril, commending it to barbarous minds like highway robbery or the exploits of buccaneers, whom popular ballads treat as heroes. but why have i recourse to such explanations? men, even men as noble as my husband, are marvellously swayed by all manner of notions of honour, false and barbarous, often causing them to commit crimes in order to screen those of their blood or of their class. some words of hubert's keep recurring in my memory, to the effect that all the brandlings were given up to what the villain called pilchard fishing, and _none more devotedly than eustace's own father_. i remember and now understand the tone in which he added "all of us brandlings except this superfine gentleman here." those words meant that however great his horror of it all, eustace could not break loose from that complicity of silence. for to expose the matter would be condemning all his kinsmen to a shameful death, to the public gallows; it would be uncovering the dishonour of his dead brother, of his father, and all his race.... what right have i to ask my husband to do what no other man would do in his place? but perhaps he does not know, or is not certain yet.... to what a size have i allowed my horrid suspicions to grow! behold me finding excuses for an offence which very likely has never been committed; and while seemingly condoning, condemning my husband in my mind, without giving him a chance of self-defence! what a confusion of disloyalty and duplicity my fears have bred in my soul! anything is better than this; i owe it to eustace to tell him my suspicions, and i _will_ tell him. _november_ , . i have spoken. o marvellous, most unexpected reward of frankness and loyalty, however tardy! the nightmare has vanished, leaving paradise in my soul. for inconceivable as it seems, this day, on which i learned that we are prisoners, already condemned most likely, and at best doomed to die before very long, this day has been of unmixed, overflowing joy, such as i never knew or dreamed of. eustace, beloved, that ever i could have doubted you! and yet that very doubt, that sin against our love is what has brought me such blissful certainty. and even the shameful question, asked with burning cheeks, "did you know all?" has been redeemed, transfigured, and will remain for ever in my soul like the initial bars of some ineffably tender and triumphant piece of music. let me go over it once more, our conversation, love; feel it all over again, feel it for ever and ever. when i had spoken those words, eustace, you took my hand, and looked long into my face. "my poor penelope," you said, "what dreadful thoughts my cowardice and want of faith have brought upon you! why did i not recognise that your soul was strong enough to bear the truth? you ought to have learned it from me, as soon as i myself felt certain of it, instead of my running the risk of your discovering it all alone, you poor, poor little child!" were ever those small words spoken so greatly? has any man been such a man in his gentleness and humility? and then you went on, beloved, and i write down your words in order to feel them once more sinking into my heart. "but penelope," you said, "'twas not mere unmanly shirking, though there may have been some of that mixed with it. my fault lies chiefly in not having been able to do without you, dearest, not having left you safe with your mother while i came over to this accursed place; and in putting the suspicions i had behind me in order to bring you here. nothing can wipe out that, and i am paying the just price of my weakness, and seeing you pay it!... but once here, penelope, and once certain of the worst, it was impossible for me to tell you the truth. impossible, because i knew that if you knew what i had learned, it would be far more difficult for me to get you away, to get you to leave me behind in this hideous place. do you remember when i proposed sending you to bath for our child's birth? it seemed the last chance of saving you, and you resisted and thought me cruel and unloving! how could i say 'go! because your life may any day be forfeited like mine, and go alone! because--well--because i am a hostage, a man condemned to death if he stir, a prisoner as much as if i were chained to the walls of this house.' had i said that, you would have refused to go, penelope. but now, my dear...." and you bent down and kissed me very mournfully. "but now, eustace," i answered, and i heard that my voice was solemn, "but now i can stay with you, because i know as much as you do, and they will soon know that i do so, even if they do not know yet. i may stay with you, because i am a prisoner like you, and condemned like you. we can live, because we have to die--together." eustace, you folded me in your arms and i felt you sob. but i loosened your hands and kissed them one by one, and said, "nay, eustace, why should you grieve? do we not love each other? are we not together, quite together, and together for always?" we are standing by the big window in my room, and as we clasped one another, our eyes, following each other's, rested on the sea above the tree tops. it was a silvery band under a misty silver sunset; very sweet and solemn. our souls, methought, were sailing in its endless peacefulness. for the first time, i was aware of what love is; i seemed to understand what poetry is about and what music means; death, which hung over us, was shrunk to its true paltriness, and the eternity of life somehow revealed all in one moment. i have known happiness. i thank god, and beloved, i thank thee also. iv here ends the diary kept half a century ago by the woman of twenty-two, who was once myself. those of whom it treats, my mother, my husband, poor faithful davies and the wretched villains of st. salvat's, have long since ceased to live, and those for whose benefit i gather together these memories--my sons and daughters, were not yet born at the time this diary deals with. in order to complete my story i can, therefore, seek only in my own solitary memory; and, standing all alone, look into that far away past which only my own eyes and heart are left to descry. * * * * * after the scene with which my diary closes, and when we could compare all that each of us knew of our strange situation, it appeared to my husband and me that we had everything to gain, and at all events nothing to lose (since we knew our lives in jeopardy) by a desperate attempt to escape from what was virtually our prison. eustace had summed up our position when he had said that we were hostages in the hands of the uncles. for these villains, unconscious of any bonds of family honour, made sure that our escape would infallibly bring about the exposure of their infamous practices. it appears that after the murder of my brother-in-law, whom the most violent of the gang had put to death on a mere threat of betrayal, the uncles had taken for granted that eustace would accept some manner of pension as his brother had done, and like him, leave st. salvat's in their undisputed possession. and they had been considerably nonplussed when my husband declared his intention of returning to wales. the perception of the blunder they had committed in getting rid of my brother-in-law, made them follow the guidance of hubert, who had opposed the murder of sir thomas, if not from humanity, at all events from prudence. it was hubert's view that since eustace refused to stay away, no difficulties should be put in the way of his coming, but on the contrary, that he be taken, so to speak, in a trap, and once at st. salvat's, persuaded or compelled into becoming a passive, if not an active, accomplice. hubert had therefore written so pressingly about the need of putting the property to rights, of making a new start at st. salvat's, and of therefore bringing me and settling at once in the place, that eustace had judged the rumours concerning the real trade of his kinsmen, and his own childish suspicions, to have been mere exaggeration, and imagined that the uncles, brought to order by so superior a man as hubert, were perhaps even willing to abandon the dangerous business of smuggling which had been carried on almost avowedly during the lifetime of his father. such was the trap laid by hubert; and eustace, partly from guilelessness and partly from a sense of duty to st. salvat's, walked straight in, carrying me with him as an additional pledge to evil fortune. he was scarcely in, when the door, like the drawbridge which had risen after our entry into that frightful place, closed and showed him he was a prisoner. it was hubert's plan to make use of our presence (which, moreover, put an end to his own isolation among those besotted villains) in order to remove whatever suspicions might exist in the outside world. the presence of a studious and gentlemanly owner, of a young wife and possible children, was to make people believe that a new leaf had been turned over at st. salvat's, and that the old former pages of its history were not so shocking as evil reports had had it. so, during the first weeks after our arrival, and while the brothers were being coerced into an attempt at decent behaviour, eustace was being importuned with every kind of plan which should draw him into further complicity, and compromise him along with the rest of the band. hubert, being a clergyman, had since his elder brother's death, also been the chief magistrate of the district; and, shocking to relate, this wrecker and murderer had sat in judgment on poachers and footpads. having made use of this position to silence any inclination to blab about st. salvat's, he was apprehensive of this scandal getting to headquarters, and therefore desirous of putting in his place a man as clear of suspicion and as obviously just as eustace, yet whom he imagined he could always coerce in all vital matters. but eustace saw through this fine scheme at once, and resolutely refused to become a magistrate in hubert's place. this was the first hint hubert received that it was useless to seek an accomplice in his nephew; and this recognition speedily grew into a fear lest eustace might become a positive danger, particularly if he ever learned for certain that sir thomas had not been murdered at bristol, but at st. salvat's. the situation was made more critical by the fact that on discovering what manner of place the castle really was, eustace had declared with perfect simplicity, his intention of taking me back to my mother. it was then he had learned in as many words, that both he and i were prisoners, and that he, at all events, would never leave st. salvat's alive. thus the terrible months had been spent in gauging the depth of his miserable situation, in making and unmaking plans for my escape, for sending me away without letting me guess the real reason, all of which had been frustrated by my miscarriage and the long illness following upon it. and meanwhile, eustace had had to endure the constant company of his gaoler hubert, the wretch's occasional attempts to compromise him in the doings of the gang; and what was horridest of all, hubert's very sincere pleasure in our presence and conversation, and his ceaseless attempts to strike up some kind of friendship. now, the discovery that i was aware of the frightful mysteries of the place, had entirely altered our position: first, because it was probable that the uncles now considered me as much of a danger as my husband, and therefore as an equally indispensable hostage; and secondly, because it was evident that i could no longer be induced to leave st. salvat's by myself. our only remaining hope was flight. but how elude the vigilance of our gaolers and overcome the obstacles they had built up around us? day after day, and night after night, eustace and i went over and over our possibilities; but they seemed to diminish, and difficulties to increase, the more we discussed them. the house and grounds were guarded, and our actions spied upon. we were cut off from the outer world, for we had long since understood that our letters, even when despatched, were intercepted and read by hubert. but the worst difficulty almost was the lack of money. for some months past, hubert had taken to doling it out only in trifling sums and on our asking for it, and he supplied our needs and even fancies with such lavishness, forestalling them in many instances, that a request for any considerable sum would have been tantamount to an intimation of our intended flight. such were the external obstacles; i found, moreover, that there were other ones in the character and circumstances of my poor fellow prisoner. my husband's natural incapacity for planning active measures and taking sudden decisions, was not at all diminished, but the reverse, by his fear for my safety. and his indecision was aggravated by all manner of scruples; for he considered it cowardly to leave st. salvat's in the undisputed possession of the villains who usurped it; and he wavered between a wish to punish the murder of his brother and that prejudice (which i had rightly divined) against exposing his kinsmen and his dead father to public infamy, however well earned by them. this miserable state of doubt and fear was brought to a sudden close, as i vaguely expected it would, by a new move on the part of our adversaries. it was in the spring of , and we had been at st. salvat's about eighteen months, which felt much more like as many years. one evening after supper, as i sat in my room idly listening to the sound, now so terrible to me, of the sea on the rocks, i was suddenly aroused by the sound, no less frightful to my ears, of the brawling of the uncles below. i rose in alarm, for my apartments were completely isolated from the part of the house which they occupied, and for months past all the intermediate doors had been kept carefully closed by the tacit consent of both parties. the noise became greater; i could distinguish the drunken voices of simon and richard, and a sharp altercation between the other ones, and just as i had stepped, beyond my own door, i heard a horrid yell of curses, a scuffle, and the door opposite, which closed the main staircase, flew open, and what was my astonishment when my husband appeared, pushed forward, or rather hurled along by hubert. the latter shouted to me to go back, and having thrust eustace into my room, he disappeared as suddenly as he had come, slamming the doors after him. as he did so i heard the key click; he had locked us in. my husband was in a shocking condition, his clothes torn half off him, his hair in disorder, and the blood dripping from his arm. "do not be frightened," he cried, "'tis merely a comedy of those filthy villains," and he showed me that his wound was merely a long scratch. "they want to frighten us," he added, "the drunken brutes wanted to force me through some beastly form of initiation into their gang. faugh!" and he looked at his arm, which i was washing; "they did it with a broken bottle, the hogs! and as to hubert, and his fine saving me from their clutches, that, i take it, was mere play-acting too, the most sickening part of the business, and meant only to give you a scare." eustace had thrown himself gloomily into a chair, and i had never seen him before with such a look of disgust and indignation. i was by no means as certain as he that no serious mischief had been intended, or that hubert had not saved him from real danger. but that new look in him awoke a sudden hope in me, and i determined to strike while the iron was hot. "eustace," i said very gravely as i bound a handkerchief round his arm, "if your impression is correct, this is almost the worst of our misery. certainly no child of mine shall ever be born into such ignominy as this. it is high time we went. better to die like decent folk than allow ourselves to be hacked about by these drunken brutes and pushed through doors by a theatrical villain like hubert." "you are right, penelope," he answered, burying his face in his chair. "i have been a miserable coward." and, to my horror, i heard him sob like a child who has been struck for the first time. that decided me. but what to do? a desperate resolution came to me. as davies was brushing my hair that night, i looked at her once more in the mirror, and, assuming the most matter-of-fact tone i could muster, "davies," i said, "sir eustace and i have decided on leaving st. salvat's, and we are taking you with us on our travels; unless you should prefer to betray us to mr. hubert, which is the best thing you can do for yourself." what made me say those last words? was it a desire to threaten, a stupid, taunting spirit, or the reckless frankness of one who thought herself doomed? would it might have been the latter. but of all the things which i would give some of my life to cancel, those words are the foremost; and remorse and shame seize me as i write them. but instead of answering these, the faithful creature threw herself on her knees and covered my hand with kisses. "all is ready," she said after a moment, "and lady brandling will start on saturday." she had been watching and planning for weeks, and had already thought out and prepared every detail of our flight with extraordinary ingenuity. she placed the savings of her whole lifetime at our service, a considerable sum, and far beyond our need; and she had contrived to communicate with her son, the one who had every good reason to bear a grudge to the villains of st. salvat's. my husband and i were to walk on foot, and separately, out of the grounds; horses were to meet us at a given point of the road, and take us, not to swansea or bristol, as would be expected, but to milford, there to embark for ireland, a country where all trace of us would easily be lost, and whence we could easily re-enter england or take ship for the continent, as circumstances should dictate at the moment. the next saturday had been fixed upon for our flight, because davies knew that the uncles would be away on an important smuggling expedition in a distant part of the coast. the maids, very few in number, and any of the servants left behind, davies had undertaken to intoxicate or drug into harmlessness. only one evil chance remained, and that we none of us dared to mention: what if hubert, as is sometimes the case, should stay behind? i do not know how i contrived to live through the three days which separated us from saturday; there are, apparently, moments in our lives so strangely unlike all others, so unnatural to our whole being, that the memory refuses to register them or even bear their trace. all i know is that eustace spent all his time in his laboratory, constructing various appliances, an occupation which i explained as imposed upon himself in order to deaden any doubts or scruples, such as were natural to his character, for the only opposition he had made to our plan of escape was on the score that it meant leaving st. salvat's in the hands of the uncles. at last came friday night. friday, june , , davies had brought us word that the uncles had gone down to the boats, taking all the available men with them, save an old broken-down ship's carpenter, who lived with the keeper in the gate tower, and the husband of one of the sluttish women, who lay sick of the quinsy in the outhouse containing the offices. only, only, hubert remained! had his suspicion been awakened? was he detained on business? was he ailing? methought it was the first of these possibilities. for on friday morning he came to my apartments, which was not his wont, early in the day and offered to pay me a visit. but davies had the presence of mind to answer that i was sick, and lest he should doubt it, to force me to bed at once, and borrow certain medicines from him. after this he sought for eustace, and finding him busy among his chemical instruments, his suspicions, if he had any, were quieted; and, having dined, he went down to his own small boat, a very fast sailer, and which he managed alone, often outstripping the heavier boats of his brothers and nephew. the ground was now clear. my husband remained, i believe, in his laboratory; davies went down to supper with the maids, whom she had undertaken to drug; we were to meet again in my room at daybreak. i cannot say for sure, but i believe i spent that night trying to pray and waiting for daylight. the month was june and day came early;... a dull day, thin rain streamed down continuously, hushing everything, even the sea on the rocks becoming inaudible; only, i remember, a bird sang below my window, and the notes he sang long ran in my ears and tormented me. i had sewn some diamonds and some pieces of gold into my clothes, and those of my husband and of davies. i stuffed a few valuables, very childishly chosen, for i took my diary, some of eustace's love-letters, and the little cap i had knitted for the baby who was never born, into my pockets. and i waited. presently eustace came; he had a serviceable sword, a large knife, and a pair of pistols in his great coat; he handed me a smaller pistol, showed me that it was primed, and gave me at the same time a little folded white paper. "you are a brave woman, penelope," he said, kissing me, "and i know there is no likelihood of your using either of these things rashly or in a moment of panic. but our enterprise is uncertain; we may possibly be parted, and i have no right to let you fall alive into the hands of those villains." then, he sat down at my work-table and began drawing on a sheet of paper, while i looked out of the window and listened to the unvarying song of that bird. davies did not come, and it was broad daylight. but neither of us ventured to remark on this fact or to speak our fears. then, after about half an hour's fruitless waiting eustace declared that we must have misunderstood davies's instructions, and insisted, much against my wishes, upon going down to see whether she was not waiting for us below. a secret fear had seized my husband that the old woman, whom i had now got to trust quite absolutely, might after all have remained from first to last a spy of hubert's. as eustace left he turned round and said, "remember what you have in your pocket, penelope; and if i do not return within ten minutes, come down the main staircase and sing the first bars of '_phyllis plus avare que tendre_' i shall be on the watch for it." i hated his foolish obstinacy: far better, i thought, have awaited davies in the appointed place, and together. i thought so all the more when, after some ten minutes had elapsed, a light rap came on the wainscot door near my bed, the door leading to the back staircase, and opposite to the one by which eustace had taken his departure. "come in, davies," i said joyfully. "it is not davies, dear lady brandling," said a voice which made me feel suddenly sick; and in came hubert, bowing. he was dressed with uncommon neatness, not in his fisherman's clothes, but as a clergyman, and, what was by no means constantly the case with him, he was fresh shaven. in a flash i understood that he had returned overnight, or perhaps not gone away at all. "it is not davies," he repeated, "but i have come with her excuses to your ladyship; a sudden ailment, and one from which it is not usual to recover at her, or indeed, any age, prevents her waiting on you. i have been giving her some of the consolations of religion, and hearing her confession, a practice i by no means reject as popish," and the villain smiled suavely. "and now, as she can no longer benefit by my presence, i thought i would come and make her excuses, and offer myself, though unskilful, to pack your ladyship's portmanteau in her place." "you have killed davies!" i exclaimed, springing up from the sofa on which i was seated. hubert made a deprecatory gesture and forcing me down again seated himself insolently close to me. "fie, fie!" he said, "those are not words for a pretty young lady to use to her old uncle. have you not learned your catechism, my dear? it is said there, 'thou shalt not kill,' meaning thereby, kill anything save vermin. and, by the way," continues the villain, taking my arm and preventing my rising, "that's just what i want to talk about. i have a prejudice against killing members of my own family, a prejudice not shared by my brothers, worse luck to the sots, or else you would not be lady brandling as yet, and that poor, silly coxcomb of a thomas would still be enjoying his glass and his lass. i hate a scandal, and intend to avoid one; also, i am genuinely attached to you and to your husband, for though a milksop, he is a man of parts and education, and i relish his conversation. yes, my dear. i know what you are going to ask! the precious eustace is quite safe, without a scratch in any part of his gentlemanly white body; and no harm shall come to him--on one condition: that you, my pretty vixen, for you are a _virago_, a warlike lady, my dear niece, that you swear very solemnly that neither you nor he will ever again attempt to leave st. salvat's." he had taken my hand and was looking in my eyes with a villainous expression. "what do you say to that?" he went on. "i know you to be a woman of spirit and of honour, bound by an oath, and capable of making your husband respect it. you have nothing to gain by refusing. you are alone with me in this house. your faithful davies is as dead as a door-nail. your virtuous spouse is quite safe downstairs, for i have taken the precaution to relieve him of all those dangerous swords and pistols of his, which a learned man might hurt himself with. i give you five minutes to make up your mind. if you accept my terms, you and sir eustace brandling shall live honoured and happy at st. salvat's among your obliged kinsmen. if you refuse, i shall, very reluctantly, hand over your husband to my brothers' tender mercies when they return home presently; and, as they do not know how to behave to a lady, i shall myself make it a point to act as a man of refinement and a tender heart should act towards a very pretty little shrew," and the creature dared to touch me with his lips upon my neck. i shrank back upon the sofa half paralysed, and with not strength enough to grow hot and crimson. hubert rose, locked the doors, and, to my relief, sat down to the harpsichord, on which he began to pick out a tune. it was that very "_phyllis plus avare que tendre_," which i had sung to my husband and him some days before. was it a coincidence; or had he overheard us appoint it as a signal, and was he mocking and torturing eustace as well as me? "an elegant little air, egad," he says, "i wish i could remember the second part. don't let my strumming disturb you. you have still four minutes to think over your answer, dear lady brandling." the familiar notes aroused me from my stupor. i got up and walked slowly to the harpsichord, at which hubert was lolling and strumming. "well, my dear?" he asks insolently, and the notes seemed to ooze out from under his fingers, "have i got the tune right? is that it?" "the tune," i answered, "is this: mr. hubert brandling, in the name of god almighty, whose ministry you have defiled, and whose law you have placed yourself outside, i take it upon myself to judge and put you to death as a wrecker and a murderer." i drew eustace's pistol from my pocket, aimed steadily and fired. i was half stunned by the report; but through the smoke of my own weapon, i saw hubert reel and fall across the harpsichord, whose jangling mingled with his short, sharp cry. even after fifty years, i quite understand how i did _that_, and when i recall it all, i feel that, old as i am, i would do it over again. what i cannot explain is what i did afterwards, nor the amazing coolness and clearness of head which i enjoyed at that moment. for without losing a minute i went to the harpsichord, and despite the horrid, hot trickle all over my hands, i turned out his pockets and took his keys. then i left the room, locked it from the outside, and went downstairs singing that french shepherd's song at the top of my voice. the fearful stillness was beginning to frighten me, when, just as i felt my throat grow dry and my voice faint, the same tune answered me in a low whistle, from out of hubert's study. i knew my husband's whistle, and yet the fact of hubert's room, the fact that hubert had been strumming that tune, filled me, for the first time, with horror. but i found the key on the bunch, and unlocked the door. eustace was seated in an arm chair, unbound, but his clothes torn as after a scuffle. "eustace," i said, "i--i have killed hubert." but to my astonishment he barely gave me time to utter the words; and starting from the chair: "quick, quick!" he cries, "there is not a moment to lose. another ten minutes and we also are dead!" and seizing my arm he drags me away, down the remaining stairs, out by the main door and then at a run across the yard and up into the dripping shrubbery. "eustace, eustace!" i cried breathless, "this is not the way; we shall be seen from the stables." "no matter," he answered hoarsely, and dragging, almost carrying, me along, "run, penelope, for our lives." after about five minutes of desperate and, it seemed to me, random and mad climbing up through the wet bushes, he suddenly stopped and drew forth his watch. "where is davies? at the turn of the road? not in the house, at least, there is no one in the house? no one except--except that dead man?" i thought that fear had made him lose his wits, and i dared not tell him that besides that dead man, the house held also a dead woman, our poor, faithful davies. "she is out of danger," i answered. we had, by some miracle, found our way to a place where the wall, which fortified st. salvat's, was partly broken at the top, and overgrown by bushes. with a decision i should never have expected from him, and an extraordinary degree of strength and agility, my husband climbed on to the wall, pulled me up, let himself drop into the dry ditch beyond, and received me in his arms. then, seizing me again by the hand, we started off once more at a mad run through the wood, stumbling and tearing ourselves against the branches. "up the knoll!" he repeated. "i must see! i must see!" and he seemed to me quite mad. once at the top of the knoll, he stopped. it was wooded all the way up, but just here was an open space of grass burrowed by rabbits and set with stunted junipers. it was full in sight of st. salvat's, and if ever there could be a dangerous place to stop in, it was this. but eustace pointed to the wet grass, "sit down," he said, and sat down himself, after looking at his watch again. "there are five minutes more," he repeated, remaining, despite my entreaties, seated on the soft ground among the rabbit holes, his face turned to st. salvat's. "you are sure davies is safe?" he asked, again drawing out his watch. "davies is dead," i answered, counting on the effect it would have on him, "hubert had murdered her ... before ... i...." eustace's eye kindled strangely. "ah! is it so?" he cried, "then poor davies will have a splendid funeral! all i regret is that that villain should share in the honour." so saying, he started up on to his feet, and pulling out his watch, looked from it to the towers and battlements nestled in the trees of the hollow beneath us. "half past seven less a minute, less half a minute, less ... now!" he cried. as if he had shouted a word of command, an enormous sheet of flame leapt up into the air, like the flash at a cannon's mouth; the hill shook and the air bellowed, and we fell back half stunned. when i could see once more, my husband was standing at the brink of the knoll, his arms folded, and looking calmly before him. the outline of towers and battlements had entirely disappeared; and only the skeletons of the great trees, black and branchless, stood out like the broken masts of wrecked vessels against the distant pale and misty sea. "i have burnt out their nest. my house shall be polluted no more," said my husband very quietly. and then, kissing me as we stood on the brink of the green sward, with the rain falling gently upon us, "come, penelope," he added taking my hands, "we are outlaws and felons; but we have saved our liberty and our honour." and, hand in hand, we walked swiftly but quietly towards the high road to milford. * * * * * the foregoing pages are sufficient record for those of my children and grandchildren who have heard the tale from my lips, and sufficient explanation for the remoter posterity of eustace brandling and myself, of the mystery which overhung their family in the latter part of the eighteenth century. i have only a few legal details to add. by the explosion which my husband's skill in chemistry and mechanics had enabled him to procure and to time, all the main buildings of st. salvat's castle had been utterly destroyed; hiding in their ruins the fate alike of the faithful davies and of the atrocious hubert; and hiding, for anything, that was known to the contrary, two other presumable victims--my husband and myself. the gang of villains, deprived of its headquarters, and deprived of its master spirit, speedily fell to pieces. richard and gwyn appear to have come to a violent end in quarrelling over the booty of the last wicked expedition; simon and evan, and some of their followers ended in prison, on a charge of pillaging the ruins and digging for treasure while the property, in the absence of it master, was still in the hands of the law; but it is probable that this condemnation was intended to save them from a worse punishment, as the authorities gradually got wind of the real trade which had been carried on in the castle. from the villains of st. salvat's eustace and i were now safe. but we had taken the law into our own hands; and the justice which had been unable to defend us while innocent, was bound to punish our acts towards the guilty. my husband's words had been true: he and i were outlaws and felons. our case was privily placed before the king and his ministers, when we had left england and had rejoined my mother in her country. in consideration of the unusual circumstances it was decided that the baronetcy should not lapse, nor the lands be forfeited to the crown, but be held over for our possible heirs, while ourselves should be accounted as mysteriously disappeared, and forbidden to enter the kingdom. so we wandered for many years in the new world and the old; and it was far from st. salvat's that our children were successively born. and it was only on the death of my dear husband, which occurred in , that a brandling, our eldest son, reappeared and claimed his title and inheritance. it was the wish of my son piers that i should accompany him and his wife to england, and help to rebuild the home which i had helped to destroy. but the recollection of the place had only grown in terror, and i have ever adhered to my resolution not to set eyes on it again. i have spent the years of my widowhood at grandfey, my dear dead mother's little property in switzerland, where eustace and i had been so happy before he succeeded to st. salvat's. and it is at grandfey, among the meadows again white with hemlock and the lime avenues again in blossom, that i await, amid the sound of cowbells and of mountain streams, death, who had held me in his clutches fifty years ago in that castle hidden among the trees above the white wailing northern sea. the lord of dynevor: a tale of the times of edward the first by evelyn everett-green. chapter i. dynevor castle. "la-ha-hoo! la-ha-hoo!" far down the widening valley, and up the wild, picturesque ravine, rang the strange but not unmusical call. it awoke the slumbering echoes of the still place, and a hundred voices seemed to take up the cry, and pass it on as from mouth to mouth. but the boy's quick ears were not to be deceived by the mocking voices of the spirits of solitude, and presently the call rang out again with greater clearness than before: "la-ha-hoo!" the boy stood with his head thrown back, his fair curls floating in the mountain breeze, his blue eyes, clear and bright and keen as those of a wild eaglet, fixed upon a craggy ridge on the opposite side of the gorge, whilst his left hand was placed upon the collar of a huge wolfhound who stood beside him, sniffing the wind and showing by every tremulous movement his longing to be off and away, were it not for the detaining hand of his young master. the lad was very simply dressed in a tunic of soft, well-dressed leather, upon the breast of which was stamped some device which might have been the badge of his house. his active limbs were encased in the same strong, yielding material, and the only thing about him which seemed to indicate rank or birth was a belt with a richly-chased gold clasp and a poniard with a jewelled hilt. perhaps the noble bearing of the boy was his best proof of right to the noble name he bore. one of the last of the royal house of dynevor, he looked every inch a prince, as he stood bare-headed in the sunlight amidst the everlasting hills of his well-loved home, too young to see the clouds which were settling so darkly and so surely upon the bright horizon of his life -- his dreams still of glory and triumph, culminating in the complete emancipation of his well-loved country from the hated english yoke. the dog strained and whined against the detaining clasp upon his neck, but the boy held him fast. "nay, gelert, we are not going a-hunting," he said. "hark! is not that the sound of a horn? are they not even now returning? over yon fell they come. let me but hear their hail, and thou and i will be off to meet them. i would they heard the news first from my lips. my mother bid me warn them. i wot she fears what llewelyn and howel might say or do were they to find english guests in our hall and they all unwarned." once more the boy raised his voice in the wild call which had awakened the echoes before, and this time his practised ear distinguished amongst the multitudinous replies an answering shout from human lips. releasing gelert, who dashed forward with a bay of delight, the lad commenced springing from rock to rock up the narrowing gorge, until he reached a spot where the dwindling stream could be crossed by a bound; from which spot a wild path, more like a goat track than one intended for the foot of man, led upwards towards the higher portions of the wild fell. the boy sped onwards with the fleetness and agility of a born mountaineer. the hound bounded at his side; and before either had traversed the path far, voices ahead of them became distinctly audible, and a little group might be seen approaching, laden with the spoils of the chase. in the van of the little party were three lads, one of whom bore so striking a resemblance to the youth who now hastened to meet them, that the relationship could not be for a moment doubted. as a matter of fact the four were brothers; but they followed two distinct types -- wendot and griffeth being fair and bright haired, whilst llewelyn and howel (who were twins) were dark as night, with black hair and brows, swarthy skins, and something of the wildness of aspect which often accompanies such traits. wendot, the eldest of the four, a well-grown youth of fifteen, who was walking slightly in advance of his brothers, greeted griffeth's approach with a bright smile. "ha, lad, thou shouldst have been with us! we have had rare sport today. the good fellows behind can scarce carry the booty home. thou must see the noble stag that my bolt brought down. we will have his head to adorn the hall -- his antlers are worth looking at, i warrant thee. but what brings thee out so far from home? and why didst thou hail us as if we were wanted?" "you are wanted," answered griffeth, speaking so that all the brothers might hear his words. "the mother herself bid me go in search of you, and it is well you come home laden with meat, for we shall need to make merry tonight. there are guests come to the castle today. wenwynwyn was stringing his harp even as i came away, to let them hear his skill in music. they are to be lodged for so long as they will stay; but the manner of their errand i know not." "guests!" echoed all three brothers in a breath, and very eagerly; "why, that is good hearing, for perchance we may now learn some news. come these strangers from the north? perchance we shall hear somewhat of our noble prince llewelyn, who is standing out so boldly for the rights of our nation. say they not that the english tyrant is on our borders now, summoning him to pay the homage he repudiates with scorn? oh, i would that this were a message summoning all true welshmen to take up arms in his quarrel! would not i fly to his standard, boy though i be! and would i not shed the last drop of my blood in the glorious cause of liberty!" llewelyn was the speaker, and his black eyes were glowing fiercely under their straight bushy brows. his face was the least boyish of any of the four, and his supple, sinewy frame had much of the strength of manhood in it. the free, open-air life that all these lads had lived, and the training they had received in all martial and hardy exercises, had given them strength and height beyond their years. it was no idle boast on the part of llewelyn to speak of his readiness to fight. he would have marched against the foe with the stoutest of his father's men-at-arms, and doubtless have acquitted himself as well as any; for what the lads lacked in strength they made up in their marvellous quickness and agility. the love of fighting seemed born in all these hardy sons of wales, and something of warfare was known to them even now, from the never-ending struggles between themselves, and their resistance of the authority, real or assumed, of the lords of the marches. but petty forays and private feuds with hostile kinsmen was not the kind of fighting these brothers longed to see and share. they had their own ideas and aspirations, and eager glances were turned upon griffeth, lest he might be the bearer of some glorious piece of news that would mean open warfare with england. but the boy's face was unresponsive and even a little downcast. he gave a quick glance into the fierce, glowing face of llewelyn, and then his eyes turned upon wendot. "there is no news like that," he said slowly. "the guests who have come to dynevor are english themselves." "english!" echoed llewelyn fiercely, and he turned away with a smothered word which sounded like an imprecation upon all the race of foreigners; whilst howel asked with quick indignation: "what right have english guests at dynevor? why were they received? why did not our good fellows fall upon them with the sword or drive them back the way they came? oh, if we had but been there --" "tush, brother!" said young griffeth quickly; "is not our father lord of dynevor? dost think that thou canst usurp his authority? and when did ever bold welshmen fall upon unarmed strangers to smite with the sword? do we make war upon harmless travellers -- women and children? fie upon thee! it were a base thought. let not our parents hear thee speak such words." howel looked a little discomfited by his younger brother's rebuke, though he read nothing but sympathy and mute approbation in llewelyn's sullen face and gloomy eyes. he dropped a pace or so behind and joined his twin, whilst wendot and griffeth led the way in front. "who are these folks?" asked wendot; "and whence come they? and why have they thus presented themselves unarmed at dynevor? is it an errand of peace? and why speakest thou of women and children?" "why, brother, because the traveller has his little daughter with him, and her woman is in their train of servants. i know not what has brought them hither, but i gather they have lost their road, and lighted by chance on dynevor. methinks they are on a visit to the abbey of strata florida; but at least they come as simple, unarmed strangers, and it is the boast of wales that even unarmed foes may travel through the breadth and length of the land and meet no harm from its sons. for my part i would have it always so. i would not wage war on all alike. doubtless there are those, even amongst the english, who are men of bravery and honour." "i doubt it not," answered wendot, with a gravity rather beyond his years. "if all our mother teaches us be true, we welshmen have been worse enemies to one another than ever the english have been. i would not let llewelyn or howel hear me say so, and i would fain believe it not. but when we see how this fair land has been torn and rent by the struggles after land and power, and how our own kinsman, meredith ap res, is toying with edward, and striving to take from us the lands we hold yet -- so greatly diminished from the old portion claimed by the lords of dynevor -- we cannot call the english our only or even our greatest foes. ah, if wales would but throw aside all her petty feuds, and join as brothers fighting shoulder to shoulder for her independence, then might there be some hope! but now --" griffeth was looking with wide-open, wondering eyes into his brother's face. he loved and reverenced wendot in a fashion that was remarkable, seeing that the elder brother was but two years and a half his senior. but wendot had always been grave and thoughtful beyond his years, and had been taken much into the counsels of his parents, so that questions which were almost new to the younger lad had been thought much of by the eldest, the heir of the house of dynevor. "why, brother, thou talkest like a veritable monk for learning," he said. "i knew not thou hadst the gift of such eloquent speech. methought it was the duty of every free-born son of wales to hate the english tyrant." "ay, and so i do when i think of his monstrous claims," cried wendot with flashing eyes. "who is the king of england that he should lay claim to our lands, our homage, our submission? my blood boils in my veins when i think of things thus. and yet there are moments when it seems the lesser ill to yield such homage to one whom the world praises as statesman and soldier, than to see our land torn and distracted by petty feuds, and split up into a hundred hostile factions. but let us not talk further of this; it cuts me to the heart to think of it. tell me more of these same travellers. how did our parents receive them? and how long purpose they to stay?" "nay, that i have not heard. i was away over yon fell with gelert when i saw the company approach the castle, and ere i could find entrance the strangers had been received and welcomed. the father of the maiden is an english earl, lord montacute they call him. he is tall and soldier-like, with an air of command like unto our father's. the damsel is a fair-faced maiden, who scarce opens her lips; but she keeps close to our mother's side, and seems loath to leave her for a moment. i heard her father say that she had no mother of her own. her name, they say, is lady gertrude." "a damsel at dynevor," said wendot, with a smile; "methinks that will please the mother well." "come and see," cried griffeth eagerly. "let us hasten down to the castle together." it was easy work for the brothers to traverse the rocky pathway. dangerous as the descent looked to others, they were as surefooted as young chamois, and sprang from rock to rock with the utmost confidence. the long summer sunlight came streaming up the valley in level rays of shimmering gold, bathing the loftier crags in lambent fire, and filling the lower lands with layers of soft shadow flecked here and there with gold. a sudden turn in the narrow gorge, through which ran a brawling tributary of the wider towy, brought the brothers full in sight of their ancestral home, and for a few seconds they paused breathless, gazing with an unspeakable and ardent love upon the fair scene before them. the castle of dynevor (or dinas vawr = great palace) stood in a commanding position upon a rocky plateau overlooking the river towy. from its size and splendour -- as splendour went in those days -- it had long been a favourite residence with the princes of south wales; and in a recent readjustment of disputed lands, consequent upon the perpetual petty strife that was ruining the land, res vychan, the present lord of dynevor, had made some considerable sacrifice in order to keep in his own hands the fair palace of his fathers. the majestic pile stood out boldly from the mountain side, and was approached by a winding road from the valley. a mere glance showed how strong was the position it occupied, and how difficult such a place would be to capture. on two sides the rock fell away almost sheer from the castle walls, whilst on the other two a deep moat had been dug, which was fed by small mountain rivulets that never ran dry; and the entrance was commanded by a drawbridge, whose frowning portcullis was kept by a grim warder looking fully equal to the office allotted to him. lovely views were commanded from the narrow windows of the castle, and from the battlements and the terraced walk that ran along two sides of the building. and rough and rude as were the manners and customs of the period, and partially uncivilized as the country was in those far-off days, there was a strong vein of poetry lying latent in its sons and daughters, and an ardent love for the beautiful in nature and for the country they called their own, which went far to redeem their natures from mere savagery and brute ferocity. this passionate love for their home was strong in all the brothers of the house of dynevor, and was deepened and intensified by the sense of uncertainty now pervading the whole country with regard to foreign aggression and the ever-increasing claims upon welsh lands by the english invaders. a sense as of coming doom hung over the fair landscape, and wendot's eyes grew dreamy as he stood gazing on the familiar scene, and griffeth had to touch his arm and hurry him down to the castle. "mother will be wanting us," he said. "what is the matter, wendot? methinks i see the tears in thine eyes." "nay, nay; tears are for women," answered wendot with glowing cheeks, as he dashed his hand across his eyes. "it is for us men to fight for our rightful inheritance, that the women may not have to weep for their desolated homes." griffeth gave him a quick look, and then his eyes travelled lovingly over the wide, fair scene, to the purple shadows and curling mists of the valley, the dark mysterious woods in front, the clear, vivid sunlight on the mountain tops, and the serried battlements of the castle, now rising into larger proportions as the boys dropped down the hillside towards the postern door, which led out upon the wild fell. there was something of mute wistfulness in his own gaze as he did so. "brother," he said thoughtfully, "i think i know what those feelings are which bring tears to the eyes of men -- tears of which they need feel no shame. fear not to share with me all thy inmost thoughts. have we not ever been brothers in all things?" "ay, truly have we; and i would keep nothing back, only i scarce know how to frame my lips to give utterance to the thoughts which come crowding into my brain. but see, we have no time for communing now. go on up the path to the postern; it is too narrow for company." indeed, so narrow was the track, so steep the uncertain steps worn in the face of the rock, so deep the fall if one false step were made, that few save the brothers and wilder mountaineers ever sought admission by the postern door. but wendot and griffeth had no fears, and quickly scaled the steps and reached the entrance, passing through which they found themselves in a narrow vaulted passage, very dark, which led, with many twists and turns, and several ascending stairs, to the great hall of the castle, where the members of the household were accustomed for the most part to assemble. a door deeply set in an embrasure gave access to this place, and the moment it was opened the sound of a harp became audible, and the brothers paused in the deep shadow to observe what was going on in the hall before they advanced further. a scene that would be strange and picturesque to our eyes, but was in the main familiar to theirs, greeted them as they stood thus. the castle hall was a huge place, large enough to contain a muster of armed men. a great stone staircase wound upwards from it to a gallery above. there was little furniture to be seen, and that was of a rude kind, though not lacking in a certain massiveness and richness in the matter of carving, which gave something baronial to the air of the place. the walls were adorned with trophies of all sorts, some composed of arms, others of the spoil of fell and forest. the skins of many savage beasts lay upon the cold stone flooring of the place, imparting warmth and harmony by the rich tints of the furs. light was admitted through a row of narrow windows both above and below; but the vast place would have been dim and dark at this hour had it not been that the huge double doors with their rude massive bolts stood wide open to the summer air, and the last beams of the westering sun came shining in, lying level and warm upon the group at the upper end of the hall, which had gathered around the white-haired, white-bearded bard, who, with head thrown backwards, and eyes alight with strange passions and feelings, was singing in a deep and musical voice to the sound of his instrument. old wenwynwyn was a study in himself; his flowing hair, his fiery eyes, his picturesque garb and free, untrammelled gestures giving him a weird individuality of his own. but it was not upon him that the eyes of the brothers dwelt, nor even upon the soldier-like figure of their stalwart father leaning against the wall with folded arms, and eyes shining with the patriotic fervour of his race. the attention of the lads was enchained by another and more sumptuous figure --that of a fine-looking man, approaching to middle life, who was seated at a little distance from the minstrel, and was smiling with pleasure and appreciation at the wild sweetness of the stream of melody poured forth. one glance at the dress of the stranger would have been enough to tell the brothers his nationality. his under tunic, which reached almost to the feet, was of the finest cloth, and was embroidered along the lower border with gold thread. the sur-tunic was also richly embroidered; and the heavy mantle clasped upon the shoulder with a rare jewel was of some rich texture almost unknown to the boys. the make and set of his garments, and the jewelled and plumed cap which he held upon his knee, alike proclaimed him to be english; yet as he gazed upon the noble face, and looked into the clear depths of the calm and fearless eyes, wendot felt no hostility towards the representative of the hostile race, but rather a sort of reluctant admiration. "in faith he looks born to command," he whispered to griffeth. "if all were like unto him --" but the lad did not complete the sentence, for he had suddenly caught sight of another figure, another face, and he stopped short in a sort of bewildered amaze. in dynevor castle there had never been a girl child to share the honours with her brothers. no sister had played in its halls, or tyrannized over the lads or their parents. and now when wendot's glance fell for the first time upon this little fairy-like creature, this lovely little golden-haired, blue-eyed maiden, he felt a new sensation enter his life, and gazed as wonderingly at the apparition as if the child had been a ghost. and the soft shy eyes, with their fringe of dark lashes, were looking straight at him. as he gazed the child suddenly rose, and darted towards the brothers as if she had wings on her feet. "oh, you have come back!" she said, looking from one to the other, and for a moment seeming puzzled by the likeness; "and -- why, there are two of you," and the child broke into the merriest and silveriest of laughs. "oh, i am so glad! i do like boys so much, and i never have any to play with at home. i am so tired of this old man and his harp. please let me go somewhere with you," and she thrust her soft little hand confidingly into wendot's, looking up saucily into his face as she added, "you are the biggest; i like you the best." wendot's face glowed; but on the whole he was flattered by the attention and the preference of the little maiden. he understood her soft english speech perfectly, for all the dynevor brothers had been instructed in the english tongue by an english monk who had long lived at the castle. res vychan, the present lord of dynevor, foresaw, and had foreseen many years, the gradual usurpation of the english, and had considered that a knowledge of that tongue would in all probability be an advantage to those who were likely to be involved in the coming struggle. the boys all possessed the quick musical ear of their race, and found no difficulty in mastering the language; but neither llewelyn nor howel would ever speak a single word of the hated tongue if they could help it, though wendot and griffeth conversed often with the old monk right willingly. so as wendot looked down into the bright little upturned face, he was able to reply readily and smilingly: "where would you like to go, little lady, and what would you like me to show you?" "oh, everything -- all out there," said the little girl, with a wave of her hand towards the front door. "i want to go and see the sun. i am tired of it in here." wendot led the child through the hall, and out upon the great terrace which overlooked the steep descent to the valley and away to the glowing west. griffeth followed, glad that his elder brother had been preferred before himself by the little maiden, yet half fascinated by her nameless charm. wendot lifted her up in his strong arms to see over the wide stone balustrade, and she made him set her down there and perch himself by her side; for she seemed loath to go back to the hall again, and the boys were as willing as she to remain out in the open air. "it is pretty here," said the child graciously; "i think i should like to live here sometimes, if it was always summer. tell me your name, big boy. i hope it is not very hard. some people here have names i cannot speak right." "they call me res wendot," answered the lad; "generally wendot at home here. this is griffeth, my youngest brother. those are not hard names, are they?" "no, not very. and how old are you, wendot?" "i am fifteen." "oh, how big you are!" said the little lady, opening her eyes wide; "i thought you must be much older than that. i am twelve, and you can lift me up in your arms. but then i always was so little -- they all say so." "yet you travel about with your father," said wendot. "i never did before; but this time i begged, and he took me. sometimes he says he shall have to put me in a nunnery, because he has nobody to take care of me when he has to travel about. but i don't think i should like that; i would rather stay here." wendot and griffeth laughed; but the child was not at all disconcerted. she was remarkably self possessed for her years, even if she was small of stature and infantile in appearance. "what is your name?" asked wendot; and the little maid answered, with becoming gravity and importance: "i am called lady gertrude cherleton; but you may call me gertrude if you like, because you are kind and i like you. are there any more of you? have you any sisters?" "no; only two brothers." "more brothers! and what are their names?" "llewelyn and howel." "llewelyn? why, that is the name of the prince of north wales that the king is going to fight against and conquer. do you think when he has done so that he will come here and conquer you, too?" wendot's cheek burned a sudden red; but he made no reply, for at that moment a head suddenly appeared round an angle of the wall, and a heavy grip was laid upon the shoulder of the child. a wild face and a pair of flashing black eyes were brought into close proximity with hers, and a smothered voice spoke in fierce, low accents. chapter ii. the brothers "what is that you dare to say?" the voice was harsh, the words were spoken with a rough accent, unlike the gentler tones of wendot and griffeth. the child uttered a little cry and shrank back away from the grip of the strong hand, and might have been in some danger of losing her balance and of falling over the balustrade, had not wendot thrown a protecting arm round her, whilst pushing back with the other hand that of the rude interloper. "llewelyn! for shame!" he said in his own tongue. "art thou a man, and claimest the blood of princes, and yet canst stoop to frighten an inoffensive child?" "she spoke of conquest -- the conquest of our country," cried llewelyn fiercely, in the hated english tongue, scowling darkly at the little girl as he spoke. "thinkest thou that i will stand patiently by and hear such words? what right hath she or any one besides to speak of that tyrant and usurper in such tones?" "he is not a tyrant, he is not a usurper!" cried the little lady gertrude, recovering herself quickly, and, whilst still holding wendot by the hand, turning fearlessly upon the dark-faced lad who had startled and terrified her at the first. "i know of whom you are speaking -- it is of our great and noble king edward. you do not know him -- you cannot know how great and good he is. i will not hear you speak against him. i love him next best to my own father. he is kind and good to everybody. if you would all give your homage to him you would be happy and safe, and he would protect you, and --" but llewelyn's patience was exhausted; he would listen no more. with a fierce gesture of hatred that made the child shrink back again he turned upon her, and it seemed for a moment almost as though he would have struck her, despite wendot's sturdy protecting arm, had not his own shoulder been suddenly grasped by an iron hand, and he himself confronted by the stern countenance of his father. "what means this, boy?" asked res vychan severely. "art thou daring to raise thine arm against a child, a lady, and thy father's guest? for shame! i blush for thee. ask pardon instantly of the lady and of her father. i will have no such dealings in mine house. thou shouldst be well assured of that." the black-browed boy was crimson with rage and shame, but there was no yielding in the haughty face. he confronted his father with flashing eyes, and as he did so he met the keen, grave glance of the stranger's fixed upon him with a calm scrutiny which aroused his fiercest rage. "i will not ask pardon," he shouted. "i will not degrade my tongue by uttering such words. i will not --" the father's hand descended heavily upon his son's head, in a blow which would have stunned a lad less hardy and hard-headed. res vychan was not one to be defied with impunity by his own sons, and he had had hard encounters of will before now with llewelyn. "choose, boy," he said with brief sternness. "either do my will and obey me, or thou wilt remain a close prisoner till thou hast come to thy senses. my guests shall not be insulted by thy forward tongue. barbarous and wild as the english love to call us, they shall find that res vychan is not ignorant of those laws which govern the world in which they live and move. ask pardon of the lady, or to the dungeon thou goest." llewelyn glanced up into his father's face, and saw no yielding there. howel was making vehement signs to him which he and he alone could interpret. his other brothers were eagerly gazing at him, and griffeth even went so for as to murmur into his ear some words of entreaty. it seemed as though the silence which followed res vychan's words would never be broken, but at last the culprit spoke, and spoke in a low, sullen tone. "i meant no harm. i would not have hurt her." "ask her pardon then, boy, and tell her so." "nay, force him no more," said the little lady, who was regarding this curious scene with lively interest, and who began to feel sorry for the dark wild boy who had frightened her by his vehemence before; "i was to blame myself. i should not have spoken as i did. "father, tell them how my tongue is always running away with me. hast not thou told me a hundred times that it would get me into trouble one of these days? it is right that he should love his country. do not think ill of him for that." "ay, let the lad go now, good friend," quoth lord montacute. "no doubt this little witch of mine was at the bottom of the mischief. her tongue, as she truly says, is a restless and mischievous possession. she has found a stanch protector at least, and will come to no harm amongst thy stalwart lads. i could envy thee such a double brace of boys. i would it had pleased providence to send me a son." "nay, father, say not so," cried little lady gertrude coaxingly. "i would not have a brother for all the world. thou wouldst love him so well, if thou hadst him, that thou wouldst have none to spare for thy maid. i have seen how it ever is. i love to have all thy heart for mine own." the father smiled, but res vychan's face was still severe, and he had not loosed his clasp upon llewelyn's arm. "say that thou art sorry ere i let thee go," he said, in low but very stern tones; and after a moment's hesitation, llewelyn spoke in audible tones. "i am sorry," he said slowly; "i am sorry." and then as his father's clasp upon his arm relaxed he darted away like an arrow from the bow, and plunged with howel through a dark and gloomy doorway which led up a winding turret stair to a narrow circular chamber, which the brothers shared together. "sorry, sorry, sorry!" he panted fiercely; "ay, that indeed i am. sorry that i did not wring her neck as the fowler wrings the neck of the bird his shaft hath brought down; sorry i did not cast her headlong down the steep precipice, that there might be one less of the hated race contaminating the air of our pure wales with their poisonous breath. sorry! ay, that i am! i would my hand had done a deed which should have set proud edward's forces in battle array against us. i would that this tampering with traitors were at an end, and that we warriors of south wales might stand shoulder to shoulder, firmly banded against the foreign foe. i would plunge a dagger in the false heart of yon proud englishman as he lies sleeping in his bed tonight, if by doing so i could set light to the smouldering flame of national hatred. "what sayest thou? can we do nought to bring upon us an open war, which is a thousand times better than this treacherous, hollow peace? our father and mother are half won over to the cause of slavery. they --" llewelyn paused, choking back the fierce tide of passion which went far to unman him. he had not forgotten the humiliation placed upon him so recently, when his father had compelled him to sue for pardon to an english maiden. his heart was burning, his soul was stirred to its depths. he had to stop short lest his passion should carry him away. howel seemed to understand him without the medium of words. the links which bound the twin brothers together were very subtle and very strong. if llewelyn were the more violent and headstrong, howel was more than his equal in diplomacy. he shared every feeling of his brother's heart, but he was less outspoken and less rash. "i know what thou wouldst do," he said thoughtfully: "thou wouldst force upon our father a step which shall make a rupture with the english inevitable. thou wouldst do a thing which should bring upon us the wrath of the mighty edward, and force both ourselves and our neighbours to take arms against him. is not that so?" "ay, truly; and could such a thing be, gladly would i lay down my life in the cause of liberty and freedom." howel was pondering deeply. "perchance it might be done," he said. llewelyn eagerly raised his head. "thinkest thou so? how?" "i know not yet, but we shall have time for thought. knowest thou that the maid will remain here beneath our mother's charge for a while, whilst our father goes forward as far as the abbey of strata florida with yon stranger, to guide him on his way? the maid will remain here until her father's return." "how knowest thou that?" "i had it from wenwynwyn's lips. he heard the discussion in the hall, and it seems that this lord montacute would be glad to be free of the care of the child for a while. our mother delights in the charge of a little maid, and thus it will be as i have said." a strange fire gleamed in llewelyn's eyes. the brothers looked at each other a good while in silence. "and thou thinkest --" said llewelyn at last. howel was some time in replying, and his answer was a little indeterminate, although sufficiently significant. "why, the maid will be left here; but when her father returns to claim her, perchance she will not be found. if that were so, thinkest thou not that nought but open war would lie before us?" llewelyn's eyes glowed. he said not a word, and the darkness gathered round the boys in the narrow chamber. they thought not of descending or of asking for food, even after their day's hunting in the hills. they were hardy, and seasoned to abstemious ways, and had no room for thoughts of such a kind. silence was settling down upon the castle, and they had no intention of leaving their room again that night. dark thoughts were their companions as they undressed and made ready for bed; and hardly were they settled there before the door opened, and the old bard wenwynwyn entered. this old man was almost like a father to these boys, and llewelyn and howel were particularly attached to him and he to them. he shared to the full their ardent love for their country and their untempered hatred of the english race. he saw, as they did, nothing but ill in the temporizing attitude now to be found amongst the smaller welsh chieftains with regard to the claims made by the english monarch; and much of the fierce hostility to be found in the boys had been the result of the lessons instilled into their mind by the wild-eyed, passionate old bard, one of the last of a doomed race. "wenwynwyn, is it thou?" "ay, boys, it is i. you did well to abstain from sitting at meat with the stranger tonight. the meat went nigh to choke me that was swallowed in his presence." "how long stays he, contaminating our pure air?" "he himself is off by sunrise tomorrow, and res vychan goes with him. he leaves behind the little maid in the care of thy mother." a strange smile crossed the face of the old man, invisible in the darkness. "strange for the parent bird to leave the dove in the nest of the hawk -- the eyry of the eagle." "ha!" quoth llewelyn quickly, "that thought hath likewise come to thee, good wenwynwyn." the old man made no direct response, but went on speaking in low even tones. "the maid has dwelt in the household of the great king. she has played with his children, been the companion of the young princesses. she is beloved of them and of the monarch and his wife. let them but hear that she is lost in the fastness of dynevor, and the royal edward will march in person to her rescue. all the country will rise in arms to defend itself. the north will join with the south, and wales will shake off the hated foreign yoke banded as one man against the foreign foe." the boys listened spellbound. they had often talked together of some step which might kindle the conflagration, but had never yet seen the occasion. hot-headed, rash, reckless as were the youths; wild, tameless, and fearless as was the ancient bard; they had still been unable to hit upon any device which might set a light to the train. discontent and resentment were rife all over the country, but it was the fashion rather to temporize with the invader than to defy him. there was a strong party gathering in the country whose policy was that of paying homage to edward and retaining their lands under his protection and countenance, as being more truly patriotic and farsighted than continuing the old struggle for supremacy among themselves. this was a policy utterly incomprehensible both to the boys and the old man, and stirred the blood of the lads to boiling pitch. "what can we do?" asked llewelyn hoarsely. "i will tell you," whispered the old man, approaching close to the bed whereon the brothers lay wide-eyed and broad awake. "this very night i leave the castle by the postern door, and in the moonlight i make my way to the commot of llanymddyvri, where dwells that bold patriot maelgon ap caradoc. to him i tell all, and he will risk everything in the cause. it will be very simply done. you boys must feign a while -- must feign friendship for the maid thus left behind. your brothers have won her heart already; you must not be behind them. the dove must have no fear of the young eaglets. she has a high courage of her own; she loves adventure and frolic; she will long to stretch her wings, and wander amid the mountain heights, under the stanch protection of her comrades of dynevor. "then listen, boys. the day will come when the thing is to be done. in some of the wild fastnesses of the upper towy will be lurking the bold bands of maelgon ap caradoc. thither you must lead the unsuspicious maid, first by some device getting rid of your brothers, who might try to thwart the scheme. these bold fellows will carry off the maid to the safe keeping of maelgon, and once let her be his prisoner, there is no fear of her escaping from his hands. edward himself and all his forces at his back will scarce wrest away the prize, and the whole country will be united and in arms ere it suffer the tyrant to march through our fair vales." whilst within this upper turret chamber this plot was being concocted against the innocent child by two passionate, hot-headed boys and one of the ancient race of bards, the little maiden was herself sleeping soundly and peacefully within a small inner closet, close to the room where gladys, the lady of the castle, reposed; and with the earliest streak of dawn, when the child opened her eyes upon the strange bare walls of the welsh stronghold, the first thing that met her eyes was the sweet and gentle face of the chatelaine bending tenderly over her. although the present lady of dynevor was the sister of the bold and fierce llewelyn, prince of north wales, who gave more trouble to the king of england than did anybody else, she was herself of a gentle and thoughtful disposition, more inclined to advocate peace than war, and more far-seeing, temperate, and well-informed than most persons of her time, and especially than the women, who for the most part had but very vague ideas as to what was going on in the country. she had had many thoughts herself during the still hours of this summer night, and when she bent over the sleeping child and wakened her by a kiss, she felt a strange tenderness towards her, which seemed to be reciprocated by the little one, who suddenly flung her arms about her neck and kissed her passionately. "is my father gone?" she asked, recollection coming back. "not gone, but going soon," answered the lady of dynevor, smiling; "that is why i have come to waken thee early, little gertrude, that thou mayest receive his farewell kiss and see him ride away. thou wilt not be grieved to be left with us for a while, little one? thou wilt not pine in his absence?" "not if i have you to take care of me," answered the child confidingly -- "you and wendot and griffeth. i am weary of always travelling on rough roads. i will gladly stay here a while with you." there was the bustle of preparation going on in the hall when the lady descended with the child hanging on to her hand. gertrude broke away and ran to her father, who was sitting at the board, with wendot standing beside him listening eagerly to his talk. the boy's handsome face was alight, and he seemed full of eager interest in what was being said. lord montacute frequently raised his head and gave the lad a look of keen scrutiny. even whilst caressing his little daughter his interest seemed to be centred in wendot, and when at parting the lad held his stirrup for him, and gently restrained little gertrude, who was in danger of being trampled on by the pawing charger, lord montacute looked for a moment very intently at the pair, and then let his glance wander for a moment over the grand fortress of dynevor and the beautiful valley it commanded. then he turned once more to wendot with a kindly though penetrating smile. "in the absence of your father, wendot, you are the master and guardian of this castle, its occupants and its treasures. i render my little daughter into your safe keeping. of your hands i shall ask her back when i return in a week's time." wendot flushed with pleasure and gratification. what boy does not like the thought of being looked upon as his father's substitute? he raised his head with a gesture of pride, and clasped the little soft hand of gertrude more closely in his. "i will take the trust, lord montacute," he said. "i will hold myself responsible for the safety of lady gertrude. at my hands demand her when you return. if she is not safe and well, take my life as the forfeit." lord montacute smiled slightly at the manly words and bearing of the lad, but he did not like him the less for either. as for little gertrude, she gazed up into the bold bright face of wendot, and clasping his hand in hers, she said: "am i to belong to you now? i think i shall like that, you are so brave and so kind to me." the father gave the pair another of his keen looks, and rode off in the bright morning sunshine, promising not to be very long away. "i shan't fret, now that i have you and the lady of dynevor," said the child confidingly to wendot. "i've often been left for a long time at the palace with the ladies eleanor and joanna, and with alphonso and britton, but i shall like this much better. there is no governess here, and we can do as we like. i want to know everything you do, and go everywhere with you." wendot promised to show the little lady everything she wanted, and led her in to breakfast, which was a very important meal in those days. all the four brothers were gathered at the board, and the child looked rather shyly at the dark-browed twins, whom she hardly knew one from the other, and whom she regarded with a certain amount of awe. but there was nothing hostile in the manner of any of the party. llewelyn was silent, but when he did speak it was in very different tones from those of last night; and howel was almost brilliant in his sallies, and evoked many a peal of laughter from the lighthearted little maiden. partings with her father were of too common occurrence to cause her much distress, and she was too well used to strange places to feel lost in these new surroundings, and she had her own nurse and attendant left with her. full of natural curiosity, the child was eager to see everything of interest near her temporary home, and the brothers were her very devoted servants, taking her everywhere she wished to go, helping her over every difficult place, and teaching her to have such confidence in them, and such trust in their guidance, that she soon ceased to feel fear however wild was the ascent or descent, however lonely the region in which she found herself. although wendot continued her favourite, and griffeth stood next, owing to his likeness to his eldest brother, the twins soon won her favour also. they were in some respects more interesting, as they were less easily understood, wilder and stranger in their ways, and always full of stories of adventure and warfare, which fascinated her imagination even when she knew that they spoke of the strife between england and wales. she had a high spirit and a love of adventure, which association with these stalwart boys rapidly developed. one thing about llewelyn and howel gratified her childlike vanity, and gave her considerable pleasure. they would praise her agility and courage, and urge her on to make trial of her strength and nerve, when the more careful wendot would beg her to be careful and not risk herself by too great recklessness. a few days spent in this pure, free air seemed to infuse new life into her frame, and the colour in her cheeks and the light in her eyes deepened day by day, to the motherly satisfaction of the lady of dynevor and the pride of wendot, who regarded the child as his especial charge. but in his father's absence many duties fell upon wendot, and there came a bright evening when he and griffeth were occupied about the castle, and only llewelyn and howel had leisure to wander with the little guest to her favourite spot to see the red sun set. llewelyn was full of talk that evening, and spoke with a rude eloquence and fire that always riveted the attention of the child. he told of the wild, lonely beauty of a certain mountain peak which he pointed out up the valley, of the weird charm of the road thither, and above all of the eagle's nest which was to be found there, and the young eaglets being now reared therein, which he and howel meant to capture and keep as their own, and which they purposed to visit the very next day to see if they were fit yet to leave the nest. gertrude sat entranced as the boy talked, and when she heard of the eagle's nest she gave a little cry of delight. "o llewelyn, take me with you. let me see the eagle's nest and the little eaglets." but the boy shook his head doubtfully. "you could not get as far. it is a long way, and a very rough walk." the child shook back her curling hair defiantly. "i could do it! i know i could. i could go half the way on my palfrey, and walk the rest. you would help me. you know how well i can climb. oh, do take me -- do take me! i should so love to see an eagle's nest." but still llewelyn shook his head. "wendot would not let you go; he would say it was too dangerous." again came the little defiant toss. "i am not wendot's slave; i can do as i choose." "if he finds out he will stop you." "but we need not tell him, need we?" "i thought you always told him everything." the child stamped her little foot. "i tell him things generally, but i can keep a secret. if he would stop us from going, we will not tell him, nor griffeth either. we will get up very early and go by ourselves. we could do that, could we not, and come back with the young eaglets in our hands? o let us go! let us do it soon, and take me with you, kind llewelyn! indeed i shall not be in your way. i will be very good. and you know you have taught me to climb so well. i know i can go where you can go. you said so yourself once." llewelyn turned his head away to conceal a smile half of triumph, half of contempt. a strange flash was in his eyes as he looked up the valley towards the crag upon which he had told the child the eyry of the eagles hung. she thought he was hesitating still, and laid a soft little hand upon his arm. "please say that i may go." he turned quickly and looked at her. for a moment she shrank back from the strange glow in his eyes; but her spirit rose again, and she said rather haughtily: "you need not be angry with me. if you don't wish me to come i will stay at home with wendot. i do not choose to ask favours of anybody if they will not give them readily." "i should like to take you if it would be safe," answered llewelyn, speaking as if ashamed of his petulance or reluctance. "howel, could she climb to the crag where we can look down upon the eyry if we helped her up the worst places?" "i think she could." the child's face flushed; she clasped her hands together and listened eagerly whilst the brothers discussed the plan which in the end was agreed to -- a very early start secretly from the castle before the day dawned, the chief point to be observed beforehand being absolute secrecy, so that the projected expedition should not reach the ears either of wendot, his mother, or griffeth. it was to be carried out entirely by the twins themselves, with gertrude as their companion. chapter iii. the eagle's crag. "where is the maid, mother?" "nay, i know not, my son. i thought she was with thee." "i have not seen her anywhere. i have been busy with the men." "where are the other boys?" "that i know not either. i have seen none since i rose this morning. i have been busy." "the maid had risen and dressed herself, and had slipped out betimes," said the lady of dynevor, as she took her place at the board. "methought she would be with thee. she is a veritable sprite for flitting hither and thither after thee. doubtless she is with some of the others. who knows where the boys have gone this morning? they are not wont to be absent at the breakfast hour." this last question was addressed to the servants who were at the lower end of the board, and one of them spoke up in reply. by what he said it appeared that griffeth had started off early to fly a new falcon of his, and it seemed probable that his brothers and little lady gertrude had accompanied him; for whilst he had been discussing with the falconer the best place for making the proposed trial, llewelyn had been to the stables and had saddled and led out the palfrey upon which their little guest habitually rode, and there seemed no reason to doubt that all the party had gone somewhere up upon the highlands to watch the maiden essay of the bird. "she would be sure to long to see the trial," said wendot, attacking the viands before him with a hearty appetite. "she always loves to go with us when there is anything to see or hear. i marvel that she spoke not of it to me, but perchance it slipped her memory." the early risers were late at the meal, but no one was anxious about them. when anything so engrossing as the flying of a young falcon was in the wind, it was natural that so sublunary a matter as breakfast should be forgotten. the servants had finished their meal, and had left the table before there was any sign of the return of the wanderers, and then it was only griffeth who came bounding in, his face flushed and his eyes shining as he caressed the hooded bird upon his wrist. "he is a beauty, wendot. i would thou hadst been there to see. i took him up to --" "ay, tell us all that when thou hast had something to eat," said wendot. "and where is gertrude? she must be well-nigh famished by this time." "gertrude? nay, i know not. i have not seen her. i would not have wearied her with such a tramp through the heavy dews." "but she had her palfrey; llewelyn led it away ere it was well light. were you not all together?" "nay, i was all alone. llewelyn and howel were off and away before i was ready; for when i sought them to ask if they would come, they were nowhere to be found. as for the maid, i never thought of her. where can they have taken her so early?" a sudden look of anxiety crossed wendot's face; but he repressed any exclamation of dismay, and glanced at his mother to see if by any chance she shared his feeling. but her face was calm and placid, and she said composedly: "if she is with llewelyn and howel she will be safe. they have taken her on some expedition in secret, but none will harm her with two such stout protectors as they." and then the lady moved away to commence her round of household duties, which in those days was no sinecure; whilst wendot stood in the midst of the great hall with a strange shadow upon his face. griffeth, who was eagerly discussing his breakfast, looked wonderingly at him. "brother, what ails thee?" he said at length; "thou seemest ill at ease." "i am ill at ease," answered wendot, and with a quick glance round him to assure himself that there was no one by to hear, he approached griffeth with hasty steps and sat down beside him, speaking in a low, rapid way and in english, "griffeth, tell me, didst thou hear aught last night ere thou fell asleep?" "ay, i heard wenwynwyn singing to his harp in his own chamber, but nought beside." "i heard that too," said wendot, "and for his singing i could not sleep; so when it ceased not, i rose and stole to his room to ask him to forbear, yet so wild and strange was the song he sang that at the door i paused to listen; and what thinkest thou was the burden that he sang?" "nay, i know not; tell me." "he sang a strange song that i have never heard before, of how a dove was borne from safe shelter -- a young dove in the absence of the father bird; not the mother bird, but the father -- and carried away to the eagle's nest by two fierce young eaglets untamed and untamable, there to be left till the kites come down to carry off the prize. "ha! thou startest and changest colour! what is it thou fearest? where are llewelyn and howell and what have they done with the maid? what kuowest thou, griffeth?" "i know nought," answered griffeth, "save that wenwynwyn has been up to the commot of llanymddyvri, and thou knowest what all they of that place feel towards the english. then llewelyn and howel have been talking of late of the eagle's nest on the crag halfway thither, and if they had named it to gertrude she would have been wild to go and see it. we know when wenwynwyn sings his songs how he ever calls maelgon ap caradoc the kite, and the lords of dynevor the eagles. but, wendot, it could not be -- a child -- a maid -- and our father's guest. i cannot believe it of our own brothers." "i know not what to think, but my heart misgives me. thou knowest what llewelyn ever was, and howel is but his shadow. i have mistrusted this strange friendship before now, remembering what chanced that first day, and that llewelyn never forgives or forgets; but i would not have dreamed of such a thing as this. yet, griffeth, if the thing is so, there is no time to lose. i am off for the crag this very minute. thou must quietly collect and arm a few of our stanchest men, together with the english servants left here with their young mistress. let all be done secretly and quietly, and come after me with all speed. it may be that we are on a fool's errand, and that our fears are groundless. but truly it may be that our brothers are about to betray our guest into the hands of one of england's most bitter foes. "oh, methinks were her father to return, and i had her not safe to deliver back to him, i would not for very shame live to see the day when i must avow to him what had befallen his child at the hands of my brethren!" griffeth was fully alive to the possible peril menacing the child, and eagerly took his orders from his elder brother. it would not be difficult to summon some dozen of the armed men on the place to accompany him quietly and secretly. they would follow upon wendot's fleet steps with as little delay as might be, and would at least track the fugitive and her guides, whether they succeeded in effecting a rescue that day or not. wendot waited for nothing but to give a few directions to his brother. scarce ten minutes had elapsed from the moment when the first illumination of mind had come to him respecting some plot against the life of an innocent child, before he had armed himself, and unleashed two of the fleetest, strongest, fiercest of the hounds, and was speeding up across the moor and fell towards the lonely crag of the eagle's nest, which lay halfway between the castle of dynevor and the abode of maelgon ap caradoc. there was one advantage wendot possessed over his brothers, and that was that he could take the wild-deer tracks which led straight onward and upward, whilst they with their charge would have to keep to the winding mule track, which trebled the distance. the maiden's palfrey was none too clever or surefooted upon these rough hillsides, and their progress would be but slow. wendot moved as if he had wings to his feet, and although the hot summer sun began to beat down upon his head, and his breath came in deep, laboured gasps, he felt neither heat nor fatigue, but pressed as eagerly onwards and upwards as the strong, fleet hounds at his side. he knew he was on the right track; for ever and anon his path would cross that which had been trodden by the feet of the boys and the horse earlier in the day, and his own quick eyes and the deep baying of the hounds told him at once whenever this was the case. upwards and onwards, onwards and upwards, sprang the brave lad with the untiring energy of a strong and righteous purpose. he might be going to danger, he might be going to his death; for if he came into open collision with the wild and savage retainers of maelgon, intent upon obtaining their prey, he knew that they would think little of stabbing him to the heart rather than be balked. there was no feud so far between llanymddyvri and dynevor, but wendot knew that his father was suspected of leaning towards the english cause, and that it would take little to provoke some hostile demonstration on the part of his wild and reckless neighbour. the whole country was torn and rent by internecine strife, and there was a chronic state of semi-warfare kept up between half the nobles of the country against the other half. but of personal danger wendot thought nothing. his own honour and that of his father were at stake. if the little child left in their care were treacherously given up to the foes of the english, the boy felt that he should never lift up his head again. he must save her -- he would. far rather would he die in her defence than face her father with the story of the base treachery of his brothers. the path grew wilder and steeper; the vegetation became more scant. the heat of the sun was tempered by the cold of the upper air. it was easier to climb, and the boy felt that his muscles were made of steel. suddenly a new sound struck upon his ear. it was like the whinny of a horse, only that there was in it a note of distress. glancing sharply about him, wendot saw lady gertrude's small white palfrey standing precariously on a ledge of rock, and looking pitifully about him, unable to move either up or down. the creature had plainly been turned loose and abandoned, and in trying to find his way home had stranded upon this ledge, and was frightened to move a step. wendot was fond of all animals, and could not leave the pretty creature in such a predicament. "besides, gertrude may want him again for the descent," he said; and although every moment was precious, he contrived to get the horse up the steep bank and on to better ground, and then tethered him on a small grassy plateau, where he could feed and take his ease in safety for an hour or two to come. that matter accomplished, the lad was up and off again. he had now to trust to the hounds to direct him, for he did not know what track his brothers would have taken, and the hard rocks gave no indications which he could follow. but the dogs were well used to their work, and with their noses to the ground followed the trail unceasingly, indicating from time to time by a deep bay that they were absolutely certain of their direction. high overhead loomed the apex of the great crag. wendot knew that he had not much farther to go. he was able to distinguish the cairn of stones which he and his brothers had once erected on the top in honour of their having made the ascent in a marvellously short space of time. wendot had beaten that record today, he knew; but his eyes were full of anxiety instead of triumph. he was scanning every track and every inch of distance for traces of the foe he felt certain were somewhere at hand. had they been here already, and had they carried off the prey? or were they only on their way, and had he come in time to thwart their purpose yet? ha! what was that? wendot had reached the shoulder of the mountain; he could see across the valley -- could see the narrow winding track which led to the stronghold of maelgon. the eagle's crag, as it was called, fell away precipitously on the other side. no one could scale it on that face. the path from the upper valley wound round circuitously towards it; and along this path, in the brilliant sunshine, wendot saw distinctly the approach of a small band of armed men. yes: they were approaching, they were not retreating. then they had not already taken their prey; they were coming to claim it. the boy could have shouted aloud in his triumph and joy; but he held his peace, for who could tell what peril might not lie in the way? the next moment he had scaled the steep, slippery rock which led to the precipitous edge of the crag. not a sign could he see of his brothers or the child, but the hounds led right on to the very verge of the precipice, and for a moment the boy's heart stood still. what if they had grown afraid of the consequences of their own act, and had resolved to get rid of the child in a sure and safe fashion! for a moment wendot's blood ran cold. he recalled the traits of fierce cruelty which had sometimes shown themselves in llewelyn from childhood, his well-known hatred of the english, his outburst of passion with gertrude, so quickly followed by a strange appearance of friendship. wendot knew his countrymen and his nation's characteristics, and knew that fierce acts of treachery were often truly charged upon them. what if -- but the thought was too repellent to be seriously pursued, and shaking it off by an effort, he raised his voice and called his brothers by name. and then, almost as it seemed from beneath his very feet, there came an answering call; but the voice was not that of his brothers, but the cry of a terrified child. "oh, who are you? do, please, come to me. i am so frightened. i know i shall fall. i know i shall be killed. do come to me quickly. i don't know where llewelyn and howel have gone." "i am coming -- i am wendot," cried the boy, his heart giving a sudden bound. "you are not hurt, you are safe?" "yes; only so giddy and frightened, and the sun is so hot and burning, and yet it is cold, too. it is such a narrow place, and i cannot get up or down. i can't see the eagle's nest, and they have been such a long time going after it. they said they would bring the nest and the young eagles up to me, but they have never come back. i'm afraid they are killed or hurt. oh, if you would only help me up, then we would go and look for them together! oh, i am so glad that you have come!" wendot could not see the child, though every word she spoke was distinctly audible. he certainly could not reach her from the place where he now stood; but the hounds had been following the tracks of the quarry they had been scenting all this way, and stood baying at a certain spot some fifty yards away, and a little lower down than the apex of the crag. it was long since wendot had visited this spot, his brothers knew it better than he; but when he got to the place indicated by the dogs, he saw that there was a little precipitous path along the face of the cliff, which, although very narrow and not a little dangerous, did give foothold to an experienced mountaineer. how the child had ever had the nerve to tread it he could not imagine, but undoubtedly she was there, and he must get her back, if possible, and down the mountainside, before those armed men from the upper valley could reach them. but could he do this? he cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder, and saw to his dismay how quickly they were approaching. from their quickened pace he fancied that his own movements had been observed. certainly there was not a moment to lose, and leaving the dogs to keep guard at the entrance, he set his foot upon the perilous path and carefully pursued his way. the face of the cliff jutted outwards for some yards, and then made a sharp turn round an angle. at the spot where this turn occurred, a sort of natural arch had formed itself over the narrow ledge which formed the path, and immediately behind the arch there was a small plateau which gave space to stand and move with some freedom, although a step over the edge would plunge the unwary victim into the deep gulf beneath. the cliff then fell away once again, but the ledge wound round it still, until it ended in a shallow alcove some eight feet deep, which lay just beneath the highest part of the crag, which overhung it by many yards. and it was crouched up against the cliff in this little alcove that wendot found gertrude; cowering, white-faced, against the hard rock, faint from want of food, terrified at the loneliness and at her own fears for the safety of her companions, and so overwrought by the tension of nerve she had undergone, that when wendot did stand beside her she could only cling to him sobbing passionately, and it was long before he could even induce her to let him go, or to attempt to eat the contents of a small package he had had the forethought to bring in his wallet. he heard her tale as she sobbed in his arms. they had come here after the eagle's nest. llewelyn and howel had been so kind! they had not minded her being so slow, but had brought her all the way; and when she wanted to follow them along the ledge to get a better view of the nest, they had blindfolded her that she might not get giddy, and had put a rope round her and brought her safely along the narrow ledge till she had got to this place. but the nest could not be seen even from there, and they had left her to see where it really was. they said they would soon be back, but they had not come, and she had got first anxious and then terrified about them, and then fearful for her own safety. at last when faintness and giddiness had come upon her, and she could get no answer to her repeated shouts, her spirit had altogether given way; and unless wendot had really come to her rescue, she was certain she should have fallen down the precipice. she did not know now how she should ever get back along the narrow ridge, she was so frightened and giddy. but if llewelyn and howel would come, perhaps she might. did wendot know where they were? would he take care of her now, and bring her safe home? "i will if i can," answered the boy, with a strange light in his blue eyes. "griffeth is on his way with plenty of help. he will be here soon. do you think you could walk along the ridge now, if i were to hold you up and help you? we should get home sooner if you could." but the child shrank back and put her hand before her eyes. "oh, let us wait till griffeth comes. i am so giddy still, and i am so afraid i should fall. hark! i'm sure i hear voices. they are coming already. oh, i am so glad! i do want to get home. wendot, why do you look like that? why do you get out that thing? you are not going to fight?" "lady gertrude," said wendot, speaking in a grave, manly way that at once riveted the child's attention, "i am afraid that those voices do not belong to our friends, but to a band of men who are coming to try and take you prisoner to a castle up the valley there. no: do not be frightened; i will save you from them if i can. there is help coming for us, and i think i can hold this path against them for some time to come. you must try and keep up heart and not be frightened. you may see some hard blows struck, but you can shut your eyes and not think about it. if they do kill me and carry you off, do not give up hope, for griffeth and our own men will be after you to rescue you. now let me go, and try not to be afraid. i think we can hold them at bay till we are more equally matched." the child's eyes dilated with horror. she caught wendot by the hand. "give me up," she said firmly. "i will not have you killed for me. i would rather go with them. give me up, i say!" "no, gertrude; i will not give you up," answered wendot very quietly, but with an inflexibility of tone which made his voice seem like that of another person. "your father placed you in my hands; to him i must answer for your safety. what is life to a man without honour? would you have me stain my name for the sake of saving my life? i think not that that is the english code of honour." child as she was, little gertrude understood well what was implied in those words, and a new light flashed into her eyes. something of the soldier spirit awoke within her, and she snatched at a small dagger wendot carried in his belt, and drawing her small figure to its full height, she said: "we will both fight, wendot; we will both fight, and both die rather than let them take us." he smiled, and just for a moment laid his hand upon her head; then he drew on his mailed gloves and looked well to the buckles of the stout leathern jerkin, almost as impervious to the stabs of his foes as a suit of mail itself. the temper of his weapon he well knew; he had no fear that it would play him false. he had not the headpiece of mail; he had started in too great a hurry to arm himself completely, and speed was too much an object for him to willingly encumber himself needlessly. but as he skirted the narrow ledge, and placed himself beneath the protecting arch, he smiled grimly to himself, and thought that the stone would be as good a guard, and that here was a place where a man could sell his life dear, and send many a foe to his account before striking his own colours. scarcely had he well established himself in the commanding position he had resolved upon, when the sound of voices became more distinct. the party had plainly arrived at the appointed place, and wendot could hear them discussing who was best fitted for the task of traversing the dangerous ledge to bring back the captive who was to be found there. the wild welsh was unintelligible to gertrude, or she would have known at once what dark treachery had been planned and carried out by her trusted companions; but wendot's cheek glowed with shame, and he set his teeth hard, resolved to redeem the honour of his father's name to the last drop of his blood if he should be called upon to shed it in the cause. he heard the slow and cautious steps approaching along the path, and he gripped his weapon more tightly in his hand. the red light of battle was in his eyes, and the moment he caught sight of the form of the stalwart soldier threading his perilous way along the path he sprang upon him with a cry of fury, and hurled him into the gulf beneath. down fell the man, utterly unprepared for such an attack, and his sharp cry of terror was echoed from above by a dozen loud voices. cries and shouts and questions assailed wendot, but he answered never a word. those above knew not if it had been an accident, or if an ambushed foe had hurled their comrade to destruction. again came a long pause for consideration -- and every moment wasted was all in favour of the pair upon the ledge -- and then it became plain that some course of action had been determined upon, and wendot heard the cautious approach of another foe. this man crept on his way much more cautiously, and the youth held himself ready for a yet more determined spring. luckily for him, he could remain hidden until his opponent was close to him; and so soon as he was certain from the sound that the man was reaching the angle of the rock, he made another dash, and brought down his sword with all the strength of his arm upon the head of the assailant. once again into the heart of the abyss crashed the body of the unfortunate soldier; but a sharp thrill of pain ran through wendot's frame, and a barbed arrow, well aimed at the joint of his leather jerkin, plunged into his neck and stuck fast. the first assailant whom he had disposed of was but one of a close line, following each other in rapid succession. as his face became visible to the man now foremost a shout of surprise and anger rose up. "it is res wendot! it is one of the sons of the house of dynevor! "wendot, thou art mad! we are the friends of thy house. we are here at the instigation of thine own kindred. give us the maid, and thou shalt go free. we would not harm thee." "stir but one step nearer, and i slay thee as i have slain thy two comrades," cried wendot, in a voice which all might hear. "i deal not in treachery towards those that trust us. i will answer for the safety of the maid with mine own life. of my hand her father will demand her when he comes again. shall we men of wales give right cause to the english to call us murderers, traitors, cowards? take my life if you will, take it a thousand times over if you will, it is only over my dead body that you will reach that child." "down with him -- traitor to the cause! he is sold to the english! he is no countryman of ours! spare him not! he is worthy of death! down with every welshman who bands not with those who would uphold his country's cause!" such were the shouts which rent the air as the meaning of wendot's words made itself understood. as for the brave lad himself, he had plucked the arrow from his neck, and now stood boldly on guard, resolved to husband his strength and keep on the defensive only, hoping thus to gain time until griffeth and the armed men should arrive. he had all the advantage of the position; but his foes were strong men, and came on thick and fast one after another, till it seemed as if the lad might be forced backwards by sheer weight and pressure. but wendot was no novice at the use of arms: as his third foe fell upon him with heavy blows of his weighted axe, he stepped backwards a pace, and let the blows descend harmlessly upon the solid rock of the arch; until the man, disgusted at the non-success of his endeavours to tempt his adversary out of his defended position, threw away his blunted axe, and was about to draw his sword for a thrust, when the boy sprang like lightning upon him, and buried his poniard in his heart. over went the man like a log, almost dragging wendot with him as he fell, and before the youth had had time to recover himself, he had received a deep gash in his sword arm from the foe who pressed on next, and who made a quick dash to try to get possession of the vantage ground of the arch. but wendot staggered back as if with weakness, let his adversary dash through the arch after him; and then, hurling himself upon him as he passed through, pushed him sheer off the ledge on the other side into the yawning gulf beneath. the comrades of this last victim, who had just sent up a shout of triumph, now changed their note, and it became a yell of rage. wendot was back in his old vantage ground, wounded by several arrows, spent by blows, and growing faint from loss of blood, but dauntless and resolute as ever, determined to sell his life dearly, and hold out as long as he had breath left in him, sooner than let the helpless child fall into the clutches of these fierce men, goaded now to madness by the opposition they had met with. hark! what was that? it was a shout, a hail, and then the familiar call of the dynevor brothers rang through the still air. "la-ha-boo!" it was griffeth's voice. he had come at last. it was plain that the foe had heard, and had paused; for if they were menaced from another quarter, it was time to think of their own safety. summoning up all his strength, wendot sent back an answering hail, and the next moment there was the sound of fierce voices and the clashing of weapons overhead on the summit of the cliff; and in quick, urgent accents wendot's foes were ordered to retreat, as there was treachery somewhere, and they had been betrayed. wendot saw his antagonists lower their weapons, and return the way they had come, with fearful backward glances, lest their boy foe should be following them. but he had no wish to do that. he was spent and exhausted and maimed. he turned backwards towards the safer shelter of the little alcove, and sank down beside the trembling child, panting, bleeding, and almost unconscious. chapter iv. wendot's reward. "father, father, father!" the shrill, glad cry broke from the lips of little gertrude almost at the same moment as wendot sank at her feet, spent and fainting; and the lad, making a great effort, opened his dim eyes to see the tall form of the english noble stooping over his little daughter, gathering her in his arms with a gesture of passionate endearment. wendot fancied he must be dreaming; perhaps it was all a strange, terrible dream: everything was swimming before his eyes in a sort of blood-coloured mist. he gave up the effort to try to disentangle the maze in which he seemed to be moving, and was sinking into unconsciousness again when a sharp cry from his brother aroused him. "wendot, wendot! -- o father, see --they have killed him!" "nay, lad, not that. here, let me get to him. "griffeth, run thou and tell the fellows to let down ropes from above to draw him up. he cannot return along that narrow ledge. he and the child had best be drawn up by those above. tell them to lose no time. the boy must be taken home to his mother's care. this narrow ledge is growing like an oven. bid one of the men run to the brook for a draught of water." wendot's lips framed themselves to the word "water" as he heard it spoken. if he had but a draught of water, perhaps he could speak again and understand what was passing. as it was, he only heard the sound of a confusion of voices, the clear tones of little gertrude being the most continuous and the most distinct. she seemed to be pouring some tale into the ears of her listeners, and wendot was certain, from the quick, sudden movements of his father, who was supporting him as he lay, that the story heard was exciting in him feelings of indignation and amazement, although the boy's brain was too much confused to tell him the reason for this displeasure. but the sense of rest and safety inspired by his father's presence was very comforting; and when the wounded lad had been drawn to the summit of the cliff by the strong, willing arms of the retainers, and his hurts rudely dressed by kindly hands, and his parched throat refreshed by deep draughts of cold water, he began to shake off the sense of unreality which had made him feel like one in a dream, and to marvel at the unexpected appearance on the lonely fell of his father and lord montacute. a sure-footed mountain pony was bearing him gently down the steep slope, and his questioning look called griffeth to his side. "what means all this, griffeth?" he whispered. "whence came they? and what do they know? and llewelyn and howel, where are they? can it be that they --" he could not frame his lips to speak the words, but griffeth understood him without, and his cheek flushed. "i fear me it is indeed as we thought. she went with them, and they left her alone on the ledge, where once the eagle's eyry used to be. maelgon's men came to carry her off thence. had it not been for thee, wendot, she would have been in their hands ere now. i would i had stood beside thee, brother. i would i had shared thy perils and thy hurts." "thou didst better than that," answered wendot, faintly smiling, "for thou broughtest aid in the very nick of time. and how came it that our father and our guest were with thee? methought it must surely be a dream when i saw them." "ay, we met them journeying towards the castle when we had but made a short mile from it. they would have reached last night but for an accident to one of the beasts, which detained them on the road; but they had started ere the sun rose, and were hard by when we encountered them. hearing our errand, some went forward as before, but others joined our party. it was well we were thus reinforced, for maelgon's men fight like veritable wolves." "what knoweth our father of the matter? spakest thou to him of llewelyn and howel?" "i had perforce to do so, they questioned me so closely. i know not what they thought. our guest's face is not one that may be read like a book, and our father only set his lips in his stern fashion, as though he would never open them again. i trow he is sore displeased that sons of his should thus act; but perchance it may not be so bad as we think." wendot made no reply. he was growing too spent and weary to have words or thoughts to spare. it seemed as if the long and weary descent would never be accomplished; and the beat of the sun beating down upon them mercilessly as they reached the lower ground turned him sick and faint. little gertrude, mounted now upon her palfrey, was chattering ceaselessly to her father, as he strode on beside her down the hillside; but lord montacute was grave and silent; and as for the face of res vychan, it looked as if carved out of marble, as he planted himself by the side of the sturdy pony who carried his son, and placed his arm round the lad to support him during that long and weary ride. it was plain that the thoughts of both men were of a very serious complexion, and gave them food for much reflection and consideration. griffeth bounded on a little ahead of the cavalcade, excited by the events of the day, anxious for his brother, yet intensely proud of him, envying him the chance of thus displaying his heroic qualities, yet only wishing to have shared them -- not that anything should be detracted from the halo which encircled wendot. he had reached a turn in the path, and for a moment was alone and out of sight of the company that followed, when the hounds who had accompanied wendot, and were now returning with them, uttered a deep bay as of welcome, and the next moment two dark and swarthy heads appeared from behind the shelter of some great boulders, and the faces of llewelyn and howel looked cautiously forth. in a moment griffeth was by their side, various emotions struggling in his face for mastery; but the tie of brotherhood was a strong one, and his first words were those of warning. "it is all known -- our father knows, and hers. i know not what your punishment will be. i have never seen our father look so stern. do as you will about returning home, but i wot not how you will be received." llewelyn and howel exchanged glances; and the former asked eagerly, "and the maid?" "is safe with her father and ours. wendot risked his life to save her from maelgon's men. nay, linger not to hear the tale, if you would fly from the anger of those who know that you sought to betray her. it will be no easy thing to make peace with our father. you know his thoughts upon the sacredness of hospitality." but even as he spoke griffeth saw the change that came over his brothers' faces as they looked past him to something behind; then as he himself turned quickly to see what it was, he beheld their father and two of the servants approaching; and res vychan pointed sternly to the two dark-leaded boys, now involuntarily quailing beneath the fiery indignation in his eyes, and said: "bind them hand and foot and carry them to the castle. they shall be dealt with there as their offence shall warrant." then turning on his heel, he rejoined the company; whilst llewelyn and howel were brought captive to the paternal halls of dynevor. wendot knew very little of the occurrences of the next few days. he was carried to the chamber that he shared with griffeth, and there he lay for several days and nights in a dreamy, semi-conscious state, tended by his mother with all the skill and tenderness she possessed, and, save when the pain of his wounds made him restless and feverish, sleeping much, and troubling his head little about what went on within or without the castle. he was dimly aware that little gertrude came in and out of his room sometimes, holding to his mother's hands, and that her gentle prattle and little caressing gestures were very soothing and pleasant. but he did not trouble his head to wonder how it was he was lying there, nor what event had crippled him so; and only in the fevered visions of the night did he see himself once again standing upon the narrow ledge of the eagle's crag, with a host of foes bearing down upon him to overpower and slay both him and his charge. but after a few days of feverish lassitude and drowsiness the lad's magnificent constitution triumphed -- the fever left him; and though he now lay weak and white upon his narrow bed, his mind was perfectly clear, and he was eager and anxious to know what had happened whilst he had been shut out from the life of the castle. his mother was naturally the one to whom he turned for information. he saw that she was unwontedly pale and grave and thoughtful. as she sat beside his bed with some needlework in her hands one bright afternoon, when the sunlight was streaming into the chamber, and the air floating in through the narrow casement was full of scent and song, his eyes fixed themselves upon her face with more of purpose and reflection, and he begged her to tell him all that had passed. "for i know that our guests are still here. gertrude comes daily to see me. but where are llewelyn and howel? i have not seen them once. is my father angry with them still? or have they been punished and forgiven?" "your brothers are still close prisoners," answered the mother with a sigh. "they have been chastised with more severity than any son of ours has needed to be chastised before; but they still remain sullen and obdurate and revengeful, and thy father will not permit them to come out from their retirement so long as our guests remain. perchance it is best so, for it would but cause trouble in the house for them to meet. i would that they could see matters differently; and yet there are many amongst our people who would say that the true patriotism was theirs." "and our guests, mother -- why linger they still? methought they would leave so soon as lord montacute returned." "so they purposed once; but he has wished to remain till thou art sound once more, my son. he hath a very warm feeling towards thee, and would speak to thee of something that is in his heart ere he quits dynevor. he has spoken of it to thy father and to me, but he wishes thee to hear it from his own lips." wendot's interest was aroused. something in his mother's expression told him that the thing of which she spoke was a matter of some importance. as an eldest son and forward for his years, and of a reflective and thoughtful turn, he had often been consulted by his parents, and particularly by his mother, in matters rather beyond his comprehension, and had shared in discussions which many youths of his age would have shunned and despised. now, therefore, he looked eagerly at his mother and said: "what is it he wishes to say canst thou not tell me thyself?" the lady of dynevor paused awhile in thought; and when she spoke, it did not appear to be in direct reply to her son's question. "wendot," she said gravely, "thou hast heard much talk of the troubled state of these times and of the nation's affairs. thou hast lived long enough to see how hopeless some amongst us feel it ever to hope for unity amongst ourselves. we are torn and distracted by faction and feud. families are banded together against families, and brothers strive with brothers for the inheritance each claims as his own. each lord of some small territory tries to wrest from his weaker neighbour that which belongs to him; and if for a moment at some great crisis petty feuds are forgotten, and a blow is struck for national liberty, scarce has peace been proclaimed again before the old strife breaks out once more, and our fair land is desolated by a more grievous war than ever the english wage." wendot bent his head in voiceless assent. he knew something of his country's history, and that his mother spoke only the sad truth. "my son," continued she after a pause, "it chances sometimes in this troubled life of ours that we are called upon to make choice, not between good and evil, but between two courses, both of which are beset with difficulties and obstacles, both of which mingle together evil and good, for which and against which much may be argued on both sides, and many things that are true be said for and against both. to some such choice as this has our poor country now come. experience has taught us that she is incapable of uniting all her forces and of making of herself one compact, united kingdom. that course, and that alone, would be her true salvation; but that course she will not take, and failing that, she has to choose between being torn and rent by faction till she is an easy prey to the english king, who will then divide her territories amongst his own hungry and rapacious barons, or for the princes to submit to pay him the homage for their lands which he (possibly with injustice) demands, but which if paid will make of him their friend and protector, and will enable the country to live in peace and prosperity, assured that the king will support those who acknowledge him, and that he will not deprive of their ancestral rights any who will bring their homage to him, and hold their territory as it were from him. understandest thou thus much?" "ay, mother, i understand it well; and though there is something in the thought that stirs my blood and sets it coursing through my veins in indignation -- for i see not by what right the english king lays claim to our fair lands -- still i know that conquest gives to the conqueror a right, and that if he chose to march against us with his armies, he might well find us too much weakened by our petty feuds to resist his strong veterans. and the english are not all bad. i have learned that these many days whilst our guests have been with us. i have thought at times that they would be true friends and allies, and that we might do well to copy them in many ways. in truth, if the choice lies betwixt being rent in pieces by each other and giving homage to the great edward, who can be merciful and just, i would rather choose the latter. for there must be something grand and noble about him by what our little maid says; and to pay homage is no such hard thing. why, does not he himself pay homage to the king of france for the lands he holds in his kingdom?" a look of relief crossed the face of the mother as she heard these words from her first-born son. she took his hand in hers and said earnestly: "wendot, i am glad to hear thee speak thus, for thou art the heir of dynevor, and upon thee much may fall some day. thou knowest what thy brothers are -- i speak of llewelyn and howel. i cannot but fear for them -- unless, indeed, the rapacious greed i sometimes see in llewelyn proves stronger than his fierce hatred to the english, and he prefers to do homage for his lands rather than lose them. but thou art the head of the family, and the chief power will rest with thee when thy father is gone. i counsel thee, if the time comes when thou must make thy choice, be not led away by blind hatred of the english. they may prove less cruel foes than thine own countrymen are to one another. if wales may not be united under one native king, let her think well ere she rejects the grace held out to all who will yield fealty to the english monarch. that is what i wished to say to thee. remember that the english are not always cruel, always rapacious. there are generous, noble, honourable men amongst them, of whom i am sure our guest is one." "ay, he has a grand face," said wendot. "a face one can both love and trust. and all that the little one tells me of the king and his family inclines my heart towards him and his. i will remember what you have said, mother, and will ponder your words. methinks it is no lovely thing to hate as llewelyn and howel hate; it makes men act rather as fiends than as honourable soldiers should." the conversation ended there, and was not renewed; but the very next day lord montacute sought wendot's room, when the lad was lying alone, wearying somewhat of his own company, and the light sprang into his eyes as he saw the guest approach, for in his own boyish way he had a great admiration for this man. "well, lad, i am glad to see thee looking something more substantial and like thine own self," said lord montacute, seating himself upon the edge of the bed and taking wendot's hand in his. "this hand has done good service to me and mine -- good service, indeed, to the king of england, who would have been forced to chastise with some severity the outrage planned upon a subject of his, and one dear to him from association with his children. tell me, boy, what can i do for thee when i tell this tale to my lord of england? what boon hast thou to ask of him or of me? for thou needest not fear; whatever it be it shall be granted." "nay, i have no boon," answered wendot, his cheek flushing. "i did but do my duty by any guest beneath my father's roof. i was responsible for the safety of the maid. i had taken that duty on myself. i want nothing; she is safe, and that is enough. only if you would speak to my father for my brothers llewelyn and howel. i know they have merited deep displeasure; yet they are but lads, and doubtless they were led away by evil counsels. he would hear pleading better from you than from me." "it shall be done," said lord montacute, still regarding wendot steadily; "and now, boy, i would speak to thee seriously and gravely as man to man, for thou hast proved thyself to be a man in action, in courage, and in foresight. and thy parents tell me that thou art acquainted with the burning questions of the day, and that thy brothers' headstrong hatreds and prejudices do not blind thee." wendot made no reply, but fixed his bright eyes steadily on lord montacute's face. he on his side, after a brief silence, began again in clear, terse phrases: "lad, if thou livest thou wilt some day be lord of dynevor -- master of this fair heritage, the fairest, perhaps, in all south wales. thou hast noble blood in thy veins -- the blood of princes and kings; thou hast much that men covet to call their own; but thou art surrounded by foes who are jealous of thee, and by kinsmen who have already cast covetous eyes on thy possessions." "ay, that traitorous meredith ap res, whose mother is english, and who would -- but pardon me. i would not willingly speak against your nation. indeed, i feel not bitter as others do; only --" "boy, thou art right to be loyal and true. i like thee none the less for the patriotic fervour which breaks out in thee. but i am glad that thou shouldest see both sides of this matter, that thou shouldest see the peril menacing thy brothers from thine own kinsman, who has strengthened himself by an english alliance. it is useless to blind thine eyes to what is coming. they tell me thou art not blind; and i come to thee, lad, because i think well of thee, to ask if it would please thee to strengthen thy position in thine own land and in edward's sight by an alliance with an english maiden of noble birth. hast thou ever thought of such a thing?" wendot's wide-open eyes gave answer enough. lord montacute smiled slightly as he said: "ah, thou art full young for such thoughts; and thou livest not in the atmosphere of courts, where babes are given in marriage almost from their cradles. but listen, res wendot; i speak not in jest, i am a man of my word. thou hast risked thy life to save my little maid. thou art a noble youth, and i honour both thee and thy parents. the maid has told me that she loves thee well, and would be well pleased to wed thee when she is of the age to do so. these are but childish words, yet they may prove themselves true in days to come. it is in the interests of all those who have the peace and prosperity of this land at heart to strengthen themselves in every way they can. my little daughter will have an ample dower to bring her husband; and i will keep her for thee if thou wilt be willing to claim her in days to come. i should like well to see her ruling in these fair halls; and thou hast proved already that thou art a knightly youth, whose hand she may well take with confidence and pride. "thy parents are willing; it waits only for thee to say. what thinkest thou of a troth plight with the little maid?" wendot's face glowed with a sort of boyish shame, not unmingled with pride; but the idea was altogether too strange and new to him to be readily grasped. "i have never thought of such things," he said shyly, "and i am too young to wed. perchance i may grow into some rough, uncouth fellow, who may please not the maiden when she reaches years of discretion. methinks it would scarce be fair to plight her now, at least not with such a plight as might not be broken. if our nations meet in fierce conflict, as they yet may, it would be a cruel thing to have linked her hand with that of a rebel, for such we are called by the english monarch, they say, when we rise to fight for our liberties bequeathed by our ancestors. "nay, noble lord, frown not on me. there be moments when methinks two spirits strive within me, and i am fearful of trusting even myself. i would not that grief or sorrow should touch her through me. let me come and claim her anon, when i have grown to man's estate, and can bring her lands and revenues. but bind her not to one whose fate may be beset with perils and shadows. there be those amongst our bards who see into the future; and they tell us that a dark fate hangs over the house of dynevor, and that we four shall be the last to bear the name." lord montacute was looking grave and earnest. there was something in his face which indicated disappointment, but also something that spoke of relief. possibly he himself had offered this troth plight with something of hesitation, offered it out of gratitude to the noble lad, and out of respect to his parents, who, as he saw, would prove valuable allies to the english cause, could they but be induced to give their allegiance to it. yet there was another side to the picture, too; and wendot was too young for any one to predict with certainty what would be his course in the future. the hot blood of his race ran in his veins; and though his judgment was cool, and he saw things in a reasonable and manly light, it would be rash to predict what the future might have in store for him. "well, lad, thou hast spoken bravely and well," said the englishman, after a pause for thought. "perchance thy words are right; perchance it will be well to let matters rest as they are for the present. we will have no solemn troth plight betwixt ye twain; but the maid shall be promised to none other these next four years, so that if thou carest to claim her ere she reaches woman's estate, thou shalt find her waiting for thee. and now i must say thee farewell, for tomorrow we ride away the way we came. i trust to see thee at the king's court one of these days, and to make known to his royal majesty the noble youth of dynevor." wendot was left alone then for some time, pondering the strange offer made to him, and wondering whether he had been foolish to refuse the promised reward. he had never seriously thought of marriage, although in those days wedlock was entered upon very young if there were any advantage to be gained from it. a lad of fifteen is seldom sentimental; but wendot was conscious of a very warm spot in his heart for little gertrude, and he knew that he should miss her sorely when she went, and think of her much. would it have been a sweet or a bitter thing to have felt himself pledged to a daughter of england? he felt that he could not tell; but at least the decision was made now, and his words could not be recalled. just ere the sun set that summer's day there came down the stone corridor which led to his room the patter of little feet, and he leaned up on his elbow with brightening eyes as the door opened and little gertrude came dancing in. "i thought i was to have been married to you, wendot, before we went away," she said, looking into his face with the most trusting expression in her soft dark eyes; "but father says you will come to marry me some day at the king's court. perhaps that will be better, for i should like eleanor and joanna to see you. they would like you so, and you would like them. but do come soon, wendot. i do so like you; and i shall want to show you to them all. and i have broken my gold coin in two -- the one the king gave me once. i got the armourer to do it, and to make a hole in each half. you must wear one half round your neck, and i will wear the other. and that will be almost the same as being married, will it not? and you will never forget me, will you?" wendot let her hang the half of the coin round his neck by a silken thread, strange new thoughts crowding into his mind as he felt her soft little hands about him. suddenly he clasped them in both of his and pressed warm kisses upon them. gertrude threw her arms about his neck in a childish paroxysm of affection, saying as she did so between her kisses: "now, it's just like being husband and wife; and we shall never forget one another -- never." chapter v. the king's children. "dynevor --did you say dynevor? o eleanor, it must be he!" a tall, slim, fair-faced maiden, with a very regal mien, looked up quickly from an embroidery frame over which she was bending, and glanced from the eager, flushed face of the younger girl who stood beside her to that of a tall and stalwart english youth, who appeared to be the bearer of a piece of news, and asked in her unconsciously queenly way: "what is it, sir godfrey, that you have told this impetuous child, to have set her in such a quiver of excitement?" "only this, gracious lady, that certain youthful chieftains from the south have come hither to rhuddlan to pay their homage to your royal father. in his absence at chester they have been lodged within the castle walls, as becomes their station. it has been told me that amongst them are four sons of one res vychan, lately dead, and that he was lord of dynevor, which honour has descended to his eldest son. i was telling what i knew to lady gertrude when she broke away to speak to you." "eleanor, it must be he -- it must be they!" cried gertrude, with flushing cheek and kindling eye -- "res vychan, lord of dynevor, and his four sons. it could be none else than they. o eleanor, sweet eleanor, bid them be brought hither to see us! thou hast heard the story of how we went thither, my father and i, two years agone now, and of what befell me there. i have never heard a word of wendot since, and i have thought of him so oft. thou art mistress here now; they all heed thy lightest word. bid that the brothers be brought hither to us. i do so long to see them again!" gertrude was fairly trembling with excitement; but that was no unusual thing for her, as she was an ardent, excitable little mortal, and ever in a fever of some kind or another. the young knight who had brought the news looked at her with unmistakable admiration and pleasure, and seemed as though he would gladly have obeyed any behest of hers; but he was fain to wait for the decision of the stately eleanor, the king's eldest and much-beloved child, who in the temporary absence of her parents occupied a position of no little importance in the household, and whose will, in the royal apartments at any rate, was law. but there were other listeners to gertrude's eager words. at the far end of the long gallery, which was occupied by the royal children as their private apartment, a group of three young things had been at play, but the urgency of gertrude's tones had arrested their attention, and they had drawn near to hear her last words. one of these younger children was a black-eyed girl, with a very handsome face and an imperious manner, which gave to onlookers the idea that she was older than her years. quick tempered, generous, hasty, and self willed was the lady joanna, the second daughter of the king; but her warm affections caused all who knew her to love her; and her romantic temperament was always stirred to its depths by any story that savoured of chivalry or heroism. "what!" she cried; "is wendot here -- wendot of dynevor, who held the eagle's crag against half a hundred foemen to save thee, sweetest gertrude, from captivity or death? -- eleanor, thou knowest the story; thou must bid him hither at once! why, i would thank him with my own lips for his heroism. for is not gertrude as our own sister in love?" "ay, eleanor, bid him come," pleaded alphonso, a fragile-looking boy a year younger than joanna, whose violet-blue eyes and fair skin were in marked contrast to her gipsy-like darkness of complexion; and this request was echoed eagerly by another boy, a fine, bold-looking lad, somewhat older than alphonso, by name britten, who was brought up with the king's children, and treated in every way like them, as the wardrobe rolls of the period show, though what his rank and parentage were cannot now be established, as no mention of him occurs in any other documents of that time. the princess eleanor, as she would now be called, although in those far-back days the title of lady was generally all that was bestowed upon the children of the king, did not attempt to resist the combined entreaties of her younger playfellows. indeed, although somewhat mature both in mind and appearance for her years, she was by no means devoid of childish or feminine curiosity, and was as willing to see the hero of gertrude's oft-told tale as her more youthful companions could be. moreover, it was her father's policy and pleasure to be generous and gracious towards all those who submitted themselves to his feudal sovereignty; and to the young he ever showed himself friendly and even paternal. the stern soldier-king was a particularly tender and loving father, and his wife the best of mothers, so that the family tie in their household was a very strong and beautiful thing. when the monarch was called away from his own royal residences to quell sedition or rebellion in this turbulent country of wales, his wife and children accompanied him thither; and so it happened that in this rather gloomy fastness in north wales, when the rebellion of the warlike llewelyn had but just been crushed, the king's children were to be found assembled within its walls, by their bright presence and laughter-loving ways making the place gay and bright, and bringing even into political matters something of the leniency and good fellowship which seems to be the prerogative of childhood. thus it was that one powerful and turbulent noble, einon ap cadwalader, had left as hostage of his good faith his only child, the lady arthyn, to be the companion of the king's daughters. she had been received with open arms by the warm-hearted joanna, and the two were fast friends already, although the welsh girl was several years the elder of the pair. but joanna, who had been educated in spain by her grandmother and namesake, and who had only recently come to be with her own parents, had enjoyed abroad a liberty and importance which had developed her rapidly, and her mind was as quick and forward as her body was active and energetic. intercourse with arthyn, too, had given to the younger princess a great sympathy with the vanquished welsh, and she was generously eager that those who came to pay homage to her father should not feel themselves in a position that was humiliating or galling. the gentle eleanor shared this feeling to the full, and was glad to give to the young knight sir godfrey challoner, who was one of her own gentlemen-in-waiting, a gracious message for the young lord of dynevor to the effect that she would be glad to receive him and his brothers in her father's absence, and to give them places at the royal table for the evening meal shortly to be served. great was the delight of gertrude when the message was despatched. her companions crowded round her to hear again the story of her adventure on the eagle's crag. gertrude never knew how she had been betrayed by wendot's brothers. she believed that they had been accidentally hindered from coming to her rescue by the difficulties of the climb after the eagle's nest. there was a faint, uncomfortable misgiving in her mind with regard to the black-browed twins, but it did not amount to actual suspicion, far less to any certainty of their enmity; and although eleanor had heard the whole story from her parents, she had not explained the matter more fully to gertrude. an invitation from royalty was equal to a command, and the eager children were not kept waiting long. the double doors at the end of the long gallery, which had closed behind the retiring form of godfrey, opened once again to admit him, and closely in his wake there followed two manly youths -- two, not four -- upon whose faces every eye was instantly fixed in frank and kindly scrutiny. wendot had developed rapidly during these two last years, although he retained all his old marked characteristics. the waving hair was still bright and sunny, the open face, with its rather square features, was resolute, alert, manly, and strong. the fearless blue eyes had not lost their far-away dreaminess, as though the possessor were looking onward and outward beyond the surroundings visible to others; and beneath the calm determination of the expression was an underlying sweetness, which shone out from time to time in the sunny smile which always won the heart of the beholder. the figure was rather that of a man than a lad -- tall, strongly knit, full of grace and power; and a faint yellow moustache upon the upper lip showed the dawn of manhood in the youth. there was something in his look which seemed to tell that he had known sorrow, trial, and anxiety; but this in no way detracted from the power or attractiveness of the countenance, but rather gave it an added charm. griffeth retained his marked likeness to his brother, and was almost his equal in height; but his cheek was pale and hollow, while wendot's was brown and healthy, his hands were slim and white, and there was an air of languor and ill-health about him which could not fail to make itself observed. he looked much younger than his brother, despite his tall stature, and he blushed like a boy as he saw the eyes of the ladies fixed upon them as they came forward, bowing with no ungraceful deference. "wendot, wendot. don't you know me?" the young man started and raised his eyes towards the speaker. so far, he had only been aware that there were a number of persons collected at the upper end of the long gallery. now he found himself confronted by a pair of eager, dancing eyes, as soft and dark as those of a forest deer, whilst two slim hands were held out to him, and a silvery voice cried softly and playfully: "o wendot, wendot, to think you have forgotten!" "lady gertrude!" "ah, i am glad you have not forgotten, though methinks i have changed more than you these past years. i should have known you anywhere. but come, wendot; i would present you to my friends and companions, who would fain be acquainted with you. they know how you saved my life that day, i have told the tale so oft. "let me present you first to our sweetest lady eleanor, our great king's eldest daughter. you will love her, i know -- none can help it. and she lets me call myself her sister." young things have a wonderful faculty of growing intimate in a very brief space, and the formalities of those simpler times were not excessive, especially away from the trammels of the court. in ten minutes' time wendot and his brother had grasped the names and rank of all those to whom they had been presented, and were joining in the eager talk with ease and with enjoyment. joanna stood beside wendot, listening, with unfeigned interest, to his answers respecting himself and those near and dear to him; whilst alphonso had drawn griffeth to the embrasure of a window, and was looking up into his face as they compared notes and exchanged ideas. it seemed from the first as though a strong link formed itself between those two. "your brothers would not come. was that fear or shame or pride?" asked joanna, with a laughing look into wendot's flushed face. "nay, think not that we would compel any to visit us who do it not willingly. gertrude has prepared us to find your brothers different from you. methinks she marvelled somewhat that they had come hither at all with their submission." wendot hesitated, and the flush deepened on his face; but he was too young to have learned the lesson of reticence, and there was something in the free atmosphere of this place which prompted him to frankness. "i myself was surprised at it," he said. "llewelyn and howel have not been friendly in their dealings with the english so far, and we knew they aided llewelyn of north wales in the revolt which has been lately quelled. but since our parents died we have seen but little of them. they became joint owners of the commot of iscennen, and removed from dynevor to the castle of carregcennen in their own territory, and until we met them some days since in company with our kinsman meredith ap hes, coming to tender their homage, as we ourselves are about to do, we knew not what to think of them or what action they would take." "are both your parents dead, then?" asked gertrude, with sympathy in her eyes. "i heard that res vychan was no longer living, but i knew not that the gentle lady of dynevor had passed away also." wendot's face changed slightly as he answered: "they both died within a few days of each other the winter after you had been with us, lady gertrude. we were visited by a terrible sickness that year, and our people sickened and died in great numbers. our parents did all they could for them, and first my father fell ill and died, and scarce had the grave closed over him before our mother was stricken, and followed him ere a week had passed. griffeth was also lying at the point of death, and we despaired of his life also; but he battled through, and came back to us from the very gates of the grave, and yet methinks sometimes that he has never been the same since. he shoots up in height, but he cannot do the things he did when he was two years younger. "what think you of him, sweet lady gertrude? is he changed from what he was when last you saw him, ere the sickness had fastened upon him?" several eyes were turned towards the slim, tall figure of the welsh lad leaning against the embrasure of the window. the sunlight fell full upon his face, showing the sharpness of its outlines, the delicate hectic colouring, the tracery of the blue veins beneath the transparent skin. and just the same transparent look was visible in the countenance of the young prince alphonso, who was talking with the stranger youth, and more hearts than that of wendot felt a pang as their owners' eyes were turned upon the pair beside the sunny window. but wendot pressed for no answer to his question, nor did gertrude volunteer it; she only asked quickly: "then griffeth and you live yet at dynevor, beautiful dynevor, and llewelyn and howel elsewhere?" "ay, at carregcennen. we have our respective lands, though we are minors yet; and our kinsman meredith ap res is our guardian, though it is little we see of him." "meredith ap res! i know him well," cried a girlish voice, in accents which betrayed her welsh origin. "he has ever been a traitor to his country, a traitor to all who trust him; a covetous, grasping man, who will clutch at what he can get, and never cease scheming after lands and titles so long as the breath remains in him." they all turned to see who had spoken, and arthyn -- the headstrong, passionate, patriotic arthyn, who, despite her love for her present companions, bitterly resented being left a hostage in the hands of the english king -- stood out before them, and spoke in the fearless fashion which nobody present resented. "wendot of dynevor, if you are he, beware of that man, and bid your brothers beware of him, too. i know him; i have heard much of him. be sure he has an eye on your fair lands, and he will embroil you yet with the english king if he can, that he may lay claim to your patrimony. he brings you here to the court to make your peace, to pay your homage. if i mistake not the man, you will not all of you return whence you came. he will poison the king's mind. some traitorous practices will be alleged against you. your lands will be withheld. you will be fed with promises which will never be fulfilled. and the kinsman who has sold himself body and soul to the english alliance will rule your lands, in your names firstly perchance, until his power is secure, and he can claim them boldly as his own. see if it be not so." "it shall not be so," cried alphonso, suddenly advancing a step forward and planting himself in the midst of the group. his cheek was crimson now, there was fire in his eyes. he had all the regal look of his royal father as he glanced up into wendot's face and spoke with an authority beyond his years. "i, the king's son, give you my word of honour that this thing shall not be. you are rightful lord of dynevor. you took not up arms against my father in the late rebellion; you come at his command to pay your homage to him. therefore, whatever may be his dealings with your brothers who have assisted the rebels, i pledge my princely word that you shall return in peace to your own possessions. my father is a just and righteous king, and i will be his surety that he will do all that is right and just by you, wendot of dynevor." "well spoken, alphonso!" cried joanna and britton in a breath, whilst wendot took the hand extended to him, and bent over it with a feeling of loyal gratitude and respect. there was something very lovable in the fragile young prince, and he seemed to win the hearts of all who came within the charm of his personal presence. he combined his father's fearless nobility with his mother's sweetness of disposition. had he lived to ascend the throne of england, one of the darkest pages of its annals might never have been written. but this hot discussion was brought to an end by the appearance of the servants, who carried in the supper, laying it upon a long table at the far end of the gallery. no great state was observed even in the royal household, when the family was far away from the atmosphere of the court as it was held at westminster or windsor. a certain number of servants were in attendance. there were a few formalities gone through in the matter of tasting of dishes served to the royal children, but they sat round the table without ceremony; and when the chaplain had pronounced a blessing, which was listened to reverently by the young people, who were all very devout and responsive to religious influences, the unconstrained chatter began again almost at once, and the welsh lads lost all sense of strangeness as they sat at the table of the king's children. "our father and mother will not return for several days yet," said joanna to wendot, whom she had placed between herself and gertrude; "but we have liberty to do what we wish and to go where we like. "say, gertrude, shall we tell wendot on what we have set our hearts? it may be he would help us to our end." "i would do anything you bid me, gracious lady," answered wendot with boyish chivalry. the girls were eying each other with flushed faces, their voices were lowered so that they should not reach the ears of the lady edeline, joanna's governess, who was seated at the board, although she seldom spoke unless directly addressed by eleanor, who seemed to be on friendly terms with her. "wendot," whispered joanna cautiously, "have you ever hunted a wolf in your mountains?" "ay, many a time, though they be more seldom seen now. but we never rid ourselves altogether of them, do as we will." "and have you killed one yourself?" "yes, i have done that, too." "and is it very dangerous?" "i scarce know; i never thought about it. i think not, if one is well armed and has dogs trained to their duties." joanna's eyes were alight with excitement; her hands were locked together tightly. her animated face was set in lines of the greatest determination and happiest anticipation. "wendot," she said, "there is a wolf up yonder in that wild valley we can see from yon window, as you look towards the heights of snowdon. some of our people have seen and tracked it, but they say it is an old and wily one, and no one has got near it yet. wendot, we have set our hearts on having a wolf hunt of our very own. we do not want all the men and dogs and the stir and fuss which they would make if we were known to be going. i know what that means. we are kept far away behind everybody, and only see the dead animal after it has been killed miles away from us. we want to be in the hunt ourselves -- britten, alphonso, arthyn, gertrude, and i. godfrey would perhaps be won over if gertrude begged him, and i know raoul latimer would -- he is always ready for what turns up -- but that would not be enough. o wendot, if you and your brothers would but come, we should be safe without anybody else. raoul has dogs, and we could all be armed, and we would promise to be very careful. we could get away early, as gertrude did that day she slipped off to the eagle's crag. "wendot, do answer -- do say you will come. you understand all about hunting, even hunting wolves. you are not afraid?" wendot smiled at the notion. he did not entirely understand that he was requested to take part in a bit of defiant frolic which the young princes and princesses were well aware would not have been permitted by their parents. all he grasped was that the lady joanna requested his assistance in a hunt which she had planned, and with the details of which he was perfectly familiar, and he agreed willingly to her request, not sorry, either for his own sake or for that of his more discontented brothers, that the monotony of the days spent in waiting the return of the king should be beguiled by anything so attractive and exciting as a wolf hunt. the dynevor brothers had often hunted wolves before, and saw no special peril in the sport; and joanna and gertrude felt that not even the most nervous guardian could hesitate to let them go with such a stout protector. "i do like him, gertrude," said joanna, when wendot and his brother had retired. "i hope if i ever have to marry, as people generally do, especially if they are king's daughters, that i shall find somebody as brave and handsome and knightly as your wendot of dynevor." for gertrude and joanna both took the view that the breaking of the king's gold coin between them was equivalent to the most solemn of troth plights. chapter vi. welsh wolves. the princess joanna was accustomed to a great deal of her own way. she had been born at acre, whilst her parents had been absent upon edward's crusade, and for many years she had remained in castile with her grandmother-godmother, who had treated her with unwise distinction, and had taught her to regard herself almost as a little queen. the high-spirited and self-willed girl had thus acquired habits of independence and commanding ways which were perhaps hardly suited to her tender years; but nevertheless there was something in her bright vivacity and generous impetuosity which always won the hearts of those about her, and there were few who willingly thwarted her when her heart was set upon any particular thing. there were in attendance upon the king and his children a number of gallant youths, sons of his nobles, who were admitted to pleasant and easy intercourse with the royal family; so that when joanna and alphonso set their hearts upon a private escapade of their own, in the shape of a wolf hunt, it was not difficult to enlist many brave champions in the cause quite as eager for the danger and the sport as the royal children themselves. joanna was admitted to be a privileged person, and alphonso, as the only son of the king, had a certain authority of his own. the graver and more responsible guardians of the young prince and princesses might have hesitated before letting them have their way in this matter; but joanna took counsel of the younger and more ardent spirits by whom she was surrounded, and a secret expedition to a neighbouring rocky fastness was soon planned, which expedition, by a little diplomacy and management, could be carried out without exciting much remark. the king and queen encouraged their family in hardy exercises and early hours. if the royal children planned an early ride through the fresh morning air, none would hinder their departure, and they could easily shake off their slower attendants when the time came, and join the bolder comrades who would be waiting for them with all the needful accoutrements for the hunt on which their minds were bent. one or two of the more youthful and adventurous attendants might come with them, but the soberer custodians might either be dismissed or outridden. they were accustomed to the vagaries of the lady joanna, and would not be greatly astonished at any freak on her part. and thus it came about that one clear, cold, exhilarating morning in may, when the world was just waking from its dewy sleep of night, that joanna and alphonso, together with gertrude and arthyn, and young sir godfrey and another gentleman in attendance, drew rein laughingly, after a breathless ride across a piece of wild moorland, at the appointed spot, where a small but well-equipped company was awaiting them with the spears, the dogs, and the long, murderous-looking hunting knives needed by those who follow the tracks of the wild creatures of the mountains. this little band numbered in its ranks the four dynevor brothers; a tall, rather haughty-looking youth, by name raoul latimer; and one or two more with whose names we have no concern. britten, who accompanied the royal party, sprang forward with a cry of delight at seeing the muster, and began eagerly questioning raoul as to the capabilities of the dogs he had brought, and the possible dangers to be encountered in the day's sport. gertrude and joanna rode up to wendot and greeted him warmly. they had seen him only once since the first evening after his arrival, and both girls stole curious glances at the dark faces of the two brothers unknown as yet to them. they were almost surprised that the twins had come at all, as they were not disposed to be friendly towards the english amongst whom they were now mingling; but here they were, and gertrude greeted both with her pretty grace, and they answered her words of welcome with more courtesy than she had expected to find in them. llewelyn and howel were submitting themselves to the inevitable with what grace they could, but with very indignant and hostile feelings hidden deep in their hearts. their old hatred towards the english remained unaltered. they would have fought the foe tooth and nail to the last had they been able to find allies ready to stand by them. but when their uncle of north wales had submitted, and all the smaller chieftains were crowding to the court to pay homage, and when they knew that nothing but their own nominal subjection would save them from being deprived of their lands, which would go to enrich the rapacious meredith ap res, then indeed did resistance at that time seem hopeless; and sooner than see themselves thus despoiled by one who was no better than a vassal of england, they had resolved to take the hated step, and do homage to edward for their lands. indeed, these brothers had to do even more; for, having been concerned in the late rebellion, they had forfeited their claim upon their property, only that it was edward's policy to restore all lands the owners of which submitted themselves to his authority. the brothers felt no doubt as to the result of their submission, but the humiliation involved was great, and it was hard work to keep their hatred of the english in check. those wild spirits had not been used to exercising self-control, and the lesson came hard now that they were springing up towards man's estate, with all the untempered recklessness and heat of youth still in their veins. perhaps there was something in the expression of those two dark faces that told its tale to one silent spectator of the meeting between the welsh and english; for as the party united forces and pushed onwards and upwards towards the wild ravine where the haunt of the wolf lay, the twin brothers heard themselves addressed in their own language, and though the tones were sweet and silvery, the words had a ring of passionate earnestness in them which went straight to their hearts. "methinks i am not mistaken in you, sons of dynevor. you have not willingly left your mountain eyry for these halls where the proud foeman holds his court and sits in judgment upon those who by rights are free as air. i have heard of you before, llewelyn and howel ap res vychan. you are not here, like your brethren, half won over to the cause of the foe; you would fight with the last drop of your blood for the liberty of our country." turning with a start, the brothers beheld the form of a slight and graceful maiden, who was pushing her palfrey up beside them. she appeared to be about their own age, and was very beautiful to look upon, with a clear, dark skin, large, bright eyes, now glowing with the enthusiasm so soon kindled in the breast of the children of an oppressed people -- a people thrilling with the strange, deep poetry of their race, which made much amends for their lack of culture in other points. llewelyn and howel, learning caution by experience, scarce knew how to respond to this appeal; but the girl met their inquiring glances by a vivid smile, and said: "nay, fear me not. i am one of yourselves -- one of our country's own children. think not that i am here of my own free will. i deny not that i have learned to love some amongst our conqueror's children and subjects, but that does not make me forget who i am nor whence i have come. let us talk together of our country and of the slender hopes which yet remain that she may gird herself up and make common cause against the foe. oh, would that i might live to see the day, even though my life might pay the forfeit of my father's patriotism. let edward slay me -- ay, and every hostage he holds in his hand -- so that our country shakes off the foreign yoke, and unites under one head as one nation once again." these words kindled in the breast of the twin brothers such a glow of joy and fervour as they had not known for many a weary day. they made room for arthyn to ride between them, and eager were the confidences exchanged between the youthful patriots as they pursued their way upwards. little they heeded the black looks cast upon them by raoul latimer, as he saw arthyn's eager animation, and understood how close was the bond which had thus quickly been established between them and the proud, silent girl whose favours he had been sedulously trying to win this many a day. raoul latimer was a youth with a decided eye to the main chance. he knew that arthyn was her father's heiress, and that she would succeed at his death to some of the richest lands in wales. possibly her father might be deprived of these lands in his lifetime, as he was a turbulent chieftain, by no means submissive to edward's rule. if that were the case, and if his daughter had wedded a loyal englishman of unquestionable fidelity, there would be an excellent chance for that husband of succeeding to the broad lands of einon ap cadwalader before many years had passed. therefore young raoul paid open court to the proud welsh maiden, and was somewhat discomfited at the small progress he had made. but he was a hot-headed youth, and had no intention of being thrown into the shade by any beggarly welshmen, be they sons of dynevor or no, so that when the party were forced by the character of the ground to dismount from their horses and take to their own feet, he pressed up to arthyn and said banteringly: "sweet lady, why burden yourself with the entertainment of these wild, uncivilized loons? surely those who can but speak the language of beasts deserve the treatment of beasts. it is not for you to be thus --" but the sentence was never finished. perhaps the flash from arthyn's eye warned him he had gone too far in thus designating the youths, who were, after all, her countrymen; but there was a better reason still for this sudden pause, for llewelyn's strong right hand had flown out straight from the shoulder, and raoul had received on the mouth a stinging blow which had brought the red blood upon his lips and the crimson tide of fury into his cheeks. with an inarticulate cry of rage he drew his dagger and sprang upon the young welshman. swords were drawn in those days only too readily, and in this case there had been provocation enough on both sides to warrant bloodshed. the youths were locked at once in fierce conflict, striking madly at each other with their shining blades, before those who stood by well knew what had occurred. it was only too common at such times that there should be collision between the sons of england and wales; and the suffering and the penalty almost invariably fell upon the latter. this fact was well known to the children of the king, and possibly prompted the young alphonso to his next act. drawing the small sword he always carried at his side, he threw himself between the combatants, and striking up their blades he cried in tones of such authority as only those can assume who feel the right is theirs: "put up your weapons, gentlemen; i command you in the king's name. "raoul, this is your doing, i warrant. shame on you for thus falling upon my father's guest in his absence, and he a stranger and an alien! shame on you, i say!" but scarce had these words been uttered before a shrill cry broke from several of the girls, who were watching the strange scene with tremulous excitement. for young llewelyn, maddened and blinded by the heat of his passion, and not knowing either who alphonso was or by what right he interposed betwixt him and his foe, turned furiously upon him, and before any one could interpose, a deep red gash in the boy's wrist showed what the welsh lad's blade had done. wendot, griffeth, and godfrey flung themselves upon the mad youth, and held him back by main force. in raoul's eyes there was an evil light of triumph and exultation. "llewelyn, llewelyn, art mad? it is the king's son," cried wendot in their native tongue; whilst joanna sprang towards her brother and commenced binding up the gash, the lad never for a moment losing his presence of mind, or forgetting in the smart of the hurt the dignity of his position. llewelyn's fierce burst of passion had spent itself, and the sense of wendot's words had come home to him. he stood shamefaced and sullen, but secretly somewhat afraid; whilst arthyn trembled in every limb, and if looks would have annihilated, raoul would not have existed as a corporate being a moment longer. "gentlemen," said alphonso, turning to those about him, and holding up his bandaged hand, "this is the result of accident -- pure accident. remember that, if it ever comes to the ears of my father. this youth knew not what he did. the fault was mine for exposing myself thus hastily. as you value the goodwill in which i hold you all, keep this matter to yourselves. we are not prince or subject today, but comrades bent on sport together. remember and obey my behest. it is not often i lay my commands upon you." these words were listened to with gratitude and relief by all the party save one, and his brow gloomed darker than before. arthyn saw it, and sprang towards alphonso, who was smiling at his sister in response to her quick words of praise. "it was his fault -- his," she cried, pointing to the scowling raoul, who looked ill-pleased at having his lips thus sealed. "he insulted him -- he insulted me. no man worthy the name would stand still and listen. it is the way with these fine gallants of england. they are ever stirring up strife, and my countrymen bear the blame, the punishment, the odium --" but alphonso took her hand with a gesture of boyish chivalry. "none shall injure thee or thine whilst i am by, sweet arthyn. the nation is dear to me for thy sake, and thy countrymen shall be as our honoured guests and brothers. have we not learned to love them for thy sake and their own? trouble not thy head more over this mischance, and let it not cloud our day's sport. "raoul," he added, with some sternness, "thou art a turbulent spirit, and thou lackest the gentle courtesy of a true knight towards those whose position is trying and difficult. thou wilt not win thy spurs if thou mendest not thy ways. give thy hand now, before my eyes, to the youth thou didst provoke. if thou marrest the day's pleasure again, i shall have more to say to thee yet." it was not often that the gentle alphonso spoke in such tones, and therefore his words were the more heeded. raoul, inwardly consumed with rage at being thus singled out for rebuke, dared not withstand the order given him, and grudgingly held out his hand. it was not with much greater alacrity that llewelyn took it, for there was much stubborn sullenness in his disposition, and his passion, though quickly aroused, did not quickly abate; but there was a compulsion in the glance of the royal boy which enforced obedience; and harmony being thus nominally restored, the party once more breathed freely. "and now upwards and onwards for the lair of the wolf," cried alphonso; "we have lost time enough already. who knows the way to his favourite haunts? methinks they cannot be very far away now." "i should have thought we had had enough of welsh wolves for one day," muttered raoul sullenly to godfrey; but the latter gave him a warning glance, and he forbore to speak more on the subject. gertrude had watched the whole scene with dilated eyes, and a feeling of sympathy and repulsion she was perfectly unable to analyze. when the party moved on again she stole up to wendot's side, and said as she glanced into his troubled face: "he did not mean it? he will not do it again?" wendot glanced down at her with a start, and shook his head. "he knew not that it was the king's son -- that i verily believe; but i know not what llewelyn may say or do at any time. he never speaks to me of what is in his head. lady gertrude, you know the king and his ways. will he visit this rash deed upon my brother's head? will llewelyn suffer for what he did in an impulse of mad rage, provoked to it by yon haughty youth, whose words and bearing are hard for any of us to brook?" "not if alphonso can but get his ear; not if this thing is kept secret, as he desires, as he has commanded. but i fear what raoul may say and do. he is treacherous, selfish, designing. the king thinks well of him, but we love him not. i trust all will yet be well." "but you fear it may not," added wendot, completing the sentence as she had not the heart to do. "i fear the same thing myself. but tell me again, lady gertrude, what would be the penalty of such an act? will they --" "alphonso has great influence with his father," answered gertrude quickly. "he will stand your brother's friend through all; perchance he may be detained in some sort of captivity; perchance he may not have his lands restored if this thing comes to the king's ears. but his person will be safe. fear not for that. methinks alphonso would sooner lay down his own life than that harm should befall from what chanced upon a day of sport planned by him and joanna." and gertrude, seeing that a load lay upon the heart of the young lord of dynevor, set herself to chase the cloud from his brow, and had so far succeeded that he looked himself again by the time a warning shout from those in advance showed that some tracks of the wild creature of whom they were in pursuit had been discovered in the path. "do not run into danger," pleaded gertrude, laying a hand on wendot's arm as he moved quickly forward to the front. "you are so brave you never think of yourself; but do not let us have more bloodshed today, save the blood of the ravenous beast if it must be. i could find it in my heart to wish that we had not come forth on this errand. the brightness of the day has been clouded over." wendot answered by a responsive glance. there was something soothing to him in the unsolicited sympathy of gertrude. he had thought little since they parted two years before of that childish pledge given and received, although he always wore her talisman about his neck, and sometimes looked at it with a smile. he had no serious thoughts of trying to mate with an english noble's daughter. he had had no leisure to spare for thoughts of wedlock at all. but something in the trustful glance of those dark eyes looking confidingly up to him sent a quick thrill through his pulses, which was perhaps the first dawning life of the love of a brave heart. but there was an impatient call from the front, and wendot sprang forward, the huntsman awakening within him at the sight of the slot of the quarry. he looked intently at the tracks in the soft earth, and then pointed downwards in the direction of a deep gully or cavernous opening in the hillside, which looked very dark and gloomy to the party who stood in the sunshine of the open. "the beast has gone that way," he said; "and by his tracks and these bloodstains, he has prey in his mouth. likely his mate may have her lair in yon dark spot, and they may be rearing their young in that safe retreat. see how the dogs strain and pant! they smell the prey, and are eager to be off. we must be alert and wary, for wolves with young ones to guard are fierce beyond their wont." he looked doubtfully at the girls, whose faces were full of mingled terror and excitement. godfrey read his meaning, and suggested that the ladies should remain in this vantage ground whilst some of the rest went forward to reconnoitre. but joanna, ever bold and impetuous, would have none of that. "we will go on together," she said. "we shall be safest so. no wolf, however fierce, will attack a number like ourselves. they will fly if they can, and if they are brought to bay we need not go near them. but why have we come so far to give up all the peril and the sport at the last moment?" "she speaks truth," said wendot, to whom she seemed to look. "at this season of the year wolves have meat in plenty, and will not attack man save in self defence. if we track them silently to their lair, we may surprise and kill the brood; but we are many, and can leave force enough to defend the ladies whilst the rest fight the battle with the creatures at bay." nobody really wished to be left behind, and there was a pleasant feeling of safety in numbers. slowly and cautiously they all followed the track of the wolf downwards into the gloomy ravine, which seemed to shut out all light of the sun between walls of solid rock. it was a curious freak in which nature had indulged in the formation of this miniature crevasse between the hillsides. at the base ran a dark turbid stream, which had hollowed out for itself a sort of cavernous opening, and the walls of rock rose almost precipitately on three sides, only leaving one track by which the ravine could be entered. the stream came bubbling out from the rock, passing through some underground passage; and within the gloomy cavern thus produced the savage beasts had plainly made their lair, for there were traces of blood and bones upon the little rocky platform, and the trained ear of wendot, who was foremost, detected the sound of subdued and angry growling proceeding from the natural cave they were approaching. "the beasts are in there," he said, pausing, and the next moment raoul had loosed the dogs, who darted like arrows from bows along the narrow track; and immediately a great he wolf had sprung out with a cry of almost human rage, and had fastened upon one of the assailants, whose piercing yell made the girls shrink back and almost wish they had not come. but wendot was not far behind. he was not one of the huntsmen who give all the peril to the dogs and keep out of the fray themselves. drawing his long hunting knife, and shouting to his brothers to follow him, he sprang down upon the rocky platform himself, and llewelyn and howel were at his side in a moment. godfrey would fain have followed, but his duty obliged him to remain by the side of the princess; and he kept a firm though respectful grasp upon alphonso's arm, feeling that he must not by any means permit the heir of england to adventure himself into the fray. and indeed the boy's gashed hand hindered him from the use of his weapon, and he could only look on with the most intense interest whilst the conflict between the two fierce beasts and their angry cubs was waged by the fearless lads, who had been through many such encounters before, and showed such skill, such address, such intrepidity in their attack, that the young prince shouted aloud in admiration, and even the girls lost their first sense of terror in the certainty of victory on the side of the welsh youths. as for raoul latimer, he stood at a safe distance cheering on his dogs, but not adventuring himself within reach of the murderous fangs of the wolves. he occupied a position halfway between the spot upon which the fray was taking place and the vantage ground occupied by the royal party in full sight of the strife. arthyn had passed several scornful comments upon the care the young gallant was taking of himself, when suddenly there was a cry from the spectators; for one of the cubs, escaping from the melee, ran full tilt towards raoul, blind as it seemed with terror; and as it came within reach of his weapon, the sharp blade gleamed in the air, and the little creature gave one yell and rolled over in its death agony. but that cry seemed to pierce the heart of the mother wolf, and suddenly, with almost preternatural strength and activity, she bounded clean over the forms of men and dogs, and dashed straight at raoul with all the ferocity of an animal at bay, and of a mother robbed of her young. the young man saw the attack; but his weapon was buried in the body of the cub, and he had no time to disengage it. turning with a sharp cry of terror, he attempted to fly up the rocky path; but the beast was upon him. she made a wild dash and fastened upon his back, her fangs crushing one shoulder and her hot breath seeming to scorch his cheek. with a wild yell of agony and terror raoul threw himself face downwards upon the ground, whilst his cry was shrilly echoed by the girls -- all but arthyn, who stood rigidly as if turned to stone, a strange, fierce light blazing in her eyes. but help was close at hand. wendot had seen the spring, and had followed close upon the charge of the maddened brute. flinging himself fearlessly upon the struggling pair, he plunged his knife into the neck of the wolf, causing her to relax her hold of her first foe and turn upon him. had he stabbed her to the heart she might have inflicted worse injury upon raoul in her mortal struggle; as it was, there was fierce fight left in her still. but wendot was kneeling upon the wildly struggling body with all his strength, and had locked his hands fast round her throat. "quick, llewelyn -- the knife!" he cried, and his brother was beside him in an instant. the merciful death stroke was given, and the three youths rose from their crouching posture and looked each other in the eyes, whilst the wolf lay still and dead by the side of her cub. "methinks we have had something too much of welsh wolves," was the only comment of raoul, as he joined the royal party without a word to the brothers who had saved his life. chapter vii. the king's judgment. the great king edward had been sitting enthroned in the state apartment of the castle, receiving the homage of those amongst the welsh lords and chieftains who had been summoned to pay their homage to him and had obeyed this summons. it was an imposing sight, and one not likely to be forgotten by any who witnessed it for the first time. the courageous but gentle queen eleanor, who was seldom absent from her lord's side be the times peaceful or warlike, was seated beside him for the ceremony, with her two elder daughters beside her. the young alphonso stood at the right hand of the king, his face bright with interest and sympathy; and if ever the act of homage seemed to be paid with effort by some rugged chieftain, or he saw a look of gloom or pain upon the face of such a one, he was ever ready with some graceful speech or small act of courtesy, which generally acted like a charm. and the father regarded his son with a fond pride, and let him take his own way with these haughty, untamable spirits, feeling perhaps that the tact of the royal boy would do more to conciliate and win hearts than any word or deed of his own. edward has been often harshly condemned for his cruelty and treachery towards the vanquished welsh; but it must be remembered with regard to the first charge that the days were rude and cruel, that the spirit of the age was fierce and headstrong, and that the barons and nobles who were scheming for the fair lands of wales were guilty of many of the unjust and oppressive acts for which edward has since been held responsible. the welsh were themselves a very wild race, in some parts of the country barely civilized; and there can be no denying that a vein of fierce treachery ran through their composition, and that they often provoked their adversaries to cruel retaliation. as for the king himself, his policy was on the whole a merciful and just one, if the one point of his feudal supremacy were conceded. to those who came to him with their act of homage he confirmed their possession of ancestral estates, and treated them with kindness and consideration. he was too keen a statesman and too just a man to desire anything but a conciliatory policy so far as it was possible. only when really roused to anger and resolved upon war did the fiercer side of his nature show itself, and then, indeed, he could show himself terrible and lion-like in his wrath. the brothers of dynevor were the last of those who came to pay their act of homage. the day had waned, and the last light of sunset was streaming into that long room as the fair-haired wendot bent his knee in response to the summons of the herald. the king's eyes seemed to rest upon him with interest, and he spoke kindly to the youth; but it was noted by some in the company that his brow darkened when llewelyn followed his brother's example, howel attending him as griffeth had supported wendot; and there was none of the gracious urbanity in the royal countenance now that had characterized it during the past hour. several faces amongst those in immediate attendance upon the king and his family watched this closing scene with unwonted interest. gertrude stood with joanna's hand clasped in hers, quivering with excitement, and ever and anon casting quick looks towards her brother, who stood behind the chair of state observant and watchful, but without betraying his feelings either by word or look. raoul latimer was there, a sneer upon his lips, a malevolent light in his eyes, which deepened as they rested upon llewelyn, whilst arthyn watched the twin brothers with a strange look in her glowing eyes, her lips parted, her white teeth just showing between, her whole expression one of tense expectancy and sympathy. once llewelyn glanced up and met the look she bent on him. a dusky flush overspread his cheek, and his fingers clenched themselves in an unconscious movement understood only by himself. the homage paid, there was a little stir at the lower end of the hall as the doors were flung open for the royal party to take their departure. edward bent a searching look upon the four brothers, who had fallen back somewhat, and were clustered together not far from the royal group, and the next minute an attendant whispered to them that it was the king's pleasure they should follow in his personal retinue, as he had somewhat to say to them in private. wendot's heart beat rather faster than its wont. he had had some foreboding of evil ever since that unlucky expedition, some days back now, on which llewelyn's sword had been drawn upon an english subject, and had injured the king's son likewise. raoul had for very shame affected a sort of condescending friendliness towards the brothers after they had been instrumental in saving him from the fangs of the she wolf; but it was pretty evident to them that his friendship was but skin deep; whilst every word that passed between arthyn and llewelyn or his brother -- and these were many -- was ranked as a dire offence. had wendot been more conversant with the intrigues of courts, he would have seen plainly that raoul was paying his addresses to the welsh heiress, who plainly detested and abhorred him. the ambitious and clever young man, who was well thought of by the king, and had many friends amongst the nobles and barons, had a plan of his own for securing to himself some of the richest territory in the country, and was leaving no stone unturned in order to achieve that object. a marriage with arthyn would give him the hold he wanted upon a very large estate. but indifferent as he was to the feelings of the lady, he was wise enough to see that whilst she remained in her present mood, and was the confidante and friend of the princesses, he should not gain the king's consent to prosecuting his nuptials by force, as he would gladly have done. whereupon a new scheme had entered his busy brain, as a second string to his bow, and with the help of a kinsman high in favour with the king, he had great hopes of gaining his point, which would at once gratify his ambition and inflict vengeance upon a hated rival. raoul had hated the dynevor brothers ever since he had detected in arthyn an interest in and sympathy for them, ever since he had found her in close talk in their own tongue with the dark-browed twins, whose antagonism to the english was scarcely disguised. he had done all he knew to stir the hot blood in llewelyn and howel, and that with some success. the lads were looked upon as dangerous and treacherous by many of those in the castle; and from the sneering look of coming triumph upon the face of young latimer as the party moved off towards the private apartments of the royal family, it was plain that he anticipated a victory for himself and a profound humiliation for his foes. supper was the first business of the hour, and the dynevor brothers sat at the lower table with the attendants of the king. the meal was well-served and plentiful, but they bad small appetite for it. wendot felt as though a shadow hung upon them; and the chief comfort he received was in stealing glances at the sweet, sensitive face of gertrude, who generally responded to his glance by one of her flashing smiles. wendot wondered how it was that lord montacute had never sought him out to speak to him. little as the lad had thought of their parting interview at dynevor during the past two years, it all came back with the greatest vividness as he looked upon the fine calm face of the english noble. was it possible he had forgotten the half-pledge once given him? or did he regret it, now that his daughter was shooting up from a child into a sweet and gracious maiden whom he felt disposed to worship with reverential awe? wendot did not think he was in love -- he would scarce have known the meaning of the phrase and he as little understood the feelings which had lately awakened within him; but he did feel conscious that a new element had entered into his life, and with it a far less bitter sense of antagonism to the english than he had experienced in previous years. after the supper was ended the royal family withdrew into an inner room, and presently the four brothers were bidden to enter, as the king had somewhat to say to them. the greater number of the courtiers and attendants remained in the outer room, but sir godfrey challoner, raoul latimer, and one or two other gentlemen were present in the smaller apartment. the queen and royal children were also there, and their playfellows and companions, gertrude holding her father by the hand, and watching with intense interest the approach of the brothers and the faces of the king and his son. edward was seated before a table on which certain parchments lay. alphonso stood beside him, and wendot fancied that he had only just ended some earnest appeal, his parted lips and flushed cheeks seeming to tell of recent eager speech. the king looked keenly at the brothers as they made their obeisance to him, and singling out wendot, bid him by a gesture to approach nearer. there was a kindliness in the royal countenance which encouraged the youth, and few could approach the great soldier king without experiencing something of the fascination which his powerful individuality exercised over all his subjects. "come hither, boy," he said; "we have heard nought but good of thee. thou hast an eloquent advocate in yon maiden of lord montacute's, and mine own son and daughters praise thy gallantry in no measured terms. we have made careful examination into these parchments here, containing reports of the late rebellion, and cannot find that thou hast had part or lot in it. thou hast paid thy homage without dallying or delay; wherefore it is our pleasure to confirm to thee thy possession of thy castle of dynevor and its territory. we only caution thee to remain loyal to him thou hast owned as king, and we will establish thee in thy rights if in time to come they be disputed by others, or thou stirrest up foes by thy loyalty to us." wendot bowed low. if there was something bitter in having his father's rightful inheritance granted to him as something of a boon, at least there was much to sweeten the draught in the kindly and gracious bearing of the king, and in alphonso's friendly words and looks. he had no father to look to in time of need, and felt a great distrust of the kinsman who exercised some guardianship over him; so that there was considerable relief for the youth in feeling that the great king of england was his friend, and that he would keep him from the aggression of foes. he stood aside as edward's glance passed on to llewelyn and howel, and it was plain that the monarch's face changed and hardened as he fixed his eye upon the twins. "llewelyn -- howel," he said, "joint lords of iscennen, we wish that we had received the same good report of you that we have done of your brethren. but it is not so. there be dark records in your past which give little hope for the future. nevertheless you are yet young. wisdom may come with the advance of years. but the hot blood in you requires taming and curbing. you have proved yourselves unfit for the place hitherto occupied as lords of the broad lands bequeathed you by res vychan, your father. for the present those lands are forfeit. you must win the right to call them yours again by loyalty in the cause which every true welshman should have at heart, because it is the cause which alone can bring peace and safety to your harassed country. it is not willingly that we wrest from any man the lands that are his birthright. less willingly do we do this when homage, however unwilling and reluctant, has been paid. but we have our duties to ourselves and to our submitted subjects to consider, and it is not meet to send firebrands alight into the world, when a spark may raise so fierce a conflagration, and when hundreds of lives have to pay the penalty of one mad act of headstrong youth. it is your youth that shall be your excuse from the charge of graver offence, but those who are too young to govern themselves are not fit to govern others." whilst the king had been speaking he had been closely studying the faces of the twin brothers, who stood before him with their eyes on the ground. these two lads, although by their stature and appearance almost men, had not attained more than their sixteenth year, and had by no means learned that control of feature which is one of nature's hardest lessons. as the king's words made themselves understood, their brows had darkened and their faces had contracted with a fierce anger and rage, which betrayed itself also in their clenched hands and heaving chests; and although they remained speechless -- for the awe inspired by edward's presence could not but make itself felt even by them -- it was plain that only the strongest efforts put upon themselves hindered them from some outbreak of great violence. edward's eye rested sternly upon them for a moment, and then he addressed himself once again to wendot. "to thee, res wendot," he said, "we give the charge of these two turbulent brothers of thine. had not the prince alphonso spoken for them, we had kept them under our own care here in our fortress of rhuddlan. but he has pleaded for them that they have their liberty, therefore into thy charge do we give them. take them back with thee to dynevor, and strive to make them like unto thyself and thy shadow there, who is, they tell me, thy youngest brother, and as well disposed as thyself. "say, young man, wilt thou accept this charge, and be surety for these haughty youths? if their own next-of-kin will not take this office, we must look elsewhere for a sterner guardian." for a moment wendot hesitated, he knew well the untamable spirit of his brothers, and the small influence he was likely to have upon them, and for a moment his heart shrank from the task. but again he bethought what his refusal must mean to them -- captivity of a more or less irksome kind, harsh treatment perhaps, resulting in actual imprisonment, and a sure loss of favour with any guardian who had the least love for the english cause. at dynevor they would at least be free. surely, knowing all, they would not make his task too hard. the tie of kindred was very close. wendot remembered words spoken by the dying bed of his parents, and his mind was quickly made up. "i will be surety for them," he said briefly. "if they offend again, let my life, my lands, be the forfeit." the monarch gave him a searching glance. perhaps some of the effort with which he had spoken made itself audible in his tones. he looked full at wendot for a brief minute, and then turned to the black-browed twins. "you hear your brother's pledge," he said in low, stern tones. "if you have the feelings of men of honour, you will respect the motive which prompts him to give it, and add no difficulties to the task he has imposed upon himself. be loyal to him, and loyal to the cause he has embraced, and perchance a day may come when you may so have redeemed your past youthful follies as to claim and receive at our hands the lands we now withhold. in the meantime they will be administered by raoul latimer, who will draw the revenues and maintain order there. he has proved his loyalty in many ways ere this, and he is to be trusted, as one day i hope you twain may be." llewelyn started as if he had been stung as these words crossed the king's lips. his black eyes flashed fire, and as he lifted his head and met the mocking glance of raoul, it seemed for a moment as if actually in the presence of the king he would have flown at his antagonist's throat; but wendot's hand was on his arm, and even howel had the self-command to whisper a word of caution. alphonso sprang gaily between the angry youth and his father's keen glance, and began talking eagerly of dynevor, asking how the brothers would spend their time, now that they were all to live there once more; whilst arthyn, coming forward, drew llewelyn gently backward, casting at raoul a look of such bitter scorn and hatred that he involuntarily shrank before it. "thou hast taken a heavy burden upon thy young shoulders, lad," said a well-remembered voice in wendot's ear, and looking up, he met the calm gaze of lord montacute bent upon him; whilst gertrude, flushing and sparkling, stood close beside her father. "thinkest thou that such tempers as those will be easily controlled?" wendot's face was grave, and looked manly in its noble thoughtfulness. "i know not what to say; but, in truth, i could have given no other answer. could i leave my own brethren to languish in captivity, however honourable, when a word from me would free them? methinks, sir, thou scarce knowest what freedom is to us wild sons of wales, or how the very thought of any hindrance to perfect liberty chafes our spirit and frets us past the limit of endurance. sooner than be fettered by bonds, however slack, i would spring from yonder casement and dash myself to pieces upon the stones below. to give my brothers up into unfriendly hands would be giving them up to certain death. if my spirit could not brook such control, how much less could theirs?" gertrude's soft eyes gave eloquent and sympathetic response. wendot had unconsciously addressed his justification to her rather than to her father. her quick sympathy gave him heart and hope. she laid her hand upon his arm and said: "i think thou art very noble, wendot; it was like thee to do it. i was almost grieved when i heard thee take the charge upon thyself, for i fear it may be one of peril to thee. but i love thee the more for thy generosity. thou wilt be a true and brave knight ere thou winnest thy spurs in battle." wendot's face flushed with shy happiness at hearing such frank and unqualified praise from one he was beginning to hold so dear. lord montacute laid his hand smilingly on his daughter's mouth, as if to check her ready speech, and then bidding her join the lady joanna, who was making signals to her from the other side of the room, he drew wendot a little away into an embrasure, and spoke to him in tones of considerable gravity. "young man," he said, "i know not if thou hast any memory left of the words i spake to thee when last we met at dynevor?" wendot's colour again rose, but his glance did not waver. "i remember right well," he answered simply. "i spoke words then of which i have often thought since -- words that i have not repented till today, nor indeed till i heard thee pass that pledge which makes thee surety for thy turbulent brothers." a quick, troubled look crossed wendot's face, but he did not speak, and lord montacute continued -- "i greatly fear that thou hast undertaken more than thou canst accomplish; and that, instead of drawing thy brothers from the paths of peril, thou wilt rather be led by them into treacherous waters, which may at last overwhelm thee. you are all young together, and many dangers beset the steps of youth. thou art true and loyal hearted, that i know well; but thou art a welshman, and --" he paused and stopped short, and wendot answered, not without pride: "i truly am a welshman -- it is my boast to call myself that. if you fear to give your daughter to one of that despised race, so be it. i would not drag her down to degradation; i love her too well for that. keep her to thyself. i give thee back thy pledge." lord montacute smiled as he laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder. "so hot and hasty, wendot, as hasty as those black-haired twins. yet, boy, i like thee for thy outspoken candour, and i would not have thee change it for the smooth treachery of courtly intrigue. if i had nought else to think of, i would plight my daughter's hand to thee, an ye both were willing, more gladly than to any man i know. but, wendot, she is mine only child, and very dear to me. there are others who would fain win her smiles, others who would be proud to do her lightest behest. she is yet but a child. perchance she has not seriously considered these matters. still there will come a time when she will do so, and --" "then let her choose where she will," cried wendot, proudly and hotly. "think you i would wed one whose heart was given elsewhere? take back your pledge -- think of it no more. if the day comes when i may come to her free and unfettered, and see if she has any regard for me, good. i will come. but so long as you hold that peril menaces my path, i will not ask her even to think of me. let her forget. i will not bind her by a word. it shall be as if those words had never passed betwixt us." lord montacute scarce knew if regret, relief, or admiration were the feeling uppermost in his mind, as the youth he believed so worthy of his fair daughter, and perhaps not entirely indifferent to her dawning charms, thus frankly withdrew his claim upon her hand. it seems strange to us that any one should be talking and thinking so seriously of matrimony when the girl was but fourteen and the youth three years her senior; but in those days marriages were not only planned but consummated at an absurdly early age according to our modern notions, and brides of fifteen and sixteen were considered almost mature. many young men of wendot's age would be seriously seeking a wife, and although no such thought had entered his head until he had seen gertrude again, it cannot be denied that the idea had taken some hold upon him now, or that he did not feel a qualm of pain and sorrow at thus yielding up one bright hope just when the task he had taken upon himself seemed to be clouding his life with anxiety and peril. "boy," said lord montacute, "i cannot forget what thou hast done nor what she owes to thee. i love thee well, and would fain welcome thee as a son; but my love for her bids me wait till we see what is the result of this office thou hast taken on thyself. thou hast acted rightly and nobly, but in this world trouble often seems to follow the steps of those who strive most after the right. if thine own life, thine own possessions, are to pay the forfeit if thy brethren fall away into rebellion -- and edward, though a just man and kind, can be stern to exact the uttermost penalty when he is angered or defied -- then standest thou in sore peril, peril from which i would shield my maid. wherefore --" "nay, say no more -- say no more. i comprehend it all too well," replied wendot, not without a natural though only momentary feeling of bitterness at the thought of what this pledge was already costing him, but his native generosity and sweetness of temper soon triumphed over all besides, and he said with his peculiarly bright and steadfast smile, "you have judged rightly and well for us both, my lord. did i but drag her down to sorrow and shame, it would be the bitterest drop in a bitter cup. a man placed as i am is better without ties." "also the days will soon pass by, and the time will come when this charge ceases. then if the lady gertrude be still mistress of her hand and heart, and if the lord of dynevor comes to try his fate, methinks, by what i have seen and heard, that he may chance to get no unkindly answer to his wooing." wendot made no reply, but only blushed deeply as he moved away. he scarce knew whether he were glad or sorry that gertrude came out to meet him, and drew him towards the little group which had gathered in a deep embrasure of the window. joanna, alphonso, and griffeth were there. they had been eagerly questioning the younger lad about life at dynevor, and what they would do when they were at home all together. joanna was longing to travel that way and lodge a night there; and gertrude was eloquent in praise of the castle, and looked almost wistfully at wendot to induce him to add his voice to the general testimony. but he was unwontedly grave and silent, and her soft eyes filled with tears. she knew that he was heavy hearted, and it cut her to the quick; but he did not speak of his trouble, and only alphonso ventured to allude to it, and that was by one quick sentence as he was taking his departure at bedtime. "wendot," he said earnestly, "i will ever be thy friend. fear not. my father denies me nothing. thy trial may be a hard one, but thou wilt come nobly forth from it. i will see that harm to thee comes not from thy generosity. only be true to us, and thou shalt not suffer." wendot made no reply, but the words were like a gleam of sunshine breaking through the clouds; and one more such gleam was in store for him on the morrow, when he bid a final adieu to gertrude before the general departure for dynevor. "i have my half gold coin, wendot. i shall look at it every day and think of thee. i am so happy that we have seen each other once again. thou wilt not forget me, wendot?" "never so long as i live," he answered with sudden fervour, raising the small hand he held to his lips. "and some day, perchance, lady gertrude, i will come to thee again." "i shall be waiting for thee," she answered, with a mixture of arch sweetness and playfulness that he scarce knew whether to call childlike confidence or maiden trust. but the look in her eyes went to his heart, and was treasured there, like the memory of a sunbeam, for many long days to come. chapter viii. turbulent spirits. the four sons of res vychan went back to dynevor together, there to settle down, outwardly at least, to a quiet and uneventful life, chiefly diversified by hunting and fishing, and such adventures as are inseparable from those pastimes in which eager lads are engrossed. wendot both looked and felt older for his experiences in the castle of rhuddlan. his face had lost much of its boyishness, and had taken a thoughtfulness beyond his years. sometimes he appeared considerably oppressed by the weight of the responsibility with which he had charged himself, and would watch the movements and listen to the talk of the twins with but slightly concealed uneasiness. yet as days merged into weeks, and weeks lengthened into months, and still there had been nothing to alarm him unduly, he began, as the inclement winter drew on, to breathe more freely; for in the winter months all hostilities of necessity ceased, for the mountain passes were always blocked with snow, and both travelling and fighting were practically out of the question for a considerable time. wendot, too, had matters enough to occupy his mind quite apart from the charge of his two haughty brothers. he had his own estates to administer -- no light task for a youth not yet eighteen -- and his large household to order; and though griffeth gave him every help, llewelyn and howel stood sullenly aloof, and would not appear to take the least interest in anything that appertained to dynevor, although they gave no reason for their conduct, and were not in other ways unfriendly to their brothers. the country was for the time being quiet and at peace. exhausted by its own internal struggles and by the late disastrous campaign against the english, the land was, as it were, resting and recruiting itself, in preparation, perhaps, for another outbreak later on. in the meantime, sanguine spirits like those of wendot and griffeth began to cherish hopes that the long and weary struggle was over at last, and that the nation, as a nation, would begin to realize the wisdom and the advantage of making a friend and ally of the powerful monarch of england, instead of provoking him to acts of tyranny and retaliation by perpetual and fruitless rebellions against a will far too strong to be successfully resisted. but llewelyn and howel never spoke of the english without words and looks indicative of the deepest hatred; and the smouldering fire in their breasts was kept glowing and burning by the wild words and the wilder songs of the old bard wenwynwyn, who spent the best part of his time shut up in his own bare room, with his harp for his companion, in which room llewelyn and howel spent much of their time during the dark winter days, when they could be less and less out of doors. since that adventure of the eagle's crag, wendot had distrusted the old minstrel, and was uneasy at the influence he exercised upon the twins; but the idea of sending him from dynevor was one which never for a moment entered his head. had not wenwynwyn grown old in his father's service? had he not been born and bred at dynevor? the young lord himself seemed to have a scarce more assured right to his place there than the ancient bard. be he friend or be he foe, at dynevor he must remain so long as the breath remained in his body. the bard was, by hereditary instinct, attached to all the boys, but of late there had been but little community of thought between him and his young chieftain. wendot well knew the reason. the old man hated the english with the bitter, unreasoning, deadly hatred of his wild, untutored nature. had he not sprung from a race whose lives had been spent in rousing in the breasts of all who heard them the most fervent and unbounded patriotic enthusiasm? and was it to be marvelled at that he could not see or understand the changes of the times or the hopelessness of the long struggle, now that half the welsh nobles were growing cool in the national cause, and the civilization and wealth of the sister country were beginning to show them that their own condition left much to be desired, and that there was something better and higher to be achieved than a so-called liberty, only maintained at the cost of perpetual bloodshed? or a series of petty feuds for supremacy, which went far to keep the land in a state of semi-barbarism? so the old bard sang his wild songs, and llewelyn and howel sat by the glowing fire of logs that blazed in the long winter evenings upon his hearth, listening to his fierce words, and hardening their hearts and bracing their wills against any kind of submission to a foreign yoke. a burning hatred against the english king also consumed them. had they not, at the cost of most bitter humiliation, gone to him as vassals, trusting to his promise that all who did homage for their lands should be confirmed in peaceful possession of the same? and how had he treated this act of painful submission? was it greatly to be wondered at that their hearts burned with an unquenchable hatred? to them edward stood as the type of all that was cruel and treacherous and grasping. they brooded over their wrongs by day and by night; they carried their dark looks with them when they stirred abroad or when they rested at home. wenwynwyn sympathized as none besides seemed to do, and he became their great solace and chief counsellor. wendot might uneasily wonder what passed in that quiet room of the old man's, but he never knew or guessed. he would better have liked to hear llewelyn burst forth into the old passionate invective. he was uneasy at this chronic state of gloom and sullen silence on the vexed question of english supremacy. but seldom a word passed the lips of either twin. they kept their secret -- if secret they had -- locked away in their own breasts. and days and weeks and months passed by, and wendot and griffeth seemed almost as much alone at dynevor as they had been after their father's death, when llewelyn and howel had betaken themselves to their castle of carregcennen. but at least, if silent and sullen, they did not appear to entertain any plan likely to raise anxiety in wendot's mind as to the pledge he had given to the king. they kept at home, and never spoke of iscennen, and as the winter passed away and the spring began to awaken the world from her long white sleep, they betook themselves with zest to their pastime of hunting, and went long expeditions that sometimes lasted many days, returning laden with spoil, and apparently in better spirits from the bracing nature of their pursuits. griffeth, who had felt the cold somewhat keenly, and had been drooping and languid all the winter, picked up strength and spirit as the days grew longer and warmer, and began to enjoy open-air life once more. wendot was much wrapped up in this young brother of his, who had always been dearer to him than any being in the world besides. since he had been at death's door with the fever, griffeth had never recovered the robustness of health which had hitherto been the characteristic of the dynevor brothers all their lives. he was active and energetic when the fit was on him, but he wearied soon of any active sport. he could no longer bound up the mountain paths with the fleetness and elasticity of a mountain deer, and in the keen air of the higher peaks it was difficult for him to breathe. still in the summer days he was almost his former self again, or so wendot hoped; and although griffeth's lack of rude health hindered both from joining the long expeditions planned and carried out by the twins, it never occurred to wendot to suspect that there was an ulterior motive for these, or to realize how unwelcome his presence would have been had he volunteered it, in lieu of staying behind with griffeth, and contenting himself with less adventurous sports. spring turned to summer, and summer to autumn, and life at dynevor seemed to move quietly enough. griffeth took a fancy to book learning -- a rare enough accomplishment in those days -- and a monk from the abbey of strata florida was procured to give him instruction in the obscure science of reading and writing. wendot, who had a natural love of study, and who had been taught something of these mysteries by his mother -- she being for the age she lived in a very cultivated woman -- shared his brother's studies, and delighted in the acquirement of learning. but this new development on the part of the lord of dynevor and his brother seemed to divide them still more from the two remaining sons of res vychan; and the old bard would solemnly shake his head and predict certain ruin to the house when its master laid aside sword for pen, and looked for counsel to the monk and missal instead of to his good right hand and his faithful band of armed retainers. wendot and griffeth would smile at these dark sayings, and loved their studies none the less because they opened out before them some better understanding of the blessings of peace and culture upon a world harried and exhausted with perpetual, aimless strife; but their more enlightened opinions seemed but to widen the breach between them and their brothers, and soon they began to be almost strangers to each other. wendot and griffeth regretted this without seeing how to mend matters. they felt sorry for llewelyn and howel, deprived of the employments and authority they had enjoyed of late, and would have gladly given them a share of authority in dynevor; but this they would not accept, drawing more and more away into themselves, and sharing their confidences with no one except wenwynwyn. the summer was now on the wane, and the blustering winds of the equinox had begun to moan about the castle walls. the men were busy getting in the last of the fruits of the earth and storing them up against the winter need, whilst the huntsmen brought in day by day stores of venison and game, which the women salted down for consumption during the long dreary days when snow should shut them within their own walls, and no fresh meat would be obtainable. it was a busy season, and wendot had time and mind alike full. he heeded little the movements of his brothers, whom he thought engrossed in the pleasures of the chase. he was not even aware that old wenwynwyn was absent for several days from the castle, for since the estrangement between him and the old man he was often days at a time without encountering him. llewelyn and howel were visibly restless just now. they did not go far from the castle, nor did they seem interested in the spoil the hunters brought home. but they spent many long hours in the great gallery where the arms of the retainers were laid up, and their heads were often to be seen close together in deep discussion, although if any person came near to disturb them they would spring asunder, or begin loudly discussing some indifferent theme. they were in this vast, gloomy place, sitting together in the deep embrasure of one of the narrow windows as the daylight began to fail, when suddenly they beheld wenwynwyn stalking through the long gallery as if in search of them, and they sprang forward to greet him with unconcealed eagerness. "thou hast returned." "ay, my sons, i have returned, and am the bearer of good news. but this is not the place to speak. stones have ears, and traitors abound even in these hoary walls which have echoed to the songs of the bard for more years than man can count. ah, woe the day; ah, woe the falling off! that i should live to see the sons of dynevor thus fall away -- the young eaglets leaving their high estate to grovel with the carrion vulture and the coward crow! ah! in old days it was not so. but there are yet those of the degenerate race in whom the spirit of their fathers burns. come, my sons -- come hither with me. i bring you a message from iscennen that will gladden your hearts to hear." the boys pressed after him up the narrow, winding stair that led to the room the bard called his own. it was remote from the rest of the castle, and words spoken within its walls could be heard by none outside. it was a place that had heard much plotting and planning ere now, and what was to be spoken tonight was but the sequel of what had gone before. "speak, wenwynwyn, speak!" cried the twins in a breath. "has he returned thither?" "ay, my sons; he has come back in person to receive his 'dues,' and to look into all that has passed in his absence. these eyes have seen the false, smiling face of the usurper, who sits in the halls which have rung to the sound of yon harp in days when the accursed foot of the stranger would have been driven with blows from the door. he is there, and --" "and they hate and despise and contemn him," cried llewelyn in wild excitement. "every man of iscennen is his foe. do not i know it? have we not proved it? there is no one but will rise at the sound of my trumpet, to follow me to victory or death. "wenwynwyn, speak! thou hast bid us wait till the hour has come till all things be ripe for action. tell us, has not that hour come? hast thou not come to bid us draw the sword, and wrest our rightful inheritance from the hand of the spoiler and alien?" "ay, verily, that hour has come," cried the old bard, with a wild gesture. "the spoiler is there, lurking in his den. his eyes are roving round in hungry greed to spoil the poor man of his goods, to wrest the weapon from the strong. he is fearful in the midst of his state -- fearful of those he calls his vassals -- those he would crush with his iron glove, and wring dry even as a sponge is wrung. ay, the hour is come. the loyal patriots have looked upon your faces, my sons, and see in you their liberators. go now, when the traitor whose life you saved is gloating over his spoil in his castle walls. go and show him what it is to rob the young lions of their prey; show him what it is to strive with eagles, when only the blood of the painted jay runs in his craven veins. saw i not fear, distrust, and hatred in every line of that smooth face? think you that he is happy in the possession of what he sold his soul to gain? go, and the victory will be yours. go; all iscennen will be with you. wenwynwyn has not sung his songs in vain amongst those hardy people! he has prepared the way. go! victory lies before you." the boys' hearts swelled within them at these words. it was not for nothing that they, with their own faithful followers, sworn to secrecy, had absented themselves again and again from dynevor castle on the pretence of long hunting expeditions. it was true that they had hunted game, that they had brought home abundance of spoil with them; but little had llewelyn or howel to do with the taking of that prey. they had been at iscennen; they had travelled the familiar tracks once again, and had found nothing but the most enthusiastic welcome from their own people, the greatest hatred for the foreign lordling, who had been foisted upon them by edict of the king. truly raoul latimer had won but a barren triumph in gaining for himself the lands of iscennen. a very short residence there had proved enough for him, and he had withdrawn, in fear that if he did not do so some fatal mischance would befall him. he had reigned there as an absentee ever since, not less cursed and hated for the oppressive measures taken in his name than when he had been the active agent. matters were ripe for revolt. there only wanted the time and the occasion. the leader was already to hand -- the old lord, young in years, llewelyn ap res vychan, and howel his brother. with the twins at their head, iscennen would rise to a man; and then let raoul latimer look to himself! for the welsh, when once aroused to strike, struck hard; and it cannot be denied that they ofttimes struck treacherously beside. small wonder if, as wenwynwyn declared, young raoul had found but small satisfaction in his visit to his new estate, and lived upon it in terror of his very life, though surrounded by the solid walls of his own castle. the hour had come. llewelyn and howel were about to taste the keen joy of revenging themselves upon a foe they hated and abhorred, about to take at least one step towards reinstating themselves in their ancestral halls. but the second object was really less dear to them than the first. if the hated raoul could be slain, or made to fly in ignominy and disgrace, they cared little who reigned in his place. their own tenure at carregcennen under existing circumstances they knew to be most insecure, and although they had organized and were to lead the attack, they were to do so disguised, and those who knew the share they were to take were pledged not to betray it. loose as had grown the bond between the brothers of late, the twins were not devoid of a certain rude code of honour of their own, and had no wish to involve wendot in ruin and disgrace. he was surety for their good behaviour, and if it became known to edward that they had led the attack on one of his english subjects, dynevor itself might pay the forfeit of his displeasure, and wendot might have to answer with his life, as he had offered to do, for his brothers. thus, though this consideration was not strong enough to keep the twins from indulging their ungovernable hatred to their foe, it made them cautious about openly appearing in the matter themselves; and when, upon a wild, blustering night not many days later, a little band of hardy welshmen, all armed to the teeth, crept with the silent caution of wild beasts along a rocky pathway which led by a subterranean way, known only to llewelyn and howel, into the keep of the castle itself; none would have recognized in the blackened faces of the two leaders, covered, as they appeared to be, with a tangled growth of hair and beard, the countenances of the sons of res vychan; whilst the stalwart, muscular figures seemed rather to belong to men than lads, and assisted the disguise not a little. the hot-headed but by no means intrepid young englishman, who had not had the courage to remain long in the possessions he had coveted, and who was fervently wishing that this second visit was safely over, was aroused from his slumbers by the clash of arms, and by the terrified cries of the guard he always placed about him. "the welsh wolves are upon us!" he heard a voice cry out in the darkness. "we are undone -- betrayed! every man for himself! they are murdering every soul they meet." in a passion of rage and terror raoul sprang from his bed, and commenced hurrying into his clothes as fast as his trembling hands would allow him. in vain he called to his servants; they had every man of them fled. below he heard the clash of arms, and the terrible guttural cries with which the welsh always rushed into battle, and which echoed through the halls of carregcennen like the trump of doom. it was a terrible moment for the young englishman, alone, half-armed, and at the mercy of a merciless foe. he looked wildly round for some means of escape. the tread of many feet was on the stairs. to attempt resistance was hopeless. flight was the only resource left him, and in a mad impulse of terror he flung himself on the floor, and crept beneath the bed, the arras of which concealed him from sight. there he lay panting and trembling, whilst the door was burst open and armed men came flocking in. "ha, flown already!" cried a voice which did not seem entirely unfamiliar to the shivering youth, though he could not have said exactly to whom it belonged, and was in no mood to cudgel his brains on the subject. he understood too little of the welsh tongue to follow what was said, but with unspeakable relief he heard steps pass from the room; for even his foes did not credit him with the cowardice which would drive a man to perish like a rat in a hole rather than sword in hand like a knight and a soldier. the men had dashed out, hot in pursuit, believing him to be attempting escape through some of the many outlets of the castle; and raoul, still shivering and craven, was just creeping out from his hiding place, resolved to try to find his way to the outer world, when he uttered a gasp and stood or rather crouched spellbound where he was; for, standing beside a table on which the dim light of a night candle burned, binding up a gash in his arm with a scarf belonging to the englishman, was a tall, stalwart, soldierly figure, that turned quickly at the sound made by the wretched raoul. "spare me, spare me!" cried the miserable youth, as the man with a quick movement grasped his weapon and advanced towards him. he did not know if his english would be understood, but it appeared to be, for the reply was spoken in the same tongue, though the words had strong welsh accent. "and wherefore should i spare you? what have you done that we of iscennen should look upon you as other than a bitter foe? by what right are you here wringing our life blood from us? why should i not stamp the miserable life out of you as you lie grovelling at my feet? wales were well quit of such craven hounds as you." "spare me, and i renounce my claim. i swear by all that is holy that if you will but grant me my life i will repair to the king's court without delay, and i will yield up to him every claim which i have on these lands. i swear it by all that is holy in heaven and earth." "and what good shall we reap from that? we shall but have another english tyrant set over us. better kill thee outright, as a warning to all who may come after." but raoul clasped the knees of his foe, and lifted his voice again in passionate appeal. "kill me not; what good would that do you or your cause? i tell you it would but raise edward's ire, and he would come with fire and sword to devastate these lands as i have never done. listen, and i will tell you what i will do. spare but my life, and i will entreat the king to restore these lands to your feudal lords, llewelyn and howel ap res vychan. it was by my doing that they were wrested from them. i confess it freely now. grant me but my life, and i will undo the work i have done. i will restore to you your youthful chiefs. again i swear it; and i have the ear of his grace. if thou hast thy country's cause at heart thou wilt hear me in this thing. i will give you back the lords you all love. i will trouble you no more myself. i would i had never seen this evil place. it has been nought but a curse to me from the day it was bestowed." the man uttered a harsh laugh, and stood as if considering. raoul, whose eyes never left the shining blade his foe held suspended in his hand, pleaded yet more and more eloquently, and, as it seemed, with some effect, for the soldier presently sheathed his weapon, and bid the wretched youth rise and follow him. raoul obeying, soon found himself in the presence of a wild crew of welsh kerns, who were holding high revelry in the banqueting hall, whilst his own english servants -- those, at least, who had not effected their escape -- lay dead upon the ground, the presence of bleeding corpses at their very feet doing nothing to check the savage mirth and revelry of the victors, who had been joined by the whole of the welsh garrison, only too glad of an excuse for rising against the usurper. a silence fell upon the company as the dark-bearded soldier marched his captive into the hall, the yell of triumph being hushed by commanding gesture from the captor. a long and unintelligible debate followed, raoul only gathering from the faces of those present what were their feelings towards him. he stood cowering and quaking before that fierce assembly -- a pitiful object for all eyes. but at length his captor briefly informed him that his terms were accepted: that if he would write his request to the king and obtain its fulfilment, he should go free with a whole skin; but that, pending the negotiation, which could be carried on by the fathers of the abbey of strata florida, he would remain a close prisoner, and his ransom would be the king's consent. these were the best terms the unhappy raoul could obtain for himself, and he was forced to abide by them. the fathers of the abbey were honest and trustworthy, and carried his letters to the king as soon as they had penned them for him. raoul was clever in diplomatic matters, and was so anxious for his own safety that he took good care not to drop a hint as to the evil conduct of the people of iscennen, which might draw upon them the royal wrath and upon him instant death. he simply represented that he was weary of his charge of this barren estate, that he preferred life in england and at the court, and found the revenues very barren and unprofitable. as the former owners had redeemed their character by quiet conduct during the past year and a half, his gracious majesty, he hinted, might be willing to gratify them and their people by reinstating them. and when edward read this report, and heard the opinion of the father who had brought it -- a wily and a patriotic welshman, who knew how to plead his cause well -- he made no trouble about restoring to llewelyn and howel their lands, only desiring that wendot should renew his pledge for their loyalty and good conduct, and still hold himself responsible for his brothers to the king. and so llewelyn and howel went back to carregcennen, and wendot and griffeth remained at dynevor, hoping with a fond hope that this act of clemency and justice on the part of edward would overcome in the mind of the twins the deeply-seated hatred they had cherished so long. chapter ix. the red flame of war. "wendot, wendot, it is our country's call! thou canst not hang back. united we stand; divided we fall. will the prince of dynevor be the man to bring ruin upon a noble cause, by banding with the alien oppressor against his own brethren? i will not believe it of thee. wendot, speak -- say that thou wilt go with us!" wendot was standing in his own hall at dynevor. in the background was a crowd of retainers and soldiers, so eagerly discussing some matter of vital interest that the brothers stepped outside upon the battlemented terrace to be out of hearing of the noise of their eager voices. there was a deep gravity on wendot's face, which was no longer the face of a boy, but of a youth of two-and-twenty summers, and one upon whom the cares and responsibilities of life had sat somewhat heavily. the tall, well-knit frame had taken upon it the stature and developed grace of manhood; the sun-browned face was lined with traces of thought and care, though the blue eyes sparkled with their old bright and ready smile, and the stern lines of the lips were shaded and hidden by the drooping moustache of golden brown. there were majesty, power, and intellect stamped upon the face of the young lord of dynevor, and it was very plain to all who observed his relations with those about him that he was master of his own possession, and that though he was greatly beloved by all who came in contact with him, he was respected and obeyed, and in some things feared. by his side stood griffeth, almost as much his shadow as of yore. to a casual observer the likeness between the brothers was very remarkable, but a closer survey showed many points of dissimilarity. griffeth's figure was slight to spareness, and save in moments of excitement there was something of languor in his movements. the colour in his cheeks was not the healthy brown of exposure to sun and wind, but the fleeting hectic flush of long-standing insidious disease, and his eyes had a far-away look -- dreamy and absorbed; whilst those of his brother expressed rather watchful observation of what went on around him, and resolution to mould those about him to his will. facing this fair-haired pair were the twin lords of iscennen, considerably changed from the sullen-looking lads of old days, but still with many of their characteristics unchanged. they were taller and more stoutly built than wendot and griffeth, and their dark skins and coal-black hair gave something of ferocity and wildness to their appearance, which look was borne out by the style of dress adopted, whilst the young lords of dynevor affected something of the refinement and richness of apparel introduced by the english. for the past years a friendly intercourse had been kept up between dynevor and carregcennen. the country had been at peace -- such peace as internal dissensions would allow it -- and no one had disturbed the sons of res vychan in the possession of their ancestral rights. the tie between the brothers had therefore been more closely drawn, and wendot's responsibility for the submissive behaviour of the turbulent twins had made him keep a constant eye upon them, and had withheld them on their side from attempting to foment the small and fruitless struggles against english authority which were from time to time arising between the border-land chief and the lords of the marches. but now something very different was in the wind. after almost five years of peace with england, revolt had broken out in north wales. david, the brother of llewelyn, had commenced it, and the prince had followed the example thus set him. he had broken out into open rebellion, and had summoned the whole nation to stand by him in one united and gallant effort to free the country from the foreign foe, and unite it once again as an undivided province beneath the rule of one sovereign. the call was enthusiastically responded to. north wales rose as one man, and flocked to the banners of the prince and his brother. south wales was feeling the contagion of coming strife, and the pulse of the nation beat wildly at the thought that they might win liberty by the overthrow of the foe. one after another the petty chiefs, who had sworn fealty to edward, renounced their allegiance, and mustered their forces to join those of llewelyn and david. the whole country was in a wild ferment of patriotic excitement. the hour seemed to them to have arrived when all could once again band together in triumphant vindication of their national rights. llewelyn and howel ap res vychan were amongst the first to tender their allegiance to the cause, and, having sent on a compact band of armed men to announce their coming in person, had themselves hurried to dynevor to persuade their brothers there to join the national cause. and they found wendot less indisposed than they had feared. the five years which had passed over his head since he had fallen under the spell of the english king's regal sway had a good deal weakened the impression then made upon him. edward had not visited the country in person since that day, and the conduct of the english lords of the marches, and of those who held lands in the subjected country, was not such as to endear their cause to the hearts of the sons of wales. heart-burnings and jealousies were frequent, and wendot had often had his spirit stirred within him at some tale of outrage and wrong. the upright justice of the king was not observed by his subjects, and the hatred to any kind of foreign yoke was inherently strong in these sons of the mountains. in the studies the dynevor brothers had prosecuted together they had imbibed many noble thoughts and many lofty aspirations, and these, mingling with the patriotic instinct so strongly bound up in the hearts of cambria's sons, had taught them a distrust of princes and an intense love for freedom's cause, as well as a strong conviction that right must ever triumph over might. so when the news arrived that the north was in open revolt, it struck a chord in the hearts of both brothers; and when the dark-browed twins came with the news that they had openly joined the standard of llewelyn, they did not encounter the opposition they had expected, and it was with an eager hopefulness that they urged upon the lord of dynevor to lend the strength of his arm to the national cause. "wendot, bethink thee. when was not dynevor in the van when her country called on her? if thou wilt go with us, we shall carry all the south with us; but hang thou back, and the cause may be lost. brother, why dost thou hesitate? why dost thou falter? it is the voice of thy country calling thee. wilt thou not heed that call? o wendot, thou knowest that when our parents lived -- when they bid us not look upon the foe with too great bitterness -- it was only because a divided wales could not stand, and that submission to england was better than the rending of the kingdom by internal strife. but if she would have stood united against the foreign foe, thinkest thou they would ever have held back? nay; res vychan, our father, would have been foremost in the strife. are we not near in blood to llewelyn of wales, prince of the north? doth not the tie of blood as well as the call of loyalty urge us to his side? why dost thou ponder still? why dost thou hesitate? throw to the wind all idle scruples, and come. think what a glorious future may lie before our country if we will but stand together now!" wendot's cheek flushed, his eye kindled. he did indeed believe that were his father living he would be one of the first to hasten to his kinsman's side. if indeed the united country could be strong enough to throw off the yoke, what a victory it would be! was not every son of wales bound to his country's cause at such a time? there was but one thing that made him hesitate. was his word of honour in any wise pledged to edward? he had paid him homage for his lands: did that act bind him to obedience at all costs? but such refinements of honour were in advance of the thought of the time, incomprehensible to the wilder spirits by whom he was surrounded. llewelyn answered the brief objection by a flood of rude eloquence, and howel struck in with another argument not without its weight. "wendot, whatever course thou takest thou art damned in edward's eyes. thou hast held thyself surety for us, and nought but death will hold us back from the cry of our country in her need. envious eyes are cast already by the rapacious english upon these fair lands of thine, which these years of peace have given thee opportunity to enrich and beautify. let the king once hear that we have rebelled, and his nobles will claim thy lands, thy life, thy liberty, and thou must either yield all in ignominious flight or take up arms to defend thyself and thine own. i trow that no son of res vychan will stand calmly by to see himself thus despoiled; and if thou must fight, fight now, forestall the foe, and come out sword in hand at thy country's call, and let us fight shoulder to shoulder and hand to hand, as our forefathers have done before us. thou knowest somewhat of english rule, now that thou hast lived beneath it these past years. say, wilt thou still keep thy neck beneath the yoke, or wilt thou do battle like a warrior for liberty and independence? by our act thou art lost -- yet not even that thought can hold us back -- then why not stand or fall as a soldier, sword in hand, than be trapped like a rat in a hole in inglorious inaction? for methinks whatever else betided thou wouldst not raise thy hand against thy countrymen, even if thy feudal lord should demand it of thee." "never!" cried wendot fiercely, and his quick mind revolved the situation thus thrust upon him whilst howel was yet speaking. he saw at once that a course of neutrality would be impossible to him. fight he must, either as edward's vassal or his foe. the first was impossible; the second was fraught with a keen joy and secret sense of exultation. it was true what howel said: he would be held responsible for his brothers' revolt. the english harpies would make every endeavour to poison the king's mind, so that they might wrest from him his inheritance. he would be required to take up arms against his brothers, and his refusal to do so would be his death warrant. disgrace and ruin lay before him should he abide by such a course. the other promised at least glory and renown, and perhaps a soldier's death, or, better still, the independence of his country -- the final throwing off of the tyrant's yoke. his heart swelled within him; his eyes shone with a strange fire. only one thought checked the immediate utterance of his decision, and that was the vision of a pair of dark soft eyes, and a child's face in which something of dawning womanhood was visible, smiling upon him in complete and loving trust. yes, wendot had not forgotten gertrude; but time had done its work, and the image of the fair face was somewhat dim and hazy. he yet wore about his neck the half of the gold coin she had given him; but if he sometimes sighed as he looked upon it, it was a sigh without much real bitterness or regret. he had a tender spot in his memory for the little maid he had saved at the risk of his own life, but it amounted to little more than a pleasant memory. he had no doubt that she had long ago been wedded to some english noble, whose estates outshone those of dynevor in her father's eyes. during the first years after his return home he had wondered somewhat whether the earl and his daughter would find their way again to the rich valley of the towy; but the years passed by and they came not, and the brief dream of wendot's dawning youth soon ceased to have any real hold upon him. if her father had had any thoughts of mating her with the lord of dynevor, he would have taken steps for bringing the young people together. the last doubt fled as wendot thought this over; and whilst his brothers yet spoke, pointing to the rich stretch of country that lay before their eyes in all the glory of its autumn dress, and asking if that were not an inheritance worthy to be fought for, wendot suddenly held out his hand, and said in clear, ringing tones: "brothers, i go with you. i too will give my life and my all for the liberty of our land. the lord of dynevor shall not be slack to respond to his country's call. methinks indeed the hour has come. i will follow our kinsman whithersoever he shall bid." llewelyn and howel grasped the outstretched hand, and from within the castle walls there burst forth the strains of wild melody from the harp of old wenwynwyn. it seemed almost as though he must have heard the words that bound wendot to the national cause, so exultant and triumphant were the strains which awoke beneath his hands. it was but a few days later that the four brothers rode forth from beneath the arched gateway of dynevor, all armed to the teeth, and with a goodly following of armed attendants. wendot and griffeth paused at a short distance from the castle to look back, whilst a rush of strange and unwonted emotion brought the tears to griffeth's eyes which he trusted none saw beside. there stood the grand old castle, his home from childhood -- the place around which all the associations of a lifetime gathered. it was to him the ideal of all that was beautiful and strong and even holy -- the massive walls of the fortress rising grandly from the rocky platform, with the dark background of trees now burning with the rich hues of autumn. the fair valley stretched before their eyes, every winding of which was familiar to them, as was also every individual tree or crag or stretch of moorland fell as far as eye could see. the very heart strings of wendot and griffeth seemed bound round these homelike and familiar things; and there was something strangely wistful in the glances thrown around him by the young lord of dynevor as he reined in his horse, and motioning to the armed followers to pass him, stood with griffeth for a few brief moments alone and silent, whilst the cavalcade was lost to sight in the windings of the road. "is it a last farewell?" murmured the younger of the brothers beneath his breath. "shall i ever see this fair scene again?" and wendot answered not, for he had no words in which to do so. he had been fully occupied all these last days -- too much occupied to have had time for regretful thought; but griffeth had been visiting every haunt of his boyhood with strange feelings of impending trouble, and his cheek was pale with the stress of his emotion, and his voice was husky with the intensity of the strain he was putting upon himself. "griffeth, griffeth!" cried wendot suddenly, "have i done wrong in this thing? i asked not thy gentle counsel, yet thou didst not bid me hold back. but tell me, have i been wrong? could i have done other than i have?" "i think not that thou couldst. this seems like a call from our country, to which no son of hers may be deaf. and it is true that our brothers have undone thee, and that even wert thou not willing to take up arms against them and thy countrymen, the rupture with edward is inevitable. no, i am with thee in what thou hast done. the lord of dynevor must show himself strong in defence of his country's rights. "yet my heart is heavy as i look around me. for we are going forth to danger and death, and who knows what may betide ere we see these fair lands again, or whether we may ever return to see them more?" wendot would fain have replied with cheerful assurance, but a strange rush of emotion came over him as he gazed at his childhood's home, together with a sudden strong presentiment that there was something prophetic in his brother's words. he gazed upon the gray battlements and the brawling river with a passionate ardour in his glance, and then turning quickly upon griffeth, he said: "brother, why shouldst thou leave it? thou art more fit for the safe shelter of home than for the strife of a winter war. why shouldst thou come forth with us? let us leave thee here in safety --" "wendot!" it was but one word, but the volume of reproach compressed into it brought wendot to a sudden stop. they looked into each other's eyes a moment, and then griffeth said, with his sweet, meaning smile: "we have never been separated yet, my wendot; in sorrow and joy we have ever been together. it is too late to change all that now. i will be by thy side to the end. be it for life or for death we will ride forth together." and so with one hard hand clasp that spoke volumes, and with one more long, lingering look at the familiar towers of the old home, wendot and griffeth, the lords of dynevor, rode forth to meet their fate at the hands of the mighty english king. of that sudden, fierce, and partially successful revolt the history books of the age give account. llewelyn and his brother david, joined by the whole strength of the north, and by much able assistance from the south, drove back the english across the border; and when edward, hurrying to the spot, marched against them, his army was utterly routed near the menai straits, and the triumphant welsh believed for a few brief months that they were victors indeed, and that the power of the foe was hopelessly broken. llewelyn with his army retired to the fastnesses of snowdon, where the english durst not pursue them, and these less hardy soldiers suffered so terribly in the winter cold that the mortality in their ranks caused the triumphant mountaineers to prophesy that their work would be done for them without any more exertion on their part. but the lion-hearted king of england was not of the stuff that easily submits to defeat. he knew well that wales was in his power, and that he had but to exercise patience and resolution, and the final victory would be his. permitting no relaxation of his efforts in the north, even when the winter's bitter cold was causing untold sufferings amongst his soldiers, he commenced a muster of troops in the south, from which country most of the disaffected nobles had drawn away to join the insurgents under the prince of wales, as llewelyn was called. it was a shock of no small magnitude to that prince to hear that his foe was thus employing himself; and leaving the fastnesses of snowdon with a picked band of his hardiest men, amongst whom he numbered llewelyn and howel, he marched southward himself, hoping to overthrow this new force before it had gathered power sufficient to be dangerous. wendot would gladly have been of the number, for inaction, and the rude barbarism he saw around him, were inexpressibly galling to him; and the more he saw of the savage spirits by whom he was surrounded the less he was able to hope for any permanent advantage as the result of this rising. the jealousies of the respective chiefs were hardly held in check even in the face of a common peril. it was impossible not to foresee that the termination of a war with england would only be the signal for an outbreak of innumerable petty animosities and hostile feuds. so wendot would have been thankful to escape from this irksome inactivity, and to join the band going south; but the condition of griffeth withheld him, for the youth was very ill, and he often felt that this winter of hardship up in the mountain air was killing him by inches, although he never complained. it was out of the question for griffeth to march or to fight. he lay most of the day beside a little fire of peat, in a cabin that wendot and his men had constructed with their own hands, beneath the shelter of a rock which broke the force of the north wind, and formed some protection against the deep snow. griffeth had borne his share gallantly in the earlier part of the campaign, but a slight wound had laid him aside; and since the intense cold had come, he had only grown more white and wasted and feeble day by day. now that the sun was gaining a little more power, and that the melting of the snow bespoke that spring was at hand, wendot began to hope the worst was over; but to leave his brother in such a state was out of the question, and he saw llewelyn and howel depart without attempting to join them. days and weeks had passed, and no news had been received by those up in the mountains of the result of llewelyn's expedition. it was reported by scouts that edward was at carnarvon castle in person, making hostile demonstrations of a determined kind, which, in the absence of their chief, the wild welsh kerns knew not how to repel. they were safe where they were, and awaited the return of their leader; but a terrible stroke had yet to fall upon them, which proved the final blow to all their hopes and ambitions. it was a wild, windy night. wendot had piled the fire high, and was sitting with griffeth talking of past days, and gazing with an unconscious wistfulness into the glowing embers, which seemed to him to take the semblance of those familiar towers and rocks which he sometimes felt as though he should never see again. griffeth paused in the midst of something he was saying, and looked round with a start. it seemed to both brothers as though a hand was fumbling at the latch. wendot rose and opened the door, and a tall, gaunt figure staggered rather than walked into the room, and sank down as if perfectly exhausted beside the glowing fire. griffeth uttered a startled exclamation. "llewelyn!" he cried sharply; and wendot, barring the door, and coming forward like one in a dream, asked with the calmness of one who reads dire disaster: "where is howel?" "dead," came the answer in a hollow voice, as though the speaker was exhausted past words -- "dead by the side of llewelyn our prince. would that i too lay beside them!" wendot, too stunned to say another word at that moment, busied himself in getting his brother food and wine, of which he plainly stood sorely in need. he ate ravenously and in perfect silence; and his brothers watched him without having the heart to put another question. indeed they knew the worst: their prince dead; the flower of their army slain -- their own brother among the number -- the rest dispersed; the remaining forces without a leader, without a rallying point, without a hope. what need of farther words? presently llewelyn spoke again, this time with more strength, but still with the sullenness of despair: "it was a mere skirmish on the banks of the wye. we were in advance of the main body, and a party of english fell upon us. we did our best to sell our lives dearly. i thought i had sold mine when my time came, but i awoke and found myself beside the stream. howel was lying upon me, stark and dead, and our prince a few yards away, with his own men round him. i do not think the foe knew whom they had slain, or they would have taken at least his head away as a trophy. i know not who took the news to our comrades, but they learned it, and dispersed to the four winds. i was forced to remain for some days in a shepherd's hut till my wounds were somewhat healed, and since then i have been struggling back here, not knowing what had befallen our camp in these mountains. am i the first to bear the, news, or has it been known before?" "you are the first," answered wendot in a strange, blank voice. "we have heard nothing; we have been living in hopes of some triumph, some victory. we will let our fellows rest in peace one night longer. tomorrow we must tell all, and decide what our action must be." "there is nothing more to hope for," said llewelyn darkly. "our hope is dead, our last prince lies in a nameless grave. there is but one choice open to us now. let those who will submit themselves to the proud usurper, and let us, who cannot so demean the name we bear, go forth sword in hand, and die fighting to the last for the country we may not live to deliver." it seemed, indeed, as if llewelyn's words were to prove themselves true; for no sooner did the news of the disaster on the banks of the wye become known than the army began to melt away, like the snow in the increasing power of the sun. the chiefs, without a head, without a cause or a champion, either retired to their own wild solitudes or hastened to make their peace with their offended king; and only those who put honour before safety or life itself stood forth sword in hand to die, if it might be, with face to foe in defence of a cause which they knew was hopelessly lost. and amongst this gallant but reckless little band were the three brothers of dynevor, who, having once taken up the sword against edward, were determined not to lay it down until the hand of death was cold upon each heart. chapter x. carnarvon castle. "there has been a battle -- desperate fighting. they are bringing the prisoners into the guardroom," cried britton, bursting into the royal apartments with small ceremony in his excitement. "come, alphonso; come, joanna -- let us go and see them. our fellows say they made a gallant stand, and fought like veritable tigers. in sooth, i would i had been there. methinks it is the last of the fighting these parts will see for many a long year." alphonso sprang up at the word of his comrade, eager to go and see the prisoners, his humane and kindly nature prompting him to ascertain that no undue harshness was displayed towards them by the rude soldiers. but joanna, although her face was full of interest and eagerness, shook her head with a little grimace and a glance in the direction of her governess, lady edeline; for during the years that had elapsed between the visit of the royal children to rhuddlan and this present visit to carnarvon, joanna had grown from a child to a woman, and was no longer able to run about with her brothers at will, though she still retained her old fearless, independent spirit and impulsive generosity of temperament, and was a universal favourite, despite the fact that she gave more trouble than any of her younger sisters. the royal family had been for some time in wales. they had wintered at rhuddlan, where the little princess elizabeth had been born the previous year, just prior to the outbreak of the rebellion. now they were at carnarvon for greater security, the king considering that fortress the stronger of the two. the rebellion was practically at an end, but there was much to look into and arrange with regard to the rebels and their affairs, and there was the prospect of a considerable sojourn at the castle. at this moment edward was himself absent, though not far away. it had been rumoured that there had been sharp, irregular fighting all about the region of snowdon, where the rebels had had their headquarters. considerable excitement had prevailed for some time in the english ranks, and there was still complete uncertainty as to the fate of llewelyn, prince of wales; for although a rumour was rife that he had fallen in fight, it had never been corroborated by trustworthy testimony, and so long as that turbulent prince remained alive there was no security for the peace or submission of the country. thus it was that the news of a victory and the capture of prisoners was exceedingly exciting to those within the castle. alphonso, who was looking somewhat stronger for his sojourn in the bracing air of wales, sprang up to go with britton to make inspection, and again joanna secretly bewailed her fate at being a girl, unable to take an equal share with her brother in such matters. the guardroom at the castle was a vast and really fine apartment, with a vaulted roof and majestic pillars, that gave the idea of much rude strength of construction. just at this moment it was the scene of an animated picture, and the boys paused at the door by which they had entered to look about them with eager curiosity. the hall was full of soldiers, most of whom wore the english king's badge, and were known by sight to them as being attached to the castle; but mingled with these were other men, some in the english dress, but many others wearing the wild garb of the sons of the mountains, and these last had, for the most part, fetters on their wrists, or were bound two and two together and guarded by the english, whilst many of them were drooping under the effect of ghastly wounds, and several forms lay stretched along the ground indifferent to, or insensible of, their surroundings. desperate fighting there had been, indeed, to judge from appearances, and alphonso's gentle spirit was stirred within him as he caught the sound of deep groans mingling with the loud voices of the soldiers. he had inherited the gentle spirit of his mother, and the generosity which always takes the part of the weak and oppressed. it mattered not that these men had been taken with swords drawn against his royal father; they were prisoners now, they had lost their all; and if rebels from the english standpoint, had been striving to free their country from what appeared to them as the unjust inroads of a foreign foe. alphonso, himself sinking into an early grave, and fully aware of his own state, saw life somewhat differently from his soldier sire, and felt little sympathy for that lust of conquest which was to the great edward as the elixir of life. the lad's thoughts were more of that eternal crown laid up in the bright land where the sword comes not, and where the trump of war may never be heard. the glory of an earthly diadem was as nothing to him, and he had all that deep love for his fellow men which often characterizes those who know that their time on earth is short. stepping forward, therefore, with the air of quiet authority which he knew so well how to assume, he enforced silence by a gesture; and as the soldiers respectfully fell back before him, he walked through the groups of prisoners, speaking friendly words to them in their own tongue, and finally gave strict command to the captain of the guardroom to remove the fetters from those who were wounded, and see that they had all due tendance and care, whilst the rest were to be guarded with as little rigour as possible, and shut up together, where they would have at least the consolation of companionship in their misfortune. the captain gave respectful heed to these words, and was by no means loath to carry out his instructions. he was a humane man himself, though inured to the horrors of war, and he, in common with all who came into contact with the young prince, felt towards him a great love and reverence; for there was something unearthly at times in the radiant beauty of the young alphonso's face, and the growing conviction that he was not long for this world increased the loving loyalty shown to him by all. "your grace's behests shall be obeyed," answered the man readily; "i myself will see that the wounded receive due and fitting care. they are brave fellows, be they rebels or no, and verily i believe there is not a man of them but would have laid down his life a hundred times to save that of the two young leaders who led them on to the last desperate sally. such gallant feats of arms i have seldom beheld, and it was sore trouble to capture without killing them, so fiercely did they fight. but i bid the men take them alive, if possible, as they seemed too gallant and noble to fall in that vain struggle. methinks, could they be tamed to serve the king as valiantly as they fought for that forlorn hope, they might be well worth the saving. i am always loath to see a brave life flung away, be it of friend or foe." "right, good poleyn; thy words do thee credit. and where are these gallant leaders? show me them, for i would fain speak a kindly word to them. i would not that they feared my father's wrath too much. stern he may be, but cruel never, and it would please me well to bid them submit themselves to him, that he might the more readily forgive them. tell me which they be." "they are not here," answered the captain; "i had them removed for greater comfort and security to mine own lodging. one of them is so sore wounded that i feared he would not live to make submission to the king unless he had prompt and skilful tendance; whilst the other, although his hurts be fewer and less severe, looks as if some mortal sickness were upon him. it may be nought but the feebleness that follows loss of blood and hard fighting; but i left them both to the care of my wife, who is the best tender of the sick that i have ever known. they came under her hands last night, brought on by our mounted fellows in advance of the rest. today they are somewhat recovered; but i have had scarce time to think of them. i have been occupied since dawn with these other prisoners." "i would fain see these youths; said you not they were but youths, poleyn?" said alphonso, whose interest was aroused by the tale he had heard. "i will go to your lodging and request admittance. your worthy wife will not refuse me, i trow?" the man smiled, and said that his wife would be proud indeed to be so visited. alphonso, to whom the intricacies of the castle were well known, lost no time in finding the lodging of the captain of the guard, and quickly obtained admittance to the presence of the wounded youths, who occupied a comfortable chamber over the gateway, and had plainly been well looked to by the capable and kindly woman who called poleyn her lord and master. the bright light of day was excluded from the sickroom, and as the prince stood in the doorway his eyes only took in the general appearance of two recumbent figures, one lying upon a couch beside a glowing fire of wood, and the other extended motionless upon a bed in an attitude that bespoke slumber, his face bandaged in such a way that in no case would it have been recognizable. but as alphonso's eyes grew used to the darkness, and fixed themselves upon the face of the other youth, who was dressed and lying on the couch, he suddenly gave a great start, and advanced with quick steps to his side. "griffeth!" he cried suddenly. the figure on the couch gave a start, a pair of hollow eyes flashed open, there was a quick attempt to rise, checked by the prince himself, and griffeth exclaimed in the utmost astonishment: "prince alphonso!" "yes, griffeth, it is i indeed;" and then the prince sat down on the edge of the couch and gazed intently at the wasted features of the youth, towards whom in days gone by he had felt such a strong attachment. there was something of sorrow and reproach in his glance as he said gently: "griffeth, can it really be thou? i had not thought to have seen thee in the ranks of our foes, fighting desperately against my father's soldiers. whence has come this bitter change in thy feelings? and what is wendot doing, who was to act as guardian toward his younger brethren? hast thou broken away from his controlling hand? o griffeth, i grieve to see thee here and in such plight." but griffeth's sad glance met that of the young prince unfalteringly and without shame, although there was something in it of deep and settled sorrow. he made a gesture as though he would have put out his hand, and alphonso, who saw it, grasped it warmly, generous even when he felt that he and his father had been somewhat wronged. "think not that we took up arms willingly, wendot and i," he said faintly, yet with clearness and decision. "ay, it is wendot who lies there, sore wounded, and sleeping soundly after a night of fever and pain. we shall not disturb him, he is fast in dreamland; and if you would listen to my tale, gentle prince, i trow you would think something less hardly of us, who have lost our all, and have failed to win the soldier's death that we went forth to seek, knowing that it alone could make atonement for what must seem to your royal father an act of treachery and breach of faith." and then griffeth told all his tale -- told of the wrongs inflicted on hapless wales in edward's absence by the rapacious nobles he had left behind him to preserve order, of the ever-increasing discontent amongst the people, the wild hope, infused by david's sudden rising, of uniting once and for all to throw off the foreign yoke and become an independent nation again. he told of the action taken by their twin brothers, of the pressure brought to bear upon wendot, of the vigilant hostility of their rapacious kinsman res ap meredith, son of the old foe meredith ap res, now an english knight, and eager to lay his hands upon the broad lands of dynevor. it was made plain to the prince how desperate would have been wendot's condition, thus beset with foes and held responsible for his brothers' acts. almost against his will had he been persuaded, and at least he had played the man in his country's hour of need, instead of trying to steer his way by a cold neutrality, which would have ruined him with friend and foe alike. griffeth told of the hardships of that campaign amongst the mountains; of the death of llewelyn the prince, and of his brother howel; and of the resolve of the gallant little band, thus bereft of their hope, to go out and die sword in hand, and so end the miserable struggle that had ceased to be aught but a mockery of war. it was plainly a bitter thought even to the gentle griffeth that they had not met the death they craved, but had fallen alive into the hands of the foe. alphonso gently chid him, and comforted him with brave and kindly words; and then he asked what had befallen his brother llewelyn, and if he had likewise fallen in the fight. "nay; he was not with us when we made that last rally. he commenced the march with us, but his wound broke out again, and we were forced to leave him behind. he and a handful of faithful servants from iscennen and dynevor were to try and push on to the stronghold of einon ap cadwalader, and ask counsel and assistance from him. in old days he and our father were friends. although he was one of the few who did not join llewelyn in this rising, he has ever been well-disposed towards his countrymen. so we hoped our brother would find shelter and help there. if he had tried to march with us, he must assuredly have died." "ha!" said alphonso smilingly, "methinks llewelyn will have no trouble in gaining entrance there. rememberest thou the lady arthyn, who was with us at rhuddlan when thou wast there before? she hath left us of late to return to her father, whose loyalty has been proved, and whose request for his child was listened to graciously. but we shall be seeing them soon again, for my father betrothed arthyn's hand to raoul latimer, whom doubtless thou rememberest as a somewhat haughty and quarrelsome lad. time has softened down some of his rude tempers, and he has ever been eager for the match. my father has promised her hand in troth plight to him, and we await the coming of her and her father for the ceremony of betrothal. "if i remember rightly, she was always a friend to thy brother. if so, he will find a ready welcome at her father's house, for my lady arthyn always had a soft spot in her heart for those we called rebels. she was a true daughter of wales, albeit she loved us well, and she will like thy brother none the less that his sword has been unsheathed against the english usurper." and then the prince and the rebel subject both laughed, and that laugh did more to bring them back to their old familiar relations than all that had gone before. griffeth was easily led on to tell the story of the life at dynevor these past years; and alphonso better understood from his unconscious self-betrayal than from his previous explanation how the fire of patriotic love burned in the hearts of these brothers. he thought that had he been one of them he would have acted even as they had done, and there was no anger but only a pitying affection in his heart towards one whose life was overshadowed by a cloud so like the one which hung upon the horizon of his own sky. for it was plain to him that griffeth's hold on life was very slight; that he was suffering from the same insidious disease which was sapping away his own health and strength. he had suspected it years before, and this supposition had made a link between them then; now he was certain of it, and certain, too, that the end could not be very far off. the fine constitution of the young welshman had been undermined by the rigours of the past winter, and there was little hope that the coming summer would restore to him any of the fictitious strength which had long buoyed up wendot with the hope that his brother would yet live to grow to man's estate. "for myself i do not think i wish it," said griffeth, with one of his luminous glances at alphonso; "life is very hard, and there seems nothing left to live for. i know not how i could live away from the woods and rocks of dynevor. but there is wendot -- my dear, kind, most loving brother. it cuts me to the heart to think of leaving him alone. prince alphonso, you are the king's son; will you pardon wendot his trespass, and stand his friend with your royal father? i have no right to ask it. we have grievously offended, but he is my brother --" a violent fit of coughing came on, and the sentence was never completed. alphonso raised the wasted form in his arms, and soothed the painful paroxysm as one who knows just what will best relieve the sufferer. the sound roused wendot, who had been sleeping for many hours, and although he had been brought in last night in an apparently almost dying state, his vigorous constitution was such that even these few hours' quiet rest, and the nourishment administered to him by the good woman who waited on him, had infused new life into his frame, so that he had strength to sit up in bed, and to push aside the bandage which had fallen over his eyes, as he anxiously asked his brother what was amiss. then alphonso came towards him, and, holding his hand in a friendly clasp, told him that he had heard all the story, and that he was still their friend, and would plead for them with his father. wendot, bewildered and astonished and ashamed, could scarce believe his senses, and asked, with a proud independence which raised a smile in alphonso's eyes, that he might be led out to speedy death -- the death by the headsman's axe, which was all he had now to hope for. life had no longer any charms for him, he said; if only his young brother might be pardoned, he himself would gladly pay the forfeit for both. but alphonso, upon whose generous spirit bravery and self devotion, even in a foe, were never thrown away, replied kindly that he would see if peace could not be made with his offended sire, and that meantime wendot must get well fast, and regain his health and strength, so as to be fit to appear before the king in person if he should be presently summoned. but though the young prince left lighter hearts behind him in the room where the two eagles of dynevor were imprisoned, he found that the task he had set himself with his father was a more difficult one than he had anticipated. edward was very greatly incensed by this fierce and futile rebellion that had cost him so many hundreds of brave lives, and had inflicted such sufferings on his loyal troops. the disaster at menai still rankled in his breast, and it was with a very stern brow and a face of resolute determination that he returned to carnarvon to look into matters, and to settle upon the fate of the many prisoners and vassals who had once mere placed themselves or their lands in his sole power through the act which had rendered them forfeit. nor was alphonso's task rendered less difficult from the fact that sir res ap meredith had been before him, poisoning the king's mind against many of the welsh nobles, and particularly against the sons of res vychan, in whose possession were the province and castle of dynevor. upon that fair territory he had long cast covetous eyes. he cared little in comparison for the more barren and turbulent region of iscennen, and it was upon wendot and griffeth, but particularly upon wendot, that the full bitterness of his invective was poured. he had so imbued the king with the idea that the youth was dangerous, turbulent, and treacherous (charges that his conduct certainly seemed to bear out), that it was small wonder if edward, remembering his own former goodwill towards the youth, should feel greatly incensed against him. and although he listened to alphonso's pleadings, and the lad told his story with much simple eloquence and fervour, the stern lines of his brow did not relax, and his lips set themselves into an ominous curve which the prince liked little to see. "boy," he said, with an impatience that boded ill for the success of the cause, "i verily believe wert thou in the place of king, thou wouldst give to every rebel chief his lands again, and be not contented until thine own throne came tottering about thine ears. mercy must temper justice, but if it take the place of justice it becomes mere weakness. i trusted wendot ap res vychan once, and laid no hand upon his lands. thou hast seen how this trust has been rewarded. to reinstate him now would be madness. no. i have in sir res ap meredith a loyal and true servant, and his claims upon his traitorous kinsman's lands may not be disregarded. dynevor will pass away from wendot. it is throwing words away to plead with me. my mind is made up. i trust not a traitor twice." there was something in his father's tone that warned alphonso to press the matter no more. he knew that when edward thus spoke his word was final and irrevocable; and all he ventured now to ask was, "what will become of wendot and his brother? you will not take their lives, sweet sire?" "their lives i give to thee, my son," answered edward, with a gesture towards his boy which betrayed a deep love, and showed that although he had denied him sternly he did not do so willingly. "as thou hast pleaded for them, i will not sentence them to death; but they remain my prisoners, and regain not their liberty. i know the turbulent race from which they spring. sir res will have small peace in his new possessions if any of the former princes of dynevor are at large in the country. wendot and griffeth remain my prisoners." "nay, father; let them be my prisoners, i pray," cried alphonso, with unwonted energy and animation. "thou hast granted me their lives; grant me the keeping of their persons too. nay, think not that i will connive at their escape. give whatsoever charge thou wilt concerning the safety of their persons to those who guard us in our daily life, but let me have them as gentlemen of mine own. call them prisoners an you will, but let their imprisonment be light -- let me enjoy their company. thou knowest that britton is fretting for a freer life, and that i see little of him now. i have often longed for a companion to share my solitary hours. give me griffeth and wendot. they have the royal blood of wales flowing in their veins, and methinks they love me even as i love them. and, father, griffeth has not many months, methinks, to live; and i know so well all he suffers that my heart goes out to him. he has the love of books that i have, and we have so many thoughts which none seem to understand save our two selves. and he and wendot are as one. it would be cruelty such as thou wouldst not inflict to separate them whilst one has so short a time to live. give me them for mine own attendants, and bid the servants guard them as best pleaseth thee. sweet father, i have not asked many boons of thee. grant me this one, i pray thee, for my heart is verily set on it." there was something in this appeal, something in the look upon alphonso's face, something in the very words he had used, that made it impossible to his father to refuse him. blind his eyes as he would to the truth, he was haunted by a terrible fear that the life of his only son was surely slipping away. alphonso did not often speak of his health, and the hint just dropped struck chill upon the father's heart. passing his hand across his face to conceal the sudden spasm of pain that contracted it, he rose hastily from his chair, and said: "give thine own orders concerning these youths. i leave them in thy hands. make of them what it pleaseth thee. only let them understand that charge will be given to the custodians of the castle, and of whatever place they visit in the future, that they are prisoners at the king's pleasure, and that any attempt at escape will be punished with instant and rigorous captivity." "so be it," answered alphonso, with brightening eyes. "i thank thee, father, for the boon. thou shalt never have cause to repent it." chapter xi. the king's clemency. "unhand me, sir. how dare you thus insult me? let go my hand, or i summon help instantly. i am come to seek the king. will you raise a tumult within hearing of his private apartments? unhand me, i say," and arthyn's cheeks flamed dangerously, whilst her eyes flashed fire. but raoul latimer, though a craven before the face of an armed foe, could be resolute enough when he had only an unprotected woman to deal with, and was quite disposed to show his valour by pressing his unwelcome salutations upon the cheek of the girl he regarded as his future wife. his surprise at encountering arthyn, whom he believed far away in her father's castle, hastening alone down one of the long corridors of carnarvon castle, had been very great. he could not imagine what had thus brought her, and was eager to claim from her the greeting he felt was his due. but arthyn had never lacked for spirit, and had always confessedly abhorred raoul, nor had absence seemed to make the heart grow fonder, at least in her case. she repulsed him with such hearty goodwill that his cowardly fury was aroused, and had not the girl cried aloud in her anger and fear, he might have done her some mischief. but even as she lifted her voice a door in the corridor was flung open, and the king himself strode forth, not, as it chanced, in response to the call, which had not reached his ears, but upon an errand of his own. now when he saw that at the doors of his own private apartments one of his own gentlemen had dared to lay rude hands upon a woman, his kingly wrath was stirred, and one blow from his strong arm sent raoul reeling across the corridor till the wall stopped his farther progress. "how now, malapert boy?" cried edward in deep displeasure. "is it thus you disgrace your manhood by falling upon the defenceless, and by brawling even within hearing of your sovereign? you are not so wondrous valiant in battle, raoul latimer, that you can afford to blast the small reputation you have. "sweet lady, be not afraid; thy king will protect thee from farther insult. "ha, arthyn, is it thou, my child? nay, kneel not in such humbly suppliant fashion; rise and kiss me, little one, for thou art only less dear to me than mine own children. come hither, maiden, and speak to me. what has brought thee here alone and unannounced? and what has raised this storm betwixt ye twain?" "sire -- my king -- hear me," cried arthyn in a choked voice; "and bid that wicked youth, whom i have ever hated, leave us. let me speak to you alone and in private. it is to you, gracious lord, that i have come. grant me, i pray you, the boon of but a few words alone and in private. i have somewhat to tell your grace -- your royal pardon to ask." "pardon? tush, maiden! thou canst not have offended greatly. but come hither; what thou hast to say thou shalt say before the queen and eleanor. they have ever been as mother and sister to thee. thou hast no secrets for me which they may not hear?" "ah no; i would gladly speak all before them," answered arthyn eagerly, knowing that in the gentle eleanor of castile and her daughter she would find the most sympathizing of friends. intensely patriotic as the girl had ever been, loving her country above all else, and throwing heart and soul into that country's cause, she had yet learned a deep love and reverence for the family of the english king, amongst whom so many years of her young life had been spent. she was able to do full justice to the kindly and domestic side of the soldier king's nature, and, whilst she regarded him as a foe to wales, looked upon him personally as a friend and protector. edward's gentleness and affection in his private life equalled his stern, unbending policy in matters of state. it was very tenderly and kindly that he led the girl to the private apartments of the queen; and when once arthyn found herself face to face with one who had given to her more of mother love than any other being in the world, she flung herself into the arms opened to receive her, and out came the whole story which had brought her on this secret mission to carnarvon. "sweet lady, o most gracious madam, listen and plead for me with the king. he is kind and good, and he knows what true love is. lady, it is as a wedded wife i come to you, craving pardon for what i have done. but i ever hated that wicked raoul latimer, my country's foe, and would have died rather than plight my troth to him. and when he came to us -- he, my love, my life, he whom i loved long years ago when we met as boy and girl, and whom i have never forgotten -- what could i do? how could i resist? "and my father approved. he gave my hand in wedlock. and now i am come to pray your pardon for myself and for him whom i love. oh, do not turn a deaf ear to me! as you have loved when you were young, pardon those who have done likewise." king and queen exchanged glances, half of amusement, half of astonishment, but there was no anger in either face. raoul was no favourite in the royal circle, and his visible cowardice in the recent campaign had brought him into open disfavour with the lion-hearted edward. he loved arthyn dearly, and this proof of her independence of spirit, together with her artless confidence in his kindliness of heart, pleased him not a little. he had been forced during these past days to act a stern part towards many of the welsh nobles who had been brought before him. he was glad enough, this thankless task accomplished, to allow the softer and more kindly side of his nature to assert itself. and perhaps the sympathetic glances of his son alphonso, who had just entered the room, helped to settle his resolve that arthyn at least should receive full and free forgiveness. eleanor had drawn her former playmate towards her, and was eagerly questioning her as to the name of him to whom her heart and hand were now given, and the answer sent a thrill of surprise through the whole company. "it is one whom you all know, sweet eleanor -- llewelyn, the son of res vychan, lord of dynevor. thou knowest, eleanor, how he came amongst us at rhuddlan years agone now, and perchance thou sawest even then how we loved one another, albeit it was but the love of children. but we never have forgotten, and when he came to my father's castle, wounded and weary and despairing after the disaster which robbed wales of her last native prince, what could we do but receive and tend him? it was thus it came about, and love did the rest." "and so thou hast wed a rebel, maiden?" quoth edward, in tones that seemed to be stern by effort rather than by the will of the speaker, whilst the kindly light in the eyes belied his assumed harshness; "and having done so thou hast the hardihood to come and tell us of it thine own self. fie upon thee for a saucy wench! what better dost thou expect for thyself and thy lord than a lodging in the lowest dungeon of the keep?" "i know that we ought to expect nothing better," answered arthyn, with her brightest smile, as she turned fearlessly upon the king. "but do as you will with us, noble king, and we will not rebel or complain, so that we may be together. and my dear lord bid me give you this. he took it with his own hands from the dead hand of llewelyn, prince of wales, and he charged me to place it in your hands as a pledge and token that your enemy ceased to live. report has told him that men say llewelyn escaped that day, and that he yet lives to rise against you again. by this signet you may know that he lies dead and cold, and that with him has perished the last hope of wales ever to be ruled by a prince of her own." edward put forth his hand eagerly, and examined the signet ring, which was one he himself had given to llewelyn on the occasion of his last submission. and as he looked upon it a great weight seemed to be rolled from off him, for it was the first decided intimation he had had that his foe was actually slain. rumour had been rife with reports of his escape, and although there had not been lacking testimony to the effect that the prince had fallen in battle, the fact had never been adequately established. a few quick questions to arthyn appeared to establish this beyond all doubt, and in the expansion of the moment edward was ready not only to forgive the bearer of such welcome tidings, but to forget that he had ever been an offender. one of the sons of res vychan had paid the price of his breach of faith with his life; two more were prisoners at his royal pleasure. surely the family had suffered enough without harsher vengeance being taken. surely he might give to arthyn the liberty and possibly even the lands of her lord in return for the welcome intelligence she had brought. alphonso, ever on the side of mercy, joined with the queen and eleanor in persuading the king to forgive and forget, and arthyn was sent home the day following laden with presents and good wishes, bearing a full pardon to her lord from the english king, as well as a half promise that when the country became somewhat more settled he might make request for his commot of iscennen with reasonable chance of being heard. wendot and griffeth both saw their new sister before her return, and charged her with all sorts of friendly messages for llewelyn. if wendot thought it hard that the brother who had always been england's bitterest foe should be pardoned and rewarded, whilst he himself should be left to pine in captivity, at least he made no sign, and never let a word of bitterness pass his lips. indeed he was too ill greatly to trouble himself over his own condition or the future that lay before him. fever and ague had supervened upon the wounds he had received, and whilst griffeth was rapidly recovering such measure of health and strength as he ever could boast, wendot lay helpless and feeble, scarce able to lift his head from the pillow, and only just equal to the task of speaking to arthyn and comprehending the good news with which she came charged. the brothers had now been removed to better apartments, near to those occupied by the prince, whose servants they nominally were. griffeth had begun to enter upon some of his duties towards his royal patron, and the friendship begun in boyhood was rapidly ripening to an intimacy which surprised them both. such perfect mutual understanding and sympathy was rare and precious; and griffeth did not even look back with longing to the old life, so entirely had his heart gone out to the youthful prince, whose days on earth, like his own, were plainly numbered. lady gertrude cherleton was still an inmate of the royal household. she was now a ward of edward's, her father having died a year or two previously. she was not considered a minor any longer, having attained the age of eighteen some time before, and the management of her estates was left partially to her. but she remained by choice the companion of eleanor and joanna, and would probably continue to do so until she married. it was a source of wonder to the court why she did not make choice of a husband amongst the many suitors for her hand; but she had hitherto turned a deaf ear to the pleadings of all. sir godfrey challoner had long been sighing at her feet, but she would have none of him, and appeared to be proof against all the shafts of the blind god of love. but her intense excitement when she heard of the arrival at carnarvon of the two brothers from dynevor told its own tale to the princess joanna, who had ever been the girl's confidante in this matter, and who had known from childhood how gertrude had always believed herself pledged. it was a charming secret for them to cherish between them; and now that wendot was once more beneath the castle roof, the impulsive joanna would launch out into extravagant pictures of future happiness and prosperity. her ardent temperament, having no personal romance to feed upon -- for though her hand had once been plighted, her future lord had been drowned the previous year in a boating accident, and she was again free -- delighted to throw itself into the concerns of her friend, and the sense of power which had been so early implanted within her made her confident of being able to overcome obstacles and attain the object of her wishes, be the difficulties and dangers in their path never so great. "you shall be united, gertrude, an he loves thee," cried the generous joanna, flinging her arms round the neck of her companion, and kissing her again and again. "his life, his liberty, shall be obtained, and thou and he shall be happy together. i have said it, and i will do it." whatever was known to joanna was known to alphonso, who shared all her feelings, and was most tenderly beloved by her. he was as ardent in the cause as his sister could be; but he saw more of the difficulties that beset their path, and knew better his father's iron temperament, and how deeply wendot had offended. doubtless much was due to the misrepresentations of sir res ap meredith, who had now secured for himself the coveted lands of dynevor; but whatever the cause, the eldest son of the house of dynevor was the object of the king's severe displeasure, and it was not likely he would relax his vigilance or depart from his word, not even for the prayers of his children or the tears of his favourite gertrude. he had pardoned llewelyn at the instance of arthyn; if the same game were to be played over again by another of his daughters' companions, he would not unnaturally believe that he was being cajoled and trifled with. "if it were only griffeth it would be easy," said alphonso thoughtfully. "but wendot --" and there he stopped and shook his head. it was some days before the king saw the new attendant of his sons; but coming into alphonso's private apartment one day suddenly, he found several of the royal children gathered there, and with them a fair-haired youth, who was reading to the prince out of an illuminated missal. alphonso was lying on a couch, and his look of fragile weakness struck cold to the father's heart. of late the lad's strength had been failing rapidly, but edward had tried to blind his eyes to the truth. now he took a hasty step towards the couch, and griffeth rose quickly from his seat and bent the knee before the king. "ha, wendot," said edward, with a grave but not unkindly glance, "i have not seen you at these new duties before. so you are a student as well as a soldier? well, the arts of peace will better become you for the future. i remember your face well, young man. i would it had not been my duty to place you under restraint; but you have broken faith with me, and that grievously. how then can it be possible to trust you in the future? you, as the head of the house, should have set your brothers an example of honour and fealty. as it is, it has been far otherwise, and now you will have to bear the burden of that breach of trust and honour." twice griffeth had opened his lips as if to speak, but alphonso laid his hand upon his arm with a warning touch, which said as plainly as words could do, "be silent." so the youth held his peace, and only bent his head in submission; and edward, after a moment's pause, added more kindly: "and how fares it with your brother, wendot? i hear that his state is something precarious. i hope he has the best tendance the castle can afford, for i would not that any member of my son's household should suffer from lack of care." "he has all that he needs, i thank you, sire," answered griffeth. "he lies sorely sick at this present time, but i trust he will amend ere long." and then the king turned to his son, and spoke with him on some message of the state, and departed without heeding the excited glances of joanna or the restless way in which she kept looking first at alphonso and then at gertrude. but scarcely had the door closed behind the retiring form of the king before the excitable girl had bounded to her brother's side. "o alphonso," she cried, "did you do it on purpose? tell me what you have in your head." alphonso sat up and pushed the hair out of his eyes. griffeth was simply looking on in surprise and bewilderment. the prince laid a hand upon his arm and spoke very earnestly. "griffeth," he said, "it seems to me that through this error of my father's we may yet find means to compass the deliverance of wendot. there are none of those save ourselves who know which of you twain is the first-born and which the youngest. in your faces there is little to mark you one from the other. griffeth, if thou wilt be willing to be called wendot-- if wendot will consent to be griffeth -- then we may perchance make his way plain to depart and live in liberty once more; for it is wendot, and not griffeth, who has so roused my father's anger. griffeth he might easily consent to pardon; but wendot he will keep as a hostage in his own hands possibly for life itself." griffeth listened, and a strange look crept into his face. his cheek flushed, and his breath came thick and fast. he knew alphonso's motive in suggesting this change of identity. the lads, so closely drawn together in bonds of more than brotherly love, had not opened to each other their innermost souls for nought. alphonso knew that no freedom, no liberty, would give to the true griffeth any extension of his brief span of life. his days were as assuredly numbered as those of the royal lad himself, and life had ceased to have attractions for the pair, whose spirits were almost on the wing, who had set their hopes and aspirations higher than anything which earth could give, and whose chiefest wish now was to remain together until death should call them home. griffeth's only trouble had been the thought of leaving his brother, and it was when he had realized from alphonso's words that the king was deeply offended with wendot, and that it was almost hopeless to think of his obtaining his liberty again, that the heart of the lad sank in despondency and sorrow. for one of the young eagles of dynevor thus to be caged -- to be left to pine away in hopeless captivity, his brother gone from him as well as the prince who would stand his friend; possibly incarcerated at last in some dreary fortress, there to linger out his days in hopeless misery and inaction -- the thought had been so terrible to griffeth that there had been moments when he had almost longed to hear that the leeches gave up hope of saving his brother's life. but wendot was mending now; there was no doubt of ultimate recovery. he would rise from his sickbed to find -- what? griffeth had not dared to ask himself this question before; but now a great hope possessed him suddenly. he looked into alphonso's eyes, and the two instantly understood one another; as did also gertrude and joanna, who stood by flushed and quivering. "let it be so," said griffeth, in a voice which trembled a little, although the words were firm and emphatic. "i take the name the king has given me. i am wendot, whom he believes the traitor and the foe. griffeth lies yonder, sick and helpless, a victim to the influence of the first-born son of res vychan. it may be, when the king hears more of him, he will in his clemency release and pardon him. "ah, if i could but be the means of saving my brother -- the brother dearer to me than life -- from the fate which others have brought upon him, that i could lay down my life without a wish ungratified! it has been the only thought of bitterness in my cup that i must leave him alone -- and a prisoner." gertrude's face had flushed a deep red; she put out her hand and clasped that of griffeth hard; there was a little sob in her voice as she said: "oh, if you will but save him -- if you will but save him!" griffeth looked into her sweet face, with its sensitive features and soft eyes shining through a mist of tears, and he understood something which had hitherto been a puzzle to him. there had been days when the intermittent fever from which wendot suffered left him entirely for hours together, sometimes for a whole day; and griffeth had been sure that on some of these days, in the hours of his own attendance on the prince, his brother had received visits from others in the castle: for flowers had appeared to brighten the sick room, and there had been a wonderful new look of happiness in the patient's eyes, although he had said nothing to his brother as to what had befallen him. and in truth wendot was half disposed to believe himself the victim of some sweet hallucination, and was almost afraid to speak of the fancies that floated from time to time before his eyes, lest he should be told that his mind was wandering, and that he was the victim of delusion. not once alone, but many times, during the hours of his tardy convalescence, when he had been lying alone, crushed by the sense of weariness and oppression which illness brings to one so little accustomed to it, he had been roused by the sound of light footfalls in his room; he had seen a graceful form flitting about, bringing lightness and beauty in her wake, and leaving it behind when she left. the vision of a sweet, small face, and the lustrous dark eyes which had haunted him at intervals through the long years of his young manhood, appeared again before him, and sometimes his name was spoken in the gentle tones which had never been forgotten, although the memory was growing dim. weak and dazed and feeble, both in body and mind, from the exhausting and wasting illness that had followed the severe winter's campaign, wendot knew not if this vision was but the figment of his own brain, or whether the passionate love he felt rising up in his heart was lavished upon a mere phantom. but so long as she flitted about him he was content to lie and watch her, with the light of a great happiness in his eyes; and once when he had called her name -- the never forgotten name of gertrude -- he had thought that she had come and taken his hand and had bent over him with a wonderful light in her eyes, but the very effort he made to rise up and grasp her hands, and learn if indeed it were a creature of flesh and blood, had resulted in a lapse back into unconsciousness, and he was silent as to the vision even to griffeth, lest perchance he should have to learn that it was but a fevered dream, and that there was no gertrude within the castle walls at all. but gertrude knew all; it was no dream to her. she saw the love light in the eyes dearest to her in the world. she had heard her name called; she had seen that the love she had cherished for the hero of her childhood had not been cherished in vain. perhaps wendot had betrayed more in his sickness and weakness than he would have allowed himself to do in his strength, knowing himself a helpless, landless prisoner in the hands of the stern monarch who occupied england's throne. but be that as it may, gertrude had read his secret and was happy, though with such a chastened happiness as alone was possible to one who knew the peril in which her lover lay, and how hopeless even alphonso thought it to obtain for him the king's pardon. "my father would have betrothed us as children," said gertrude, her face glowing, but her voice steady and soft, for why should she be ashamed of the faithful love of a lifetime? "when we saw each other again he would have plighted us, but for the fear of what llewelyn and howel would do. but think you i love him less for his love to his country? think you that i have aught to reproach him with, when i know how he was forced into rebellion by others? i care not what he has done. i love him, and i know that he loves me. sooner would i share a prison with him than a palace with any man beside; yet i fear that in prison walls he will pine and die, even as a caged eagle, and it is that fear which breaks my heart. "o griffeth, griffeth, if you can save him, how we will bless you from, our hearts! give him to me, and i will guard and cherish him. i have wealth and lands for us both. only his liberty is lacking --" "and that we will strive to compass yet," said alphonso gently. "fear not, sweet gertrude, and betray not thyself. only remember from this time forward that wendot is my friend and companion here, and that thy lover griffeth lieth in yon chamber, sick and stricken." "i will remember," she answered resolutely; and so the change of identity was accomplished, with the result that the old chroniclers aver that wendot, eldest son of res vychan, died in the king's prison in england, whilst all that is known of the fate of griffeth is that he was with his brother in captivity in england in the year , after which his name completely disappears, and no more is known of him, good or bad. that night there were commotion and distress in carnarvon castle, for the young alphonso broke a blood vessel in a violent fit of coughing, and for some hours his life was in the utmost danger. the skill of the leeches, however, combined with the tender care of his mother and sisters, averted for a time fatal consequences, and in a few days the prince was reported to be out of immediate danger. but the doctors all agreed that it would not be wise for him to remain longer in the colder air of north wales, and advised an immediate removal to windsor, where more comforts could be obtained, and where the climate was milder and more genial. edward's work in wales was done. the country was quiet, and he had no longer any fear of serious rebellion. the first thought in his mind was the precarious condition of his son, and immediate steps were taken to convey the invalid southward by slow and gentle stages. a horse litter was prepared for him, and by his own special request this easy conveyance was shared by him with the two welsh youths, to whom, as his father and mother thought, he had taken one of those strange sick fancies not uncommon to those in his state of health. wendot, as he called the younger brother, had been his most devoted nurse during the days of peril, and his quick understanding of the unspoken wishes of the prince had evoked a real and true gratitude from the royal parents. the real wendot was by this time so far recovered as to be able to bear the journey, and illness had so wasted him that he looked no older than griffeth; and though still perplexed at being called griffeth, and by no means understanding his brother's earnest request that he would continue to answer to the name, he was too weak to trouble his head much about the matter; and the two welsh brothers were regarded by the english attendants as too insignificant to be worthy of much notice. the prince's freak to have them as travelling-companions was humoured by his parents' wish; but they little knew how much he was wrapped up in the brothers, nor how completely his heart was set upon seeing the accomplishment of his plan before he died. alphonso had all his senses about him, and the wistful look on griffeth's face, as the mountains of his beloved wales grew dim in the distance, was not lost upon him. wendot was sleeping restlessly in the litter, and alphonso stretched out his hand, and laid it gently upon griffeth's. "art regretting that thou leavest all for me?" he asked gently; and the answer was such a look of love as went to his very heart. "nay; i would leave far more than that for thee, sweet prince, but it is my last look at home. i shall see these grand, wild hills no more." "no, nor yet i," answered the prince, his own eyes growing somewhat dim; "and i, too, have loved them well, though not as thou lovest, my friend. but be content; there are fairer things, sweeter scenes than even these, in store for us somewhere. shall we repine at leaving the beauties of earth, when the pearly gates of paradise are opening before our very eyes? "o griffeth, it is a wondrous thought how soon we may be soaring above the very stars! and methinks it may well be given to thee to wing thy way to thine own home for one last look ere thou departest for the holy land whence we can never wish to return." griffeth gave him a bright, eager look. "i will think that myself -- i will believe it. this is not my last farewell." chapter xii. a strange bridal. "my prince, tempt me not. it is hard to refuse; but there are some things no man may do with honour, and, believe me, honour is dearer to me than life, dearer even than liberty; though heaven alone knows how dear that is to every free-born son of cambria. i to leave my brother to wear away his days in captivity whilst i escape under his name! prince alphonso, i know not what you think my heart is made of. am i to live in freedom, whilst he whom i love best in the world bears the burden of my fault, and lingers out his young life within the walls of the king's prison?" alphonso looked searchingly in wendot's face, and realized for the first time the youth's absolute ignorance of his brother's state. no wonder he refused with scorn the proffered boon! yet it would be a hard task to break the sad tidings to one who so deeply loved his gentle younger brother, from childhood his chosen comrade. alphonso was lying on a couch in one of the smaller state apartments of windsor castle, and the window, close to which he had bidden his attendants wheel him, overlooked the beautiful valley of the thames. the first of the autumn tints were gilding the rich stretches of woodland, whilst a faint blue haze hung over the distance, and the river ran like a silver thread, glinting here and there into golden brightness as some brighter ray of sunlight fell upon it. alphonso loved the view commanded by this window. he and griffeth spent many long happy hours here, looking out on the fair prospect, and exchanging whispered thoughts and bright aspirations with regard to some land even fairer than the one they now beheld. but wendot never looked at the beautiful valley without experiencing a strange oppression of spirit. it reminded him of that wilder valley of the towy, and his eyes would grow dim and his heart sick with the fruitless longing after home, which grew harder and harder to hear with every week of captivity, now that his bodily health was restored. captivity was telling upon him, and he was pining as an eagle pines when caught and shut up by man even in a gilded cage. he looked pale and wan and wistful. often he felt stifled by the warm, close air of the valley, and felt that he must die did he not escape to the freer air of the mountains. but he seldom spoke of these feelings even to griffeth, and strangely enough his illness and these homesick longings produced upon his outer man an effect which was wonderfully favourable to the plan fermenting in the brains of the royal children and their immediate companions. wendot had lost the sturdiness of figure, the brown colouring, and the strength of limb which had distinguished him in old days from griffeth. a striking likeness had always existed between the brothers, whose features were almost identical, and whose height and contours were the same. now that illness had sharpened the outlines of wendot's face, had reduced his fine proportions, and had given to him something of the hollow-eyed wistfulness of expression which griffeth had so long worn, this likeness became so remarkable that few in the castle knew one brother from the other. knowing this, they both answered indifferently to the name of either, and any change of personality would be managed without exciting the smallest fear of remark. wendot had been perplexed at times by the persistence with which he had been addressed as griffeth, even when he was certain that the speaker was one of the few who knew him and his brother apart; but he had not troubled his head much over the matter until this day, when alphonso had openly spoken to him of the plan that was in their minds, and had bidden him prepare for a secret flight from the castle, promising that there should be no ardent search after him, as wendot, and not griffeth, was the culprit who had fallen under the royal displeasure, and the king would care little for the escape of the younger brother so long as he held the ex-lord of dynevor in his own safe keeping. wendot's indignant refusal to leave his brother and make good his own escape showed alphonso how little he realized griffeth's condition, and with gentle sympathy, but with candour and frankness, he explained to the elder brother how short would be the period of griffeth's captivity -- how soon and how complete the release for which he was patiently and happily waiting. wendot gave a great start as the meaning of alphonso's words first broke upon him, and then he buried his face in his hands, and sat motionless, neither answering nor moving. alphonso looked at him, and by-and-by put out his own wasted hand and laid it upon wendot's knee. "does it seem a sad thing to thee, wendot? believe me, there is no sadness for griffeth in the thought. nay, is it not a blessed thing to know that soon, very soon, we shall be free of this weary burden of pain and sickness and weakness, and laying all aside will pass away to the land of which the seer of old foretold that 'the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.' thou knowest not, perhaps, the sweetness of those words, but i know it well, and griffeth likewise. "nay, wendot, thou must learn not to grudge him the rest and the bliss of yon bright land. in this world he could look for nothing save wearing weakness and lingering pain. thou shouldst be glad that the fiat has gone forth, and that the end may not be far off -- the end of trouble and sorrow; for of the glory that shall follow there shall be no end." but wendot broke in hoarsely and impetuously. "if he must die, let him at least die in freedom, with the old hills around him; let him be laid to rest beneath their shadow. you say that he might well escape; that no cry would be made after him so long as i were in the king's safe keeping. let him then fly. let him fly to llewelyn and arthyn. they will give him tendance and a home. he shall not die in prison, away from all that he holds dear. i cannot brook the thought!" "nay, wendot," answered alphonso with a kindling smile, "thou needest not grieve for thy brother because that he is here. ask him -- take it not from my lips; but i will tell thee this, that where thou art and where i am is the place where griffeth would fain end his days. ah! thou canst not understand, good youth, how when the great and wonderful call comes for the human soul, how lightly press the fetters of the flesh; how small these things of time and place appear that erst have been of such moment. griffeth and i are treading the same path at the same time, and i think not even the offer of a free pardon and unfettered liberty would draw him from my side. "moreover, wendot, he could not take the journey of which thou speakest. the keen autumn air, which will give thee strength and vigour, would but lay him low on the bed from which he would never rise. his heart is here with me. think not that thou art wronging him in taking his name. the one load lying now upon his heart is the thought that he is leaving thee in captivity. let him but know that thou art free -- that he has been thy helper in thy flight -- and he will have nought left to wish for in this world. his soul will be at peace." wendot rose and paced through the chamber, and then returned to the side of the prince. his face betrayed many conflicting emotions. he spoke with bitterness and impetuosity. "and what good is life to me if i take you at your word and fly this spot? have i not lost all that makes life worth living? my lands given to my traitorous kinsman; the brother who has been more to me than life lying in a foreign grave. what use is life to one so lonely and bereft? where should i fly? what should i do? i have never lived alone. i have always had another to live for and to love. methinks death would be the better thing than such a loveless life." "and why should thy life be loveless, wendot?" asked alphonso, with kindling eyes and a brightening smile. "dost not thou know? -- does not thine own heart tell thee that one faithful heart beats for thee and thee alone? have i not seen thee with her times and again? have not your eyes told eloquent secrets -- though i know not what your lips have said --" wendot's face was all in a glow, but he broke in hastily: "prince, prince, speak not of her. if i have been beguiled, if i have betrayed the feelings which i cannot help, but which i must hold sternly in check -- be not thou the one to taunt me with my weakness. there is none like her in the world. i have known it for long. but even because i know it so well i may not even dream of her. it is not with me as of old, when her father spoke to me of troth plight. i am a beggar, an outcast, a prisoner. she is rich, honoured, courted. she is the brightest star of the court --" "and she loveth thee, wendot," interposed alphonso firmly. "she has loved thee from childhood with a faithful and true love which merits better things than to be cast aside as if it were but dross. what are lands and gold to a woman if her lover share them not? is it meet that she should suffer so cruelly simply because her father has left her well endowed? wendot, on lord montacute's dying bed this daughter of his avowed her love for thee, and he gave her his blessing and bade her act as she would. art thou, then, to be the one to break her heart, ay, and thine own, too, because thou art too proud to take more than thou canst give? "fie, man! the world is wide and thou art young. thou hast time to win thy spurs and bring home noble spoil to lay at thy lady's feet. only let not pride stand in the way of her happiness and thine own. thou hast said that life is dark and drear unless it be shared with some loved one. then how canst thou hold back, when thou hast confessed thine own love and learned that hers is thine? take it, and be grateful for the treasure thou hast won, and fear not but that thou wilt bring as much as thou wilt receive. there are strange chances in the fate of each one of us. who knows but that thou and she will not yet reign again in the halls of dynevor?" wendot started and flushed, and again paced down the whole length of the room. when he returned to the window alphonso had gone, and in his place stood gertrude herself, her sweet face dyed rosy red with blushes, her hands half stretched out towards him, her lips quivering with the intensity of her emotion. he paused just one moment looking at her, and then holding out his arms, he said: "gertrude!" next moment she was clasped in his close embrace, and was shedding happy tears upon his shoulder. "oh!" said gertrude at last, in a soft whisper, "it was worth waiting for this. i never thought i could have been so happy." "joanna -- alphonso, it is all settled. he will leave the castle with me. he will help me now in the care of my lands. but he will not move whilst griffeth lives. and i think he is right. they have so loved each other, and he will not leave his brother to die amongst strangers in captivity." "it is like him," said joanna eagerly. "gertrude, thou hast found a very proper knight, as we told thee from the first, when he was but a lad, and held the eagle's crag against a score of men. but ye must be wedded soon, that there be no delay when once the poor boy be gone. every day he looks more shadowy and frail. methinks that our softer air ill suits him, for he hath dwindled to a mere shadow since he came. you will not have to wait long." "joanna speaks the truth," said alphonso, half sadly, half smilingly. "he will not be with us long. but it is very true that this marriage must be privately celebrated, and that without delay, that when the day comes when 'griffeth' flies from the castle, he and his wife may go together." "ay, and my chaplain will make them man and wife, and breathe not a word to any man," cried joanna, who, now that she was older, had her own retinue of servants, equal in number to those of her sister, by whom she was dearly loved for her generosity and frankness, so that she could always command ready and willing obedience to any expressed wish of hers. "you think he will? o joanna, when shall it be?" "it shall be at midnight in the chapel," said the girl, with the prompt decision which characterized her. "not tonight, but three nights from this. leave all things in my hands, sweet gertrude; i will see that nought is lacking to bind thee lawfully to thy lord. my chaplain is a good and holy man from the west country. he loveth those poor welsh who are prisoners here, and spends much of his time in ministering to them. he loves thy future lord and his dying brother, and he knows somewhat of our plan, for i have revealed it in the confessional, and he has not chided me for it. "oh, i can answer for him. he will be glad that thou shouldst find so proper a knight; and he is kind of heart, and stanch to my service. fear not, sweet gertrude: ere three days have gone by thou shalt be a wedded wife; and when the time comes thou mayest steal away with him thy plighted lord, and trust thy sister joanna to make thy peace with the king, if he be in any way angered or grieved." gertrude threw herself into joanna's arms and kissed her a hundred times; and joanna laughed, and said she deserved much credit for plotting to rid herself of her dearest friend, but was none the less loyal to the cause because gertrude's gain would be her loss. so there came a strange night, never to be forgotten by those who witnessed the proceedings, when wendot ap res vychan and the lady gertrude cherleton stood at midnight before the altar in the small private chapel of the castle, whilst the chaplain of the princess joanna's private suite made them man and wife according to the law of the church. and of the few spectators who witnessed the ceremony two were of royal blood -- alphonso and joanna -- and beside them were only one or two attendants, sworn to secrecy, and in full sympathy with the youthful lovers thus plighting their troth and being united in wedlock at one and the same time. griffeth was not of the number who was present to witness this ceremony. he was unable to rise from his bed, a sudden access of illness having overtaken him, possibly as the result of the excitement of hearing what was about to take place. when the solemn words had been spoken, and the bride was led away by her proud and happy spouse -- happy even in the midst of so much peril and sorrow in the thought of the treasure he had won -- she paused at the door of her apartments, whither he would have left her (for so long as they remained within the walls of the castle they would observe the same manner of life as before), and glancing into his face said softly: "may i not go with thee to tell the news to griffeth?" "ay, well bethought," said alphonso, who was leaning on wendot's other arm, the distance through the long passages being somewhat fatiguing to him. "let us go and show to him thy wife. none will rejoice more than he to know that she is thine in very truth, and that none can take her from thee." griffeth's room was nigh at hand, and thither wendot led his bride. a taper was burning beside the bed, and the sick youth lay propped up with pillows, his breath coming in laboured gasps, though his eyes were bright and full of comprehension as wendot led the slim, white-robed figure to his side. but the elder brother was startled at the change he saw in his patient since he had left him last. there was something in his look that struck chill upon his heart. he came forward and took the feeble hand in his. it was deadly cold, and the unearthly radiance upon the lad's face was as significant in its own way. had not their mother looked at them with just such a smile when she had slipped away into another world, whilst they were trying to persuade themselves that she was better? "my sister gertrude," whispered griffeth. "oh, i am so happy! you will be good to him -- you will comfort him. "wendot -- gertrude --" he made a faint effort, and joined their hands together; and then, as if his last earthly task was accomplished, he seemed to look right on beyond them, whilst a strange expression of awe and wonder shone from his closing eyes. "howel," he whispered -- "father -- mother -- oh, i am coming! take me with you." then the head fell backwards, the light vanished from the eyes, the cold hand fell nervelessly from wendot's grasp, and they knew that griffeth was the king's prisoner no longer. three days later the lady gertrude cherleton said farewell to her royal companions, and started forth for her own estates in derbyshire, which she had purposed for some time to visit. perhaps had the minds of those in the castle been free to wonder at anything so trivial as the movements of the young heiress, they would have felt surprise at her selecting this time to betake herself to a solitary and independent existence, away from all her friends and playmates; but the mortal illness of the prince alphonso occupied the whole attention of the castle. the remains of the so-called wendot, late of dynevor, had been laid to rest with little ceremony and no pomp, and the very existence of the other brother was almost forgotten in the general dismay and grief which permeated through all ranks of people both within and without the castle walls. the lady had a small but sufficient retinue; but it was considered rather strange that she should not start until the dusk had begun to gather round the castle, so that the confusion of the start was a good deal increased from the darkness which was stealing upon the place. had there been much time or attention free, it might have been noted by a keen observer that lady gertrude had added to her personal attendants one who looked like a tall and stout woman, though her hood was so closely drawn that her face was seen by none of the warders, who, however, let her pass unchallenged: for she rode beside her mistress, and was evidently in the position of a trusted companion; for the lady was speaking to her as they passed out through the gate, and there could certainly be no reason for offering any obstruction to any servant of hers. if there were any fear or excitement in gertrude's breast as she and her husband passed out of the gate and rode quickly along the path which led through the town, she did not betray it by look or gesture. her eagerness was mainly showed by a desire to push on northward as fast as possible, and the light of a full harvest moon made travelling almost as easy as by day. on they rode, by sleeping hamlets and dreaming pastures, until the lights of windsor lay twinkling in the dim, hazy distance miles away. then gertrude suddenly threw back her hood, and leaning towards her companion -- they two had outridden their followers some time before -- cried in a strange, tense voice: "o wendot husband, thou art free! tomorrow will see us safe within those halls of which thou art rightful lord. captivity, trouble, peril is at an end. nothing can greatly hurt us now, for are we not one in bonds that no man may dissever?" "my noble, true-hearted wife," said wendot, in accents of intense feeling; and then he leaned forward and kissed her in the whispering wood, and they rode forward through the glades of silvery moonlight towards the new life that was awaiting them beyond. "hills, wild rocks, woods, and water!" cried wendot, with a sudden kindling gleam in his eyes. "o gertrude, thou didst not tell me the half! i never guessed that england had aught so like home as this. truly it might be dynevor itself -- that brawling torrent, those craggy fells, and these gray stone walls. and to be free -- free to breathe the fresh wind, to go where the fancy prompts, to be loosed from all control save the sweet bonds that thou boldest me in, dearest! ah, my wife, thou knowest not what thou hast done for me. how shall i thank thee for the boon?" "why, by being thine old self again, vychan," said gertrude, who was standing by her husband's side on a natural terrace of rock above the hall which was to be their home. she had brought him out early in the morning to see the sun rise upon their home, and the rapture of his face, the passionate joy she saw written there, was more than she had hoped for. "thou hast grown old and worn of late, too saddened, too grave for thy years. thou must grow young again, and be the bright-faced youth to whom i gave my heart. thy youth is not left so far behind but what thou canst recall it ere it be too late." "in sooth i shall grow young again here, sweetheart," quoth wendot, or vychan, as we must call him now. he had an equal right to that name with his father, though for convenience he had always been addressed by the other; and now that lady gertrude had brought her husband home, he was to be known as res vychan, one of the descendants of the last princes of south wales, who had taken his wife's name also, as he was now the ruler of her land; so, according to the fashion of the english people, he would henceforth be known as vychan cherleton. his brother's name he could not bear to hear applied to himself, and it was left to joanna to explain matters to the king and queen when the chance should arrive. none else need ever know that the husband of the lady gertrude had ever been a captive of edward's; and the name of griffeth ap res vychan disappears from the ken of the chroniclers as if it had never been known that he was once a prisoner in england. there was no pursuit made after the missing welshman. the king and queen had other matters to think of, and the fondness of their son for the youth would have been protection enough even if he had not begged with his dying breath that his father would forgive and forget. lady gertrude and her husband did not come to court for very many years; and by the time they did so, vychan cherleton's loyalty and service to the english cause were too well established for any one to raise a question as to his birth or race. if the king and queen ever knew they had been outwitted by their children, they did not resent that this had been so, nor that an act of mercy had been contrived greater than they might have felt justified in ratifying. but all this was yet in the future. as vychan and his wife stood on that high plateau overlooking the fair valley of the derwent, it seemed to gertrude as though during the past three days her husband had undergone some subtle change. there was a new light in his eyes; his frame had lost its drooping air of languor; he had stood the long days of rough riding without the smallest fatigue. it really seemed as if the old wendot had come back again, and she smilingly asked him how it was that he had gained such strength in so short a time. "ah, that question is soon answered, sweet wife. it is freedom that is the elixir of life to us sons of cambria. i know not if your english-born men can brook the sense of fetter and constraint, but it is death to us. "let us not think of it more. that page has closed for ever; and never shall it reopen, for sooner will i die than fall alive into the hands of a foe. nay, sweetest gertrude, look not so reproachfully at me. thou shalt soon see that i mean not to die, but to live for thee. here in this fair, free spot we begin our new life together. it may be even yet -- for see, is not that bright sky, illumined by those quivering shafts of light athwart our path, an omen of good? -- that as thou showest me this fair spot with which thou hast endowed me, i may one day show thee again and endow thee with the broad lands of dynevor." chapter xiii. the new lord of dynevor. "vychan, vychan, the hour has come! that false traitor sir res has risen in revolt against england's king. loyal men are called upon to put down the rebellion, and such as do so will be rewarded with the lands reft from the traitor. vychan, vychan, lose not a moment; arm and take the men, and fly to dynevor! now is the time to strike the blow! and i will to edward's court, to plead with him for the lands and castle of dynevor as my husband's guerdon for his services. o vychan, vychan, have not i always said that thou shouldest live to call thyself lord of dynevor again?" gertrude came flying to her husband with these words, looking scarce less young and certainly none less bright and happy than she had done four years back, when she and her husband had first stood within the walls of her ancestral home. a beautiful, sturdy boy hung upon her hand, keeping pace gallantly even with her flying steps, and the joy of motherhood had given something of added lustre to the soft beauty of her dark eyes; otherwise she was scarce changed from the gertrude of past days. as for vychan, he still retained the eagle glance, the almost boyish freshness of colouring, and the soldier-like bearing which distinguished his race, and the gold of his hair had not tarnished or faded, though he had developed from the youth to the man, and was a noble specimen of manhood in the zenith of its strength and beauty. rising hastily at his wife's approach, he gazed at her with parted lips and glowing eyes, whilst she once more told him the news, brought by a special messenger from the princess joanna, brought thus, as both knew, with a special meaning which they well understood. four years of peaceful prosperity in england had in no whit weakened vychan's love for his own land or blunted the soldier-like instincts of his race. there was something of the light of battle and of conquest in his eye as he gazed at his wife, and his voice rang out clear and trumpet-like as he gathered the sense of the message she brought. "take up arms against that false traitor-kinsman of mine? ay, verily, that i will. false first to his kindred and his country, then false to the king who has trusted and rewarded him so nobly. res ap meredith, methinks thine hour is come! thou didst plot and contrive to wrest from me the fair lands my father bequeathed me; but i trow the day has dawned when the false lord shall be cast forth, even as he has cast forth others, and when there shall be a lord of the old race ruling at dynevor, albeit he rule beneath a new name." "heaven grant it may be so!" cried gertrude, the tears of excitement sparkling in her eyes; whilst little griffeth, catching some of the sense of his father's words, and understanding with the quick instinct of childhood that there was something unwonted going on, shook his little fist in the air, and cried: "dynevor, dynevor! me fight for dynevor, too." the father picked up his son and held him in a close embrace. "ay, griffeth, my man, thou shalt reign at dynevor one of these days, please god to give us victory over false friends and traitorous allies." and even as the parents stood looking smilingly at the brave child, the blast from the warder's trumpet gave notice that strangers were approaching the hall; and hurrying to the entrance gate to be ready to receive the guests, vychan and his wife beheld a little troop of horsemen winding their way up the valley, headed by a pair who appeared to be man and wife, and to hold some exalted position, for the trappings of their steeds and the richness of their own dress marked them as of no humble rank. visitors were sufficiently rare at this lonely place for this sight to cause some stir in the hall; and gertrude, shading her eyes with her hand, gazed eagerly at the two figures in advance. suddenly she gave a little cry of rapture, and bounded forward through the gateway. "it is arthyn -- arthyn and llewelyn! vychan, thy brother and his wife are here. oh, they have come to bid thee to the fray! they bring tidings, and are come to summon thee to the fight. "arthyn, sweetest sister, ten thousand welcomes to our home! nay, i can scarce believe this is not a dream. how i have longed to see thee here!" vychan was at his brother's side, as arthyn, flinging herself from her saddle, flew into gertrude's arms. for some moments nothing could be distinguished but the glad clamour of welcome, and scarce had that subsided before it recommenced in the eager salutations of the welsh retainers, who saw in vychan another of the sons of their well-loved lord, res vychan, the former lord of dynevor and iscennen, whose wise and merciful rule had never been forgotten. vychan was touched, indeed, to see how well he was remembered, and the sound of the familiar tongue sent thrills of strange emotion through him. it was some time before he could free himself from the throng of servants who pressed round him; and when he could do so he followed his wife and guests into the banqueting hall, where the noonday repast was spread, giving charge to his seneschal for the hospitable entertainment of the retinue his brother had brought and their lodgment within the walls of the hall. when he reached the inner hall he found the servants spreading the best viands of the house upon the table; whilst gertrude, arthyn, and llewelyn were gathered together in the embrasure of a window in eager discussion. gertrude broke away and came quickly towards him, her face deeply flushed and her eyes very bright. "vychan, it is even as we have heard. that false traitor is in open revolt, and he has been even more false than we knew. what think you of this? -- he professed to be sorry for his revolt, and sent a letter of urgent pleading to llewelyn and arthyn begging them to use their influence with the king to obtain his pardon. believing him to be sincere, llewelyn set out for england not more than two short weeks back, taking with him, on account of the unsettled state of the country, the pick of the men from carregcennen. and when this double-dyed traitor knows that arthyn is alone and unprotected in the castle, what does he do but send a strong band of his soldiers, himself at their head, who obtain entrance by the subterranean passage, slay the guard, and take possession of the fortress. arthyn has but bare time to escape with a handful of men, and by hard riding to join her husband on the road to england. "so now have they turned aside to tell the tale to us, and to summon thee to come with thy men and fight in the king's quarrel against this wicked man. and whilst ye lead your soldiers into wales, arthyn and i will to the court, to lay the story before the royal edward, and to gain from him the full and free grants of the castles of dynevor and carregcennen for our husbands, who have responded to his call, and have flown to wrest from the traitor the possession he has so unrighteously grasped." "thy wife speaketh wise words, vychan," said llewelyn, whose dark brows wore a threatening look, and who had the appearance of a man deeply stirred to wrath, as indeed he well might be; "and it were well that we lost no time in dallying here. how many men canst thou summon to thy banner, and when can we be on the march for the south? the earl of cornwall has been called upon to quell this revolt, and he has summoned to his aid all loyal subjects of the king who hold dear the peace and prosperity of their land. "the days are gone by in which i should despise that call and join the standard of revolt. the experience of the past has taught me that in the english alliance is wales's only hope of tranquillity and true independence and civilization. when such men as this res ap meredith break into revolt against edward, it is time for us to rally round his standard. what would our lives, our lands, our liberties be worth were such a double-distilled traitor as he transformed into a prince, as is his fond ambition?" "true, llewelyn, true. the race of kings has vanished from wales, and methinks there is no humiliation in owning as sovereign lord the lion-hearted king of england. moreover, has he not given us a prince of our own, born upon welsh soil, sprung of a kingly race? we will rally round the standard of father and son, and trust that in the future a brighter day will dawn for our long-distracted country." so forthwith there sped messengers through the wild valleys and wilder fells of derbyshire, and many a sturdy son of the mountains came gladly and willingly at the call of the feudal lord whose wise and kindly rule had made him greatly beloved. the fighting instinct of the age and of the race was speedily aroused by this call to arms, and the surrounding gentlemen and yeomen of the county likewise pressed their services upon vychan, glad to be able to strike a blow to uphold the authority of a king whose wise and brave rule had already made him the idol of the nation. it was a goodly sight to see the brothers of dynevor (as their wives could not but call them once again) ride forth at the head of this well-equipped following. llewelyn marvelled at the discipline displayed by the recruits -- a discipline decidedly in advance of anything his own ruder followers could boast. but welsh and english for once were in brotherly accord, and rode shoulder to shoulder in all good fellowship; and the english knew that their ruder comrades from cambria, if less well trained and drilled, would be able to show them a lesson in fierce and desperate fighting, to which they were far more inured than their more peaceable neighbours from the sister country. and fighting there was for all; but the struggle, if fierce, was brief. sir res was a coward at heart, as it is the wont of a traitor to be, and finding himself opposed by foes as relentless and energetic as vychan and llewelyn, he was speedily driven from fortress to fortress, till at length he was forced to surrender himself a prisoner to the earl of gloucester; who, out of kindness to his wife, auda de hastings, connived at his escape to ireland. there he lived in seclusion for some time; but the spirit of rebellion was still alive within him, and two years later he returned to wales, and succeeded in collecting an army of four thousand turbulent spirits about him, at the head of which force he fought a pitched battle with the king's justiciary, robert de tibetot. his army was cut to pieces. he was taken prisoner himself, and met a cruel death at york as the reward of his many acts of treasonable rebellion. but the halls of dynevor saw him no more from the moment when res vychan, with a swelling heart, first drove him forth, and planted his own foot once again upon the soil dearer to him than any other spot on earth. as he stood upon the familiar terrace, looking over the wide, fair valley of the towy, his heart swelled with thankfulness and joy; and if a slow, unwonted tear found its way to his eye, it was scarce a tear of sorrow, for he felt assured that his brother griffeth was sharing in the joy of this restoration to the old home, and that his loving and gentle spirit was not very far from him at this supreme hour of his life. "father, father, father!" vychan turned with a start at the sound of the joyous call, and the next moment was clasping wife and son to his breast. "sweetheart! come so quickly? how couldst thou?" "ay, vychan, love hath ever wings, and neither i nor arthyn could keep away, our business at the court once accomplished. vychan, husband, thou standest here lord of dynevor in thine own right. thou hast won back thine ancestral home, the boy's inheritance. "seest thou this deed? knowest thou the king's seal? take it, for it secureth all to thee under thy name of vychan cherleton. and if in times to come those who come after know not that it was the son of res vychan who thus reclaimed his patrimony, and if our worthy chroniclers set down that dynevor and its lands passed to the keeping of the english, what matters it? we know the truth, and those who have loved thee and thy father know who thou art and whence thou hast come. let that be sufficient for thee and for me. "griffeth, little son, kiss thy father, and bid him welcome to his own halls again -- the halls of dynevor." vychan could not speak. he pressed one passionate kiss upon the lips of his wife, and another upon the brow of his noble boy, who looked every inch a dynevor, with the true dynevor features, and the bold, fearless mien so like his father's. then commanding himself by an effort, he opened the king's parchment and quickly mastered its contents, after which he took his wife's hand and held out the other to his son. "my faithful fellows are mustering in the hall to bid me welcome once more to dynevor. come, sweet wife; i must show to them their lady and their future lord. "arthyn -- where is she? has she gone on to iscennen to meet llewelyn there?" "ay, verily: she was as hungry for him as i for thee; and she hath a similar mandate for him regarding his rights to carregcennen. "o vychan, dearest husband, i can scarce believe it is not all a dream." indeed, to vychan it seemed almost as though he dreamed, as in the old familiar hall he stood, a little raised from the crowd of armed retainers upon the steps of the wide oak staircase, as he addressed to them a speech eloquent with that thrilling eloquence which is the gift of all who speak from the heart, and speak to hearts beating in deep and true response. vychan thanked all those who had so bravely fought for him, explained to all assembled there his new position and his new name, bid them not think him less a welshman and a dynevor because he bore his wife's arms and called himself the servant of the english king, and held up before their eyes the mandate of that english king confirming to him the lands and halls of dynevor. a wild, ringing cheer broke from all who heard him as he thus proved to their own satisfaction that the royal edward was their best friend, and as the new lord of dynevor held up his child for them to see, and to own as future lord in the time-honoured fashion, such a shout went up from the throats of all as made the vaulted roof ring again. blades were unsheathed and waved in wild enthusiasm, and gertrude's dark eyes glistened through a mist of proud and happy tears. suddenly from some dim recess in the old ball there issued a strain of wild music -- the sound of a harp played by no unskilled hand; whilst mingling with the twang of the strings was the voice of the ancient bard, cracked through age, yet still retaining the old power and some of the old sweetness. and harp and voice were raised alike in one of those triumph songs that have ever been as the elixir of life to the strong, rude, sensitive sons of wild cambria. "it is wenwynwyn," quoth vychan. "he is yet alive. i little thought to see him more. "griffeth, boy, run to yon old man and bid him give thee his blessing, and tell him that there is a son of dynevor come back to rule as lord of dynevor once again." postscript. the story of the sons of res vychan is very intricate and difficult to follow, owing to the lack of contemporaneous documents; but the main facts of their story as related in the foregoing pages are true, though a certain license has been taken for purposes of fiction. they have been represented as somewhat younger than they were at the time of these events, whilst the children of edward the first have been made some few years older than their true ages. there is no actual historical warrant for the change of identity between wendot and griffeth, and for the escape and reinstatement of the former in the halls of dynevor; but there are traditions which point to a possibility that he did escape from prison, in spite of the affirmation of the chroniclers, as there have been those who claim descent from him, which they would hardly have done if such had not been the case, for there is no record that he was married before he was taken prisoner to england. the children of the english king were not really at rhuddlan castle in , as represented here, as they were at that time too young to accompany their father on his expeditions. if, however, they had been as old as represented in these pages, there is little doubt they would have accompanied him, as the monarch was a most affectionate father, and loved to have wife and children about him. arthyn is a fictitious character; as is also gertrude. there is no record that any of the sons of res vychan married or left descendants, except the tradition alluded to above. the end. dick cheveley, his adventures and misadventures, by w.h.g kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ dick is the teenage son of an early nineteenth century vicar in england. the boy has a passionate desire to go to sea, but his family, especially his aunt deb, oppose this. one reason is that if he were to go as a midshipman he would be required to have at least fifty pounds a year to keep appearances up, and that money wasn't available. he forms a friendship with another boy, mark, who gets into trouble for being a poacher. dick peaches on the local smugglers, who imprison him, and he is nearly killed by them. wandering out of curiosity round the decks of a ship that is about to sail he falls through a hatchway, and right down into the lower hold. when he comes to the ship is at sea, and the hold is battened down. it takes him several weeks before he can attract attention. but the captain is a horrible man, and some of the crew are not much better. eventually dick jumps ship by stealing a ship's dinghy, and lands on a tiny rocky islet. the dinghy is lost in a storm. eventually dick is rescued and is taken back to his home town, where he vows never to go to sea again. the story was written as a cautionary tale to advise boys like dick never to go to sea as a stowaway, which is effectually what dick did, and was inspired by a real case, in which the boy was found dying after only thirteen days at sea. ________________________________________________________________________ dick cheveley, his adventures and misadventures, by w.h.g kingston. preface. so extraordinary are the adventures of my hero, master richard cheveley, son of the reverend john cheveley, vicar of the parish of s--, in the county of d---, that it is possible some of my readers may be inclined to consider them incredible, but that they are thoroughly probable the following paragraph which appeared in the evening edition of the _standard_ early in the month of november, , will, i think, amply prove. i have no fear that any sensible boys will be inclined to follow dick's example; but if they will write to him at liverpool, where he resides, and ask his advice, as a young gentleman did mine lately, on the subject of running away to sea, i am very sure that he will earnestly advise them to stay at home; or, at all events, first to consult their fathers or mothers, or guardians, or other relatives or friends before they start, unless they desire to risk sharing the fate of the hapless stowaway here mentioned:-- "a shocking discovery was made on board the national steamer _england_, which arrived in new york from liverpool on the th october. in discharging the cargo in the forehold a stowaway was found in a dying state. he had made the entire passage of thirteen days without food or drink. he was carried to the vessel's deck, where he died." my young correspondent, in perfect honesty, asked me to tell him how he could best manage to run away to sea. i advised him, as mr richard cheveley would have done, and i am happy to say that he wisely followed my advice, for i have since frequently heard from him. when he first wrote he was an entire stranger to me. he has had more to do with this work than he supposes. i have the pleasure of dedicating it to him. william h g kingston. chapter one. some account of my family, including aunt deb--my father receives an offer--a family discussion, in which aunt deb distinguishes herself-- her opinions and mine differ considerably--my desire to go to sea haunts my dreams--my brother ned's counsel--i go a-fishing in leighton park--i meet with an accident--my career nearly cut short--a battle with a swan, in which i get the worst of it--a courageous mother--mark riddle to the rescue--an awkward fix--mark finds a way out of it--old roger's cottage--the riddle family--roger riddle's yarns and their effect on me--mark takes a different view--it's not all gold that glitters--the model--my reception at home. we were all seated round the tea-table, that is to say, my father and mother, my five sisters, and three of my elder brothers, who were at home--two were away--and the same number of young ones, who wore pinafores, and last, but not least, aunt deb, who was my mother's aunt, and lived with us to manage everything and keep everybody in order, for this neither my father nor mother were very well able to do; the latter nearly worn out with nursing numerous babies, while my father was constantly engaged in the duties of the parish of sandgate, of which he was incumbent. aunt deb was never happy unless she was actively engaged in doing something or other. at present she was employed in cutting, buttering, or covering with jam, huge slices of bread, which she served out as soon as they were ready to the juvenile members of the family, while my eldest sister, mary, was presiding at the tea-tray, and passing round the cups as she filled them. when all were served, my father stood up and said grace, and then all fell to with an eagerness which proved that we had good appetites. "i say, aunt deb, tom martin has lent me such a jolly book. please give me another slice before you sit down. it's all about anson's voyage round the world. i don't know whether i shall like it as well as `robinson crusoe' or `captain cook's voyages,' or `gulliver's travels,' or the `life of nelson,' or `paul jones,' but i think i shall from the look i got of it," i exclaimed, as aunt deb was doing what i requested. "i wish, dick, that you would not read those pestiferous works," she answered, as, having given me the slice of bread, she sat down to sip her tea. "they are all written with an evil intent, to make young people go gadding about the world, instead of staying contentedly at home doing their duty in that state of life to which they are called." "but i don't understand why i should not be called to go to sea," i replied; "i have for a long time made up my mind to go, and i intend to try and become as great a man as howe, or nelson, or collingwood, or lord cochrane, or sir sidney smith. i've just to ask you, aunt deb, what england would be without her navy, and what the navy would be unless boys were allowed to go into it?" "stuff and nonsense, you know nothing about the matter, dick. it's very well for boys who have plenty of interest, for sons of peers or members of parliament, or judges or bishops, or of others who possess ample means and influence, but the son of a poor incumbent of an out of the way parish, who knows no one, and whom nobody knows, would remain at the bottom of the tree." "but you forget, aunt deb, that there are ways of getting on besides through interest. i intend to do all sorts of dashing things, and win my promotion, through my bravery. if i can once become a midshipman i shall have no fear about getting on." "stuff and nonsense!" again ejaculated aunt deb, "you know nothing about the matter, boy." "don't i though," i said to myself, for i knew that my father, who felt the importance of finding professions for his sons according to their tastes, had some time before written to sir reginald knowsley, of leighton park,--"the squire," as he used to be called till he was made a baronet, and still was so very frequently, asking him to exert his influence in obtaining an appointment for me on board a man-of-war. this sir reginald had promised to do. aunt deb, however, had made many objections, but for once in a way my father had acted contrary to her sage counsel, and as he considered for the best. still aunt deb had not given in. "you'll do as you think fit, john," she observed to him, "but you will repent it. dick is not able to take care of himself at home, much less will he be so on board a big ship among a number of rough sailors. let him remain at school until he is old enough to go into a counting-house in london or bristol, where he'll make his fortune and become a respectable member of society, as his elder brother means to be, or let him become a master at a school, or follow any course of life rather than that of a soldier or a sailor." i did not venture to interrupt aunt deb, indeed it would have been somewhat dangerous to have done so, while she was arguing a point, but i had secretly begged my father to write to sir reginald as he had promised, assuring him that i had set my heart on following a naval career, and that it would break if i was not allowed to go to sea. this took place, it will be understood, some time before the evening of which i am now speaking. aunt deb suspected that my father was inclined to favour my wishes, and this made her speak still more disparagingly than ever of the navy. tea was nearly over when the post arrived. it only reached us of an evening, and sarah, the maid, brought in a large franked letter. i at once guessed that it was from sir reginald knowsley, who was in london. i gazed anxiously at my father's face as he read it. his countenance did not, however, exhibit any especial satisfaction. "who is it from?" asked my mother, in a languid voice. "from sir reginald," he replied. "it is very kind and complimentary. he says that he has had great pleasure in doing as i requested him. he fortunately, when going down to the admiralty, met his friend captain grummit, who has lately been appointed to the `blaze-away,' man-of-war, and who expressed his willingness to receive on board his ship the son of any friend of his, but--and here comes the rub--captain grummit, he says, has made it a rule to take no midshipmen unless their parents consent to allow them fifty pounds a year, in addition to their pay. this sum, the captain states, is absolutely necessary to enable them to make the appearance he desires all his midshipmen to maintain. fifty pounds a year is a larger sum, i fear, than my purse can supply," observed my father when he had read thus far. "i should think it was, indeed!" exclaimed aunt deb. "fifty pounds a year! why, that's nearly half of my annual income. it would be madness, john, to make any promise of the sort. suppose you were to let him go, and to stint the rest of his brothers and sisters by making him so large an allowance--what will be the result, granting that he is not killed in the first battle he is engaged in, or does not fall overboard and get drowned, or the ship is not wrecked, and he escapes the other hundred and one casualties to which a sailor is liable? why, when he becomes a lieutenant he'll marry to a certainty, and then he'll be killed, and leave you and his mother and me, or his brothers and sisters, to look after his widow and children, supposing they are able to do so." "but i shall have a hundred and twenty pounds full pay, and ninety pounds a year half-pay," i answered; "i know all about it, i can tell you." "ninety pounds a year and a wife and half-a-dozen small brats to support on it," exclaimed aunt deb in an indignant tone. "the wife is sure to be delicate, and know nothing about housekeeping, and she and the children will constantly be requiring the doctor in the house." "but you are going very far ahead, aunt deb, i haven't gone to sea yet, or been made a lieutenant, and if i had, there's no reason why i should marry." "there are a great many reasons why you should not," exclaimed aunt deb. "i was going to say that there are many lieutenants in the navy who have not got wives, and i do not suppose that i shall marry when i become one," i answered. "it seems pretty certain that you will never be a lieutenant or a midshipman either, if it depends upon your having an allowance of fifty pounds a year, for where that fifty pounds is to come from i'm sure i don't know," cried my aunt. "as it is, your poor father finds it a difficult matter to find food and clothing for you all, and to give you a proper education, and unless the bishop should suddenly bestow a rich living on him, he, at all events, could not pay fifty pounds a year, or fifty shillings either, so i would advise you forthwith to give up this mad idea of yours, and stay quietly at school until a profitable employment is found for you." i looked up at my father, feeling that there was a good deal of truth in what aunt deb said, although i did not like the way she said it. "your aunt only states what is the case, dick," said my father. "i should be glad to forward your views, but i could not venture, with my very limited income, to bind myself to supply you with the sum which sir reginald says is necessary." "couldn't you get sir reginald to advance the money?" i inquired, as the bright idea occurred to me; "i will return it to him out of my pay and prize-money." aunt deb fairly burst out laughing. "out of your pay, dick?" she exclaimed. "why fifty pounds is required over and above that pay you talk of, every penny of which you will have to spend, and supposing that you should not be employed for a time, and have to live on shore. do you happen to know what a midshipman's half-pay is? why just nothing at all and find yourself. you talk a good deal of knowing all about the matter, but it's just clear that you know nothing." "i wish, my dear dick, that we could save enough to help you," said my mother, who was always ready to assist us in any of our plans; "but you know how difficult i find it to get even a few shillings to spend." my mother's remark soothed my irritated feelings and disappointment, or i should have said something which might not have been pleasant to aunt deb's ears. we continued talking on the subject, i devising all sorts of plans, and arguing tooth and nail with aunt deb, for i had made up my mind to go to sea, and to go i was determined by hook or by crook; but that fifty pounds a year was, i confess, a damper to my hopes of becoming a midshipman. if i could have set to work and made the fifty pounds, i would have done my best to do so, but i was as little likely to make fifty pounds as i was to make fifty thousand. aunt deb also reminded my father that it was not fifty pounds a year for one year, but fifty pounds for several years, which he might set down as three hundred pounds, at least, of which, through my foolish fancy, i should be depriving him, and my mother, and brothers, and sisters. there was no denying that, so i felt that i was defeated. i had at length to go to bed, feeling as disappointed and miserable as i had ever been in my life. to ned, the brother just above me in age, who slept in the same room, i opened my heart. "i am the most miserable being in the world!" i exclaimed. "i wish that i had never been born. if it had not been for aunt deb father would have given in, but she hates me, i know, and always has hated me, and takes a pleasure in thwarting my wishes. i've a great mind to run off to sea, and enter before the mast just to spite her." ned, who was a quiet, amiable fellow, taking much after our kind mother, endeavoured to tranquillise my irritated feelings. "don't talk in that way, dick," he said in a gentle tone. "you might get tired of the life, even if you were to go into the navy; but, perhaps, means may be found, after all, to enable you to follow the bent of your wishes. all naval captains may not insist on their midshipmen having an allowance of fifty pounds a year; or, perhaps, if they do, some friend may find the necessary funds." "i haven't a friend in the world," i answered. "if my father cannot give me the money i don't know who can. i know that aunt deb would not, even if she could." "cheer up, dick," said ned; "or rather i would advise you to go to sleep. perhaps to-morrow morning some bright idea may occur which we can't think of at present. i've got my lessons to do before breakfast, so i must not stop awake talking, or i shall not be able to arouse myself." i had begun taking off my clothes, and ned waited until he saw me lie down, when he put out the candle, and jumped into bed. i continued talking till a loud snore from his corner of the room showed me that he was fast asleep. i soon followed his example, but my mind was not idle, for i dreamed that i had gone to sea, become a midshipman, and was sailing over the blue ocean with a fair breeze, that the captain was talking to me and telling me what a fine young sailor i had become, and that he had invited me to breakfast with him, and had handed me a plate of buttered toast and a fresh-laid egg; when, looking up, i saw his countenance suddenly change into that of aunt deb. "don't you wish you may get it?" he said. "before you eat that, go on deck and see what weather it is." of course i had to go, when to my astonishment i found the ship rolling and pitching; the foam-covered seas tossing and roaring; the officers shouting and bawling, ordering the men to take in sail. presently there came a crash, the masts went by the board, the seas dashed over the ship, and i found myself tumbling about among the breakers, until it seemed almost in an instant i was thrown on the beach, where i lay unable to crawl out of the way of the angry waters, which threatened every moment to carry me off again. in vain i tried to work my way up the sands with my arms and legs. presently down i came, to find myself sprawling on the floor. "what can have made all that row?" exclaimed ned, starting up, awakened by the noise of my falling out of bed. "i thought i was shipwrecked," i answered. "i'm glad you are not," said ned. "so get into bed again, and if you can go to sleep, dream of something else." feeling somewhat foolish, i did as he advised, but i had first to put my bed-clothes to rights, for i had dragged them off with me to the floor. it was no easy matter, although i was assisted by the pale light of early morning, which came through the chinks of the shutters. in a short time afterwards ned again got up to go to his books, for he, being somewhat delicate, was studying under our father, while i, who had been sent to school, had just come home for the holidays. i had a holiday task, but had no intention of troubling myself about it at present. i was, therefore, somewhat puzzled to know what to do. while i was dressing, it occurred to me that i would go over to leighton park with my rod, to try the ponds, hoping to return with a basket of fish. i might go there and get an hour's fishing, and be back again before breakfast. i tried to persuade ned to accompany me, but he preferred to stick to his books. "much good may they do you," i answered, rather annoyed. "why can't you shut them up for once in a way. it's a beautiful morning, and by going early we are sure to have plenty of sport, and you can learn your lessons just as well after breakfast." "not if i had been out three or four hours fishing, and came home wet and dirty; and i want to get my studies over while the day is young, and the air fresh and pure. i can read twice as well now as i shall be able after breakfast." "well, if you are so unsociable, i must go by myself," i said, getting down my rod from the wall on which it hung with my fishing-tackle and basket. swinging the latter over my shoulder i crept noiselessly out of the room and down stairs. no one was stirring, so i let myself out by a back door which led into the garden. even our old dog "growler" did not bark, for he was, i suppose, taking his morning snooze after having been on the watch all night. before setting off i had to get some bait. i found a spade in the tool-house and proceeded with it to a certain well-known heap in the corner of the kitchen garden, full of vivacious worms of a ruddy hue, for which fish of all descriptions had a decided predilection. even now, whenever i smell a similar odour to that which emanated from the heap, the garden and its surroundings are vividly recalled to my mind. i quickly filled a box, which i kept for the purpose, with wriggling worms. it had a perforated lid, and contained damp moss. "i ought to have thought of getting these fellows yesterday and have given them time to clean themselves," i said to myself. "they'll do, notwithstanding, although they will not prove as tough as they ought." shouldering my rod i made my way out of the garden by a wicket gate, and proceeded across the fields on which it opened towards leighton park. the grass was wet with dew, the air was pure and fresh, almost cold; the birds were singing blithely in the trees. a lark sprang up before me, and rose into the blue air, warbling sweetly to welcome the rising sun, which he could see long before its rays glanced over the ground on which i was walking. i could not help also singing and whistling, the bright air alone being sufficient to raise my spirits. i hurried away, as i was eager to begin fishing, for i wanted the fish in the first place, and i knew in the second that ned would laugh at me if i came back empty handed. the pond to which i was going, although supplied by the same stream which fed the ornamental piece of water in the neighbourhood of the hall, was at a distance from it, and was accessible without having to pass through the grounds. it was surrounded by trees, and one side of the bank was thickly fringed by sedges which extended a considerable way into the water. it served as a preserve for ducks and wild fowl of various descriptions, and was inhabited also by a number of swans, who floated gracefully over its calm surface. as they were accustomed to depend upon their own exertions for a subsistence, they generally kept at a distance from strangers, and i had never been interrupted by them when fishing. i made my way to a spot where i knew that the water was deep, and where i had frequently been successful in fishing. it was a green bank, which jutted out into a point, with bushes on one side, but perfectly free on the other. i quickly got my rod together, and my hook baited with a red wriggling worm. i did not consider that the worm wriggled because it did not like to be put on the hook, but if i had been asked i should have said that it was rather pleased than otherwise at having so important a duty to perform as catching fish for my pleasure. i had a new float, white above and green below, which i thought looked very pretty as i threw my line out on the water. up it popped at once, there being plenty of lead. before long it began to move, gliding slowly over the surface, then faster and faster. i eagerly held my rod ready to strike as soon as it went down; now it moved on one side, now on the other. i knew that there was a fish coquetting with the bait, trying perhaps to suck off the worm without letting the hook run into its jaws. before long down went the float, and i gave my rod a scientific jerk against the direction in which the float was last moving, when to my intense satisfaction i felt that i had hooked a fish, but whether a large or a small one i could not at first tell. i wound up my line until i had got it of a manageable length, then drew it in gradually towards the bank. i soon discovered that i had hooked a fine tench. it was so astonished at finding itself dragged through the water, without any exertion of its fins, that it scarcely struggled at all, and i quickly hauled it up on the bank. it was three-quarters of a pound at least, one of the largest i had ever caught. it was soon unhooked and placed safely in my basket. as i wanted several more i put on a fresh worm, and again threw my line into the water. some people say there is no pleasure in float-fishing, but for me it always had a strange fascination, that would not have been the case, if i could have seen through the water, for i believe the interest depends upon not knowing what size or sort of fish has got hold of the hook, when the float first begins to move, and then glides about as i have described, until it suddenly disappears beneath the surface. i caught four or five fine tench in little more than twice as many minutes. i don't know why they took a fancy to bite so freely that fine bright morning. generally they take the hook best of a dull, muggy day, with a light drizzling rain, provided the weather is warm. after i had caught those four fish, i waited for fully ten minutes more without getting another bite; at last, i came to the conclusion that only those four fish had come to that part of the pond. there was another place a little further on, free of trees and bushes, where i could throw my line without the risk of its being caught in the bushes above my head; i had not, however, generally gone there. tall sedges lined the shore, and water-lilies floated on the greater part of the surface and its immediate neighbourhood. it was also somewhat difficult to get at, owing to the dense brushwood which covered the ground close to it. i waited five minutes more, and then slinging my basket behind my back, i made my way to the spot i have described. after catching my line two or three times in the bushes, and spending some time in clearing it, i reached the bank and unslinging my basket quickly, once more had my float in the water. the ground, which was covered with moss rather than grass, sloped quietly down to the water, and was excessively slippery. as i held my rod, expecting every moment to get a bite, i heard a low whistling sound coming from the bushes close to me. at first i thought it was produced by young frogs, but where they were i could not make out. i observed that several of the swans i have before mentioned were floating on the surface not far off. now one, now another would put down its long neck in search of fish or water insects. presently one of them caught sight of me, and came swimming rapidly towards the extreme point of the bank. in an instant it landed, and half-flying, half-running over the ground, came full at me through the bushes. to retreat was impossible, should it intend to attack me, but i hoped it would not venture to do so. before, however, i had any time for considering the matter, it suddenly spread its powerful wings, with one of which it dealt me such a blow, that before i could recover i was sent down the slippery bank, and plunged head over heels into the water. in my fright i let go my rod, but instinctively held out my hands to grasp whatever i could get hold of. the swan, not content with its first success, came after me, when, by some means or other. i caught hold of it by one of its legs. to this day i don't know how it happened. the water was deep, and i had very little notion of swimming, and having once got hold of something to support myself i was not inclined to let go, while the swan was as much astonished at being seized hold of as i was. i shouted and bawled for help, although, as no one was likely to be at the pond at that early hour, or passing in the neighbourhood, there was little chance of obtaining assistance. away flew the swan, spreading out her broad wings to enable her to rise above the surface. instead of seeking the land, to my horror, she dragged me right out towards the middle of the pond; while the other swans, alarmed at seeing the extraordinary performance of their companion, flew off in all directions. fortunately i was able to keep my head above the surface, but was afraid of getting a kick from the other leg of the swan as she struck the water with it to assist herself in making her onward way, but as i held her captive foot at arm's length, fortunately she did not touch me. i dared not let go with one of my hands, or i should have tried to seize it. whether it was instinct or not which induced her to carry me away from her nest i cannot tell, but that seemed to be her object. i felt as if i was in a horrid dream, compelled to hold on, and yet finding myself dragged forward against my will. the pond was a long and narrow one, but it seemed wider than it had ever done before. the swan, instead of going across to the opposite bank, took a course right down the centre. my shouts and shrieks must have filled her with alarm. on and on she went flapping her huge wings. i knew that my life depended upon being able to hold fast to her foot, but my arms were beginning to ache, and it seemed to me that we were still a long way from the end. when we got there, i could not tell what she might do. perhaps, i thought, she might turn round and attack me with beak and wings, when, exhausted by my struggles, i should be unable to defend myself. still i dared not venture to let go. i heartily wished that i had been a good swimmer, because then, when we got near the end, i might have released her and struck out, either for one side or the other. as it was, my safety depended on being dragged by her to the shore. she frequently struck the water with her wings. showers of spray came flying over my head, which prevented me from seeing how near i was to it. at last i began to fear that i should be unable to hold on long enough. my arms ached, and my hands felt cramped, still the love of life induced me not to give in. i shouted again and again. presently i heard a shout in return. "hold on, young fellow. hold on, you'll be all right." this encouraged me, for i knew that help was at hand. suddenly, as i looked up, i saw the tops of the trees, and presently afterwards i found the swan was trying to make her way up the bank, while my feet touched the muddy bottom. i had no wish to be dragged through the bushes by the swan, so, as i was close to the shore, i let go, but as i did so, i fell utterly exhausted on the bank, and was very nearly slipping again into the water. the swan, finding herself free after going a short distance, closed her wings, and recollecting, i fancy, that i had been the cause of her alarm, came rushing back with out-stretched neck, uttering a strange hissing sound, preparing, as i supposed, to attack me. i was too much exhausted to try and get up and endeavour to escape from her. just as she was within a few feet of me, i saw a boy armed with a thick stick spring out from among the bushes, and run directly towards her. a blow from his stick turned her aside, and instead of making for me, she again plunged into the water, and made her way over the surface in the direction from which we had come. "i am very much obliged to you, my fine fellow, for driving off the swan, or i suppose the savage creature would have mauled me terribly, had she got up to me." "very happy to have done you a service, master; but it didn't give me much trouble to do it. however, i would advise you not to stop here in your wet clothes, for the mornings are pretty fresh, and you'll be catching a bad cold." "thank you," i said, "but i do not feel very well able to walk far just yet." "have you got far to go home?" he asked. i told him. "well, then, you had better come home with me to my father's cottage. it is away down near the sea, and he'll give you some hot spirits, and you can turn into my bed while your clothes are drying." i was very glad to accept his proposal, for i did not at all fancy having to go home all dripping, to be laughed at by my brothers, and to get a scolding from aunt deb into the bargain, for i knew she would say it was all my own fault, and that if i had not been prying into the swan's nest, the bird would not have attacked me. i did not, however, wish to lose my rod and basket of fish, and i thought it very probable that if i left them, somebody else would carry them off. i asked my new friend his name. "mark riddle," he answered. "before i go i must get back my rod and basket of fish; it won't take us long. would you mind coming with me?" "no, master, i don't mind; but i would advise you to be quick about it." mark helped me up, and as i soon got the use of my legs, we ran round outside the trees as fast as we could go. the basket of fish was safe enough on the bank, but the rod was floating away at some distance. "oh dear, oh dear. i shall never be able to get it," i exclaimed. "what! can't you swim, master?" asked mark. i confessed that i was afraid i could not swim far enough to bring it in. "well, never you mind. i'll have it in a jiffy," and stripping off his clothes he plunged into the water and soon brought in the rod. "there's a fish on the hook i've a notion," he said, as he handed me the butt end of the rod. he was right, and as he was dressing, not taking long to rub himself dry with his handkerchief, i landed a fine fat tench. "that belongs to you," i said. "and, indeed, i ought to give you all the fish i have in my basket." "much obliged, master; but i've got a fine lot myself, which i pulled out of the pond this morning, only don't you say a word about it, for the squire, i've a notion, doesn't allow us poor people to come fishing here." i assured mark that i would not inform against him, and having taken my rod to pieces and wound up my line, i said that i was ready to set out. mark by that time was completely dressed. just as we were about to start i saw the swan--i suppose the same one which had dragged me across the pond--come swimming back at a rapid rate towards where we were standing, in the neighbourhood, as i well knew, of her nest. whether or not she fancied we were about to interfere with her young, we could not tell, but we agreed that it was well to beat a retreat. we accordingly set off and ran on until we reached the further end of the pond, when mark, asking me to stop a minute, disappeared among the bushes, and in a few minutes returned with a rough basket full of fine tench, carp, and eels. i had a notion that some night-lines had assisted him to take so many. i did not, however, ask questions just then, and once more we set off running. wet as i was, i was very glad to move quickly, not that i felt particularly cold, for the sun had now risen some way above the trees, and as there was not a breath of air, his rays warmed me and began to dry my outer garments. i must have had a very draggled look, and i had no wish to be seen by any one at home in that condition. in little more than a quarter of an hour we came in sight of a cottage situated below a cliff on the side of a ravine, opening out towards the sea. a stream which flowed from the squire's ponds running through it. "that is my home, and father will be right glad to see you," said mark, pointing to it. a fine old sailor-like man with a straw hat and round jacket came out of the door as we approached, and began to look about him in the fashion seafaring men have the habit of doing when they first turn out in the morning, to ascertain what sort of weather it is likely to be. his eyes soon fell on mark and me as we ran down the ravine. "who have you got with you, my son?" he asked. "the young gentleman from the vicarage. he has had a ducking, and he wants to dry his clothes before he goes home; or maybe he'd call it a swanning, seeing it was one of those big white birds which pulled him in, and towed him along from one end of the pond to the other, eh, master? what's your name?" "richard," i replied, "though i'm generally called dick," not at all offended at my companion's familiarity. "you are welcome, master dick, and if you like to turn into mark's bed, or put on a shirt and pair of trousers of his, we'll get your duds dried before the kitchen fire in a jiffy," said the old sailor. "come in, come in; it doesn't do to stand out in the air when you are wet through with fresh water." i gladly entered the old sailor's cottage, where i found his wife and a young daughter, a year or two older than mark, busy in getting breakfast ready. i thought nancy riddle a nice-looking pleasant-faced girl, and her mother a good-natured buxom dame. as i had no fancy for going to bed i gladly accepted a pair of duck trousers and a blue check shirt belonging to mark, and a pair of low shoes, which were certainly not his. i suspected that they were nancy's best. i quickly took off my wet things in mark's room, and getting into dry ones, made my appearance in the room which served them for parlour, kitchen, and hall, where i found the table spread, with a pot of hot tea, cups and saucers, a bowl of porridge, a loaf of home-made bread, and a pile of buttered toast, to which several of mark's freshly caught fish were quickly added. i offered mine to mrs riddle, but she answered-- "thank you kindly, but you had better take them home to your friends, they'll be glad of them, and we've got a plenty, as you see." i was very thankful to get a cup of scalding tea, for i was beginning to feel somewhat chilly, though mrs riddle made me sit near the fire. a saucer of porridge and milk, followed by some buttered toast and the best part of a tench, with a slice or two of bread soon set me up. nancy, however, now and then got up and gave my clothes a turn to dry them faster--a delicate attention which i duly appreciated. mr riddle, who was evidently fond of spinning yarns, as most old sailors are, narrated a number of his adventures, which greatly interested me, and made me more than ever wish to go to sea. mark had already made a trip in a coaster to the north of england, and i was much surprised to hear him say that he had had enough of it. "it is not all gold that glitters," he remarked. "i fancied that i was to become a sailor all at once, instead of that i was made to clean out the cabin, attend on the skipper, and wash up the pots and the pans for the cook, and be at everybody's beck and call, with a rope's-end for my reward whenever i was not quick enough to please my many masters." "that's what most youngsters have to put up with when they first go to sea," remarked his father. "you should not have minded it, my lad." i found that mark's great ambition was to become the owner of a fishing-boat, when he could live at home and be his own master. he was fonder of fishing than anything else, and when he could not get out to sea he passed much of his time with his rod and lines on the banks of the squire's ponds, or on those of others in the neighbourhood. he did not consider it poaching, as he asserted he had a perfect right to catch fish wherever he could find them, and i suspect that his father was of the same opinion, for he did not in any way find fault with him. when breakfast was over mark exhibited with considerable pride a small model of a vessel which he and his father had cut out of a piece of pine, and rigged in a very perfect manner. i was delighted with her appearance, and said i should like to have a similar craft. "well, master cheveley, i'll cut one out for you as soon as i can get a piece of wood fit for the purpose," said the old sailor; "and when mark and i have rigged her i'll warrant she'll sail faster than any other craft of her size which you can find far or near." "thank you," i answered, "i shall be very pleased to have her; and perhaps we can get up a regatta, and mark must bring his vessel. i feel sure he or i will carry off the prize." as i wanted to get home, dreading the jobation i should get from aunt deb for not making my appearance at prayer-time, i begged my friends to let me put on my own clothes. they were tolerably dry by this time, though the shoes were still wet, but that was of no consequence. "well, master dick, we shall always be glad to see you. whenever you come this way give us a call," said the old sailor, as i was preparing to wish him, his wife and daughter good-bye. i shook hands all round, and mark accompanied me part of the way home. i parted from him as if he had been an old friend, indeed i was really grateful to him for the way in which he had saved my life, as i believed he had done, when he drove off the enraged swan. chapter two. aunt deb's lecture, and what came of it--my desire to go to sea still further increases--my father, to satisfy me, visits leighton hall--our interview with sir reginald knowsley--some description of leighton hall and what we saw there--the magistrate's room--a smuggler in trouble--the evidence against him, and its worth--an ingenious plea-- an awkward witness--the prisoner receives the benefit of the doubt-- sir reginald consults my father, and my father consults sir reginald-- my expectations stand a fair chance of being realised--the proposed crusade against the smugglers--my father decides on taking an active part in it--i resolve to second him. on reaching home, the first person i encountered was aunt deb. "where have you been, master dick?" she exclaimed, in a stern tone, "you've frightened your poor father and mother out of their wits. they have been fancying that you must have met with some accident, or run off to sea." "i have been fishing, aunt," i answered, exhibiting the contents of my basket, "this shows that i am speaking the truth, though you look as if you doubted my word." "ned said you had gone out fishing, but that you promised to be back for breakfast," she replied, "it has been over half an hour or more, and the things have been cleared away, so you must be content with a mug of milk and a piece of bread. the teapot was emptied, and we can't be brewing any more for you." "thank you, aunt. i must, as you say, be content with the mug of milk and piece of bread you offer me," i said, with a demure countenance, glad to escape any questioning. "i shall have a better appetite for dinner, when i hope you will allow these fish to be cooked, and i fancy that you will find them very good, i have seldom caught finer." "well, well, go in and get off your dirty shoes, you look as if you had been wading into the pond, and remember to be home in good time another day. while i manage the household, i must have regularity; the want of it throws everybody out, though your father and mother do not seem to care about the matter." glad to escape so easily, i hurried away. my father had gone out to visit a sick person who had sent for him. my brothers and sisters were engaged in their various studies and occupations, and my mother was still in her room. jane, the maid, by aunt deb's directions, brought me the promised mug of milk and piece of bread, and i, without complaint, ate a small piece of the one, and drank up the contents of the other, and then said i had had enough, and could manage to go on until dinner-time. it did not strike me at the time that i was guilty of any deception, though i really was; but i was afraid if i mentioned my visit to roger riddle's cottage, the rest of my adventures in the morning would come out, and so said nothing about the matter. when my father came home, i told him that i was sorry for being so late, but considering the fine basket of fish i had brought home, it would add considerably to the supply of provisions for the family, and hoped he would not be angry with me. "no, dick, i am not angry," he said, "but aunt deb likes regularity, and we are in duty bound to yield to her wishes." "i wish that aunt deb were at jericho," i muttered to myself, "and i should not have minded saying the same thing aloud to my brothers and some of my sisters, for we most of us were heartily tired of her interference with all family arrangements, and were frequently on the verge of rebellion, but my father paid her so much deference, that we were afraid of openly breaking out." finding that my father was disengaged, i followed him into the study, and again broached the subject of going to sea. "couldn't you take me to squire knowsley, and talk the matter over with him," i said. "you can tell him that pounds a year is a large sum for you to allow me, and perhaps he may induce captain grummit to take me, although i may not have the usual allowance. i promise to be very economical, and i would be ready to make any sacrifice rather than not go afloat." "sir reginald came back yesterday, i find," said my father. "you know, dick, i am always anxious to gratify your wishes, and as i do not see any objection to your proposal, we will set off at once to call on him; perhaps he will do as you desire. if he does not, it will show him how anxious you are to go to sea, and he may assist you in some other way." i was very grateful to my father, and thanked him for agreeing to my proposal. "it won't do, however, for you to go in your present untidy condition," he remarked; "go and put on your best clothes, and by that time i shall be ready to set off." i hurried to my room, and throwing my clothes down on my bed, rigged myself out in the best i possessed. i also, as may be supposed, put on dry socks and shoes. it did not occur to me at the time, that the condition of the clothing i threw off was likely to betray my adventure of the morning. i went down stairs and set off with my father. we had a pleasant walk, although the weather was rather hot, and in the course of about an hour arrived at leighton park. sir reginald, who was at home, desired that we should at once be admitted to his study, or rather justice-room, in which he performed his magisterial duties. it was a large oak room, the walls adorned with stags' horns, foxes' brushes, and other trophies of the chase, with a couple of figures in armour in the corner, holding candelabra in their hands. on the walls were hung also bows and arrows, halberds, swords, and pikes, as well as modern weapons, and they were likewise adorned with several hunting pictures, and some grim portraits of the squire's ancestors. on one side was a bookcase, on the shelves of which were a few standard legal works, with others on sporting subjects, veterinary, falconry, horses and dogs, and other branches of natural history. sir reginald himself, a worthy gentleman, with slightly grizzled hair and a ruddy countenance, was seated at a writing-table covered with a green cloth, on which was a bible and two or three other books, and writing materials. he rose as we entered, and received us very courteously, begging my father and me to take seats near him on the inner side of the table. "you will excuse me, if any cases are brought in, i must attend to them at once. i never allow anything to interfere with my magisterial duties. but do not go away. i'll dispose of them off-hand, and shall be happy to continue the conversation. i want to have a few words with you, mr cheveley, upon a matter of importance, to obtain your advice and assistance. by-the-bye, you wrote to me a short time ago about a son of yours who wishes to enter the naval service. this is, i presume, the young gentleman," he continued, looking at me, "eh! my lad? and so you wish to become a second nelson?" "i wish to enter the navy, sir reginald, but don't know whether i shall ever become an admiral; my ambition is at present to be made a midshipman," i answered boldly. "i am very ready to forward your wishes, although it is not so easy a matter as it was a few years ago during the war time. i spoke to my friend grummit, who has just commissioned the `blaze-away,' and he expressed his willingness to take you. i think i wrote to you, mr cheveley, on the subject." "that is the very matter on which i am anxious to consult you, sir reginald," said my father. "you mentioned that captain grummit insists on all his midshipmen having an allowance from their friends of pounds a year, and although that does not appear to him probably, or to you, sir reginald, a large sum, it is beyond the means of a poor incumbent to furnish, and i am anxious to know whether captain grummit will condescend to take him with a smaller allowance." "i am sorry to say he told me that he made it a rule to receive no midshipman who had not at least that amount of private property to keep up the respectability of his position," answered sir reginald, "and from what i know of him, i should think he is not a man likely to depart from any rule he may think fit to make. however, my dear mr cheveley, i will communicate with him, and let you know what he replies. if he still insists on your son having pounds a year, we must see what else can be done. excuse me for a few minutes, here come some people on business." several persons who had entered the hall, approached the table. one of them, a dapper little gentleman in black, with a bundle of papers in his hand, took a seat at one end, and began busily spreading them out before him. at the same time two men, whom i saw were constables, brought up a prisoner, who was dressed as a seafaring man, handcuffed. "whom have you got here?" asked sir reginald, scrutinising the prisoner. "please, your honour, sir reginald, we took this man last night assisting in running contraband goods, landed, as we have reason to believe, from dick hargreave's boat the `saucy bess,' which had been seen off the coast during the day between milton cove and rock head." "ah, i'm glad you've got one of them at last. we must put a stop to this smuggling which is carried on under our noses to the great detriment of the revenue. what became of the rest of the crew, and the men engaged in landing the cargo?" "please, your worship, the cargo was sprighted away before we could get hold of a single keg or bale, and all the fellows except this one made their escape. the `preventive' men had been put on a wrong scent, and gone off in a different direction, so that we were left to do as best we could, and we only captured this one prisoner with a keg on his shoulders, making off across the downs, and we brought him along with the keg as evidence against him." "half a loaf is better than no bread, and i hope by the punishment he will receive to induce others now engaged in smuggling to abandon so low a pursuit. what is your name, prisoner?" "jack cope, your worship," answered the smuggler, who looked wonderfully unconcerned, and spoke without the slightest hesitation or fear. "well, mr jack cope, what have you to say for yourself to induce me to refrain from making out a warrant to commit you to gaol?" asked the magistrate. "please, your worship, i don't deny that i was captured as the constables describe with a cask on my shoulders, for i had been down to the sea to fill it with salt water to bathe one of my children whose limbs require strengthening, and i was walking quietly along when these men pounced down upon me, declaring that i had been engaged in running the cargo of the `saucy bess,' with which i had no more to do than the babe unborn." "a very likely story, master cope. you were caught with a keg on your shoulders; it's very evident that you were unlawfully employed in assisting to run the cargo of the vessel you spoke of, and i shall forthwith make out the order for your committal to prison." "please, your worship, before you do that, i must beg you to examine the keg i was carrying, for if it contains spirits i am ready to go; but if not, i claim in justice the right to be set at liberty." "have you examined the keg, men," said the squire, "to ascertain if it contains spirits?" "no, your worship, we would not venture to do that, seeing that t'other day when one of the coastguard broached a keg to see whether it had brandy or not he got into trouble for drinking the spirits." "for drinking the spirits! he deserved to be," exclaimed sir reginald. "however, that is not the point. bring the keg here, and if you broach it in my presence you need have no fear of the consequences. there can be little doubt that we shall be able to convict this fellow, and send him to gaol for twelve months. i wish it to be understood that i intend by every means in my power to put a stop to the proceedings of these lawless smugglers, who have so long been carrying on this illegal traffic with impunity in this part of the country." jack cope, who had kept a perfectly calm demeanour from the time he had been brought up to the table, smiled scornfully as sir reginald spoke. he said nothing, however, as he turned his glance towards the door. in a short time a revenue man appeared carrying a keg on his shoulders. "place it on the table," said sir reginald. "can you swear this is the keg you took from the prisoner?" he asked of the constable. "yes, your worship. it has never been out of our custody since we captured it," replied the man. "and _i_, too, can swear that it is the same keg that was taken from me!" exclaimed the bold smuggler in a confident tone. "silence there, prisoner," said sir reginald, "you are not to speak until you are desired. let the cask be broached." a couple of glasses and a gimlet had been sent for. the servant now brought them on a tray. one of the officers immediately set to work and bored a couple of holes in the head and side of the cask. the liquid which flowed out was bright and sparkling. the officer passed it under his nose, but made no remark, though i thought his countenance exhibited an odd expression. "hand it here," said sir reginald. "bah!" he exclaimed, intensely disgusted, "why, it's salt water." "i told you so, your worship," said jack cope, apparently much inclined to burst into a fit of laughter. "you'll believe me another time, i hope, when i said that i had gone down to the seaside to get some salt water for one of my children; and i think you'll allow, your worship, that it is salt water." "you are an impudent rascal!" exclaimed sir reginald, irritated beyond measure at the smuggler's coolness. "i shall not believe you a bit the more. i suspect that you have played the officers a trick to draw them away from your companions, and though you escape conviction this time, you will be caught another, you may depend upon that; and you may expect no leniency from me. set the prisoner at liberty, there is no further evidence against him." "i hope, sir reginald, that i may be allowed to carry my keg of salt water home," said the smuggler demurely. "it is my property, of which i have been illegally deprived by the officers, and i demand to have it given to me back." "let the man have the keg," said sir reginald in a gruff voice. "is there any other case before me?" "no, your worship," replied his clerk. and jack cope carried off his cask of salt water in triumph, followed by the officers and the other persons who had entered the hall. i had observed that jack cope had eyed my father and me as we were seated with the baronet, and it struck me that he had done so with no very pleasant expression of countenance. "these proceedings are abominable in the extreme, mr cheveley," observed the justice to my father. "we must, as i before remarked, put an effectual stop to them. you have a good deal of influence in your parish, and i must trust to you to find honest men who will try and obtain information, and give us due notice when a cargo is to be run." "i fear the people do not look upon smuggling as you and i do, sir reginald," observed my father. "the better class of my parishioners may not probably engage in it, but the _very_ best of them would think it dishonourable to act the part of informers. i do not believe any bribe would induce them to do so." "perhaps not, but you can place the matter before them in its true light. show them that they are acting a patriotic part by aiding the officers of the law in putting a stop to proceedings which are so detrimental to the revenue of the country. if they can be made to understand the injury which smuggling inflicts on the fair trader, they may see it in a different light from that in which they at present regard it. the government requires funds to carry on the affairs of the nation, and duties and taxes must be levied to supply those funds. we should show them that smuggling is a practice which it is the duty of all loyal men to put a stop to." "i understand your wishes, sir reginald, and agree with you that energetic measures are necessary; and you may depend upon my exerting myself to the utmost." "my great object, at present, is to capture the `saucy bess.' the revenue officers afloat will, of course, do their duty; but she has so often eluded them that my only hope is to catch her while she is engaged in running her cargo. i will give a handsome reward to any one who brings reliable information which leads to that desirable result." "i am afraid that, although one or two smugglers may be captured, others will soon take their places; as while the present high duties on spirits, silks, and other produce of france exist, the profit to be made by smuggling will always prove a temptation too strong to be resisted," observed my father. "if the smugglers find that a vigilant watch is kept on this part of the coast they will merely carry on their transactions in another part." "at all events, my dear mr cheveley, we shall have the satisfaction of knowing that we have done our duty in removing what i consider a disgrace to our community," observed sir reginald. "as to lowering the duties, that is what i will never consent to. i shall always oppose any scheme of the sort while i hold my place in parliament. i feel that i am bound to preserve things as they are, and am not to be moved by the brawling cries of demagogues." "of course, sir reginald, you understand these things better than i do. i have never given my mind to politics, and have always been ready to record my vote in your favour, and to induce as many as possible of my parishioners to follow my example." all this time i had been sitting on the tenter-hooks of expectation, wondering if my father would again refer to the subject which had induced him to pay a visit to the baronet. "i must wish you good morning, sir reginald," he said, rising. "you will, i feel sure, not forget your promise regarding my son dick, and if captain grummit cannot take him, i trust that you will find some other captain who does not insist on his midshipmen having so large an allowance." "of course, my dear mr cheveley, of course," said the baronet, rising; "although it did not strike me as anything unreasonable. yet i am aware how you are situated with a numerous family and a comparatively small income; and, believe me, i will not lose an opportunity of forwarding the views of the young gentleman. good morning, my dear mr cheveley, good morning," and nodding to me, he bowed us out of the hall. "i hope sir reginald will get me a berth on board some other ship," i said to my father, as we walked homeward. "he seems wonderfully good-natured and condescending." "i don't feel altogether satisfied as to that point," answered my father, who knew the baronet better than i did. chapter three. the crusade against the smugglers--sir reginald's measures--the "saucy bess"--my father's sermon, and its effects in different quarters--ned and i visit old roger riddle--mr reynell's picnic and how we enjoyed it--roger riddle tells the story of his life--born at sea--the pet of the ship--stormy times--parted from his mother--his first visit to land--loses his parents. day after day went by and nothing was heard from sir reginald knowsley about my appointment as a midshipman. aunt deb took care to remark that she had no doubt he had forgotten all about me. this i shrewdly suspected was the case. if he had forgotten me, however, he had not forgotten the smugglers, for he was taking energetic steps to put a stop to their proceedings, though it was whispered he was not always as successful as he supposed. whenever i went to the village i heard of what he was doing, yet from time to time it was known that cargoes had been run while only occasionally an insignificant capture was made, it being generally, as the saying is, a tub thrown to a whale. the "saucy bess" appeared off the coast, but it was when she had a clean hold and no revenue officer could touch her. she would then come into leighton bay, which was a little distance to the westward of the bar, and drop her anchor, looking as innocent as possible; and her hardy crew would sit with their arms folded, on her deck, smoking their pipes and spinning yarns to each other of their daring deeds, or would pace up and down performing the fisherman's walk, three steps and overboard. on two or three occasions i caught sight of them from the top of a rocky cliff which formed one side of the little bay, and i acknowledge that i had a wonderful longing to go on board and become better acquainted with the sturdy looking outlaws, or rather, breakers of the law. as, however, i could find no boat in the bay to take me alongside, and as i did not like to hail and ask them to allow me to pay them a visit, i had to abandon my design. my father was busy in his way in carrying out the wishes of the baronet. he spoke to a number of his parishioners, urging them to assist in putting a stop to the proceedings of the smugglers, and endeavouring to impress upon them the nefarious character of their occupation. more than once he got into the wrong box when addressing some old sea dog, who would curtly advise him to mind his own business, the man he was speaking to probably being in league with the smugglers. he said and did enough indeed to create a considerable amount of odium against himself. he went so far as one sunday to preach a sermon in which he unmistakably alluded to smuggling as one of the sins certain to bring down condign punishment on those engaged in it. sir reginald knowsley, who had driven over, as he occasionally did, to attend the service, waited for my father in the porch, and complimented him on his sermon. "excellent, mr cheveley, excellent," he exclaimed, "i like to hear clergymen speak out bravely from the pulpit, and condemn the sins of the people. if the smugglers persist in carrying on their nefarious proceedings, they will now do it with their eyes open, and know that they are breaking the laws of god and man. i was delighted to hear you broach the subject. i expect some friends in a few days, and i hope that you will give me the pleasure of your company at dinner. i have some capital old port just suited to your taste, and i will take care to draw your attention to it. good-bye, my dear mr cheveley, good-bye; with your aid i have no doubt smuggling will, in a short time, be a thing of the past;" and the squire walked with a dignified pace to his carriage and drove off, not regarding the frowning looks cast at him by some of his fellow-worshippers. as i afterwards went through the churchyard i passed several knots of persons talking together, who were making remarks of a very different character to those i have spoken of on the sermon they had just heard. they were at no pains to lower their voices even as they saw me. "i never seed smuggling in the ten commandments, an' don't see it now," remarked a sturdy old fisherman, who was looked upon as a very respectable man in the village. "what has come over our parson to talk about it is more than i can tell." "the parson follows where the squire leads, i've a notion," remarked another seafaring man, who was considered an oracle among his mates. "he never said a word about it before the squire took the matter up. many's the time we've had a score of kegs stowed away in his tool-house, and if one was left behind, if he didn't get it i don't know who did." on hearing this i felt very much inclined to stop and declare that my father had never received a keg of spirits, or a bribe of any sort, for i was very sure that he would not condescend to that, though i could not answer for the integrity of john dixon, our old gardener, who had been, on more than one occasion, unable to work for a week together; and although his wife said that he was suffering from rheumatics, the doctor remarked, with a wink, that he had no doubt he would recover without having much physic to take. some of the men were even more severe in their remarks, and swore that if the parson was going to preach in that style, they would not show their noses inside the church. others threatened to go off to the methodists' house in the next village, where the minister never troubled the people with disagreeable remarks. i did not tell my father all i had heard, as i knew it would annoy him. it did not occur to me at the moment that he had introduced the subject for the sake of currying favour with sir reginald, indeed i did not think such an idea had crossed his mind. he was greatly surprised in the afternoon, when the service was generally better attended than in the morning, to find that only half his usual congregation was present. when he returned home, after making some visits in the parish, on the following tuesday, he told us he suspected from the way he had been received that something was wrong, but it did not occur to him that his sermon was the cause of offence. i, in the meantime, was spending my holidays in far from a satisfactory manner. my elder brothers amused themselves without taking pains to find me anything to do, while ned was always at his books, and was only inclined to come out and take a constitutional walk with me now and then. my younger brothers were scarcely out of the nursery, and i was thus left very much to my own resources. i bethought me one day of paying the old sailor roger riddle a visit, and perhaps getting his son mark to come and fish with me. i told ned where i was going, and was just setting off when he called out-- "stop a minute, dick, and i will go with you; i should like to make the acquaintance of the old sailor, who, from your account, must be something above the common." i did not like to refuse, at the same time i confess that i would rather have gone alone, as i knew that ned did not care about fishing, and would probably want to stop and talk to roger riddle. i was waiting for him outside in front of the house, when a carriage drove up full of boys, with a gentleman who asked me if my father was at home. i recognised him as a mr reynell, who lived at springfield grange, some five or six miles inland. two of the boys were his sons, whom i knew; the others, he told me, were their cousins and two friends staying with them. "we are going to have a picnic along the shore, and we want you and your brother to come and join us," said harry reynell, the eldest of the two. ned came out directly afterwards, and said he should be very happy to go. "can't you get any of your friends to go also? the more the merrier." there were two or three other boys whom i knew staying with an aunt in the village, and i offered to run down and ask them. "by all means," said harry, "we have provisions enough, so that they need not stop to get anything; but i'm afraid we cannot stow them all away; if it's not very far off we may go on foot." "it is no distance to the prettiest part of the coast," i replied; "and i know a capital spot where we can pick up shells and collect curiosities of all sorts, if any of you have a fancy for that sort of thing." "that will do," said harry reynell; "go and fetch your friends, and we will walk together." i accordingly ran down the village to mrs parker's, whose nephews were at home. we formed a tolerably numerous party. as my father was unable to go, mr reynell was the only grown-up person among us. the spot i had fixed upon was not far from roger riddle's cottage. as i had been thinking of him, i proposed asking the old sailor and mark to join our party. from the account i gave to mr reynell of roger riddle, he did not object to this. as harry reynell, his brother, and friends were good-natured merry fellows, we had a pleasant time as we walked or ran along, laughing and singing, and playing each other tricks. we soon left mr reynell behind, but he told us not to mind him, as he should soon catch us up. the carriage followed with the prog, but as the road was in many places heavy, it did not move as fast as we did. we at length reached the spot i had proposed, a small sandy bay, with cliffs on either side, out of which bubbled a stream of sparkling cold water, with rocks running out into the sea. "this will do capitally," said harry. "see, the whole beach is covered with beautiful shells, and there may be sea anemones and echini, and star-fish, and all sorts of marine creatures." having surveyed the place, we heard mr reynell shouting out to us to carry down the baskets of pies, tarts, cold ham, and chicken, plates, knives and forks. while the rest of the party were so engaged, i ran on to invite old roger. i found him and mark within. "much obliged to the young gentlemen, but i've had my dinner," he answered; "however, i'll come and have a talk with them, if you think they'll like it. may be, i'll spin them a yarn or two, which will do to pass the time while they are sniffing in the breezes, which they don't get much of while they are away up the country." "you'll come as soon as you can," i answered, "for they will be disappointed if you don't take a tart or two and a glass of wine." "never fear, i'll come before long," said old roger. mark, however, looked as if he would have no objection to taste some of the good things in our hampers, so he very readily agreed to accompany me. we found the cloth spread out on the smooth dry sand, and covered with pies and other dainties, and the plates and the knives and forks. mr reynell was engaged in making a huge salad in a wooden bowl. i introduced mark in due form. "come and sit down," said harry to him in a kind way which soon made him feel quite at home. i don't know whether he had much of a dinner before, but he did ample justice to the good things which our friends had brought. we had nearly finished before old roger made his appearance. "your servant, gentlemen all," he said, making a bow with his tarpaulin; "master dick here has asked me to come, saying it was what you wished, or i would not have intruded on you." "very pleased to see you, mr riddle," said harry, who did the honours of the feast, "sit down, and have some of this cherry pie, you will find it very nice, and, for a wonder, the juice hasn't run out." harry chose the largest plate, and filled it with fully a third of the pie. "thank you, young gentleman; i may take a snack of that sort of thing;" and the old sailor set to work, his share of the pie rapidly disappearing, as he ladled up the cherries with his spoon. "take a glass of cider now, mr riddle," said harry, handing him a large tumbler, which the old sailor tossed off, and had no objection to two or three more. meantime the tide had been rising, and no sooner was dinner over, than we had to pack up and beat a rapid retreat. we soon washed the plates and dishes in the water as it rose, and ned packed them up. the expectations of those of our party who hoped to pick up shells, and collect sea curiosities were thus disappointed. "never mind, lads," said old roger; "master dick here tells me that you would like to hear a yarn or two; the grass here, as much as there is of it, is dry enough," and mr riddle seated himself on the bank, while we all gathered round him. mr reynell placed himself at a little distance, although within earshot, when he took out his sketchbook to make a drawing of the scene. "none of you young gentlemen have ever been to sea, i suppose?" continued the old sailor. "i dare say you fancy it all sunshine and smooth sailing, and think you'd like to go and be sailors, and walk the deck in snowy-white trousers and kid gloves. i have known some who have taken that notion into their heads, and have been not a little disappointed when they got afloat, to find that they had to dip their fists into the tar-bucket, to black down the rigging, and swab up the decks, though some of them made not bad sailors after all. if any of you young gentlemen think of leading a seafaring life, you must be prepared for ups and downs of all sorts, heavy gales, and rough seas, shipwrecks and disasters. you'll be asking how i came to go to sea, perhaps you may think i ran off, as some silly lads have done, but i didn't do that. if i had run, it would have been ashore, seeing as how i was born at sea. it happened in this wise:--my father, bob riddle, was bo'sun's mate of the old `goliath,' of eighty guns, and as in those days two or three women were allowed on board line-of-battle ships to attend to the sick, and to wash and mend clothes, provided the captains did not object; so my mother, nancy riddle, who loved her husband in a way which made her ready to go through fire and water for his sake, got leave to accompany him to sea. she made herself wonderfully useful on board, and won the hearts of all the men and officers too, who held her in great respect, while the midshipmen just simply adored her; indeed, i've heard say that she saved the lives of several who were sick of fever by the careful way in which she nursed them. she had had no children, and i've a notion that if she had known what was going to happen, like a wise woman she would have remained on shore, but as the ship was in the east india station, and she wanted her boy to be british born, for she guessed she was going to have a boy, she had no help for it but to remain on board and take her chance. the `goliath' had just been in action, and beaten off two of the enemy's ships which wanted to take her but couldn't, when she was caught in a regular hurricane, and had to run before it under bare poles. during that time i came into this world of troubles. i can't say that i remember anything about it, but i've been in many a typhoon and hurricane since then, with the big foaming seas roaring, the wind whistling and howling in the rigging, the blocks rattling, the bulkheads creaking and groaning, and the ship rolling and pitching and tumbling about in a way which made it seem wonderful that wood and iron could hold together. it wasn't exactly under such circumstances that the wife even of a boatswain's mate would have chosen to bring a puling infant into the world. the doctor thought that mother would have died, and, as there was no cow on board, that i should have shared her fate, but she got through it and nursed me, and i throve amazingly, so that in six months i was as big as most children of a year or more old. before the ship was ordered home, i could chew bacon and beef, and toddle about the decks. of course i was made much of by officers and crew. mother rigged me out in a regular cut seaman's dress. the midshipmen taught me the cutlass exercise, and to ride a goat the captain bought as much for my use as his own. for'ard my education was equally well attended to, and i don't remember when i couldn't dance a hornpipe--double shuffle and all--or sing a dozen sea songs, some of them sounding rather strange, i've a notion, coming from juvenile lips. all went on smoothly till the ship was paid off, and my early friends were scattered to the four winds of heaven. my father, who felt like a fish out of water when ashore, soon obtained another berth, with the same rating on board the `victorious,' seventy-four, but he had great difficulty in getting leave for my mother to accompany him, and if another woman who was to have gone hadn't fallen ill just in the nick of time, he would have had to sail without her. i was smuggled on board instead of a monkey shipped by the crew, which fell overboard and was drowned. it was some weeks before the captain found out that i wasn't the monkey he had given the men leave to take. when the first lieutenant at length reported to him that i was a human being without a tail, he was very angry, and father was likely to have got into trouble. still as he had done nothing against the articles of war, which don't make mention of taking babies to sea, he couldn't be flogged with his own cat. the captain then swore that he would put mother and me ashore at the first port we touched at; but the men, among whom i had many friends, begged hard that we might be allowed to remain, and when he saw me scuttling about the rigging in a hairy coat and a long tail, laughing heartily, he relented, and as he got a hint that the men would become very discontented if he carried his threat into execution, father was told that he would say nothing more about the matter. soon afterwards the captain fell ill, and mother nursed him in a way no man could have done, so that he had reason to be thankful that he had allowed mother and me to remain on board. the `victorious' became one of the best disciplined and happiest ships in the service, all because she had a real live plaything on board. she fought several bloody actions. during one of them, when we were tackling a french eighty-gun ship, i got away from mother, who was with the other women in the cockpit attending to the wounded, and slipped up on deck, where before long i found father. `here i am,' i said, `come to see the fun. when are you going to finish off the mounseers?' the round shot were flying quickly across the decks, and bullets were rattling on board like hail, for though the french were getting the worst of it, they were, as they always do, dying game. `get below, boy, get below!' shouted father, `what business have you here?' as i didn't go, he seized me by the arm, and dragged me to the hatchway, in spite of my struggles and cries. `i want to see the fight. i want to see the mounseers licked,' i cried out. `let me go, father; let me go!' just then there was a shout from the upper deck, `the enemy has struck--the enemy has struck!' father let me go, and up i ran and cheered, and waved my hat among the men with as hearty good will as any of them. when i saw the men shaking hands with each other, i ran about, and, putting out my tiny fist, shook their hands also, exclaiming, `we've licked the mounseers, haven't we? i knew we would. hoora! hoora!' this amused the men greatly, and they called me a plucky little chap, though i certainly could not boast of having contributed to gain the victory, as i was considerably too young to act the part even of a powder-monkey. we had lost a good many officers and men, some of whom i saw stretched on the deck, and wondered what had come over them, as they did not move or speak. as long as the `victorious' remained in commission, i continued with my father and mother aboard her; but when she was paid off, an order came out, prohibiting women from going to sea on board men-of-war, and mother, greatly to her grief, had to live on shore. it was now a question whether i should accompany my father or stay with my mother and get some book-learning, of which i was as yet utterly ignorant, as i did not even know my letters. i was scarcely old enough to be rated as a ship's boy, though father would have liked to take me with him, but mother said she could not lose us both, and, fortunately for me, father consented to leave me with her. as the `victorious' was paid off at plymouth, mother remained there, and father soon afterwards got his warrant as boatswain to the `emerald' sloop-of-war, ordered out on the west india station. this was the first time i had been on shore, except for a few days when the `goliath' was paid off, during the whole of my life, and i did not find it very easy to get accustomed to the ways of shore-going people. at first i did not at all like them. there was no order or regularity, and i missed more than anything the sound of the bell striking the hours and half-hours day and night. however, i got accustomed to things by degrees. i was sent to school, where i gained a good character for regularity and obedience, just because i had been trained to it, do ye see. i couldn't bear not to be there at the exact time, and i never thought of disobeying the orders of these under whose authority i was placed. i also was diligent, and thus made good progress in my studies. i might have become a scholar had i remained at school, but after i had been there about two years, when i got home one day i found mother leaning back in her chair, in a fit, it seemed to me, and the parson of the parish, who had a letter in his hand, trying to rouse her up. as soon as i came in, he bade me run for the doctor, who lived not far off. he came at once with a woman, a neighbour of ours, and while they were attending to mother, the parson, sitting down, placed me between his knees, and looking kindly in my face, said that he had some bad news to tell me, which he had got in a letter from the west indies. it was that my brave father was dead, carried off by the yellow fever which has killed so many fine fellows on that station. my mother was a strong and hearty woman, and any one would have supposed that it would have taken a great deal to kill her; but, notwithstanding her robust appearance, she had gentle and tender feelings, and though for my sake she wished to live, within a year she died of a broken heart for the loss of my father and i was left an orphan." chapter four. roger riddle continues his story--goes to sea as a man-o'-war's-man-- his voyages--the mediterranean--toulon--chasing the enemy--caught in a trap--a hard fight for it--escape of the frigate--corsica--martello bay--the tower and its gallant defenders--its capture--origin of its name--san fiorenzo--convention redoubt--what british tars can do-- capture of the "minerve"--the taking of bastia--nelson loses an eye--"jackass" frigates--toulon again--more fighting--the advantage of being small--prepare to repel boarders--the colours nailed to the mast--the chase--never despise your enemy--teneriffe--attack on santa cruz--nelson loses his arm--abandonment of the enterprise--what people call glory--the hellespont--the captain steers his own ship--the island of cerigotto--breakers ahead--the ship strikes--the value of discipline--their condition on the rock--the ship goes to pieces-- their chances of escape--the gale--a brave captain--a false hope--the effects of drinking sea-water--water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink--reduced to extremities--they lose their brave captain and first lieutenant--they construct a raft--cowardice of the greek fishermen--the rescue of the survivors--fresh adventures--the dardanelles--fire!--an awful spectacle--destruction of the ship-- reason to be thankful--a father's love--how they took a spanish sloop-o'-war--the ruse and how it succeeded--between two fires--good and bad captains--roger quits the navy--becomes mate of a merchantman and retires on his laurels--his marriage and settlement--our picnic breaks up. "mother had a good many friends, old shipmates of hers and father's, but most of them having families of their own were not able to do much for me. i was now, however, big enough to go to sea, and of course there was no question but that i should be a sailor. england had been at peace for some time, but she and france were once more at loggerheads, and ships were fitting out with all despatch at every port in the kingdom. there was no difficulty therefore in finding a ship for me, and an old messmate of father's, andrew barton, having volunteered on board the `juno' frigate, of thirty-two guns, took me with him. he was rated as captain of the maintop and i as ship's boy, having to do duty as powder-monkey. i quickly found myself at home, and those who didn't know that i had been to sea before, wondered how well i knew my way everywhere about the decks and aloft. i soon took the lead among the other boys, many of them much bigger and older than myself. `why, one would suppose that you had been born at sea,' said tom noakes, a big hulking fellow, who never could tell which was the stem, and which the stern. `and so i was,' i answered. i then told him how many storms and battles i had been in, and all that i remembered about my early life. this made my messmates treat me with wonderful respect, and they never thought of playing me the tricks they did each other. "our frigate was bound out to the mediterranean to join the fleet under lord hood. she was, i should have said, commanded by captain samuel hood, a relation of the admiral's. we knew that we should have plenty of work to do. when we sailed, it was understood that an english force had possession of toulon, which was besieged by the republicans, who had collected a large army round the city, but it was supposed that they would be kept at bay by the english and royalists. we had been cruising off toulon, when we were despatched to malta to bring up supernumeraries for the fleet. we were detained, however, at the island for a considerable time, by foul winds. at length we sailed, and steered direct for toulon. we arrived abreast of the harbour one evening, some time after dark. the captain, anxious to get in, as we had no pilot on board, nor any one acquainted with the dangers of the place, stood on, hoping by some means or other, to find his way. the officers with their night-glasses were on the look-out for our ships, but they were nowhere to be seen. our captain, however, concluded that as a strong easterly wind had been blowing, they had run for shelter into the inner harbour. we accordingly shortened sail, and stood on, under our topsails. as at last several ships could be distinguished, it was supposed that we were close up to the british fleet. we soon afterwards made out a brig, and in order to weather her, the driver and topsail were set. as we were tacking under the brig's stern, some one on board her hailed, but not being able to make out what was said, captain hood shouted, `this is his britannic majesty's frigate "juno."' `viva,' cried the voice from the brig, and after this we heard the people on board her jabbering away among themselves. at last one of them shouted out, `luff, luff.' the captain on this, ordered the helm to be put down, but before the frigate came head to wind, she grounded. the breeze, however, was light, and the water perfectly smooth, and the sails were clewed up and handed. while this was being done, we saw a boat pull away from the brig, towards the town. before the men aloft had left the yards, a sudden flaw of wind drove the ship's head off the bank, when her anchor was let go, and she swung head to wind. her heel, however, was still on the shoal, and the rudder immovable. to get her off, the launch was hoisted out, and the kedge anchor with a hawser, was put into her. while we were engaged in hauling the frigate off the shoal, a boat appeared coming down the harbour, and being hailed some one in her answered `ay, ay.' she quickly came alongside, and the crew, among whom were two persons apparently officers, hurried on deck; one of the latter addressed our captain, and said he came to inform him that according to the regulations of the port, the frigate must go to the other part of the harbour, and perform ten days' quarantine. the frenchmen, who were supposed to be royalists, were jabbering away together, when one of our midshipmen, a sharp young fellow, cried out, `the chaps have national cockades in their hats.' the moon which shone out brightly just then, threw a gleam of light on the frenchmen's hats, and the three colours were distinctly seen. they finding that they were discovered, coolly said in french, so i afterwards heard, `make yourselves easy, the english are good people, we will treat you kindly. the english fleet sailed away some time ago.' "`we are prisoners, caught like rats in a trap!' cried the men from all parts of the ship. the entrance to the harbour is guarded by heavy forts on either side, between which we had run some distance, and their guns pointed down on our decks might sink us before we could get outside again. the officers, on hearing the report, hurried aft, scarcely able to believe that it was true. they found, however, on seeing the frenchmen, that there was no doubt about the matter. just then a flaw of wind came down the harbour, when our third lieutenant, mr webbley, hurrying up to the captain, said, `i believe, sir, if we can get her under sail, we shall be able to fetch out.' `we will try it at all events!' cried the captain; `send the men to their stations, and hand those french gentlemen below.' the mounseers, on finding that they were not yet masters of the ship, began to bluster and draw their sabres, but the marines quickly made them sound another note, and in spite of their `_sacres_!' they were hurried off the deck under a guard. the men flew aloft, and in three minutes every sail was set, and the yards braced up for casting. the frigate was by this time completely afloat, the cable was cut; her head paid off, the sails filled, and away she stood from the shore. the wind freshening, she quickly gathered way. the launch and the french boat were cut adrift, and we had every hope of escape. directly we began to loose sails, we saw lights appear in the batteries, and observed a stir aboard the brig. she soon afterwards opened fire on us, as did the fort on the starboard bow, and in a short time every fort which could bring a gun to bear on us, began to blaze away. we were now, however, going rapidly through the water, but there was a chance of our losing a topmast, as the shot came whistling through our sails, between our rigging. the wind shifting, made it seem impossible that we could get out without making a tack, but our captain was not a man to despair, and i am pretty sure that there was no one on board who would have given in, as long as the frigate was afloat. fortunately the wind again shifted and blew in our favour. blocks and ropes came falling from aloft, we could see the holes made in the canvas, by the shot passing through them. several of the masts and spars were badly wounded, and two thirty-six pound shot came plump aboard, but no one was hurt. as soon as the hands came from aloft, they were ordered to their quarters, and we began firing away in return at the forts, as well as at the impudent little brig, which we at length silenced. as may be supposed, we gave a right hearty cheer when we saw the shot the frenchmen were firing at us fall far astern, and we found that we were well clear of the harbour. we made sail for corsica, where we found a squadron under commodore linzee, engaged in attempting to drive the french from that island. the first expedition in which we took part was to martello bay. it was guarded by a strong round tower, to which the same name had been given. the troops to the number of fourteen hundred, were landed the same evening, and while they took possession of a height, which overlooked the tower, we, and the `fortitude' frigate were ordered to attack it from the sea. the `fortitude' got the worst of it, for the french turned their fire chiefly on her, while for three hours we kept blazing away, without producing any visible effect. some guns had been got up by the troops to the height, and by the use of hot shot they managed to set on fire some bass junk which lined the parapet. at last the gallant little garrison had to give in, when it was found, that they numbered only thirty-three men, and had but one six and two sixteen pounders; yet so well did they work their guns, and so strong was the tower, that they had held it for nearly two days against a large body of troops and our two frigates. during the time the `fortitude' had lost six killed, and fifty-six wounded. three of her lower-deck guns had been dismounted, and she had been set on fire by the red-hot shot discharged at her, besides other damages. the tower, i believe, took its name from the myrtles growing on the shores of the bay. in consequence of the way this little tower had held out, the government had a number of similar towers built on the english coast, which were called after the original, `martello' towers. we next attacked a fortification called the convention redoubt, which was considered the key to the town of san fiorenzo. the redoubt was commanded by a rocky hill, rising to the height of seven hundred feet above the level of the sea. as it was nearly perpendicular at its summit, it was considered inaccessible, but british sailors had to show the frenchmen that where goats could find a foothold they could climb. "looking up at the hill, it certainly did appear as if no human being could reach the summit. not only, however, did our men get up there, but they carried several eighteen-pounders with them. on the right there was a descent of many hundred feet, down which a false step would have sent them headlong, and on the left were beetling rocks, while along the path they had to creep, only one man could pass at a time. the pointed rocks, however, served to make fast the tackle by which the guns were hoisted. to the astonishment of the frenchmen, the eighteen-pounders at length began firing down upon their redoubt, which was then stormed by the troops, and quickly carried. part of the garrison were made prisoners, but a good number managed to scamper off on the opposite side. we, however, took possession of a fine thirty-eight-gun frigate, called the `minerve,' which the frenchmen had sunk, but which we soon raised and carried off with us. she was then added to the british navy, and called the `san fiorenzo,' and was the ship on board which king george the third used often to sail when he was living down at weymouth. she also fought one or more actions when commanded by sir harry neale, one of the best officers in the service. however, young gentlemen, these things took place so long ago that i don't suppose you will care much to hear about them." "oh, yes, we do. please go on!" cried out several voices from among us. "it is very interesting, we could sit here all day and listen to you." "if that is the case, i'll go ahead to please you," said old riddle. "in those days we didn't let grass grow on our ship's bottoms. soon after we left san fiorenzo we took bastia, the seamen employed on shore being commanded by captain nelson, of the `agamemnon.' after we had besieged it for thirty-seven days the garrison capitulated, we having lost a good many officers and seamen killed and wounded. "we next attacked calvi, which we took with the loss of the gallant captain serocold and several seamen killed, and captain nelson and six seamen wounded. it was here captain nelson had his right eye put out. i saw a good deal of service while on board the `juno.' whilst still on the station i was transferred with andrew barton and others, to the `dido,' twenty-eight-gun frigate, commanded by captain towry. these small craft used to be called `jackass' frigates, but the `dido' showed that she was not a `jackass' at all events. soon after i joined her she and the `lowestoff,' thirty-two-gun frigate, were despatched by admiral hotham to reconnoitre the harbour of toulon. we were on our way, when, one evening, we discovered standing towards us two large french frigates. we made the private signal, when, supposing that we were the leading frigates of the fleet, they both wore and stood away. we chased them all night, but in the morning, when they discovered that there were only two frigates, and both much smaller than themselves, they tacked and stood towards us. one of the frenchmen was the `minerve,' of forty guns, and the other the `artemise,' of thirty-six guns. when the `minerve' was about a mile away from us, on the weather bow, and ahead of her consort, she wore, and then hauling up on the larboard tack, to windward, commenced firing at us. i was still, you will understand, only a powder-monkey. my business was to bring the powder up from the magazine in a tub, upon which i had to sit till it was wanted to load the guns. still, i could see a good deal that was going forward through the ports; besides which i heard from the men what was taking place. my old messmate, tom noakes, had joined the `dido.' he was now seated on his tub next to me--the biggest powder-monkey i ever knew. poor tom was not at all happy. he said that we smaller fellows had only half the chance of being killed that he had, as a shot might pass over our heads which would take his off. i tried to console him by reminding him that there were a good many parts of the ship where no shots were likely to pass, and that he had less chance of being hit than the men who had to stand up to their guns all the time. we stood on till the `minerve' was on our weather beam, when we could see her squaring away her yards, and presently the breeze freshening, she bore down upon our little frigate with the evident intention of sinking us. so she might have done with the greatest ease, but having fired our broadside just as her flying jibboom was touching our mainyard, we bore up, and her bow struck our larboard quarter. so great was the shock, that for the moment many thought we were going down, but instead of that our frigate was thrown athwart the `minerve's' hawse, her bowsprit becoming entangled in our mizen rigging. the frenchmen immediately swarmed along their bowsprit, intending to board us. our first lieutenant then shouted for `boarders to repel boarders,' but as the french crew doubled ours, we should have found it a hard matter to do that. fortunately the frenchman's bowsprit broke right off, carrying away our mizen-mast, and with it the greater number of our assailants, who failed to regain their own ship. with our mizen-mast of course went our colours, but that the frenchmen might not suppose that we had given in, harry barling, one of our quarter-masters, getting hold of a union jack, nailed it to the stump of the mizen-mast. all this time, you must understand, we had been blazing away at each other as fast as we could bring our guns to bear. the `minerve' at last ranged ahead clear of us, but we continued firing, till the `lowestoff,' seeing how hard pressed we were, came up to our assistance, and tackled the frenchman. in a few minutes, so actively did she work her guns, that she had knocked away the enemy's foremast and remaining topmast. as the `minerve' could not now possibly escape, we threw out a signal to the `lowestoff' to chase the `artemise,' which instead of coming to the assistance of her consort was making off. she however had the heels of us, and we therefore, returning again, attacked the `minerve,' which, on her mizen-mast being shot away, hauled down her colours. we had our boatswain and five seamen killed, two officers and thirteen men wounded. the `lowestoff' had no one hurt, and so, although she certainly contributed to the capture of the prize, we gained the chief credit for the action, which, considering the difference in size between our frigate and the frenchman, we certainly deserved. but in those days we didn't count odds. we thought that we had only to see the enemy to thrash him. even our best captains, however, sometimes made a mistake. "i afterwards belonged to the `terpsichore' frigate, captain richard bowen, which formed one of a squadron under lord nelson, who was then sir horatio, to attack santa cruz, in the island of teneriffe. the squadron consisted of three seventy-fours and one fifty-gun ship--which afterwards joined us--three frigates, and the `fox' cutter. it was some time before we could get up to the place. at last we managed to embark nearly seven hundred seamen and marines in the boats of the squadron, nearly two hundred on board the `fox' and others, including a detachment of royal artillery, in some captured boats. sir horatio himself took the command. shoving off from the ship some time after midnight, we pulled in for the town. the plan was to make a dash for the mole, and then to fight our way forward along it, we fully believing that the enemy would run as soon as we appeared. when the leading boats, under the command of captains freemantle and bowen, had got within half gunshot of the mole head, the enemy took the alarm, and immediately opened fire on us from forty heavy guns. a hot fire it was, i assure you. the `fox' cutter, crowded with men, was sunk by the heavy shot which struck her, and nearly a hundred of those on board perished. i was in the `terpsichore's' barge with my brave captain, when, just before she reached the mole, a shot struck her, and down she went, drowning seven of my shipmates; but the captain, with the rest of us, managed to get on shore. in spite of the hot fire with which we were met from the mole head, we succeeded in effecting a landing, and drove the enemy before us. having spiked the guns which had done us so much mischief, we advanced along the mole, led by captain bowen, and our first lieutenant, mr thorpe. here we encountered a tremendous fire of musketry from the citadel and houses, so that the greater number of our party were either killed or wounded. our brave leader, captain bowen, was among the first who fell, and soon afterwards lieutenant thorpe was killed. nearly all the rest of the officers were killed or wounded. it being found at last that there was no chance of success, we were ordered to fall back. "we had neither seen nor heard anything of sir horatio who would have been certain, had not something happened to him, to have been ahead. we now learned that just as he was landing and about to draw his sword, he had been struck by a shot on the elbow, and that he had been carried on board his ship by the few men who remained in the boat, the rest having landed. one of them, john lovell, who i knew well, as soon as he saw the admiral wounded, took the shirt from his own back, and tore it into strips, to bandage up his shattered arm. in the meanwhile we were waiting for the arrival of captains trowbridge and waller with another squadron of boats. they however missed the mole head, but though some landed to the southward of it, in consequence of the heavy surf breaking on the shore, others put back. captain trowbridge, not finding the admiral and the other officers he expected to meet there, sent a sergeant to summon the citadel to surrender. the poor fellow did not return, having probably been shot. the scaling-ladders had also been lost in the surf. when morning broke we altogether mustered only men. every street in the place was defended by artillery, and we heard that a large force of men was advancing. the enterprise had therefore to be abandoned. captain trowbridge proposed to the governor that we should re-embark with our arms, and he engaged that the squadron should not further molest any of the places in the canary islands. these terms were agreed to. we obtained also permission to purchase such provisions as we required. the affair was a disastrous one. we gained nothing, for besides men killed or drowned, among whom were several brave officers, we had upwards of wounded, and the admiral lost his right arm. "people call this sort of thing `glory,' but for my part i could not make out what advantage we expected to gain, or what business we had to go there at all." "i say, mr riddle, were you ever shipwrecked?" sang out one of the old sailor's auditors, who was getting rather tired of the long yarn about his battles with which he had been indulging us. "bless you, young gentlemen, that i have, well-nigh a score of times i might say. some time after this i belonged to the `nautilus' sloop of war, commanded by captain farmer. we belonged to the squadron of admiral lewis, then cruising in the hellespont, when we were ordered to england with despatches of the utmost importance. we had a fresh breeze from the north-east as we threaded our way through the numerous islands of that sea. when at length we got off the island of anti milo, the greek pilot we had with us declared he knew nothing of the coast to the westward. as, however, our captain was anxious to make a quick passage for the sake of the despatches, he determined to try and pilot her himself. though the weather looked threatening, we sailed at sunset from anti milo, and shaped a course for cerigotto. as the night grew on the wind increased to a heavy gale, torrents of rain fell, the thunder roared and rattled, the flashes of lightning were as vivid as i ever saw in my life. sometimes it was almost brighter than day, then pitchy dark. the captain had just given orders to close reef the topsails, intending to bring the ship to till daylight, when a bright flash of lightning showed us the island of cerigotto right ahead, about the distance of a mile or so. now, knowing his position, the captain resolved to run on, believing all danger past. the watch below was ordered to turn in. those who remained on deck stowed themselves away under shelter of the hammock nettings. "we of course kept a bright look-out, though it was not supposed that we had anything to fear. except the officer of the watch, the rest had gone below--the captain and master probably to examine the chart--when the look-out on the forecastle shouted out `breakers ahead!' `put the helm a lee!' cried the officer of the watch. almost before the order could be obeyed we felt a shock which lifted us off our feet, and sent those below out of their hammocks. we knew too well that the ship was ashore. in one instant the sea struck the ship, now lifting her up and then dashing her down upon the rocks with tremendous force. it seemed like a fearful dream. almost in a moment the main-deck was burst in, and soon afterwards the lee bulwarks were carried away. the captain and officers did their best to maintain discipline. the first thing to be done was to lower the boats, but before they could be got into the water they were all either stove or washed away, and knocked to pieces on the rocks. only a whale-boat of no great use was launched by the boatswain and nine other hands. as soon as they got clear of the rocks they lay on their oars, but it would have been madness in them to come back, as the boat already contained as many people as she could carry with safety. the captain accordingly ordered her to pull towards the island of pauri, in the hope that assistance might there be obtained for us. the ship continued to strike heavily. every instant i expected that she would go to pieces, when one and all of us would have been lost. about twenty minutes after she struck the mainmast fell over the side towards a rock, which we could distinguish rising above the water, followed by the foremast and mizen-mast. hoping that the rock would afford us more security than the ship herself, i, with others, made my way towards it, though at no little risk of being carried off by the seas. on reaching it we shouted to the rest to come on, as at any moment the ship might go to pieces. the whole crew followed our example. many parts of the rock itself were scarcely above water. it seemed, as far as we could judge, to be about yards long, and half as many wide. here all hands collected, for as yet none had been washed away or lost, but many of the people had no clothing on, or only just their shirts, in which they had turned out of their hammocks. we had not a scrap of food, and we knew that it might be some hours before the whale-boat could bring us assistance. scarcely had we reached the rock when we knew by the crashing, rending sounds, and the loud thundering noise, as the planks and timbers were dashed against it, that our stout little ship had gone to pieces. when day dawned we saw the foaming sea covered on all sides with fragments of the wreck, while several of our shipmates were discovered clinging to spars and planks, they having returned to the ship in the hopes of obtaining either food or clothing. it was known to the captain and officers that we were about twelve miles from the nearest island. there was but little chance of the boat getting back to us during the day. we secured a flag which had been washed up. this we hoisted to the end of a spar, and fixed it in the highest part of the rock. the day was bitterly cold, many of the men were almost perished for want of clothing. the officers made inquiries if any man had a flint. at last one was found. at the same time a small keg of powder which had been floating about was thrown up. the powder, though damp, served instead of tinder. we were able to get a fire alight. it gave us some occupation to collect fuel, though at the risk of being carried away by the seas, as they rolled up on the rock. we got also a quantity of canvas, and with this, and the help of some planks, we put up a tent, which afforded us some shelter. though we had no food to cook, the fire warmed us, and enabled us to dry our clothes. we kept it burning all night in the hope that it would serve as a beacon. another night passed away. in the morning we saw to our joy a boat pulling towards us. she was our own whale-boat, with the boatswain and four hands; but they brought no food nor water, as they found neither one nor the other on the island of pauri. the boatswain tried to persuade our captain to leave the rock, but he refused to desert us; so he ordered the boatswain to take ten men and make the best of his way to cerigotto, and to return as soon as possible with assistance. "we had been badly enough off before. matters now grew worse, the wind again increasing to a heavy gale, which sent the seas washing nearly over the rock. we should have all of us been carried away, if we had not secured ropes round a point which rose higher than the rest. i don't like, even now, to think of that night. the cries and groans of my poor shipmates still ring in my ears. now one man sank down, now another. the cold was terrible, even to those who, having been on watch, were well clothed. in the morning, several of our number were missing, and others lay dead on the rock. we were looking out for the whale-boat, when a sail was seen standing directly down for us. in our eagerness to get off, we began to form rafts of the spars and planks we had collected. as the ship approached, she hove-to and lowered a boat, which came towards us till almost within pistol-shot, when her crew rested on their oars, and looked at us earnestly. who they were we could not tell. the man at the helm waved his hat, and then, seeming suspicious of our character, steered back to the ship. in vain we waved and shouted, the fellows paid no attention to us. to our bitter disappointment, we saw the boat hoisted up, when the ship again made sail. we were now in despair. i'd before felt somewhat hungry and thirsty, but till now never knew what real thirst was. some of the men drank salt water, but that only made them worse. "another day came to an end. fortunately the weather had moderated, and we tried to keep ourselves warm by huddling close together. death was now making rapid progress amongst us. those who had drunk salt water went raving mad, and threw themselves into the sea; others died of exhaustion, among them our captain, and first lieutenant. i never expected to see another day, when, the voice of the boatswain hailed us. the cry was at once raised for `water! water!' but to our bitter disappointment, he told us he had brought none, as he could only get some earthen jars, in which it was impossible to bring it through the surf. he said, however, that a large vessel would arrive the next morning, with provisions and water. the thought of this kept up our spirits. when daylight returned, we eagerly looked out for the expected vessel, but she didn't appear, and all that day we had to wait in vain. more of our people died. it seemed a wonder that any of us should have survived, suffering so terribly from hunger and thirst as we were. some attempted to satisfy their hunger in a way too horrible to describe. all day long we were on the look-out, expecting the boats to appear which the boatswain said would come, but hour after hour passed. i can tell you they were the most dreadful hours i ever remember. to remain longer on the rock seemed impossible. it was agreed therefore next day to build a raft on which we might reach some shore or other. it would be better, we thought, to die afloat than on that horrible spot. as soon as daylight broke we set to work, lashing together all the larger spars we could find, but our strength was not equal to the task. still we contrived to make a raft. at length we launched it, but scarcely was it in the water, when the sea knocked it to pieces. many of our poor fellows rushed in to try and secure the spars, and several of them were swept away by the current. unable to render help, we saw them perish before our eyes. in the afternoon the whale-boat again came to us, but the boatswain told us that he had been unable to get the greek fishermen to put to sea while the gale continued. he brought us neither food nor water, though many of us thought he might have managed to bring off some of the goats and sheep from the island. even if we had eaten them raw, they would have assisted to keep body and soul together. i had hitherto kept up, but at last i lay down, unable to move hands or feet, or to raise my head from the rock. during the night many more of my unhappy shipmates died. i was lying on the rock, just conscious enough to know that the day had returned, when, i heard some one sing out, `the boats are coming! the boats are coming!' i raised my head and tried to get up on my knees. looking out, i saw four fishing vessels with the whale-boat pulling towards us. i can't tell you the joy we felt. many of us who had before been unable to move, sat up, some few even were able to stand on their feet, while we made an attempt to cheer, as the boats drew near. they brought us water and food. our second lieutenant, now commanding officer, would allow only a small portion to be given to each man at a time, and thus saved us from much suffering. when our strength was a little restored, we were carried on board the boats, which at once made sail for cerigotto, where we were landed in the evening. of our complement of one hundred and twenty-two people, only sixty-four remained. when i think of all we went through, it seems surprising that any of us should have lived to reach the shore. we were treated in the kindest way by the people of the island. after staying with them for eleven days, at the end of which time most of us had somewhat recovered our strength, we proceeded to cerigo, and thence sailed for malta. there have, i'll allow, been more terrible shipwrecks. few people, however, have suffered as much as we did during the six days we were on the rock, without food or water. as soon as i was recovered, i was drafted on board the `ajax,' seventy-four, commanded by captain sir henry blackwood. we lay off the mouth of the dardanelles, forming one of the squadron of vice-admiral sir john duckworth. i'm fond of old england, as i hope all of you young gentlemen are, but i must own that the spot where we lay is a very beautiful one. "it had just gone four bells in the first watch, and all hands except those on duty were asleep, when we were roused up by the cry of fire! directly afterwards the drum beat to quarters, and the guns were fired, as signals of distress. a boat was also sent off with one of the lieutenants and a midshipman, to summon assistance from the other ships. we all stood ready to obey the orders we might receive. the captain and one of the officers at once went down to the cockpit, from which clouds of smoke were bursting out. they quickly had to beat a retreat. we then, forming a line, passed the buckets along full of water, to pour down upon the seat of the fire, as far as it could be discovered. so dense was the smoke, that several of the men who were closest and whose duty it was to heave the water, were nearly suffocated. it was soon evident that the flames had the mastery of the ship. the carpenter endeavoured to scuttle the after part, but had to abandon the attempt. in less than fifteen minutes after the alarm had been given, the flames raged with such fury, that it was impossible to hoist out the boats. "the jolly-boat alone had been lowered by the captain's orders, directly he came on deck. the fire was now bursting up through the main hatchway, dividing the fore from the after part of the ship. the captain accordingly ordered all hands forward. there we were nearly six hundred human beings huddled together on the forecastle, bowsprit, and sprit-sail yard, while the after part, from the mainmast to the taffrail, was one mass of fire. smoke in thick columns was now rising from all parts of the ship, while the flames crackled and hissed, then they caught some of the poor fellows who had taken refuge in the tops. some kept silent, but others shrieked aloud for mercy. above the roar of the flames, and the cries of the men, the sound of the guns could be heard when they went off as the fire reached them. captain blackwood retained his composure and cheered us up by reminding us, that the boats of the squadron would soon arrive. they came at last. it was no easy matter to get on board. many of the men jumped into the sea, in their eagerness to reach them. others stood, shouting and shrieking to them to come nearer. i, at last seeing a boat which had not as yet taken many men aboard her, and thinking it was time to save myself, leapt overboard, and was soon picked up. many who had imitated my example were of necessity left swimming or floating, and would have perished had not other boats arrived and saved them. the ship's cable had some time before this been burnt through. all this while she was drifting towards the island of tenedos--now her stern, now her broadside alternately presented to the wind. one of the men in the boat had been hurt. i took his oar. i found that the boat i was aboard of belonged to the `saint george,' and was under the command of lieutenant willoughby. as soon as we fell in with another boat, we put the rest of the people on board her, and rowed back again, to try and save some more. this we succeeded in doing. the third time we returned to our burning ship. just then she rounded-to, and we saw several men hanging by ropes under her head. the brave lieutenant resolved to rescue these poor fellows before she again fell off. straining at our oars, we dashed up to her, and succeeded in taking all of them on board, but before we could get clear of the ship she again fell off, carrying us with her, and as she surged through the water nearly swamping us. at the same time flames reached the shank and stopper, when her remaining bower anchor fell over her sides, very nearly right down upon us. just then, the cable caught our outer gunwale, over which it ran, apparently one sheet of fire. the flames were at the same time raging above our heads, and rushing out from her bow-ports. our destruction seemed certain; we might have left the boat to try and save ourselves by swimming, but we were too much exhausted to try and reach any of the other boats; all we could do was to try and keep the flames from off our own. just as we had given up all expectation of escape, the anchor took the ground, and though the cable was nearly burnt through, it had strength sufficient to check the ship's head, which enabled us to clear ourselves; though we were somewhat scorched, no one was otherwise much hurt. in a short time the wreck drifted on shore on the north side of the island of tenedos, where she blew up with a tremendous explosion, which must have been heard miles away. we who were saved had reason to be thankful, but of the ship's company two hundred and fifty perished that night by fire or water, including several of the officers, together with the greater number of the midshipmen, who, being unable to swim, were drowned before they could reach the boats. there were three women on board, one of whom was saved by following her husband down a rope from the jibboom. the boatswain had two sons on board. when the alarm of fire was given, he had rushed down, and bringing up one of them, had thrown him into the sea, where he was picked up by the jolly-boat. he then descended for the other, but never returned, being, as several of the midshipmen probably were, suffocated by the dense smoke rising from that part of the ship. i could go on into the middle of next year, as the saying is, telling you of my shipwrecks and adventures, but i have a notion that you would get tired of listening before i had brought my yarn to an end." "oh, no! no! go on, mr riddle, go on, go on!" we shouted out. "well, then, young gentlemen, i'll just tell you the way we once took a spanish sloop-of-war. "i belonged at the time to the `niobe' frigate out in the west indies. we had been cruising for some weeks without taking a prize, when we captured a spanish merchant schooner, after a long chase. from some of her crew our captain learnt that a spanish corvette, of twenty guns, lay up a harbour in cuba. he determined to cut her out. he had intended sending the boats away for that service, when our second lieutenant, as gallant an officer as ever stepped, proposed to take in our prize under spanish colours, and running alongside the corvette, to capture her by boarding. having shifted the prisoners to the frigate, the second lieutenant, with three midshipmen and thirty volunteers, i being one of them, went on board the schooner. there were batteries on either side, with heavy guns which would have opened fire upon us had it for a moment been suspected what we really were. the lieutenant and one of the midshipmen blackened their faces, and rigged themselves out in check shirts and handkerchiefs bound round their heads. the rest of the crew wanted to do the same, but the lieutenant would only allow me and another man to rig up as he had done, and regular blackamoors we made of ourselves. we laughed, i can tell you, as we looked at each other and talked the nigger lingo, so that even if a boat had come alongside they would not have discovered who we were. we had besides a real black and mulatto on board belonging to our crew. the rest of the people were sent below, with their cutlasses and pistols ready for the moment they were wanted. everything was prepared by the time we got near the mouth of the harbour. the midshipman, a fine young fellow, taking the helm, the lieutenant sat on the companion-hatch smoking a cigarette, and sutton, the other man, and i, with the mulatto and negro, lolled about the deck with our arms folded. on we stood close under the batteries, which, if we had been discovered, would have sunk us in pretty quick time, but as the schooner was very well-known in the harbour, her real character was not suspected. as soon as we got inside the harbour, we saw the corvette anchored right in the centre. the breeze headed us. that would be all in our favour, we knew, when we had to come out again. we made four or five tacks, taking care not to do things too smartly. the lieutenant turned his eye every now and again on the batteries. i think he expected, as i can tell you i did, that the spaniards would before long smell a rat, and begin blazing away at us. they seemed, however, to have no suspicion, and we were allowed to beat up the harbour without being interfered with. we had got nearly up to the corvette, when we saw two or three boats coming off from the shore towards us. we well knew that if they got alongside they would soon find out that the schooner had changed hands. we could see only a few people on the deck of the corvette, and the rest of her crew we guessed were either below or gone ashore. in the latter case we hoped soon to master her. as the boats drew near us the breeze freshened, and the lieutenant ordering the helm to be put down, we luffed up alongside the corvette, before those on board suspected what we were about to do. no sooner did they discover what we were up to, than they began shouting and shrieking, some running to the guns, others to get hold of muskets and cutlasses, while numbers of the crew came swarming up from below. several officers made their appearance. we didn't give them much time, you may be sure, to defend themselves, before, led by our brave lieutenant, we threw ourselves upon their deck, and were soon slashing away with our cutlasses. but few of them stopped to meet us, so completely did we surprise them, but leaped below faster than they had come up. the officers for a few seconds held out, but they were quickly disarmed and placed under a couple of sentries in the after part of the poop. three or four hands only had been left on board the schooner, and the lieutenant at once ordered her to lead the way down the harbour, while the corvette's cable was cut and the topsails loosed. we had made such quick work of it, that the soldiers in the fort didn't discover what had happened until the corvette was under way, with her topsails and courses set, following the schooner. they then began to open a hot fire on us and the schooner, but the breeze freshening, we made such good way, that they could not get a proper range; their shot, however, came pretty thickly on board, passing through the sails, cutting away a rope now and then, and several times hulling us, but not a man was hurt. as soon as we could get some powder and shot from below, we fired in return, though there was but little use in doing that, you may be sure. we gave three hearty cheers when we at last got clear of the harbour, and sailed away with our prize for jamaica, accompanied by our frigate. our lieutenant and all engaged gained great credit for the way the enterprise had been accomplished. "had i been a wise man, i should have stuck to the navy; but soon after this, i had the misfortune to belong to a ship commanded by a very different sort of officer to any i had before served under. if ever there was a hell afloat she was one. well-nigh a quarter of the crew at a time were on the black list. not a day passed that one or more were not flogged. at last, two other men and i, when off the coast of america, leaped into a boat alongside and made for the shore. if we had been caught, we should have been well-nigh flayed alive. so we took good care to keep in hiding till the ship had sailed. i afterwards shipped on board an american merchantman, but i would not join uncle sam's navy on any account. i can't say that i found myself in a perfect paradise, and i was not sorry, after two or three years, to get on board an english merchant vessel. i became mate of her, and in one way or another saved money enough to buy my cottage here, with a boat and nets, and to settle down with my wife and family. i mustn't keep you any longer, young gentlemen, listening to what befell me in the meantime; but if you'll pleasure me by coming here another day, i'll go on with my yarn." "thank you, my friend," said mr reynell, getting up, "it's time for all of us to be returning home, but i am very sure these young gentlemen will be very much obliged to you, if we can manage to make another excursion here, to listen to some more of your adventures." while some of us gathered round the old sailor, asking him questions, the rest were employed carrying the baskets of provisions to the carriage, which set off on its return, we soon afterwards following on foot. although many of the party declared that they had no wish to go to sea, the accounts i had heard only strengthened my desire to become a sailor, and i determined more resolutely than ever to use every means to accomplish my object. chapter five. i form plans against the smugglers--ned's brotherly advice--i continue to visit old riddle--he presents me with a cutter--my first lessons in sailing--reception of my present at home--aunt deb again gives her opinion--a present in return--sudden disappearance of mark, which leads to a further expression of sentiments on the part of aunt deb--i visit leighton hall--my interview with the squire--i obtain permission to visit mark in prison--"better than doing nothing"--i console old roger--"a prison's a bad place for a boy"--returning homewards, i unexpectedly gain some important information--the barn--the smuggler's conference--rather too near to be pleasant--i contrive to escape--am pursued and captured by the smugglers, but finally released--aunt deb's disapproval of my friendship for mark riddle. i have taken up so much space in describing the adventures of old riddle, that i must be as brief as i can with my own. although i had been inclined to think smugglers very fine fellows, i had lately heard so much against them that i began to consider it would be a very meritorious act if i could gain information which might lead to the capture of some of them; besides which, i flattered myself sir reginald would be so highly pleased at my conduct that he would exert himself more than he at present seemed inclined to do, to obtain me an appointment as midshipman on board a man-of-war. i kept my ideas to myself; i didn't venture to mention them even to the old sailor, as i suspected that if not actually in league with the smugglers, he was friendly to them. i thought it better also to say nothing about it to my father, for although i knew that he would be pleased should i succeed, he might very naturally dread the danger i should have to run in my undertaking. how to set about the matter was the difficulty. i had no intention of acting a treacherous part, or to try to become friendly with the smugglers, for the purpose of betraying them. my plan was to hunt about to try and find out their hiding-places, and where any cargoes were to be run; then to give information to the baronet. the only person to whom i confided my plan was ned, under a promise of secrecy. he tried to dissuade me, pointing out that it was a very doubtful proceeding at the best, and that, should i succeed, the smugglers would be sure to take vengeance on me. "they will either shoot you or carry you off to sea, and drown you, or put you on board some outward-bound ship going to the coast of africa, or round cape horn; and it may be years before you get back, if you ever return at all," said ned. still his arguments didn't prevail with me, and i only undertook to be cautious. had he not given his promise to keep my intentions secret, he would, i suspect, have told our father or aunt deb, and effectual means would have been taken to prevent me from carrying out my plan. a considerable time passed by, and although i was on the watch, i could gain no information regarding the proceedings of the smugglers. during this period i paid several visits to old riddle, who always seemed glad to see me. i was highly delighted one day when he presented me with a cutter, which he had carved out and rigged expressly for me. it was about two feet long and of a proportionable width, fitted with blocks, so that i could lower or hoist up the sails, and set such canvas as the wind would allow. the inside was of a dark salmon colour, the bottom was painted and burnished to look like copper, while the rest was of a jet black. altogether i was highly delighted with the craft--the first i had ever possessed--and i only wished she was large enough to enable me to go aboard her, so that i might sail in her. near old rogers' house was a lagoon of considerable length and breadth, filled by the sea at high tide. it was open to all winds, and was thus a capital place for sailing a model. he and mark at once accompanied me to it, and they having trimmed the sails, and placed the rudder in the proper position, the model vessel went as steadily as if the ship had had a crew on board. when she had finished her voyage across the lagoon, the old sailor, taking her out, showed me how to trim the sails. i then, carrying her back to the place whence she started, set her off myself. i had fancied that i could make her sail directly before the wind; but he explained the impossibility of doing this without a person on board to steer, as she would have a tendency to luff up to the wind. he evidently took a pleasure in teaching me, and i didn't grow weary of learning, so that at the end of the first day i fancied i could manage my little craft to perfection. i called her "the hope." he promised to have the name painted on her stern by the next day i came. i went almost day after day for a week or more. at last old roger declared i could sail "the hope" as well as he could. sometimes mark came with me, but he didn't take as much interest in the amusement as i did, he being more accustomed to practical sailing; besides which he had other employments into which he didn't think fit to initiate me. as i before said, he frequently went fishing on the squire's ponds, and from a light fowling-piece which i saw in his room, together with several nets and other contrivances for catching game, i suspected that he also spent some of his time in the squire's preserves. i didn't like to hint to him that i had any suspicion on the subject. when he saw my eyes directed towards a gun, he observed-- "i sometimes go out wild-duck shooting in the winter. my gun is not large enough for the purpose, so when i can contrive to get up close enough i now and then kill a bird or two." "i should think your gun was more suitable for killing partridges or hares or pheasants," i remarked. "ah, yes, so it may be; but then pheasants and partridges and hares are game, and i should run the risk of being hauled up before the squire if i were to bag any." he laughed in a peculiar way as he spoke. i tried to get information from him about the smugglers; but if he knew anything he held his tongue, evidently considering it wiser not to trust me. at last, as i wanted to show my cutter to ned, my sister, and the rest, i told old roger that i should like to carry it home. to this he raised no objection. "you'll find her rather a heavy load, master dick," he said. "however, you can rest on your way. i advise you to stow the sails first, so that if you meet a breeze they will not press against you." i did as he advised me, lowered the mainsail and stowed it as he had shown me how to do, and lowered the foresail and jib. mark had gone out that morning and had not returned, or he would have helped me, i had no doubt. wishing old roger, mrs roger, and nancy good-bye, i set out. sometimes i carried the cutter on one shoulder, sometimes on the other, and then under my arm; but before i got half way i began to wish that there was a canal between old roger's cottage and the vicarage. my arms and shoulders ached with the load. after resting some time, i once again started and managed at last to get home. "the hope" just as i had expected, met with general admiration from my brothers and sisters. they were much astonished to see me unfurl the sails, and all wished to come and see her sail. i promised to give them that pleasure, provided they would undertake to carry the cutter between them. aunt deb was the only person who turned up her nose at seeing my model. "mr riddle might have thought of some other present to give the boy," she observed; "there was no necessity indeed for his giving a present at all. dick's head is already too much turned towards sea matters, and this will only make him think of them more than ever. i shall advise your father to return the vessel to the old sailor, with the request that he will dispose of it to some one else. in my opinion, it was very wrong of him to make such a present without first asking leave." i thought it better to say nothing, and aunt deb didn't carry out her intentions. my mother, who was always generously inclined, gave me leave to take a few pots of jam in return. a few days afterwards ned and i, and two of my sisters, set out to carry our present. they had been interested in what i had told them about the old sailor and his pretty daughter, and wanted to see them. on our arrival they received us in a friendly way, and mrs riddle and mary hurried to place chairs for my sisters. they thanked us much for the present we had brought. i observed that they all looked graver than usual. i inquired for mark. "he hasn't come home since yesterday evening," answered his father. "i don't fancy that any harm has befallen him; but still i can't help thinking all sorts of things. if he doesn't come back soon, i must set out to look for him." i found that mark had taken his gun, and said that he was going along the shore to get a shot at a gull, but it was not as yet the season for wild fowl to visit the coast. still i could not help fancying that old roger knew more about mark's intended proceedings than he thought fit to tell me. it struck me that perhaps the smugglers had something to do with the matter. had i been alone i should have offered to have accompanied him; but he didn't ask me, and indeed seemed to wish that we should take our departure. telling my sisters, therefore, that it was time to go home, we wished the family good-bye, and set out on our return. at tea that evening my sisters mentioned the disappearance of mark. "depend upon it that boy has got into mischief of some sort," observed aunt deb; "though i never saw him that i know of, i am very sure from the remarks dick has made that he is a wild monkey, and a very unfit companion for a young gentleman." i defended mark, and asserted that it was just as likely that he had met with some accident. "at all events, i intend to go over to-morrow morning, and inquire what has happened to him," i said. "i don't remember making any remarks which would lead you aunt deb, to suppose that he was otherwise than a well-conducted fellow. he seems much attached to his family, and they're evidently very fond of him." "perhaps his father spoils him as other parents are apt to do," remarked aunt deb, glancing at the vicar. "the sooner you break off your intimacy with him the better in my opinion--and now you are aware of my sentiments." the latter was a remark aunt deb usually made at the conclusion of an argument, by which she intended it to be understood that her opinion was not to be disputed. next morning, without waiting for breakfast, taking only a crust of bread and a cup of milk, i set off, anxious to learn what had happened to my friend mark. on nearing the cottage i saw mary at the door. "oh! master dick, i'm so glad you're come," she exclaimed. "father and mother are in a great taking. mark has got into trouble. when he went out yesterday evening he met jack quilter and tom bass, and they persuaded him to go shooting where he ought not to have gone, and all three were caught by sir reginald's keepers. they had a fight for it, and quilter and bass knocked one of the keepers down, and would have treated him worse if mark had not interfered. three other keepers coming up, they were all carried off to the hall, where they have been locked up ever since. father only heard of it yesterday evening after you went. he at once set off to try and see sir reginald, and he only got back late last night, or rather this morning, so he has only just now got up. he said that the squire was very savage with him, and threatened to send mark off to sea. it was with great difficulty that father got leave to see mark, who told him how he had saved the keeper's life, but the squire would not believe it, and said that he had been caught poaching, and must take the consequences." "i'm very sorry to hear this," i said to mary; "but don't despair of your brother getting off. i'll ask my father to plead for him; and if he won't do that, i'll go myself and tell the squire what a capital fellow mark is. it would be a shame to send him to sea against his will, although he might be ready enough to go of his own accord." after i had talked the matter over with mary for some time, i went into the cottage, where i found mrs riddle looking very downcast, and soon afterwards old roger made his appearance. he repeated what mary had said, and added that he intended to engage the services of lawyer roe to defend mark, though the expenses would be greater than he could well bear. i was afraid, however, that lawyer roe could do nothing for mark, taken as he had been with a gun in his hands, in sir reginald's preserves, should the baronet resolve to prosecute. i again offered to go off at once to see sir reginald. i however much doubted that my father would undertake the mission, especially as aunt deb would endeavour to persuade him to have nothing to do with the matter. mrs riddle and mary pressed me to take some breakfast, which they had just prepared, and as by this time i was very hungry, i gladly accepted their invitation. as it was important to get early to the hall, directly breakfast was over i started, resolved to employ every means i could to get mark liberated. it didn't occur to me that probably sir reginald would pay no attention to my request, or that he would consider my interference as a piece of impertinence. i made up my mind to speak boldly and forcibly, and felt very confident that i should gain my object. old roger accompanied me part of the way, but he thought it was better not to be seen near the hall, lest it should be supposed i had been influenced by him. i was but a little fellow, it must be remembered, and without any experience of the world, or my hopes would not have risen so high. "never fear, mr riddle," said i, as i parted from the old sailor. "i'll manage, by hook or by crook, to get mark set free, so tell mrs riddle and mary to keep up their spirits." when i reached the hall, i walked boldly up to the front porch, and gave a sturdy pull at the bell. a powdered footman opened the door. in a firm voice i asked to see sir reginald. "he is at breakfast." "then say mr richard cheveley has called, and begs to see him on an important matter." the footman gave an equivocal smile down at me, and went into the breakfast-room at one side of the hall. i heard a lady's voice say-- "oh! do let him come in." the servant reappearing, showed me into the breakfast-room, in which several ladies were at one end of a well-covered table. lady knowsley was seated, presiding at the tea-urn, with several young ladies on either side, and sir reginald at the foot. i made my bow as i entered. lady knowsley held out her hand without rising, and sir reginald turned partly round in his chair and gave me a nod, then went on eating his breakfast, while the young ladies smiled. the footman placed a chair for me in a vacant place at the table. "you have had a long walk, and must be ready for breakfast," said lady knowles, in a kind tone. "thank you, i took some on my way," i answered, not wishing to loose time by having to repeat an operation i felt that i could not perform in the presence of so many young ladies with my accustomed appetite. "you must have got up another appetite by this time," observed sir reginald. "come youngster! here is an egg and some ham. julia, cut him a slice of bread, and lady knowles will supply you with tea. fall to, now, and let me see what sort of a man you are." thus pressed, i was compelled to eat what was set before me, which i did without any great difficulty. sir reginald was too polite to ask me the object of my visit till i had finished. he pressed me to take more, but i declined, and i then told him that i had heard that mark riddle had been taken poaching with some other lads who had led him astray. "that is your opinion, master cheveley," observed sir reginald, with a laugh; "why the fellow is the most arrant young poacher in the neighbourhood. my people have been aware of it for a long time, but have hitherto been unable to capture him." "i hope that they are mistaken, sir reginald," i observed; "i have seen a good deal of mark riddle, and his father is a very fine old sailor." "he may be that, although i have reason to believe that he is, besides, as determined a smuggler as any on the coast, though he is too cunning to be caught," answered the baronet. "no, no, master cheveley; young mark must be sent to prison unless he is allowed as a favour to go to sea instead." i was determined not to be defeated, notwithstanding what the baronet had said. i still pleaded for mark, and the ladies, who are generally ready to take the weaker side joined with me. "suppose he is guilty. he is very young. if he would promise not to poach again, will it not be kind to let him off?" said lady knowles. "it would be kinder to give him a lesson which he will not forget," said sir reginald; "notwithstanding all his promises, he would be certain to poach again. he might end by killing a keeper, and have to be sent to the gallows, as has been the fate of many. poachers and smugglers must be put down at all costs." in spite of my intention to persevere, i found that i hadn't the slightest chance of moving the feelings of the baronet. i, however, supported by the ladies, got leave to pay mark a visit, and i learned from them that he and the other men were not to be sent off to prison until the following day, when the constables would come to carry them away. i stayed for some time, the young ladies chatting pleasantly with me, till at length thinking that i ought to take my departure, i asked to be allowed to go to sir reginald's study, to obtain an order for me to visit mark. "i'll get it for you," said miss julia; "we all feel compassion for the poor lad, who has evidently been led astray by bad companions." in a short time she returned, with an order to the constable in charge of the prisoners. thanking her very much, and wishing her and her sisters and lady knowles good-bye, i hastened round to the back of the house, where the lock-up room was situated. the constable, on seeing the order, admitted me without hesitation. "well, master dick, this is kind of you to come and see me when i'm in trouble," said mark, immediately stretching out his hand. "from what i hear, it will go hard with me." i asked him if he could not prove that he had been misled by others, and would promise not to go poaching again. "no; that i can't, either one or the other," he answered promptly. "i went of my own free will, and if i was let out, as long as i had a gun and powder and shot, i should go and make use of it. but i don't want to go to prison; and if i'm sent to sea, i should like to choose how and when i am to go." "you must find it very dull work sitting here all day, having nothing to do," i remarked. "would you like to make some blocks? i have got some wood and a sharp knife, with a saw and file, in my pocket. it will be better than doing nothing." mark gave a sharp look in my face, and said-- "yes, that i should. i never like to have my hands idle. you shall have the blocks for your cutter when i have finished them." thinking only of the amusement it would afford mark, i handed him out the necessary tools, and promised to obtain some more wood for him to work on should he be sent to prison. the other two men were lying down, apparently asleep, while i paid my visit to mark. they took no notice of me. after i left, instead of going directly home, i returned to old roger, that i might report the ill-success of my visit to sir reginald. "i feared it would be so from the first," said roger. "a prison is a bad place for a boy, and i'd rather he had been sent off to sea." "i'll ask my father to try what he can do, though i'm afraid he'll not be more successful than i have been." "do, master dick," said mrs riddle. "we should not let any stone remain unturned. i would not have our mark sent to prison for anything. it would be the ruin of the boy." i of course promised to do my best. it was getting late in the day, for i had spent a considerable time at the hall, and a further period had been occupied in getting to old roger's cottage. mrs riddle insisted on my stopping to take tea, and as i had had no dinner i was very glad to accept her invitation. i remained on afterwards for some time, talking to the old sailor, so that it was pretty late when i at length set out to return home. as i had told ned where i was going i knew that they would not be anxious about me, and therefore did not hurry my steps. i had got about half way, when feeling tired i sat myself down to rest, with my back against the side of an old barn, at a spot whence i could obtain a good view of the sea. i sat for some time watching the vessels passing up and down channel, and observing a few boats putting out for their night's fishing from leighton cove. the weather was warm, and i was sheltered from the light breeze which blew off the land. i had been on foot all day since early dawn, and very naturally became drowsy. instead of at once jumping up i sat on, and in consequence fell fast asleep. when i awoke i found that the sun had set, and that the daylight was fast departing. i was just going to get up, when i heard voices proceeding from the inside of the barn. though not intending to play the part of an eavesdropper, i could not help listening to what they said. the men spoke in low voices, so that i didn't catch everything, but i heard enough to convince me that the speakers were smugglers arranging a spot where a cargo was to be run the first night when there would be no moon, and the wind blowing off shore. as far as i could make out, it was to be close to where i then was. below me was a little sandy bay, where the boats could come ashore even should there be a heavy sea running outside. one of the speakers, whom i knew to be ned burden, lived in a cottage hard by, and he was to show a light in his window should the coast be clear. at present the weather was far too favourable for their purpose, but they counted on a change in four or five days. at last i heard them fix on the following wednesday. i was afraid of moving lest the smugglers should hear me, and i knew that if they discovered my whereabout they would look upon me as a spy, especially as everybody was aware of the way my father, had been speaking against smuggling. still they went on talking, and i heard some more of their designs. in order to draw off the revenue-men from the spot, it was proposed to set one or two hayricks on fire at a large farm near sandgate, when it was supposed that they would collect to try and extinguish the flames, so as to prevent the fire communicating with the other surrounding ricks. as this was sure to be no easy work, it was calculated that the smugglers would have time to run the cargo, and carry the goods away into the interior. it was an opportunity i had long been looking for. i could now, by giving the information i possessed, secure the favour of sir reginald, and thus induce him to further my object. i sat on, scarcely daring to breathe, lest i should be heard, and heartily wishing that the men would go away. they had evidently, however, met there for the purpose of discussing various subjects. ned burden probably didn't wish to go far from home, and apparently was unwilling to receive his visitors in his own cottage. he had therefore fixed upon this spot. at last i began to think that they intended to spend the night there. i heard footsteps approaching, and i now feared that i should be discovered; but the new comers followed the path which led to the opposite side of the barn to that where i was sitting. i judged by the voices that there were three of them. they once more went over the matters that the others had before discussed, having apparently no fear of being overheard. they all spoke in their ordinary voices, only occasionally dropping them. "now is the time," i thought, "of making my escape; while they are talking they will not hear me, and i may creep away to a distance without being discovered." i put my plan into execution. the men continued talking on; their voices sounded fainter and fainter as i got farther away from the barn. fancying that i was safe, i at last rose to my feet, intending to run as fast as my legs could carry me. scarcely, however, had i began to move forward, when i heard a shout, followed by the sound of footsteps. i fully expected, should the smugglers fancy that i had overheard them to get a knock on the head if i was overtaken. i had always been tolerably fleet of foot, and as i had no desire to be so treated, i set off running as hard as i could. i hadn't got far, however, before i fancied i heard some one coming. in a short time i was nearly certain of it, but i didn't stop to listen. in daylight i should have had no difficulty in keeping ahead of my pursuers, but the ground was rough, and i had to turn aside to avoid bushes and rocks. still the impediments in my way would also assist to stop them, and i didn't despair of escaping. i had to cross over a ridge, at the top of which i was exposed to view. i had just reached it, when i heard some one shout. "you may shout as loud as you like," thought i, "but i'm not going to stop in consequence." down the hill i rushed, hoping soon to find shelter, so as to be able to turn off to one side or the other, and thus to evade my pursuers. i knew that a little way on was a lane which led directly to the village, and that if i could once get into it i might run on without much chance of being overtaken. i could see before me a thick hedge, through which i should have to get into the lane. i was making my way towards it, when down i came into a deep ditch or watercourse, the existence of which i had forgotten. it was perfectly dry, but i was severely hurt by the fall, and for some seconds i lay unable to move. i soon, however, recovered, and attempted to scramble out on the opposite side. but the bank was steep, and the top was above my reach. i fancied that it would be lower farther down, and ran or rather scrambled on in that direction. it didn't occur to me at the time that it would be wiser to remain perfectly still, when my pursuers, if they were continuing the chase, would have passed me unobserved in the darkness. i at last reached a part where the bank was broken away, and began climbing up, when i heard footsteps close to me; and, as i gained the top, i saw a man coming along at full speed on the opposite side. i determined, however, not to be caught if i could help it; but to my dismay, when i began to run, i found that i had sprained my ankle. this, though it didn't stop me altogether, prevented me from running as fast as before; but if i could get through the hedge i thought that i might keep ahead, or that the smugglers would not venture to follow me. to ascertain how far off they were i gave a glance over my shoulder. this was fatal to my success, for my foot caught in a low bush and down i came. in vain i endeavoured to regain my feet. next instant i found myself in the grasp of two men. "hulloa! youngster; what made you try to get away from us?" asked one of them, in an angry tone. "i am on my way home, and wish to get there as soon as possible," i answered. "who are you?" asked the man. i told him without hesitation. "and your father has joined sir reginald and the other squires about here in persecuting the smugglers." "i don't see what that has to do with my being in a hurry to get home," i replied. "maybe not; but we want to know where you were lying hid just before you took to running," said the other man. "i was not lying hid anywhere," i answered. "i was going along from paying a visit to roger riddle, after seeing his son mark, who was caught by the squire's keepers, and accused of poaching, when being tired i sat down to rest and fell asleep." "whereabouts were you sleeping?" asked the smuggler. "on the ground," i answered. "so i suppose," said the man, with a laugh. "but whereabouts on the ground?" "not far from the old barn, to the best of my recollection; but it was too dark when i started to make out where i had been." this answer seemed to satisfy my interrogator. i was afraid that he would inquire every moment whether i had heard the conversation going on within the building. "well, my lad," he said, "take care you don't shove your nose into places where you're not wanted. if you're a friend of old riddle's, i don't suppose you'll have any ill-feeling against the smugglers. so now, good-night. you would have saved us a long run if you hadn't been in such a hurry to get home." thankful to escape so easily, i told the men i was sorry to have given them so much trouble. they accompanied me to a gate not far off, over which i climbed into the lane. i then, as fast as my sprained ankle would let me, made the best of my way home. i found that my family had been somewhat alarmed at my non-appearance. my father, who always took matters coolly, accepted my excuses, but aunt deb scolded me roundly for having played truant. "what business had you to go to trouble sir reginald about that young scapegrace riddle?" she asked, in her usual stern manner. "he'll consider that you and your friend are alike. he'll not be far wrong either. you have lost all chance, if you ever had one, of interesting sir reginald in your favour. you may as well give up all hope at once of being a midshipman. now i suppose you want some supper, though you don't deserve it. you're always giving trouble to betsy in coming home at irregular hours." "thank you," i said, "i'm not so very hungry. i'll go into the kitchen and get some bread and cheese; that is all i want before i go to bed." so thus i made my escape. i had no opportunity that night of informing my father of what i had heard, but when we went to our room i gave ned an account of my adventures. "i would advise you, dick, not to interfere in the matter," said ned. "it's all very well for our father to preach against smuggling; the smugglers themselves don't mind it a bit; but were he to take any active measures they would very likely burn the house down, or play us some other trick which would not be pleasant." notwithstanding what ned said, i determined to inform sir reginald of what i had heard, still hoping that by so doing i should gain his favour. chapter six. i revisit the baronet--my information and its worth--am somewhat taken aback at my reception--well out of it--mark's escape--old riddle's gratitude--a night of adventure--the run--night attack on kidbrooke farm--the fire--my curiosity overcomes my prudence--the struggle on the beach--the luck of the "saucy bess," and ill-luck of mark--i am again captured by the smugglers--buried in a chest--my struggle for freedom, and its result--a vault in the old mill--my explorations in the vault. the next morning i found my father in his study before breakfast. i told him of my having overheard the smugglers arranging the plans for running a cargo shortly, and asked him whether he wished me to let sir reginald know. "you are in duty bound to do so," he answered. "at the same time you must take care it is not known that you gave the information. he'll certainly be pleased, and will be more inclined than before to assist you. you had better set off directly breakfast is over, and i will write a note for you to deliver, which will be an excuse for your appearance at the hall. do not say anything about the matter to any one else, as things that we fancy are known only to ourselves are apt to get abroad." i followed my father's advice, and said nothing during breakfast. as soon as it was over i set out. aunt deb saw me, and shouted out, asking me where i was going; but pretending not to hear her, i ran on. i suspect i made her very irate. i noted the people i met on my way, and among others i encountered ned burden. he looked hard at me, but said nothing beyond returning my "good morning, mr burden," with "good morning, master dick," and i passed on. i looked back shortly afterwards for a moment, and saw that he had stopped, and was apparently watching me. as soon as i reached the hall i gave my father's note to a servant, saying that i was waiting to see sir reginald. in a short time the man came back and asked me to follow him into the study. "well, master richard cheveley," remarked the baronet, without inviting me to sit down, "i wonder you have the face to show yourself here after what has occurred." "what have i done, sir?" i asked with astonishment. "connived or assisted at the escape of the poachers i had shut up in my strong room yesterday evening, waiting the arrival of the constables to convey them to prison." "i beg your pardon, sir reginald. you must be under a mistake," i exclaimed. "i have in no way assisted any poachers to escape. i merely yesterday, with your permission, visited the boy mark riddle. he had been captured with two persons much older than himself, and he was, i believe, led astray by them." "you, or somebody else, left them some tools--a file and a small saw-- with which they managed to cut away a bar in the strong room and effect their escape. here are the instruments, which they must have dropped as they were getting off. do you recognise them?" as sir reginald was speaking i recollected giving the knife and file and saw to mark, that he might amuse himself by cutting out some blocks. when i saw them i at once acknowledged them as mine, telling the baronet my object in giving them to mark. "it was thoughtless, to say the least of it, and a very suspicious circumstance, young gentleman," remarked sir reginald. "have they not been retaken?" i inquired, anxious to know what had become of my friend mark. "no, there is but little chance of that," he answered, in a tone of vexation. "now, let me know what you have come about. your father gives no reason for your visit." without claiming any merit, i at once gave a clear account of all i had heard on the previous evening. sir reginald appeared much interested, and his manner became more friendly than at first. "i am ready to believe that you had no intention to assist young riddle to escape," he said at last, after taking notes of all i told him. "now return home, and keep your own counsel." i confess that i was secretly very glad mark had made his escape. i hoped that he would return to his father, and keep in hiding till the affair had blown over, and also give up poaching for the future. i wanted as soon as possible to go and see the old sailor, and learn what had become of mark, but i knew that my father would be expecting me; and accordingly, after leaving the hall, went directly home. my father complimented me more than i deserved on the way i had conducted the matter. i didn't tell him just then of my having unintentionally assisted mark and the other poachers to make their escape. "if the smugglers and their cargo are taken, you will deservedly have the credit of the affair, and sir reginald will, i hope, feel bound to assist you as you desire," he observed. i had to wait till the next day to go over and see old roger. i almost expected to find that mark had returned home, and was concealed in the house; but none of his family knew anything about him, except that he had escaped from sir reginald's strong room. they all thanked me warmly for the assistance i had given him, and of which they had heard by some means or other. they would not believe that i had had no intention, when i lent him my knife and other things, of helping him to get out. i took care to return home at an early hour, as i had no wish to encounter ned burden or the other men on the way. i waited somewhat impatiently for the result of the information i had given. i was very sure the baronet would take the necessary steps for capturing the smugglers. the weather, which had for a long time been fine, now completely changed. a strong westerly gale sprung up, the sky was clouded over, and as there was no moon the nights were very dark. the evening on which i had heard the smugglers propose to run the cargo arrived. i should have been wise to have gone to bed at the regular hour, as if i had had nothing to do in the matter. instead of that, as soon as ned was asleep i slipped on my clothes and went out by the back door, which i carefully closed behind me. as soon as i got clear of the village, and could see to a distance, i turned my eyes towards kidbrooke farm, which the smugglers had planned to attack in order to draw off the coastguard-men from the spot where the cargo was to be run. in a few minutes i observed a bright light burst forth from the surrounding darkness, and rapidly increase until it assumed the appearance of a huge bonfire. i then knew that the outlaws had carried out the first part of their plan, as i concluded they would the second. it seemed to me that the whole farm and all the stacks would speedily be in a blaze. eager to see the fire, i ran towards the farm. on getting nearer, the hum of human voices showed me that a number of people had assembled, some of whom were engaged in throwing water over the stacks, others in pulling down the burning one. as i got up to them, i found that they were mostly labourers from leighton, together with those belonging to the farm, with a few of the villagers from sandgate. there were, i remarked, none of the revenue-men present, by which i concluded that they had not been drawn away from the coast, as the smugglers expected they would be. precautions having been taken in time, and there being plenty of hands to extinguish the flames, the fire didn't communicate to the other ricks; and, as far as i could see, even a portion of the first was saved. it would have been better for me had i returned home and gone to bed again; but i was curious to know if the "saucy bess" had succeeded in running her cargo, or whether sir reginald had acted on the information i had given him, and had sent the coastguard-men to watch for the smugglers and capture them. without stopping, therefore, in the neighbourhood of the burning rick, i hurried away towards the spot at which i had heard ned burden and his companions propose to run the cargo. i must have been running on for twenty minutes or so when i heard a pistol-shot fired; it was succeeded by two or three others. this made me more than ever eager to ascertain what was going forward. i doubled my speed. the path was tolerably good, and i knew the way. all the time i had not met a single person. after some time i heard more shouts, sounding much nearer, and cries mingled with the clashing of cutlasses, so it seemed to me. i had no doubt that the coastguard-men and the smugglers were having a desperate fight, the latter endeavouring to defend their property, and the former to capture it. which would succeed in their object seemed doubtful. i pictured the whole scene, though as yet i could see nothing. this i was eager to do, forgetting that bullets flying about were no respecters of persons. at last i reached the top of a cliff overlooking the bay, whence i could see a lugger, which i guessed to be the "saucy bess," with her sails loose, a short distance from the shore, and two or three boats near her; while on the sands were a number of men, who from their movements, and the babel of tongues arising from the spot, were evidently struggling. that the revenue-men had the best of it, i had no doubt. it appeared to me that they had captured part of the cargo, and some of the smugglers, and that others were endeavouring to rescue their comrades. that this was the case i had little doubt, when i saw the lugger's head turned seawards, and presently she disappeared in the gloom of night i was now satisfied that sir reginald had acted on the information i had given him, and that he would find it had been correct. i was at last about to return home, when, just as i reached a lane leading from the cliffs, i heard footsteps close to me, and, turning round, saw three men approaching. whoever they were i thought it better to keep out of their way, and began to run. but they must have seen me, and at once made chase. i could easily have kept ahead, but unfortunately stepping into a deep rut, i stumbled, and before i got under weigh again the men were upon me. "where are you bound for, youngster?" cried one of them, whom i recognised by the voice to be ned burden. "i came to see what was going forward," i answered. "not the first time you have done that, young gentleman," said one, in an angry voice. "we know who you are. somebody gave information about the run which was to be made to-night, and putting two or three things together no one will doubt that it was you. shall we heave him over the cliffs, or what shall we do with him, mates?" "let us take him along with us, at all events," said one of the other men. "if he has spoiled our plans to-night, he deserves to be knocked on the head." "spoilt our plans indeed he has," said burden; and he presently detailed to his companions how he had caught me listening at the old barn, and how, not supposing that i had heard anything of importance, he had let me go. i could not deny this, and i saw that it would be useless to attempt to defend myself. my captors, without more ado, proceeded to tie my arms behind my back, and to bind a handkerchief over my eyes. "remember, youngster," said burden, "if you shout out or utter a word we'll send a bullet through your head." from the fierce way in which he spoke i thought he was very likely to do this. i did not tell him that i knew who he was, as i was sure that this would only make matters worse for me. i did not, however, believe that they really meant to kill me; but what they would do was more than i could guess. two of them taking me one by each arm led me along the road, without wasting another word on me. they walked very fast indeed. had they not supported me i should have fallen several times. every moment i thought they would stop. i tried to ascertain in what direction they were leading me, but very soon lost all means of doing so. at length they made me sit down on what i supposed was a bank. i tried to judge from what quarter the wind was blowing, but the spot was sheltered, and sometimes it blew on one cheek and sometimes on the other. i could hear the roar of the waves, by which i knew that i could be at no great distance from the shore. while one of them held me tightly by the arm, the others withdrew to a distance to consult as to how they should proceed. after a time they came back, and we continued our march at the same rate as before. on and on we went. i was getting very tired, and would gladly have again sat down. when i complained, the men laughed at me. "you'll soon have time enough to rest yourself, youngster," said one of them. "you may consider yourself fortunate that things are no worse with you." finding that it would be useless to say anything more, i held my tongue. i must own that i now bitterly regretted having interfered against the smugglers. they were fully convinced that i had done so, and i could not defend myself. i had heard of the fearful punishment that they had at times inflicted on informers; and even should they spare my life, i thought it too probable that they would ship me off to some distant part of the world, or shut me up in a cavern or some other place from which i could not make my escape. it seemed to me that several hours had passed since i was captured, and that it must now be broad daylight; but the bandage was so tightly secured over my eyes that i could not move it with my eyebrows, nor could i, from my arms being fastened behind my back, get my hands free to do so. again and again i begged my captors to listen to me and loosen my arms, as the ropes hurt me. when i declared that i could go no farther, one of the men answered fiercely:-- "we'll soon see that, youngster." he gave me a prod with the point of a knife or cutlass, i could not tell which. it showed me that they were not likely to treat me very ceremoniously. "i must make the best of a bad matter, i suppose," i thought, and did not attempt to stop. suddenly the men brought up, and then turning sharp round told me to lift my feet, and i found that we were walking up some wooden steps. this i could judge of by the sound made by our feet. then we went along a level floor. presently, after passing through two or three doorways, as i supposed, we descended also by wooden steps, till i felt convinced, by the closeness of the atmosphere, that we had reached a vault. "you may make yourself comfortable here, young gentleman, for the rest of your life," said one of the men, with a hoarse laugh. "i've a notion that you'll not again be inclined to go and inform against poor fellows who are carrying on their business without wishing to do you or any one else harm." "stay; that jacket of his, and his waistcoat, are a great deal too good for him," observed another man. and forthwith, having released my arms, they took off the garments they spoke of. my first impulse, on getting my hands free, was to try and get the bandage from my eyes, but one of the men caught hold of my hands and prevented me from accomplishing my object. i, however, clutched hold of my clothes with the other, unwilling to give them up; but they quickly mastered me, leaving me only my shirt and trousers. i now began to fear that they intended some serious violence. in vain i struggled; i felt myself lifted up by the shoulders and feet, and placed on a rough board. as i now had my hands free, i immediately tore off the bandage. a gleam of light, which came from one side, showed me that i was in what appeared to be a large chest, placed on its side; but before i could turn myself round the lid was shut down, and i heard the men securing it. i was thus imprisoned in, so far as i could tell, a living tomb. i shouted and shrieked, and tried to force open the lid. my captors were holding it on the outside, and it seemed to me were driving in screws. i could hear them talking outside, but what they said i could not make out. could it be possible that they intended to leave me here to perish by hunger? the act would be too diabolical for the worst of wretches to think of, and yet what other reason could they have for shutting me up in such a place? finding that i could not release myself, i thought i would try to move their feelings. "i am very sorry if i have brought you or any others into trouble," i said. "if you'll ask roger riddle, he'll tell you that i have no ill-feeling towards smugglers. i was the means of getting his son mark out of prison. if you keep me here you'll make my father and mother very miserable, for they won't know what has become of me. you can't be so cruel, surely." the men went talking on. i was sure they heard me, though they made no answer. it then occurred to me that perhaps they had shut me up in the chest for the purpose of carrying me on board a vessel, and that i should then be set free and enjoy the light of heaven and the warmth of the sun. then i recollected having read how cruelly boys are treated on board ship, and that if i were sent under such circumstances i should have to lead a dog's life at the best. well, it was some consolation to have reason to hope that i was not to be murdered as i at first feared, or to be kept shut up in this horrible vault for an indefinite period, when i might be forgotten, and possibly be allowed to die of starvation. these thoughts passed rapidly through my mind. as soon as i grew calm, i listened to ascertain what the men were about. as far as i could judge, in a short time they quitted the vault, and i was left alone. i listened and listened. no sound could i hear. a sufficient amount of air came through the chinks in the chest, and enabled me to breathe without difficulty. i had no notion of staying where i was without some endeavour to extricate myself. i knew that after a time i should grow weak from want of food. i was in total darkness, and the chest, for so i supposed it, was large enough to enable me to move about. it struck me, as i was feeling round the sides, that it was perhaps a bunk, such as is fitted on board ship for the men to sleep in. if my captors had not taken away my jacket i should have had my knife, and i might then, i thought, have cut my way out; but they left me without any means of effecting my purpose. the only way of freeing myself was to knock out by main strength either the top or one side of the bunk or chest. i feared that if i at once commenced doing this the noise i should have to make would attract the attention of my jailers. i therefore lay still for some time, listening attentively. not a sound of any description reached my ears. i thought that it must now be day, though no light penetrated into the vault. if it had i should have seen it, i thought, through the chinks of the chest. it was very roughly put together, and this circumstance gave me better hope of being able to force it open. at length i determined to commence operations, and placing myself on my back, with one hand to defend my head, and one foot against the end, i struck out with the other on the part above me. a cracking sound encouraged me to go on. each time i struck out the planks appeared to move slightly. i used so much force that every nerve in my body was jarred, and i was afraid of laming myself. notwithstanding that, i persevered, stopping every now and then to listen, lest my captors should return; but as no one came i was satisfied that they had gone away, and now redoubled my efforts. several loud cracks were the result; and at length, to my intense satisfaction, the planks above me fell off, shattered by my foot. i was thankful for my success. at all events i should not have to die shut up in a chest. but i was very far from being free. getting up on my feet i thrust my head through the hole i had made, and tore back the broken pieces of plank. had i possessed a light i should have seen how next to proceed, but i was still in total darkness. i could not tell what i might find outside the chest. moving carefully i climbed out, moving about with my feet to find the ground, which was lower i thus ascertained than the bottom of the chest, but how much lower i could not tell. i therefore held tight on with my hands while i let myself down, and i then discovered that it had been placed on another chest of about the same size; but i had to move very cautiously, as there might be still some lower depth beneath my feet, though i didn't think that very likely. the ground was dry and hard, without either bricks or flagstones. this i found out by stopping down and touching it with my hand. i now began to move on very carefully, feeling my way from chest to chest. i discovered in my progress not only chests, but casks and bales. i had little doubt, therefore, that i had been conveyed to the smugglers' store, but where it was situated i was totally unable to surmise. that it was some way inland i thought probable, as i could not hear the sound of the surf breaking on the sea shore, which i thought i should have done had i been near the coast. i tried to think if i recollected any building which it was at all probable would be thus used by the smugglers. there were, i at last remembered, two mills not far from the coast, but one was in the possession of too respectable a farmer to allow any lawless proceedings to be carried on in his premises. the other was an old windmill that had been abandoned the last two or three years; two of the arms had fallen down, and the whole building was in a very ruinous and tottering condition. the property i had heard was in chancery, the exact meaning of which i didn't understand, but knew no one was ever seen about the place, and that the villagers from the neighbouring hamlet were unwilling to approach it after dark, there being a report that it was haunted by a headless miller, who had been killed while in a fit of drunkenness by his own machinery. could this be the place, i thought. the idea didn't make me feel more comfortable, not that i had any strong belief in ghosts or other spirits walking the earth in bodily shape; but yet i didn't feel perfectly certain that such beings did not exist, and i confess to having had an indefinite dread of seeing the headless miller appear out of the darkness surrounded by a blue light. i tried to banish the idea, and felt much more at my ease. i suddenly recollected that although i was in darkness it was daylight outside, and that the headless miller was possibly resting quietly in his grave in the churchyard a mile away. one thing i had to do, and that was to get out of my prison as soon as possible. i felt round and round the vault. my great object was to discover the steps by which my captors and i had descended, but to my dismay i could not find them. either they had been drawn up through a trap-door above, or we had come through a door in the side of the vault which had been closed by them when they went out. i searched and searched in vain for such a door, one side consisting of a blank wall partly of stone and partly of perpendicular timbers, which i concluded supported the superstructure. this made me more certain than before that i was in a vault beneath the old mill. i was in hopes by this time that the smugglers had gone away, and that i should thus be able to make my escape without interruption. how to do so was the question. i remembered that we had descended the building by steps to the bottom of the vault. i concluded, therefore, that the roof must be a considerable height above my head. there were numerous boxes, chests, and bales, as far as i could judge, in the vault, and if i had had light i should have found, i thought, little difficulty in piling one upon another, and thus reaching the top; but in the dark this was a difficult and hazardous undertaking. i could scarcely expect to place them with sufficient evenness to make a firm structure, and they might, after i had got up some distance, topple down again with me under them, and perhaps an arm or a leg broken. still i could think of no other way of getting out. i again felt about, and tried to lift some chests and bales, but they were mostly too heavy for my strength; i might, however, discover some which i could tackle. it must be remembered that all this time i was perfectly ignorant of my surroundings. i was, indeed, in the position of a blind man suddenly placed in a position which he had never before visited without any one to give him a description of the scenery. the only knowledge that i had obtained of the vault was from the sense of touch. i now determined to take a further survey, if so i could call it, of my prison, to start from a certain point to feel my way round, and reach as high as i could, to extend my arms, and to grope along the floor from one side to the other. one point i considered was to my advantage. my captors would suppose that i was shut up in the chest, and would therefore not have taken much trouble to secure the outlet to the vault. probably, indeed, they had gone away, as they would certainly avoid being seen in the neighbourhood of the old mill during daylight. i didn't suppose that they intended to murder me, and i therefore expected that they would come back again at night to bring me some food, or perhaps to carry me off and ship me on board some vessel, for such i was convinced was their intention. i must therefore effect my escape before nightfall. the necessity of obtaining food would alone induce me to do this, though as yet i did not feel very hungry. serious as the situation was, i did not give way to despair. i could not believe that i was doomed to die, but how my deliverance was to be effected was more than i could tell. again starting from the chest in which i had been shut up, and which i could distinguish by the short fragments of the top, i continued groping my way round and round the vault. my first object was to try and find the door, which i was persuaded existed, as i thought i had previously missed it. any one who has played at blind man's buff may have a faint idea of my situation. only the objects round me remained stationary, whereas in the game people run away from the blinded person, and he has to try and catch them as they run round him. i had the advantage over the blinded man in the game. i was sure that in time i should gain a knowledge of my locality. time, however, was precious, and it would not do for me to delay my search. i would have given anything for a tinder-box and flint and steel, so that i might light up the vault even for a few seconds; but as that was not to be had, i tried to make use of my other senses. stretching out my arms and feet as i went along, touching one place with my left hand, while i felt about my head as far as i could reach straight out with my right; i then brought my left up to the spot my right had last touched, and so i went on. occasionally my right foot struck against a bale or chest which extended beyond the others above it. had there been an opening in the pile of goods i was sure that i could not have missed it. for the supposed door i searched in vain, and at length came to the conclusion that the only entrance to the vault was from the roof above. it did not occur to me that there might be one above my reach by which my captors might have made their exit with the assistance of a short ladder. though i had moved slowly, what with the exercise i had taken during the night, and the efforts i had made to get out of the chest, i felt very tired; and, discovering a bale of convenient height, i sat down to rest myself, and to consider with such calmness as i could command, what i should next do. chapter seven. a prisoner in the vault--the headless miller--i continue my explorations--my perilous position--my further attempts at escape--the recess--an unexpected shower-bath--a glimpse of light--i escape from the vault, but not from prison--a lower chamber in old grime's mill-- the result of my further endeavours to escape--my signal of distress-- the revenue-men--my rescue--the search for the smugglers' goods--my hunger relieved--on guard--meeting with my father--the last of old grime's mill. strange as it may seem, i fell asleep. how long my eyes had been closed i could not tell. i fancied i heard the voices of people coming down through the roof. a door directly opposite to me opened, through which a pale light streamed, when what was my amazement to see "old grimes" the miller dressed in his short frock, his iron-grey hair streaming over his shoulders, and holding on his head with both hands, proving that it could not retain its position without such assistance. he glared at me with his saucer-eyes; his lips moved, but what he said i could not make out. had he approached i thought i would have spoken to him and asked what he wanted, but he did not advance beyond the doorway. presently he faded from my sight. the light grew dimmer and dimmer. i thought that i got up and tried to make a straight course for the door; but when i reached the wall opposite i could not find it, and so groped my way back to my seat. it was not until fully a minute after i was awake that i became aware that i had been dreaming. i was soon convinced that the vision of old grimes was a mere dream, but i was not quite so well satisfied about the voices i had heard. i listened, expecting to hear them again, but all was silent as before. i now got up, resolving to try and make my way out. though i had not previously experienced any inconvenience from the want of breakfast, i began to feel excessively hungry; and if i had come across a package of hams or tongues, or a cask of salted herrings, i should have eaten them raw with considerable satisfaction. the more hungry i felt the more desperate i became. i at last fixed on a place for commencing operations. there appeared to be more woodwork there than anywhere else, or else the chests were piled upon each other. at all events they would afford me a foothold. that i might have less chance of slipping i had kicked off my boots, supposing that i could easily find them again. i climbed up and up. of course i had to move very cautiously, not leaving go with one hand until i had a firm grasp of some fixed object with the other. i got up a considerable distance, and pressing against a board, it gave way, and a tremendous crash followed, as if a number of boxes filled with bottles had fallen to the ground. putting up my hand, i felt a beam above my head; could it be one of the rafters, or the roof? i was for some time afraid to move, lest i should fall headlong down. i passed my hand along the beam, but could not reach the floor it supported. i now tried to crawl cautiously along on the top of the woodwork or the pile of chests, for i could not determine which they were. every now and then i stopped and stretched out my hand, but could feel nothing above me. i must again beg my readers to try and picture to themselves my unpleasant position. the only wonder to myself is that i kept up my spirits. i did not forget that any moment something might give way below me, and that i might pitch down to the floor of the vault on my head. i had gone on some way, when, stretching out my hand, i discovered nothing beyond me. i was on the very edge of the erection. the only thing i could do was to go back the way i had come, or to descend to the floor. fearing that i should be unable to pass the spot where i had thrown over the cases, i resolved to adopt the latter alternative. i bethought me that if i had had a pole it would have assisted me greatly to discover the trap-door leading to the vault. it was easier to climb up than to climb down, as i could not feel with my feet as i could with my hands. the attempt, however, must be made. having got to the edge of the plank and ascertained that it was secure, i gradually let myself down, when i found myself resting on another plank or the edge of a chest, i could not tell which. let any one try in the dark to do what i was attempting to do, and it will be found no easy matter. could i have stood securely, i might have crouched down till i could have got hold of the plank on which my foot rested, but there was scarcely room for that, and if i let go the plank above me i might tumble over on my back; yet there was no other way of descent, so holding on with my left hand i tried to find something which i might grasp with my right lower down. my satisfaction was considerable when my hand came in contact with the rope-handle of a large chest. it appeared to be secure, and holding it i was able to stoop down and fix my other hand on the ledge on which my feet rested. one stage of my descent was thus accomplished. i now held the ledge tight with both hands, let my legs slip off, and felt about with my feet for another resting-place. for some seconds i was swinging about, holding on by my hands. there might be another ledge not half an inch below my feet. i stretched down my toes to the utmost. i could not discover it. should i let go i might have a serious fall. i worked my way on, hoping to be more fortunate. at last my feet struck against the end of a chest, and after making a little further exertion i found that it was secure, and that i could venture to stand upon it. i was still uncertain how far i was off the ground; all the difficulty i experienced arose from being in darkness. i could probably, i knew, have scrambled over the whole of the building with perfect ease had there been light. i might already be close to the ground, but at the same time i might be many feet above it, and i therefore could not venture to step down without going through the same process as before. leaning on my elbows, i stretched my arms along the top of the chest. i slipped off, and unexpectedly found my feet touch the ground. i was too eager to escape to allow myself time to rest after my exertions. i once more began to search round the vault, hoping to find an oar, a boat's mast or spar, or somewhat that might serve my purpose. i felt about in vain; indeed it was not likely that the smugglers should have placed such things in the vault. i at last reached the part where the boxes or chests, as i supposed they were, rested, and i began to stumble among them. the region in which i had spent the last two or three hours was considerably disarranged. i fancied that i knew every part, and now i was completely thrown out in my calculations. one chest stood up on end on another. i feared, should i move it, that i might bring others down on my head. i should have liked to have put them all back in their places, but that was impossible. by great care i made my way among them; when i at last reached the walls, it was the part i had not before examined. how i could have passed it i could not account for, unless i had been prevented reaching it by the chests piled up in front, and which i had displaced. as i was extending my arms my hands touched what felt like a wooden latch. there was no doubt about it; it was the latch of a door. i lifted it up and pulled it towards me. the door opened, but all was dark within the recess. i felt sure that it must be the entrance to the vault. i was going to step forward when it occurred to me that it might lead to a lower vault and that i should be precipitated into an unknown depth should i move without feeling my way. i knelt down, extending my hands, when they touched the ground as far as i could reach. this satisfied me that my first conjecture was correct. cautiously feeling my way, i stepped forward and explored the recess as i had the larger vault. contrary to my expectation, i could discover no ladder. i was thus no nearer to my deliverance than before. i felt round and round this smaller vault, without being able to decide as to its object. that it was the entrance to the vault i thought very likely. i wished that i could find out the height of the roof, and of what it was composed. it seemed probable that it was lower than that of the larger vault. i thought that i might drag in some of the smaller chests and place one on another against the wall and climb up. i made my way accordingly back to the large vault, in search of some which i could move. in going along my foot struck an object on the ground. it was a long spar--the very thing i was in search of. i supposed it had fallen down with the boxes, having either been placed upon them or assisting to support them. it appeared, as far as i could judge, to be twelve or fourteen feet long, and was thick enough to enable me to swarm up it, and thus to serve the purpose of a ladder. i first tried to reach the roof of the large vault with it, but it was not long enough, though i lifted it as high as i could; and then carrying it in my hands went back to the recess, and, eager to ascertain the height, i struck upwards. it at once met with resistance, not as i supposed, from a beam or vaulted roof, but from some soft object. that soft object must be removed. i poked and poked again and again, now in one part, now in another, when suddenly down came a shower of powder, which, before i could make my escape, covered me from head to foot. i was certain that it was, from the smell and feel, flour, though old and musty. the flour filled my nose, eyes, and mouth, nearly suffocating me. i, however, willingly endured this dry shower-bath, for as it fell a glimpse of light came through a hole which i had burst in the upper part of the sack, which had evidently been drawn across the trap leading to the vault for the purpose of concealing it. i worked away with my pole until i had pretty nearly emptied the sack of flour, and then, with a little more exertion, i brought the whole down, and had a clear view upwards. for a minute or so my eyes, long accustomed to darkness, were so dazzled with the light that i could not make out anything distinctly. they were, besides, so full of flour that it took me some time to clear them. after this i did not delay in endeavouring to get out of the vault. having placed the upper end of the pole against the corner of the trap, i tried to swarm up it. at first my exertions made the pole slip, and i ran the risk of having a disagreeable fall; but descending, i placed the half rotten sack with some of the flour round the foot, and then drew in several pieces of wood, with which i further secured it. i now made another determined effort to climb up it by twining my arms and legs round it. with considerable effort i succeeded in catching hold of the edge or sill of the trap, and then getting up my knees i was out of the vault, but not out of prison. i was, however, far better off than before. instead of darkness, i had light--instead of a close vault, an airy chamber, on the lower floor of which sacks of flour had evidently been kept. there were no regular windows, but only a few slits high up above my head to admit light and air. the door was securely closed. the room was in much better order than i should have supposed from the generally ruinous appearance of the building from the outside. of course, having thus far freed myself, i did not despair of getting out by some means or other. i was in a hurry to do so lest the smugglers should come back, and thrust me back into my prison, or treat me even worse. looking round the room i observed an opening on one side opposite the windows. it struck me that if i could get to it i might make my way into the main part of the building. once there, there could be no difficulty in escaping. in the last few minutes i had forgotten my hunger, but it again came upon me; and as i had no other food, i thought i would try some of the flour, which would stay my appetite, even though eaten raw. i believe that a person eating nothing else for several days would make himself ill, if he did not die. i made a hole in one of several sacks leaning against the wall, and which had been there probably since the occupant's death. it was excessively musty, but hunger prevented me from being particular, and rolling it up into little balls i swallowed several in rapid succession. having eaten on till i had sated my appetite, i hauled up the pole with which i had made my escape from the vault below. i then placed it against the foot of the small door high up in the wall. it was sufficiently long. but then the thought occurred to me, will the door be closed so that i shall be unable to open it? that point must be settled by experiment; so having assured myself that the upper end would not slip, i began to ascend. it was not at all an easy task, and i did not feel satisfied that it would not give way. up and up i went, remembering what my father often used to say, that "fortune favours the brave." i gained the top, and holding on to the sill beneath the door, pressed against it. it moved, and, contrary to my expectation, opened. it was a difficult matter notwithstanding to get in; but i managed at last to get my knee on the sill, and then creeping forward i found myself in a gallery in the main part of the mill, in the centre of which was the shaft and the machinery for working the grindstones beneath. i ran round the gallery till i came to a ladder leading to the floor below, expecting that i should find the main door open. it was firmly closed and locked, so that i could not get out. this was a disappointment. having in vain tried to find any other outlet, i ran up the steps again to the gallery, looked out of one of several windows to ascertain if i could reach the ground by any of the woodwork; but the height was too great to allow me to drop out without danger of breaking my legs. i observed several people in the distance passing along by a path which led by the foot of a hill on which the mill was situated. my first thought was that they were smugglers; but then i recollected that such characters were not likely to be abroad in a body during daylight, and the glitter of the gold lace round the cap of one of them convinced me that they were the revenue-men. i shouted at the top of my voice. hungry and faint as i was, it did not sound as loud as usual. they did not hear me. i was afraid they would go on. again and again i shouted. one of the men turned his head. having no handkerchief, in a moment i stripped off my shirt, and waved it wildly out of the window. the men saw it, and came hurrying up the hill. "who are you, youngster?" shouted one of the men as they came near. "master cheveley, son of the vicar of sandgate," i answered. "why, he looks more like the ghost of a miller," said one of the men. "how did you get up there?" inquired the first speaker a head boatman in charge of the party. "i got up out of a vault where the smugglers put me," i answered. "make haste and come in, for i'm almost starved." "here's a door," cried the head boatman; "but i say, mates, it's locked. is there no other way in?" he shouted. "none that i know of," i answered. "i have been trying to open the door, but could not." "we'll see what we can do," said the man. and he with two others placing their shoulders to it quickly sent it flying inward shattered into fragments, the rotten wood giving way before their sturdy shoves. i ran down to meet them. the head boatman, a strong seamanlike-looking man, at once began to question me as to what had happened. i told him as briefly as i could adding-- "but, i say, i'm desperately hungry, as i've only had some lumps of musty flour to eat for several hours, and thirsty too. i shall faint if i don't have some food." "we'll get you that, youngster; and then you must try and show us the way into the vault," said the speaker. "we may get a better haul than we've had for many a day if it should prove one of the smugglers' hiding-places." he then directed one of the men to run down to the next farmhouse and bring up some bread and cheese, or anything else he could obtain, and a jug of milk, or if that was not to be procured, some water. i thanked him, begging the man to make haste, for now that the excitement was over i could scarcely stand. "do you know you are whitened all over?" he asked. "you look as if you had come out of a flour-bin!" i had for the moment forgotten how i must have looked. the man good-naturedly began to brush the flour off my clothes and hair, and one of them lent me his handkerchief to wipe my face. they inquired what had become of my jacket and waistcoat. i told them how the smugglers had taken them from me. "perhaps the fellows may have hidden them somewhere about here. they wouldn't like to have the things found on them. jenkins and brown, do you go and search all round. maybe we'll come upon another opening into the vault." the two men hurried off to obey the orders they had received, while the others examined the mill; and the chief boatman sat by me fanning my face, for he evidently thought me in a bad way. the time appeared very long since the man had started for the provisions, but i believe he was not absent many minutes. i was thankful when he returned, bringing a basket with some eggs, and ham, and cheese, and some delicious bread, and a bottle of milk. i fell to immediately like a hungry wolf, and felt very much better by the time i had finished. "we'll keep the remainder in case you want any more, my lad. and now we must get you to show us the way into the vault," said the officer. i was quite ready to do this, for i confess that i had a bitter feeling against the smugglers on account of the treatment i had received. we soon reached the trap which had been covered over by the sacks of flour. the men looked down, not quite liking to descend into the darkness. the spar by which i had got up was still in its place. i offered to go down first, but this the chief boatman would not allow, and he and another man at once lowered themselves to the bottom. it was, however, so dark beyond the smaller vault, that they declared they could see nothing, and they had to wait until a man was sent to the farm for a lantern. we then too descended, but as the lantern only dimly lighted up the vault, i could scarcely believe that it was the same place in which i had spent so many hours. i had fancied that it was of immense size and height, and crowded with piles of boxes, and bales, and casks. instead of this there were only a few old packing-cases, in one of which i found i had been shut up. there were besides about a dozen bales, most of them apparently damaged, and what the revenue-men considered of more value, nearly half-a-hundred small casks of spirits, and some boxes of tobacco. these had been covered over with planks. i had not felt them on my exploring expeditions in the dark. the revenue-men were well satisfied with their haul, as they called it, though they had thought that it was possible they might find some articles of value. as i was anxious to return home to relieve the anxiety of my father and mother, i begged the chief boatman to let me do so at once. "we cannot let you go alone; some of these smugglers might meet you and give you a clout on the head for having shown us their hiding-place. wait a bit until i can send one of the men with you. we must first get these casks up. we can't spare a hand at present, as one of the men must go on to the station to give information of our find, and to procure some carts for carrying the things away." in hunting about the men had discovered a coil of rope and some blocks, which had evidently been used for lowering the casks into the vault. the seamen were not long in fitting up a tackle to hoist them out. while one of the men was sent off as proposed, the rest worked away with a will. in a short time the chief contents of the vault were hoisted up and rolled outside. "here's a job for you, my lad," said the chief boatman. "you stay by these things, and give us notice if you see any suspicious characters coming, while we get up the remainder." this task i gladly undertook, for i was heartily sick of the vault where i had spent so many unpleasant hours, and glad to breathe the fresh air outside. i sat down on the cask, nibbling away at some of the contents of the basket, for my appetite had returned. at last a drowsiness stole over me, and slipping off the cask, against which i placed my back, i fell fast asleep. i was awakened by hearing some one shouting, and looking up i saw a person running towards me. i sprang to my feet, when what was my surprise to see my father, who rushed forward, and at the joy of seeing him i leaped into his arms. "why, dick, my boy," he exclaimed, "we have been in fearful anxiety about you. how have you got into this plight? where have you been? what has happened?" i answered him as fast as i could. "i won't find fault with you now, though you had no business to steal out of the house at night. you have had a narrow escape. though the ruffians who carried you off and put you into the vault might not have intended to leave you to starve, they most probably would have been unable to return. several have been captured, and so hot is the hue and cry after the rest that they would have been afraid to come back to the spot to bring you food, or to carry you off, as you fancy they intended to do." the chief boatman now came out of the mill, and was evidently well pleased to hand me over to my father, who thanked him for the attention he had paid me. just as we were setting off the carts arrived with a party of revenue-men, armed to the teeth, to carry off the smugglers' goods, for it was thought likely that a rescue might be attempted. we had got to no great distance, when on looking back i saw a cloud of smoke issuing from the old building. it increased in density, and presently flames burst out. "could they have set the place on fire?" "not intentionally," said my father; "but it is very evident that the mill is burning, and from the nature of the materials of which it is composed there is not the slightest chance of its escaping destruction." tired as i was, i persuaded him to go back to see what had happened. as we got nearer the building we saw that the whole of it was enveloped in flame. the revenue-men were busily engaged in loading the carts. they had soon found that any attempt to save the mill would be useless, and that they would only run the risk of losing their lives. we were at some short distance when a tremendous roar was heard, the ground shook beneath our feet, and the whole building came toppling down, a vast heap of burning ruins; while planks, and beams, and masses of earth, were thrown up into the air, showing that an explosion had taken place in the vault where i had been confined. no one suspected that any casks of powder had been deposited there, but that such was the case there was no doubt. i had now reason to be very thankful that i had not found a tinder-box, for i should certainly have tried to light a fire in the vault, and probably the sparks would have communicated to the powder. how the fire originated no one could tell, but i suspected that one of the men had lit his pipe, and that the ashes had fallen out upon some loose grains of powder. we, as well as the revenue-men, had a narrow escape from being crushed by the ruins which fell close to us. such was the end of old grime's mill. chapter eight. my reception at home--aunt deb again gives her advice--my father and i pay another visit to leighton hall--our guard--interview with sir reginald--a score that was not settled to my satisfaction--my awkward position--my father receives a threatening letter--aunt deb decides on action--preparations for my departure--the journey in the coach--our fellow-travellers--a false alarm--my aunt's character further comes out--our arrival at liverpool--our reception--mr butterfield--i explore liverpool--my first visit to the "emu"--i gain some information--i lose my way--aunt deb's anxiety on my account--a small difficulty well got out of--i pay another visit to the "emu"--my ideas as to officers and seamanship receive a somewhat rude check--i make the acquaintance of gregory growles--i lose my cutter--"thief! thief!"--i speak to mr butterfield as to my going to sea--his opinions on the subject--he makes me a kind offer--matters still unsettled--a reference to aunt deb. my father supported me as we walked home; for, now that the excitement was over, i felt so exhausted that without his assistance i could not have got along. before we had got far, however, we fortunately fell in with some of the people who had been sent by my father to look for me. they, taking me in their arms, saved me from the necessity of making further exertions. as we went on we met several seafaring men, boatmen and others, who i thought scowled at me as i passed. the news of the capture of the goods having got abroad, it had been reported that i had given the information. my mother and sisters received me affectionately. to my satisfaction i found that aunt deb was out in the village. on her return, having heard some account of my adventures, looking at me sternly she said-- "well, master richard; and so you have been continuing your foolish pranks, and throwing us all out of our wits. depend upon it, nephew, you'll come to a bad end if you don't manage to act with more discretion during your future course in life." i felt too tired just then to reply to aunt deb's remarks as i should have liked to do. i merely said-- "i could not help being carried off by the smugglers; and as i have been the means of getting a good many of them captured, and also of enabling the revenue-men to seize their stores, i hope that sir reginald will now feel anxious to reward me by obtaining for me the appointment i have so long wished for." "if it suits sir reginald's convenience he may do so," said my aunt. "we shall see; we shall see." i had to give an account of my adventures to every one in the house, and i was very thankful when i was able to go to bed, feeling no inclination to put myself in the way of going through any fresh adventures. next morning, after breakfast, i asked my father if he would accompany me to leighton park, that i might make another appeal to sir reginald. "you'll only get a flea in your ear, john," remarked aunt deb. "sir reginald will just consider you troublesome. you are much more likely to succeed if you let him alone." my father, however, for a wonder, ventured to differ with aunt deb, and agreed to take me to see the baronet. he had become, i found, very anxious about my safety, being convinced that the smugglers would, if they had the opportunity, punish me severely for having interfered in their affairs. this made him more than ever anxious to get me away from home. not satisfied that even during the walk to leighton park we might not be attacked, he directed old thomas, the gardener, to arm himself with a blunderbuss and a brace of pistols, and to follow, keeping us always in sight. he didn't think it would become him as a minister of the gospel to carry fire-arms through his own parish, and he was afraid to entrust them to me. "remember, thomas, that if you see any smugglers come near, you are to march up and point your blunderbuss at their heads." "you may be sure, sir, as i'll do that," answered thomas. "i have been a man of peace all my life, but i'm ready to fight in your cause, and i believe the lord will forgive me if i kill any one." "i don't think there is much chance of that," said my father. "your appearance with your blunderbuss loaded up to the muzzle will be sufficient to deter any of the ruffians from attacking us." we set out together. thomas gradually dropped behind to the required distance. as we walked along i looked every now and then over my shoulder to be sure that he was following, for i had an uncomfortable feeling that the smugglers would be on the watch for me. we, however, reached the park without any adventure. sir reginald kept us waiting longer than usual before we were admitted into his presence. "well, mr cheveley, we have succeeded at last in giving a blow to the smugglers which will put a stop to their proceedings for some time to come at all events. though the `saucy bess' got off, we captured some of her crew and several of the men assisting them." "i congratulate you, sir reginald," said my father; "and i ventured to call on you to explain that my son richard has rendered considerable service to the cause. it was through him that information of the intended run the other night was obtained, and he also discovered one of the smugglers' hiding-places, `grime's mill,' and was the means of enabling the revenue-men to capture a considerable store of their contraband goods." sir reginald smiled. "i'm glad to hear this," he observed; "for to say the truth, i have had strong doubts as to your son's connexion with the smugglers. he is intimate, i find, with an old sailor, roger riddle, who though too cunning to be caught is known to aid and abet them in their proceedings. by his means young mark riddle, who is both smuggler and poacher, made his escape from my lock-up room only last week. had it not been for my respect for you, i could not have passed the matter over, and i am happy now to be able to set the services you say he has rendered against his former conduct. i am the more willing to do this as young riddle was taken just as he landed from the `saucy bess,' and we shall now get rid of him, as he will be either committed to prison for two years or sent off to sea to serve his majesty for seven years." i was very sorry when i heard this, but of course did not express my feelings to sir reginald. my father looked rather uncomfortable; he was a nervous man, and sir reginald always awed him. he, however, mustered courage to proceed. "i hope, sir reginald, that my son's good conduct will induce you to interest yourself in his favour, and that you will forward his views by exerting yourself to obtain the appointment he so greatly desires. i am very anxious to get him away from the neighbourhood, as i am afraid the smugglers, who are aware that he has been instrumental in the capture of their friends and goods, will revenge themselves on his head. i dare not let him leave the house alone, and even coming here i was obliged to bring an armed attendant for his protection." "i have told you, mr cheveley, that i consider his late conduct is a set-off against his unpardonable proceeding. i will, however, remember his wish; and, should an opportunity occur, will forward his views. i must now wish you good morning, for my time is much occupied with my magisterial and parliamentary duties, and you must excuse me." the baronet prepared to bow us out of the room. he shook hands with my father, who took the hint and backed towards the door, and gave me only a formal nod, without allowing a smile to irradiate his features. we found old thomas waiting at the hall door with his blunderbuss on his shoulder. my father walked on with hurried steps some distance, not uttering a word. at last he said-- "to what did sir reginald allude when he talked of your connexion with young riddle?" i told him how mark had been seized and locked up and how i had unintentionally assisted him to escape. "i believe what you say, richard; but you can't be surprised at the baronet being annoyed, and i'm afraid from his tone that we must not expect much from him." we had got about two-thirds of the way home when we saw three men coming towards us, one of whom i recognised as burden. i had not yet told my father that i believed him to be one of the men who had shut me up in the old mill. he started as he saw me, and then scanned me narrowly, as if uncertain whether it could really be myself. though i knew that old thomas and his blunderbuss were close behind us, i felt very uncomfortable, as i could not tell how the men might be inclined to act. mustering courage at last, i looked burden in the face. my father nodded to him and the other men, as he was accustomed to do to his parishioners. they hesitated for a moment, and then passed on. i looked back and saw them watching old thomas, but they didn't speak to him, and he trudged sturdily after us without paying them any attention. "i wonder what was the matter with burden?" asked my father, as we got to some distance. i then told him it was my belief that he was one of my captors. "we can't prove it, even if he were," said my father. "he deserves punishment, but the law is expensive and uncertain, and i should prefer letting him alone." as far as i could tell the matter was likely to rest here. i lost a jacket and waistcoat, but was not otherwise the worse for my adventure. the next day, however, a letter came by the post addressed to my father, at the top of which was a death's head and cross-bones, very rudely drawn, and beneath it the words:-- "informers must look out for what informers deserve. the young master who got off t'other day must look out for squalls. he has been and dug his own grave, and in it he'll lie before long; so he had better say his prayers. he won't have long to say them. this comes from one who knows him. john grimes." my father turned pale when he read the letter. aunt deb insisted on seeing it, and then my mother wished to read the contents. she almost fainted. "this is terrible," she exclaimed. "yet, surely, the smugglers will not have the barbarity to injure a mere boy like dick." "i'm not so certain of that," said aunt deb. "warnings ought not to be neglected. i have long been contemplating paying a visit to my second cousin, godfrey butterfield, who is now a flourishing merchant at liverpool. i'll write and say that i am coming, and bringing with me one of my nephews. i shall not wait for an answer, but will set off immediately; for i'm certain i shall be welcome." when aunt deb said this i saw a smile on the countenance of my elder sisters and brothers, who had not been so much affected by the threatening letter as the rest of the family. "i'll post the letter at once, and we will set off this evening. what do you say, john?" my father at once agreed to aunt deb's proposal. "thank you!" exclaimed my mother. "i shall be much more at my ease when dick is out of the reach of these terrible men." aunt deb wrote and despatched her letter, and the rest of the morning was employed in making preparations for the journey. ned had to give up one of his jackets and waistcoats, which exactly fitted me, and my other things were quickly packed in a small chest. i also unrigged and did up the cutter which roger riddle had given me, as i fancied i should have an opportunity of sailing it at liverpool. i made ned also promise to go and call on the old man, and to tell him how sorry i was to hear that mark had been sent off to sea, and how much i regretted not being able to wish him good-bye before i went. we had some distance to drive before we reached the town at which the coach stopped. my father at once sent off for a postchaise, and old thomas went on the box, armed as before with a blunderbuss and a couple of horse-pistols. as we drove through the village aunt deb made me sit back, while she leant forward as if there was no one else inside. whether or not this precaution was necessary i don't know; but at all events we reached our destination without being stopped by highwaymen. there were two places vacant in the coach, and although i should have preferred going outside, aunt deb insisted on my remaining with her. the other passengers were fat old women, who eat apples and drank gin-and-water for supper, and then snored, and sneezed, and groaned all night long. i know that i wished myself anywhere but where i was. the old ladies talked of highwaymen, coaches stopped, and passengers murdered, till they talked themselves into a state of nervous fear. one or the other was constantly poking her head out of the window, and declaring that she saw a man galloping after the coach with a blunderbuss over his shoulder. however, as the guard gave no signal, i was very sure that their imaginations had conjured up the robber. "pray, ladies, do sit quiet," at length exclaimed aunt deb, who being a strong-minded woman was not influenced by similar fears. "it will be time enough to cry out if a highwayman does come to demand our purses, and we'll hope that the guard will shoot him dead before he has had time to open the door." "oh! how dreadful!" shrieked out one of the ladies. "i would sooner let him have everything he asked for than see a handsome highwayman shot." "fiddle-de-dee about a handsome highwayman," said aunt deb, in a scornful tone. "they're ugly ruffians, and miserable arrant cowards to boot. if one does venture to stop the coach, i'll not give him any of my property as long as i have hands to defend it." notwithstanding aunt deb's remarks, our fellow-travellers continued in the same state of alarm the greater part of the night, and to comfort themselves took further sips of gin; until, becoming perfectly fuddled, they dropped off to sleep. i almost wished that a highwayman would appear, to see how aunt deb would behave; but morning at length dawned, and i fell asleep, nor did i wake till the coach stopped for breakfast. we travelled on all day with the same unpleasant companions, and i was glad to find that we were to go no farther that night. i remember that i dropped off to sleep before supper was over, and was very unwilling to get up the next morning when aunt deb called me. the fear of offending her, notwithstanding, made me jump out of bed and hurry on my clothes, and i was in time to take my seat in the coach, which came up soon after breakfast. she still refused to let me go outside, and i had to endure another day's misery, shut up with her and a lady and a fat gentleman, who took snuff and snored, and nearly tumbled over me in his sleep, and a young woman with a baby, who at intervals kept up a chorus of squalls, which considerably aggravated my respected aunt; and i really thought that, if she had given way to her feelings, she would have tossed it out of the window. as sublunary troubles always do, the journey came to an end, and the coach deposited us at the door of mr butterfield, aunt deb's cousin. the worthy merchant--a bald-headed, rosy-faced gentleman, of large proportions, who wore brown cloth knee-breeches, large silver buckles, a flowered waistcoat of ample length, with a snowy neckcloth, and a frilled shirt, a coat of the same hue as his unmentionables--received us, as he descended the steps, with a cordiality i little expected. "glad to see you, cousin deb, though times have changed since you and i played hide-and-seek in our great-aunt's garden. you have shot up in one direction and i have grown in the other considerably. and this is john cheveley's boy, is he? you are welcome to liverpool, lad. we'll see what we can make of you here. plant you on a high stool, and set you quill-driving. are you a good hand at figuring? we don't value the latin and greek most lads have crammed into their heads to the exclusion of all other useful knowledge. pounds, shillings, and pence are what we have to do with in our commercial city." thus the old gentleman ran on without even waiting for me to answer. he then conducted us to our bedchambers; and as soon as we had washed our hands we descended to the supper-room, where the board was amply spread. he did not again allude to the high stool and quill-driving, but his remark had made a deep impression on my mind. there was nothing i hated so much as the thought of being shut up in a counting-house. he asked me if i was accustomed to go out alone, and satisfied on that score from what aunt deb and i said, he told me that i might amuse myself the next morning by exploring liverpool, provided i took good note of the way home. this was just what i thought of doing, and to my relief aunt deb said she would be too tired to go out. accordingly the next morning, after breakfast, i got ready to sally forth. mr butterfield had gone to his office, and did not see me. i in reality cared very little for exploring the town, and accordingly inquired my way to the river. instead of the stream i expected to find i saw a broad expanse of water, with vessels of all rigs and sizes in spacious docks, or moored alongside the quays. i was going along the quay when i saw a large ship taking in cargo. making my way on till i got astern of her, i observed that she was called the "emu." i walked up and down admiring her amazingly. "now if i can't go on board a man of war, and wear a cockade and a dirk by my side, i should like to take a voyage in a ship like that. what a magnificent craft! what proud fellows the captain and officers must be to belong to that ship. i wonder whether the captain would like me as a midshipman? the crew--i can fancy how they sit on the forecastle and sing `rule britannia,' `poor tom bowling,' `one night it blew a hurricane.' happy chaps! i should like to belong to her. i think i'll go on board and ask the captain to take me. "mr butterfield evidently intends that i should go into his counting-house. dreadful work to have to set on a high stool, to dot and carry one, and to scribble away all day. i could not stand it. it would kill me. it was bad enough to have to go to school, and then we had a good many play-hours; but in these stuffy, musty, dark offices, i have heard that they have only half-an-hour for dinner, and work away till ten o'clock at night. that sort of life would never suit me. "yes, i'll go and see the captain, and i'll tell him that i was intended for the navy, that i should have become an admiral some day, and that will make him treat me with consideration." such were my cogitations as i stood, with my hands in my pockets, gazing at the "emu." when it came to the point i felt somewhat nervous about going to speak to the captain. perhaps he would not treat me with the respect i should desire. he might not have a vacant berth, and i could scarcely expect a stranger to make a place for me. at last, after walking backwards and forwards very often, i ascended a plank which led me to the gangway in the after part of the ship, and stepped on board. for some time, all the men being occupied in hoisting in cargo, no one took notice of me. i was thinking that i must go and speak to the captain if i were to speak to him at all, when one of the men coming aft asked me what i wanted. "i wish to see the captain of this ship," i said. "he is not on board, and is not likely to be until she sails," he replied. "do you bring any message for him? if you do, you had better see the second mate." "no thank you," i replied; "i want to see the captain," in as important a tone as i could command. "well, then, you may find the captain at the ship-broker's in dale street." this threw me out, for i knew that the second mate would not have power to receive me on board, and i did not like the thought of having to confront the captain in an office full of clerks. i therefore, losing courage, turned round and walked on shore again. still i could not tear myself from the ship, but continued pacing backwards and forwards, now taking a look at her lofty masts and spars, now at her hull freshly painted, now at the men working at the cranes and tackles hoisting in cargo. while i was thus engaged a sailor-like man, who i supposed was an officer, stopped near me. "please, sir," i said, "could you tell me where that ship is going to?" "yes, my lad. she's bound out by cape horn into the pacific, and up the west coast of america, and perhaps to go across to australia, and may be away for two or three years." "thank you, sir," i said. "she's a very fine ship." "as to that there are many finer, but she's a tidy craft in her way," remarked the seaman, turning on his heel. "now that is just the sort of voyage i should like to make. to double great cape horn. what a grand idea! and visit the country of the incas and peruvians, and the wonderful coral islands of the pacific. i am much inclined to ask mr butterfield if he can get me on board her. perhaps she's one of his ships, and i shall then very likely come back as a mate. i might have to remain a long time in the navy before i became a lieutenant, and after all perhaps one might enjoy a much more independent life in the merchant service. "yes, i'll ask the old gentleman; but then i'm afraid aunt deb will interfere. she doesn't want me to go to sea, and she'll say all sorts of things to prevent him doing what i wish. there's nothing like trying, however; and if he agrees, i must get him to obtain aunt deb's consent to my going. i'm sure my father won't make any objection." having arrived at this conclusion, i was now eager to get back to have a talk with mr butterfield. i forgot that he was not likely to leave his office till much later in the day. i had become desperately hungry also, and as i had come out without any money in my pocket, i was unable to buy a bun or a roll to appease my appetite. i set off, fancying that i should have no difficulty in finding my way, but i wandered about for a couple of hours or more before i succeeded in getting back to mr butterfield's house. aunt deb received me with a frown. "now where have you been all this time?" she asked. "i've had luncheon an hour or so, or more. i suppose the servant has cleared the things away, and you can't expect her to bring them up again for your pleasure." "thank you, aunt deb," i answered. "but i'll just run and see." to my infinite satisfaction, on going into the parlour i found the table still covered with roast beef, and pies, tarts, and puddings; for mr butterfield liked the good things of this life, and wished his friends to enjoy them also. didn't i tuck in. i often afterwards thought of that luncheon; it presented itself to me in my dreams; i recollected it with longing affection during my waking hours. i helped myself to two or three glasses of wine to wash down the food. with a sigh of regret i felt that i could eat no more. i then stowed myself away in a comfortable arm-chair in the corner of the room, and very naturally fell fast asleep. i had a dim recollection of seeing aunt deb come into the room to look for me, but as i didn't speak, she left the room supposing that i had gone out of the house to take another walk. when i awoke martha was laying the things for dinner. "why, master cheveley, miss deborah has been asking for you for ever so long," she said. "you had better go and see her, for she's in a dreadful taking, i can assure you." i knew aunt deb too well to venture into her presence under the circumstances if i could avoid it, so i ran into my room, washed my hands, and brushed my hair, so as to present myself in a respectable state before mr butterfield. i watched for him till he went into the drawing-room, and then followed. aunt deb had not yet come down. i was thinking of asking him about my going to sea on board the "emu." he didn't give me the opportunity, but he at once questioned me as to what i had seen in the city. "you think liverpool a very fine place?" he remarked. "yes, sir, a very fine place indeed," i answered boldly. but when he came to inquire where i had been, and what part i admired most, i was nonplussed, and had nothing to say about the matter. my thoughts had been entirely occupied with the docks and the shipping. "ah, yes, liverpool has become an important port; superior to bristol, or hull; and some day we shall be equal to london, we flatter ourselves." i thought this would be a good opportunity of telling him how fond i was of the sea, and that i hoped he would let me go on board one of his ships, when just at that moment aunt deb entered. she began scolding me for having absented myself so long from her, but mr butterfield interfered. "the lad naturally wishes to see a new place, where he may spend some time perhaps. so don't be too hard on him, cousin deborah." we soon went down to dinner, and aunt deb said no more. i ate as many of the good things as i could, but after so large a luncheon i had less room than usual. mr butterfield placed my moderation to the score of my modesty. "come, come, lad, eat away," he said. "these things were given to us for our benefit, and can't fail to do us good." i at last had to give in, letting martha take away my plate with a large portion of its contents untasted. i should have liked to have remained to talk to mr butterfield when aunt deb retired, but she insisted on my coming up, afraid that the old gentleman in his hospitality would be giving me more wine than would be good for me. i had thus no opportunity of talking to him alone. the following morning i begged leave to go out again. mr butterfield willingly consented, though aunt deb observed that i should be better employed at home summing and writing. "he'll have enough of that by-and-by. in the meantime he can learn his way about the city," said the old gentleman. i thanked him very much, and he went away to his office. going into my room, i bethought me that i would take my cutter down to the river and give her a sail. it took me some time, however, to step the mast and set up the rigging. as soon as this was done, not thinking it necessary to see aunt deb first, i started off, carrying the little vessel under my arm. the boys in the streets, i thought, admired her exceedingly. it made me feel that i was a nautical character amid the seafaring population. though i didn't exactly recollect the way, after making various turnings, i found myself at the quay where the "emu" lay. "now," i thought to myself, "i'll go on board, and if i can't see the captain, i'll have a talk with the crew. they'll perceive by my cutter that i'm not a greenhorn, and i can offer to show them what i know by explaining how i sail her." with more confidence than i had felt on the previous day, i walked up the plank. i could nowhere see the captain, nor any other officer, and therefore turned towards the spot where the men were at work taking in the cargo. "well, boy, what do you want?" inquired a rough, surly-looking old seaman, who was handling a large case? "i have come to see the ship; and as i like her, i think of getting the captain to take me as an officer," i answered, with as much confidence as i could assume. "officer!" the old sailor answered, with a hoarse laugh. "you an officer, jackanapes; why we should want a cow on board to give you milk." "what is your name?" i asked, determined not to be put down. "gregory growles," answered the seaman. "well, look, gregory growles, if that's your name, i understand sailing this cutter as well as you do," and i began to explain how i was wont to navigate her according to riddle's instructions. i then announced the names of the ropes and sails. gregory growles, with his arms akimbo, and several of the other seamen, stood listening to me, evidently highly amused. when i had finished, they all laughed in chorus. "you know the abc, maybe, of seamanship; but, look here, just tell us the names of some of the ropes and spars of this ship." i looked about exceedingly puzzled, for i could not give the name of one of them. "i thought so," said growles. "you had better go to school again, and learn a little more before you think of topping the officer over us." "i only want to become a midshipman," i said; "i could soon learn when i got to sea." "we have no midshipmen on board the `emu,'" said growles. "come, youngster, clear out of this, for we have to go on working, and you're in the way." abashed, i retired to the after part of the deck, followed by the derisive laughter of the seamen, who went on, as before, hauling and hoisting in the cargo. i walked about, examining various things on the deck, and looking into the cabin, and thinking what a fine place it was, for it was handsomely furnished, and how i should like to be its occupant. no one took any further notice of me, and at last i unwillingly returned on shore. i looked out for a place to sail my vessel, but the landing-place was crowded with boats, and it struck me that if i let her go i should find it impossible to recover her. i had, therefore, to carry her about all day without any advantage, and my arms ached, though i held her sometimes under one arm and sometimes under another, and occasionally placed her on my shoulder. several boys asked me what i would take for her, and one or two begged that i would let them examine her. at last one biggish fellow snatched her off my shoulder. i tried to recover her, but another tripped me up. getting up, i made chase, but the thief, turning sharp round the corner, disappeared. i shouted in vain for him to come back. my cutter was gone. there was no one to whom i could appeal for help--no watchman, no constable. some persons i met said it was a great shame, but they didn't help me. others only laughed, and observed that such things were very common. i waited about. a number of boys joined me and shouted "thief! thief!" but, as may be supposed, i could not find him, and had to return home very disconsolate at my loss. that evening, much to my satisfaction, aunt deb had a bad headache, and could not make her appearance at dinner. this gave me an opportunity of speaking to mr butterfield. "i should be happy to further your views, my lad, but i have promised your aunt deborah to take you into my counting-house, and i have only been waiting a day or two until a boy has left, whose place i intend you to fill. you'll begin low down, but by perseverance and industry you will, in the course of a few years, rise to a respectable position. many lads fancy they would like to go to sea, and bitterly repent it afterwards. you will have a far more comfortable life on shore, and the position of an english merchant is as honourable a one as a man could desire to follow." these remarks didn't at all suit my taste. i thanked mr butterfield, but told him that my heart had long been set on going to sea, and that i didn't expect to be happy in any other calling. "that's what many lads say, but afterwards find out that they have made a very great mistake," he remarked. "but they don't all do that, or we should have no sailors," i argued. i then told him that i had been on board the "emu," which, i concluded, would sail in a few days, and that i should much like to go in her. "she's not my vessel," he answered, "though i know something of the captain. he is a good sailor, though he is not the man under whom i should wish to place a lad. however, when your aunt is better, i'll talk the matter over with her; and should she consent, then i'll see what can be done." i fancied that i had made some way; and, in spite of the loss of my cutter, i went to bed more contented in my mind than i had been for some time. chapter nine. mr butterfield's office--my future prospects--i again visit the "emu"--aunt deb's good advice--i rebel--all sailors are not beggars-- my next visit to the "emu"--shall i stow myself away?--conflicting ideas--looking over the ship, i meet with an accident--once more a prisoner--the hold of the "emu"--not a stowaway--my possible fate--no bones broken--"the blue above and the blue below"--perseverance conquers all difficulties--on the high seas--sea-sick--on the kelson-- i give way to despair--"help! help!"--the yarn of sam switch's ghost--i feel the pangs of hunger--i review my past life--never say die--water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink--my efforts meet with some success. aunt deb made her appearance at the breakfast-table, but nothing was said about my plans for the future. as soon as i had finished, mr butterfield, looking at his watch, told me to run out for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, and said that when i came back he would take me down with him to his office. "i shall not keep you there," he remarked; "you will afterwards come back to your aunt, who will probably find something for you to do." i obeyed, and as soon as i got out of the house i ran off in the direction of the country. i wanted to see green fields and hedges and trees. i enjoyed the fresh air and exercise, and was longer away than i intended. on my return i found mr butterfield waiting for me at the door. "punctuality is the soul of business. remember that," he remarked. "you have kept me waiting for ten minutes. come along." i begged pardon, saying that the time had passed faster than i had expected. he walked along with sedate steps, for he was not given to rapid locomotion, his gold-headed cane heavily striking the ground as he went. he had not spoken since we left the house, and i felt that i was passing from the position of a guest to that of a junior clerk. still, not being overwhelmed with bashfulness at any time, and as i was anxious to know what had passed between him and aunt deb regarding my future career, i looked up and asked him. "your aunt will communicate her wishes to you," he answered. "you will see presently the sort of work you will be expected to perform in my office. let me tell you that many lads would consider themselves fortunate if they had the opportunity i am ready to give you." he said no more. his manner, it struck me, was far less cordial than it had been, and i could not help thinking that i was indebted for this to aunt deb, who had probably given him an account of my adventures at home. now i am bound to say that i consider mr butterfield was right; but i did not think so at the time. we at length reached water street, and entered the office of tallow, candlemas, and co. it was a dingy-looking place, consisting of a small outer room, the walls covered over with posters announcing the sailing of ships and other information. in it was an enclosed space, behind which sat on high stools two venerable-looking clerks, busily engaged in writing. speaking a few words to them, mr butterfield passed on to an inner room, where, at a long desk running from one side to the other were arranged eight or ten persons of various ages, all scribbling away as fast as their pens could move. their thin and pallid faces did not prepossess me in favour of the life they were leading. at the farther end, in a darker corner, was a vacant stool. "that will be your place, richard, when you come here to-morrow or next day," said mr butterfield. "you will gradually rise, till one day i may hope to see you one of my head clerks." i looked askance at the dark corner, and i then scanned the faces of the occupants of the other seats. i could say nothing likely to please mr butterfield, and i therefore kept silence. "you will begin work on monday. now go back to your aunt, who wishes to have you with her for the present." i longed to say, "i thought, sir, you were going to talk to my aunt about my going to sea;" but before i could speak, mr butterfield, turning round, walked into his private office and left me standing by myself and looking, i felt, very foolish. as i did not wish to undergo a long inspection from the younger clerks, who were peering at me from over the desks, i passed out, breathing more freely when i found myself in the open street. of course i ought to have returned home; but instead of that i made my way down to the docks to amuse myself as before, by looking at the vessels. i was not long in finding out the "emu." she was now considerably lower in the water, having apparently got most of her cargo on board, although there were still some bales and packages lying alongside ready to be shipped. i had a great longing to go on board and try to see the captain, and to ask him if he would take me. i could see no one, however, whom i could imagine to be the captain; and i therefore, after walking up and down the quay for some time, and looking at a number of other vessels, guessed by my hunger that it must be near luncheon-time, and took my way homewards. on entering the house i met aunt deb, who was coming down into the dining-room, by which i knew that i was not late. "i am glad to find that you are more punctual than usual, dick," she said. "you will soon, i hope, become regular in your habits. follow the example of so excellent a man as my cousin, godfrey butterfield. you are pleased with your excellent prospects in his office, i hope?" to this remark i made no reply, but said, "i thought, aunt deb, that mr butterfield was going to speak to you about my wish to go to sea. he told me that he would do so, and that he would have no difficulty in getting me on board a ship." "fiddle-de-dee about going to sea!" replied aunt deb. "my cousin did speak to me on the subject, and i told him at once that i would never consent to your doing so, and that i felt sure your father would not do so either. what! to throw away the brilliant prospects which through my means have been opened out to you? what! desert your family and me, your affectionate aunt, and the kind friend who so generously consents to become your patron from the regard he has for me? what! go and run all the risks of a turbulent ocean, and perhaps lose your life, and cause sorrow to those who have an affection for you, merely to gratify an insane fancy? no, dick--no! i told my cousin godfrey butterfield, at once, that if he had any regard for me he would never encourage you in so mad a proceeding; and i begged him, as soon as possible, to give you employment in his office, so as to turn your mind away from the silly ideas you have entertained." "i'm not at all obliged to you, aunt deb, for what you have done," i said, my choler rising. "it was no idle fancy in my mind, but my fixed resolution to become a sailor; and a sailor i'll be, notwithstanding your opposition." "hoity-toity!" exclaimed aunt deb, who was not accustomed to be set at defiance. "you will understand, dick, that you were placed in my charge, and must obey my directions; and that i intend you to go into mr butterfield's office, and to work hard there, so that you may do credit to my recommendation some day, and render support to your family. in case of your father's death, what would become of you all? i, who have devoted my life to your family, should have the charge of their maintenance." "sailors are not beggars, and i should very likely make as much money by going to sea as by any other means." "fiddle-de-dee," again exclaimed aunt deb; "eat your luncheon, and don't talk nonsense." as i was very hungry, i obeyed her, but at first i felt as if the food i put in my mouth would choke me. ultimately, however, i was able to get on as well as usual. aunt deb's behaviour to me during the next few days did not contribute to reconcile me to my proposed lot. she kept me working at writing and adding up long columns of figures, not failing to scold me when i made mistakes. i pictured to myself my future dreary life--to have to sit in a dull office all day, and then to have to come home with no other society than that of mr butterfield and aunt deb as long as she remained at liverpool. i knew nobody at liverpool, and did not see how i was to form any acquaintances of my own. after luncheon, on saturday, aunt deb, in consideration, she said, of my diligence, allowed me to go and take a walk by myself, as she felt indisposed to leave the house. i very naturally wandered down to the docks to have a look at the "emu" before she sailed, and to inspect any other vessels that might take my fancy. i much missed my cutter yacht, as i found there existed places where i could have sailed her. i had spent some time in walking about, when i again got back to the quay where the "emu" was moored. as i was pacing to and fro, i thought of the high stool in the dark corner of mr butterfield's office; the dreary, dreary days i was doomed to sit there; the dull, dull evenings in the society of aunt deb and her cousin, and the not more lively sundays, with attendances at three services, for aunt deb was very strict in this respect. hapless fate, with nothing better to expect than a head clerkship. the business i knew i should detest. then i thought of the free life on the ocean, the strange lands i should visit, the curious people i should see, and the liberty i fancied i should enjoy. as i had had a fair education, and knew that i could master navigation, i expected without difficulty to work my way up till i became an officer, and then to have the command of such a fine ship myself, just such a one as the "emu." but how was i to get to sea? mr butterfield positively refused to obtain an appointment for me without the consent of aunt deb and that of my father, and i was confident such would not be given. would the captain take me without further introduction, if i should offer myself? i had sense enough to know that that was very unlikely. suddenly the idea seized me, should i stow myself away on board, and not appear until the ship had sailed out to sea? i had a notion, notwithstanding, that this would not be a wise proceeding. i should certainly not be treated as an officer, and should very probably be sent forward to become a drudge to the crew. still, what other chance had i to get to sea? i thought and thought. well, i'll go on board at all events. the blue peter was flying at the masthead, besides which there was a board announcing that she would sail with the morning's tide. it was the custom, in those days especially, for merchantmen to sail on a sunday. the stages leading on board had been removed, with the exception of a single plank to the gangway. my longing to go on board increasing, i indulged it. none of the crew were moving about aft. the officers, if any were on board, were, i supposed, in their cabins. i looked forward, where i saw a few of the crew, who were preparing for their supper. the cook just then made his appearance from the caboose with a large bowl containing a smoking mess of some sort. i had never been below on board ship. i thought i should like to look round and see what sort of place the hold was. the tackle which had been used for lowering the cargo was not yet unrove, and hung over the main hatchway, which had been left open for stowing some goods which, as it turned out, had not yet arrived. seeing that no one was observing me, i seized the rope, and swung myself down till my head disappeared below the coamings of the hatchway. now at this place space had been left to permit of the lower hold being reached. the rope i grasped was not as long as i thought it was, and suddenly the end slipped through my fingers, and down i fell, hurting myself so much that i was unable to rise. afraid of calling out for assistance, i lay there for some time, till the pain increased so much that i fainted away. when i came to my senses, what was my horror to find myself in total darkness, and on lifting up my hand as high as i could reach i discovered that some planks had been placed across the aperture through which i had fallen, and i was shut in. though i had been doubtful about acting the stowaway, here i was, shut up against my will. had i carried out the idea which occurred to me, i intended to have done it in a very different fashion, as i expected to find some comfortable place where i might obtain air, if not light and access to the store-room and water-casks. i had no notion of running the risk of starving myself, having had sufficient experience of the uncomfortable sensations accompanying inanition when i was shut up in the mill. i had thought myself very badly off then, but i was now in a much worse condition, and suffering great pain, and, as far as it appeared to me, with more than one limb broken. i tried to move, to ascertain whether this was the case. first i moved one arm, and then another. they were sound, though they hurt me. then i tried my right leg, and then my left. they were certainly unfractured. i was doubtful about one of my ankles. it pained me more than any other part of my body. i drew it up and felt it all over. it was tender to the touch, but none of the bones appeared to be out of their places. this examination occupied some time. i did not call out for fear of the consequences. the pain which had hitherto prevented me thinking about what would follow now decreased, and i began to consider the awkward position in which i was placed. i tried to persuade myself that i had not positively intended to act the part of a stowaway. i could not but know that i had thought about it, yet i had only gone below for the sake of seeing the hold of a ship. i could say that when i was discovered, with a tolerably clear conscience, so i fancied. should i be discovered? that was the question. for what i could tell i might be entombed beneath the cargo and be unable to get out till i was starved to death. the thought was too dreadful for contemplation, and i tried to put it from me. i remembered how i had escaped from the old mill and the way i got out without any one to help me. "perseverance conquers all difficulties," i said to myself as i said then. my situation in some respects was very similar, only on that occasion i had expected, on obtaining my freedom, to meet my friends, and now i should find myself confronted by a rough crew and an irate captain, who might send me on shore, and, for what i could tell, have me put into jail if there was time for doing so. i had, at first, no idea of the size of the place in which i was shut up. i only knew that i could touch the boards above my head by extending my hand when sitting upright. i thereby knew that there would not be room for me to stand. i now crawled about and ascertained that i was in a tolerably wide place, extending fore and aft and from side to side. i was, in fact, in the lower hold or bottom of the ship, far, far down beneath a mass of cargo. how long i had been there was also a mystery to me. i might have remained in a fainting state only for a few minutes, or hours might have passed. i knew that i began to feel hungry, though i had had an ample luncheon--for on saturdays mr butterfield dined early--which showed that i could not be very much hurt, and that i must have been some considerable time on board. i had, however, as i intended to stay out till dark, put a couple of buns, which i had bought at a pastrycook's, into my pocket. i refrained, as yet, from eating them, not knowing how long i might have to remain below. i thought that it must now be night, and as i supposed the crew would be asleep forwards and the captain and officers aft, they would not hear me, even if i shouted out at the top of my voice. i therefore concluded that it would be foolish to exhaust myself uselessly. "i'll wait for daylight, when they're moving about, and i shall have a better chance of making myself heard," i thought. the place where i lay was dry and clean, though it smelt horribly of tar and other odours from which the hold of a vessel is seldom free, and was besides disagreeably close. after a considerable period had elapsed, and when the pain had much gone off, a drowsiness stole over me, and having got into a comfortable position, i fell fast asleep. i think i must have awoke at intervals, for i remember hearing a curious rippling sound beneath me. it must have had a lulling effect, for i dropped off again. the next time i woke i heard not only a rippling sound, but a dashing of water against the sides, and presently the ship began to pitch slowly and gently. the idea at once occurred to me that i must be at sea. if so, it was where i had long wished to be, though the circumstances accompanying my entrance into a naval life differed greatly from such as i had intended them to be. could it then be daylight?--if so, i had been much longer below than i had calculated on. the ship, i remembered, was to sail with the morning tide. that might have meant one or two o'clock, for how the tides ran i didn't know. there must have been time, at all events, for her to get away from the wharf, and to descend the mersey. in that case the day must now be well advanced. probably, i thought, the ship has had a fair wind, and with a favourable tide must have got rapidly along. i could not sing:-- "i'm on the sea, i'm on the sea, i am where i would ever be; with the blue above, and the blue below, in silence wheresoe'er i go." silence there certainly was, but instead of the blue above and the blue below, there was pitchy darkness. the long sleep and the perfect rest had taken away all the pain which i had at first felt, except an uncomfortable sensation in one of my ankles. when i was fairly aroused i again began to feel very hungry, so i ate one of my buns. i could have bolted the other, but i was becoming wonderfully prudent, and i knew that if i did so i might have nothing else to eat. all this time i had remained perfectly silent, for the reasons i have before given. i had become accustomed to the atmosphere, and i suppose that some fresh air must have come through some unseen apertures which enabled me to breathe without difficulty. it was sufficiently close, however, to make me feel drowsy, and having eaten the bun, i again dropped off to sleep. i awoke with a horrible nausea, such as i had never before experienced. the sensations i experienced in the old vault were nothing to it. the air there, as i mentioned, was perfectly pure, besides which i was then upon solid ground; now i felt an unpleasant movement, sometimes a sort of plunging forward, then a rise and fall, and then a rolling from side to side, though being close to the keel i didn't experience this so much as if i had been on deck. it was quite sufficient, however, to make me feel terribly sick. oh how wretched i was! didn't i repent of having gone down into the hold. i would ten thousand times sooner have been perched on the highest stool in the darkest corner of mr butterfield's counting-house than have been where i was. i was too miserable to cry out. i only wished that the ship would strike a rock and go down, and thus terminate my misery. i need not describe what happened. for hours i was prostrate; but at length the feeling of sickness wore off, and i again became not only hungry but thirsty in the extreme. i would have given anything for a draught of water; but how was i to obtain it. one thing i felt was, that if i could not i should die. though i was hungry i could not masticate the smallest portion of my bun, but i tried to arouse myself and began once more to move about. as i did so my hand came in contact with what appeared to be a large cask. i felt it all over. yes, i was certain of it. it must be one of the ship's water-casks stowed in the lower tier. i thought i might possibly find some outlet through which i might make my way into the upper part of the ship, but none could i discover. i was, in reality, right down on the kelson, though i didn't know what it was called at the time. it is just above the keel, the object of it being to strengthen the vessel lengthways, and to confine the floors in their proper position. it is placed above the cross-pieces and half-floors, and a bolt is driven right through all into the main keel. the half-floors, it must be understood, are not united in the centre, but longitudinally on either side. of course i was not aware of this at the time. all that i knew was, that i was down in the bottom of the ship in a horrible dark confined space, where i should be starved to death or suffocated could i not find some way out. again and again i made the attempt, but in every direction met with obstructions. stretching out my arms, i found i could touch each side of my prison. resolute as i had hitherto been, i at length gave way to despair, and shrieked and shouted for help. i bawled till my voice was hoarse and my strength exhausted; then i sat down in a state of apathy, resigned to my fate. but the love of life soon returned. i got up and crawled to the further end of my prison-house, where i met with some stout boarding which effectually prevented my further progress. after this i turned round and crawled to the other end along the kelson, but was stopped by a strong bulkhead. once more i stopped to listen, half expecting to hear the sailors making their way down to the hold to ascertain whence my shouts and cries proceeded, but no sound except the creaking of the bulkheads reached my ears. "i won't give in yet," i said to myself; "perhaps the crew are on deck or in the fore part of the ship, and the officers in their cabins, and my voice could not reach them; but somebody must, before long, be coming into the hold, and then, if i shout at the top of my voice, i cannot fail to be heard." the question, however, was, when would any one come down? i had no means of ascertaining, though the steward must be getting up provisions, or the boatswain or carpenter stores from their store-room, and yet no sound might reach me, or perhaps my voice might not penetrate as far as where they were at work. still, there was nothing like trying. placing my hands to my sides, i shouted out, "help, help! i'm shut up below. i shall die if you don't let me out. oh, do come, sailors. don't you hear me? help! help! help!" then i gave way to a loud roar of agony and despair. after this i stopped for a few minutes listening as before, then putting my hands to my mouth, as if by so doing i should increase the loudness of my voice, i shouted with all the strength of my lungs. suddenly the idea occurred to me that the sailors would hear my voice, but not knowing whence it proceeded would fancy the ship was haunted and would be in a dreadful fright. strange as it may seem the thought amused me, and i gave way to an hysterical laugh. "now i'll warrant not one of them will like to come below on account of the supposed ghost. they will be spinning all sorts of yarns to each other about hobgoblins appearing on board." old riddle had spun several such yarns, and they came to my recollection. one was about a boy named sam smitch. sam was the dirtiest fellow on board, and could never understand what cleanliness meant. he was constantly, therefore, being punished. that didn't mend his ways, and he was a nuisance to all the crew, who, of course, gave him a frequent taste of the rope's-end and bullied him in all sorts of ways. at last sam declared that he would jump overboard and end his misery. the men laughed at him, and said that he hadn't the courage to do it. "haven't i?" said sam, "you'll see that i'll do it, and my blood will be upon your heads." still none would believe that sam would do away with himself, till one morning his jacket and hat were found in the head, and when the ship's company was mustered at divisions, sam didn't answer to his name. he was searched for everywhere, but could not be discovered, and at length it became very evident to all that sam must have put his threat into execution and thrown himself overboard during the night. whether any of the men recollected that it was their cruelty that had driven him to this act of desperation i can't say, but probably it didn't much trouble their consciences; they only considered he was a fool for his pains. two or three days passed away, when sam smitch was well-nigh forgotten. one night, however, one of the carpenter's crew was going along the lower-deck, when he saw a figure in white gliding past him in the distance. the figure for a moment turned its head, when, as the light of the lantern fell on it, he recognised the face of sam smitch. it was more than his nerves could stand, and he bolted like a shot up the ladder. night after night some one of the crew had a similar occurrence to relate, till one and all were convinced that the ship was haunted by sam smitch's ghost. at last the men, gallant fellows as they were, were afraid to go below even when sent on duty. many of them swore that even when in their hammocks they had seen sam smitch's ghost gliding noiselessly about the deck. the whole crew were in a very nervous state, and many were actually placed on the sick list by the doctor. at last the circumstance reached the ear of the purser, who happened not to be a believer in ghosts. "whew!" he exclaimed, when he heard it; "that accounts for the mysterious disappearance of some of my stores." he informed the first lieutenant, who placed a watch in the neighbourhood where the ghost had appeared. the next night, in bodily form, the ghost of sam smitch was captured, dirtier than ever, but yet fat and sleek, though rather pallid. not, however, till he was brought on deck, to be well scrubbed under the superintendence of the master at arms, were the crew convinced that the ghost was no ghost at all, but that dirty sam, fool as he was, had been bamboozling them effectually, while he enjoyed his ease and plenty to eat below with nothing to do. it is curious that this yarn should have occurred to me, but i suppose it did so from my case being somewhat similar to that of sam smitch, only he had voluntarily stowed himself away and had plenty to eat, while i was shut up against my will without a particle of food, except the buns i had in my pockets. it served also to draw me for a few minutes from the thoughts of my own misfortunes. the exertion of shouting increased the thirst i had already begun to feel. i was at the same time very hungry, but when i again tried to eat a piece of my remaining bun i could not get down the mouthful. i became rapidly more and more thirsty. the sea-sickness had worn off, but i felt more thoroughly uncomfortable in my inside than i had ever before done in my life. if any of my readers have at any time suffered from thirst, they will understand my sensations better than i can describe them. my mouth and throat felt like a dust-bin, and my tongue like the end of a burnt stick. i moved my mouth about in every possible way to try and produce some saliva, but so dry were my lips that they only cracked in the attempt. i had scarcely hitherto believed that i should die, but now so terrible were my sensations that i didn't expect to live many hours unless i should be released. i thought over my past life. the numberless wrong and foolish things i had done came back to my recollection, while not a single good deed of any sort occurred to me. i thought of how often i had vexed my father and mother, how impudent i had been to aunt deb, how frequently unkind and disagreeable to my brothers and sisters. i tried to be very sorry for everything, but all the time i was conscious that i was not as sorry as i ought to have been. exhausted by my efforts as well as by my hunger and thirst, i lay stretched upon the kelson till i had, i suppose, somewhat recovered. once more i said to myself, "it will not do to give in; out of this i must get." i managed again to get on my feet, feeling about in all directions. as i was doing so my hands touched what appeared to me like the side of a large cask. i was certain of it. i could make out the hoops which went round the cask, and the intervening spaces. suddenly it occurred to me that it was one of the water-casks of the ship stowed in the lower tier. i put my ear to it, and as the ship rolled i could hear the water move about. i felt, however, very much like the fellow i had read about at school, who was placed when dying of thirst in the midst of water which remained up to his chin, but into which he could never get his mouth. here was the water, but how i was to reach it was the question. i felt about in the hope that some moisture might be coming through; even a few drops would help to cool my parched tongue, though i could have drunk a gallon without stopping, but the cask was strong and perfectly dry outside. i considered whether it would be possible to knock a hole in the cask, but i had no instrument for the purpose, and should not have had strength to use it even if i had found it. it was indeed tantalising to hear the water washing to and fro, and yet not be able to obtain a drop. by chance i happened to put my hands in my pockets, which always contained a knife, bits of string, and all sorts of things. suddenly i recollected that i had been making a stand for my cutter before she was stolen, and that i had had a gimlet to bore holes in the wood. to my joy i found that i had fixed a cork on the end of it and had thrust it into my pocket. there it was. i might, by boring a hole in the cask, reach the water. how anxiously i clutched the gimlet. how fearful i was that in attempting to bore a hole i might break it. feeling as far as i could judge for the centre of the cask, i began boring a hole, using the greatest care. at length the gimlet went right through. as i drew it forth i put it to my mouth. it was wet. how deliciously cool it felt. i then applied my mouth to the hole, but bitter was my disappointment when no water came out. i sucked and sucked at the hole, and then i blew into it, but with no satisfactory result. i was again almost driven to despair. i tried the hole with the gimlet. it passed through it, and the iron was again wet. "what a fool!" i exclaimed, just then recollecting that to get liquor out of a cask two holes are necessary, the one to serve as a vent-hole to let in the air and the other to let out the liquid. i accordingly set to work and began boring a hole as high as i could reach above the former one. i soon accomplished my task, and as the air rushed in the water from the lower hole rushed out. i eagerly applied my mouth to it and sucked and sucked away until i was almost choked. still i didn't feel as if i had had enough. how delicious was the sensation as it wetted my lips, moistened my mouth, and flowed down my parched throat. i felt very much like a pitcher being filled at a fountain. the hole was small, so that only a thin stream came out. it was fortunate for me that it was no larger, or i believe that i should have killed myself by over-drinking. not until i had withdrawn my mouth did i recollect that i must find some means of stopping the flow of water. feeling in my pocket, i found some pieces of wood, one of which i thought i could form into a plug. in doing so i nearly cut my fingers. after a time i succeeded, and shutting up my knife, i knocked the plug i had made in with the handle. the vent-hole was not so important to stop, so i let it alone. i was now able to eat my remaining bun, though i recollected that it was the last article of food i possessed. i afterwards took another pull at the water-cask. i had no longer any fear of suffering from thirst, which was some comfort, but i had serious apprehensions about the means of obtaining food, should i fail to make my escape from my prison. i was, however, wonderfully hopeful. i remembered how i had fed myself on the musty flour in the old mill. i kept up my spirits, in the hopes of finding something to eat among the cargo. i was aware that few edibles were exported from england, our teeming population consuming the whole produce of the country, and as much more as they can get. i could not tell all this time whether it was night or day, as i had no means of calculating how long i had been in the ship's hold. had i been told that a week or more had passed, i should not have been surprised, the time appeared to me so long. i now began to feel excessively sleepy, and creeping about until i discovered where the planks, if not soft, were less rough than in other parts, i lay down, and in a few seconds was fast asleep. chapter ten. dreamland--a vision of home--strange proceedings of my brother ned-- roughish weather--i make a slight progress--a ray of light--the cargo--the wooden case--a disappointment--in darkness again--a welcome draught--my bed--my slumbers interrupted by ugly visitors--i determine to catch some rats--my further efforts at escape--my ill-success--my conscience troubles me, but i succeed in quieting it--my visions-- tantalising aunt deb and mr butterfield--the conference of the rats-- their opinion of mankind--their grievances and proposed remedies--a sneeze and its effects. my slumbers were far from tranquil. i think, indeed, that sometimes i must have been half awake, for i was convinced that creatures were running over me; but when i put my hand out they escaped. then i began to dream, and i fancied i was at home again in my own room. how i got there i could not tell. suddenly my brother jumped out of bed, and began scrambling about the room, overturning the chairs and table, and then got behind the chest of drawers, and sent them down with a loud crash to the ground, laughing heartily as he did so. it was very unlike his mode of proceeding, as he was the quietest and best conducted member of the family. when he got tired of this sort of amusement he began pulling the bed about, and lifting it from side to side. naturally i expected to be tumbled out. i begged him to let me alone, as i had gone through a great deal of fatigue, and wished to be quiet. but he would not listen to me, and only shook the bed more violently than before. losing patience, i was going to jump up and seize him, when i awoke. i found that the movement was real, for the ship was rolling and pitching more heavily than she had before done, and i could hear the bulkheads creaking, and the timbers complaining, and the heels of the mast working, and the dull sound of the water dashing against the sides of the ship. there was still less chance than ever of being heard should i again shout out, so i refrained from exhausting my strength by the exercise of my voice. so much did the stout ship tumble about that i could not attempt to make another exploring expedition. i therefore lay still, waiting till the ship would again be quiet. i didn't know then that a storm sometimes lasts for days, and that i might be starved to death before it was over. though the bun and draught of cold water had somewhat satisfied my appetite, i again began to feel hungry, though not so hungry as i might have been without them. having nothing to eat, i went off again to sleep. when i once more roused up i began to think of the astonishment and alarm my disappearance would cause to aunt deb and mr butterfield. would they have any suspicion of what had become of me? perhaps they would fancy that i had fallen off the quay into the river; but then aunt deb would most likely insinuate that such was not to be my case. i confess that any anxiety she might feel didn't trouble me, but i regretted the anxiety my disappearance would cause my parents, and brothers and sisters at home. however i could not help it, so i put the thought from me. hunger at last induced me to make another attempt to escape, in spite of the way the ship was tumbling about. i fancied that one of the bulkheads against which i had come was not so stout and strong as the others. i thought i would try and force my way through, but with only my hands how was that to be done. whilst creeping about i shoved my legs or arms into any opening i came across. in doing so i kicked against some object which moved. i worked my foot on till i came to the end of it, and then contrived to draw from under one of the casks what proved to be a handspike, which had probably on some occasion dropped down into the hold. i can't express the satisfaction the possession of this instrument gave me. i felt it all over, and tried its strength by a blow on the kelson, for at first i was afraid it might be rotten. it proved sound. armed with it i returned to the bulkhead, against which i determined to make my attack. standing as firmly as i could, i dealt blow after blow as high up as i was able to reach. i suspected that had it not been for the noises which were constantly issuing from all parts of the ship the sound of my blows would have been heard. at last, to my joy, i felt something give way. this encouraged me to proceed. on feeling with my hands i found that i was working against a small upright door, which opened, i concluded, into another part of the hold. i redoubled my efforts, and getting in the handspike worked away till the door yielded still more. this further encouraged me to proceed, but the operation took me a long time. occasionally no progress was made, but, like the dropping of water on a hard rock, ultimately prevailed. now one nail was drawn, now another, and i was sure that the door was giving way. a strong man would with one or two wrenches have forced it open. weak as i was for want of food, it now seems surprising to me that my exertions should have produced any effect. i had begun at the top. by working the handspike lower and lower down i by degrees tore away the door, or as i may more properly say the panel, as there were no hinges that i could discover. i was exerting all my strength in another effort when it gave way, and down i fell with my head almost through the aperture i had made. a faint light which came down from an opening far-away revealed the sort of place i was in. had i not been so long accustomed to darkness i don't think that its strength would have been sufficient for me to discover the objects around. i made out several bales, cases, and packages, stowed tightly together; but still i failed to see any outlet. after recovering from my fall, by which i was somewhat hurt, i crept out, endeavouring to move some of the huge packages; but i did so in vain. i tried one and then another, but they did not yield to the utmost efforts i could make. though i could not move the packages, i determined to try if any of them contained something edible. i first felt the packages. i was convinced they were bales of canvas or loose cloth. at last i came upon a wooden case. this i hoped might prove to be full of biscuits or hams. i accordingly got out my knife, expecting by patience to make a hole sufficiently large to admit my hand. as i was completely in the dark i had to be very cautious not to cut myself or break my knife, an accident which i knew was very likely to occur, i cut out, therefore, only a small piece at a time. then i felt with my left hand to ascertain how i had got on. the case was very thick, and it must have taken me a couple of hours or more before i could make a hole an inch square. even then i was not through it. i cut and cut away, till to my satisfaction my knife went through. i now made fast progress, and before long, as i ran in the blade it struck against a hard substance. still i went on, and at last found to my bitter regret that the case contained iron goods of some sort. in spite of all the care i had taken i had much blunted my knife, and i was afraid i might not be able to make a hole in any other case i might find. i was ready to cry with vexation, but it would be of no use to do that, so i shut up my knife until i could discover some promising package to attack. i felt about in vain for another case. by this time the faint light i had observed had faded away, and i thus knew that evening had come on. i had had only two buns all this time. unless i could get some food i fancied that i must die. though i had nothing to eat i had plenty to drink, and to refresh myself i returned to the part of the ship out of which i had clambered. i soon discovered the water-cask, to which, pulling out the plug, i eagerly applied my mouth. the huge draught of water i swallowed greatly refreshed me, and prevented me feeling the pangs of hunger. i now went back once more to that part of the hold to which i had just gained access. feeling about, i came upon a piece of canvas, and i thought to myself that it would somewhat add to my comfort could i make use of it to sleep on. i dragged it out, and found that it was of sufficient size for my purpose. the exertions i had made had greatly exhausted my strength. i should have lain down on the packages, but when i felt about i found that they would not form an easy couch. there was no room to stretch myself, and they were secured by hard ropes. besides this i thought it possible that from the working of the ship some of them might slip out of their places, and come down upon me. i therefore dragged the piece of canvas into the lower part of the hold, and, stretching it under one of the water-casks, lay down to rest, intending before long to be up again and at work. i quickly dropped off to sleep, but was soon awakened by feeling some creatures crawling over me. that they were rats i could have no doubt, from their weight and the loud thud they made as they jumped off and on the kelson. i lay perfectly quiet. now i felt a fellow running up my leg--now scrambling over my body. but the rogues did not venture near my hands, their instinct telling them that they would have their necks wrung if they did so. my object was to catch one or two of them, and, disgusting as the idea would have been at any other time, i determined if i could to get hold of one forthwith to eat him. i had often grumbled at home of having on a monday morning to consume the dry bread which had remained over from the previous week. this system had commenced on the arrival of aunt deb, who would not allow a scrap of food to be lost, and she therefore persuaded my mother to give up the hot rolls which we previously had for breakfast on that day. it was the first of the many reforms introduced by our respected aunt which didn't endear her to us. the rats continued their gambols. now i felt a fellow perched on my leg--now he would run along my arm, and before i could lift up my hand he was off again. i kept my feet covered up in the canvas, for i had no wish to have them nibbling at my toes. somehow or other none of them came near my face, or i should certainly have caught one. at length i jumped up determined to make chase, but the moment i moved they were off in all directions. perhaps they thought they had a hungry enemy to deal with. i felt about everywhere, thinking i might find one of them stowed away under a cask, or in some hole or corner, but they had gone off, like imps of darkness as they were, at sunrise. i wished more than ever for light. i thought that i could then infinitely better have endured my confinement. fortunately for me, the ship must have been well cleaned out before the cargo was taken on board; and as she was as tight as a bottle, there was no bilge-water in her. had there been, i could not have existed so long far down in the depths of her hold. the chase after the rats had aroused me, and i felt less inclination than before to sleep, so i got up, resolved to have another search for food of some sort. i was not very particular. a pound of tallow candles would have been welcome as a meal. i did not stop to consider whether i could have digested them. they would at all events have allayed the gnawing of hunger. i remembered reading of people suffering from hunger when navigating the ocean in open boats, and how much a flying-fish, or a booby, or a lump of rancid grease, had contributed to keep body and soul together. but neither booby nor flying-fish could i possibly obtain. i tried to think of all the various articles with which the ship was likely to be freighted. during my numerous visits to the quay alongside which she had been moored, i had had the curiosity to try and ascertain the contents of the packages about being hoisted on board. i had in some places observed large packages of raisins, dried figs, and hams, and kegs of butter, and dried fish, but they were being landed. i had, however, seen no things of the same description alongside the "emu." still, unless i searched i was sure not to find; so, again crawling through the opening i had made, i once more began to feel my way about, and to try every package i could reach. the cases i felt were all rough and strong. the packages were covered with a stout material, showing the nature of the goods within. again i tried to move some of them so that i might make my way onwards, but i found as before that they were all firmly jammed in their proper positions. it was difficult to divine how the space i had got into had been left vacant. i might have spent two or three hours in the search, for of course i was obliged to move slowly and with the greatest caution to avoid knocking my head against any object, or falling down again and injuring myself. i no longer felt any pain from my sprained ankle. the enforced rest i had given it had contributed to restore it to use. how little those on deck supposed that a human being was creeping about so far down beneath their feet. before i gave in i tried another case, which seemed more promising than any of those i had hitherto discovered. i got out my knife. i carved and cut, feeling each little chip as i got it off; the case was of soft deal, so that i had no great difficulty in cutting it, but i did so without much hope of reaching food after all, and began to feel that i should have to fall back on raw rat for supper. that was if i could manage to catch the said rat. as before, i was disappointed. i got into the case, but could only feel a mass of hay serving to pack china or crockeryware of some sort. i had had hopes of success, and i could not help feeling much disappointed. the desire of sleep, which i had for some time thrown off, returned, and i crept back to the spot which i had selected for my couch. i wrapt myself up in the canvas, taking care to guard my feet, and putting one hand over my nose, and the other under me, so that the rats should not be able to nibble any of my extremities, which i thought it likely they would try to do. i hoped, however, that if they made the attempt i should be more successful in catching one. for some time hunger prevented me from going to sleep. again i thought over my past life--my childhood's days--the time i spent at school--my various companions--my chums and enemies--the tricks i had played--the canings and floggings i had received--for instruction at that period was imparted with a much larger proportion of the _fortiter in re_ than of the _suaviter in modo_. i used then to wish heartily to get away from school, but now i would very gladly have found myself back there again, even with the floggings in prospect, provided i could be sure of an ample breakfast, even though that breakfast might have consisted of larded bread and sugarless tea. though i had often had quarrels with my brothers and sisters, i would willingly have entered into a compact never to quarrel again. i would gladly have endured one of the longest lectures aunt deb had ever given me, repeated ten times over, always provided i was sure of obtaining a lump of bread and cheese after it. i would thankfully have listened to the driest of some of my father's dry sermons, with the expectation of obtaining a cold dinner on my return home from church. but i knew that regrets were unavailing, and that as i had made my bed so i must lie in it. i thought and thought till my thoughts became confused. the sound of voices struck on my ear. people were talking in whispers all round me, but i could not distinguish what they said. then even the consciousness of where i was faded from me, and i was fast asleep. even when i was sleeping i still suffered the painful sensations of hunger. i was tantalised by seeing in my dreams tables spread out, sometimes for breakfast, and at others for dinner or supper. my brothers and sisters were seated round them, laughing and talking merrily, and eating the good things with excellent appetite. once mr butterfield brought me a bowl of turtle-soup, and assuring me of its excellence, ladled it into his mouth before my eyes, and then disappeared with a hop, skip, and a jump. in the same way aunt deb appeared with a plate of crumpets, her favourite dish, and swallowed them one after the other, making eyes at me all the time they vanished down her throat. this done, she went off waltzing round and round the room, till she popped up the chimney. i cannot now remember one-tenth of the sensations which presented themselves to my imagination, showing, as i opine, that the stomach is in intimate connexion with the brain. among others, by-the-bye, i fancied i was wandering about the streets of liverpool, looking into cookshops and eating-houses, where people were engaged devouring food, which they in the most provoking manner held up to me on the ends of their forks, and instead of allowing me to take it, put it down their own throats. again all was a blank. silence reigned around; when suddenly a faint light streamed across the space before me, and i saw armies of rats tripping from all directions and assembling not five feet from my nose. over the casks and bales and packages they streamed in countless numbers, whisking their tails, leaping and tumbling over each other; some making somersaults, others playing at leapfrog. numbers climbed up from beneath the kelson; some came from the fore part of the ship, others from aft. "why, she must be perfectly overrun with the brutes," i thought. "i wonder how any human being can exist on board. it's surprising that they should never molest me." they were merry fellows. i could not help laughing at the curious antics they played. presently i heard a voice shout "silence!" a buck rat had seated himself on the top of a plank, which i had not before observed. much to my surprise he held a note-book in his hand, and opening it began to read. he was too keen-sighted, i suppose, to require spectacles, though how he managed to see in that light i could not tell. "silence!" he again cried; and he then shouted at the top of his voice, which was somewhat squeaky for an orator, "friends, romans, countrymen,--lend me your ears." i thought this a very odd way for a rat to commence an oration. as he spoke, all the rats, cocking up their ears, sat on their tails--some on the tops of the casks, others round and below me. "thank you for the attention you seem inclined to pay me, brother rats," he continued. "i wish to impress on your minds the serious fact that we, as a race, have been maligned, abused, hunted, and ill-treated in all varieties of ways. we have had traps set for us, and although we are not often caught in them, it serves to exhibit the malice of our enemies. adding insult to injury, they have, as i have only lately discovered, designated us in one of their popular dictionaries as troublesome vermin of the mouse kind. why should they not have described us as rodents of graceful form, endowed with wonderful sagacity and activity to which the smaller animal called the mouse is allied? these human beings have also the audacity to malign our character, to insinuate that we are fickle and undependable, besides being fierce and savage. thus, when one of their own race changes sides, they say that the wretched biped has `ratted,' not content with abusing us, they make savage war against our race by every cruel mode they can devise. they chase us with cats and dogs. not that we care much for the cats, who seldom venture into our haunts; but those horrid, keen-scented terriers, are, it must be confessed, justly to be dreaded. still more so are those cunning little ferrets which insinuate themselves into our abodes. the hatred of our enemies is exhibited in their use. nowhere are we safe from them. they make their way through the narrowest crevices, dive down to the lowest depths we can reach, disturb our domestic happiness, watch for us on our hunting expeditions, and rout us out of our securest strongholds. this fearful persecution is originated, aided, and abetted by our malignant persecutors, who, besides the traps i have already spoken of, even attempt our destruction by mixing poison in the food they leave in our way. we have only the melancholy satisfaction of creeping beneath the boardings of their rooms, there to die, and to allow our decaying bodies to fill the air with noxious odours. friends, romans, countrymen," he went on, repeating his former curious style of address, "we have met to devise means to assert our rights among created beings, and to revenge ourselves for the injuries we have for so many centuries of the world's history suffered. we are now decidedly in the majority on board this ship. we hold possession of her chief strongholds. her captain, officers, and crew exist only on sufferance; so then, brother rats and sister rats, young and old, as it is our glorious privilege to belong to a free republic, express your opinions without fear. it is my business to note and record them." directly the speaker ceased, even for a moment, the rats began frisking and whisking about, biting at one another's tails and leaping over one another, till he again shouted "silence!" "has no one any opinion to offer?" he asked. on this a grave-looking rat from the top of a cask answered, "yes, i have an idea, which i'll propound as soon as those frolicsome young fellows at the bottom of the hold will keep quiet." on this the president again cried out, "be quiet, you young rascals, or i'll singe your whiskers. now, brother snout, let us hear what your idea happens to be," he said, turning to the rat on the top of the cask. the last-mentioned rat accordingly spoke, curiously using the same expressions as the former one had done. "friends, romans, countrymen: we are resolved on revenge. revenge is sweet. is it not so?" to which all the rats, in chorus, shouted out "yes, yes." "but the mode in which we shall execute our vengeance is the question. now i have an idea--a bright idea. i propose that we should sharpen our teeth, and having sharpened them, that we should begin to gnaw a hole in the bottom of this ship. we can make our way, as we know by experience, through the stoutest cases. why should we not do so through whole planks? `perseverance conquers all difficulties.' it will undoubtedly take time, but if we all work together and with a will we may bore not only one hole, but a thousand holes, when to a certainty the water will rush in and carry the captain, officers, and crew, our cruel tyrants, to the bottom, and our vengeance will be complete. so, brother rats, is not mine a bright idea, a grand idea, a superb idea? who will second me?" there was silence. when a grey-headed rat from the further end of the platform, lifting himself up, rose in his eagerness not only on his legs but on his tail, and said-- "brethren and sisters. has it not occurred to you that when we have succeeded--should we be so foolish as to make the attempt--in cutting holes through the ship's bottom, we ourselves should be involved in the same catastrophe as the captain, officers, and crew? when the water rushes in, what will become of us? why, we should be whirled round and round, and to a certainty become the first victims, perhaps the only ones, for there are boats on deck by which the captain, officers, and crew may make their escape, if they don't happen to be loaded up with all sorts of lumber so that they can't be cleared in time." "ah, but i have a resource for that. let us first nibble holes in the boats; it will be good practice, and we should succeed in the course of the night in effecting our purpose," exclaimed the previous speaker. "brother snout, with all due deference to your opinion, you are talking nonsense," said the grey-headed orator. "to my certain knowledge there are two dogs on board--one a newfoundland, the other a terrier; i don't much care for the big fellow, but the terrier would be at us, let the night be ever so dark, and a good many of our race would lose the number of their mess. let me observe, in the politest way possible, that your plan is not worth the snuff of a candle." the orator on the top of the cask was thus effectually shut up. "has no one else an opinion to give?" asked the president. "i have," exclaimed a ferocious-looking rat with long whiskers, which he twirled vigorously as he sat upright. "i propose that we marshal our forces, one division to march aft to the captain and officers, and the other to the part where the crew are berthed. that at a given signal we set upon them and let the blood out of their jugulars. we shall thus gain the mastery of the ship, and be able to enjoy unlimited freedom." "general whiskerandos, your remarks savour very much of war, but pardon me remarking, very little of wisdom," remarked the aged orator. "you have omitted to mention several important matters. in the first place, let me observe that the crew of a ship never sleep all at one time. supposing a complete victory were gained over those below, the rest would discover the cause of their death, and would wage ruthless war against us. and what about the terrier? he sleeps at the door of the captain's cabin. he would not be idle, depend on that. he would be delighted to encounter our leading column. it would be rare fun to him, but a disastrous circumstance for us. let me advise you, brother whiskerandos, that your idea is a foolish one. suppose just for one moment that we should succeed, and that we should put to death every human being on board, what would become of the ship? she would float about unless dashed on the rocks by a hurricane till, her timbers and planks rotting, the water would rush in and she would go to the bottom." "that suggestion seems to be disposed of. is it not?" asked the president. "i have a proposal to make," exclaimed an aldermanic old rat, sitting up on the top of a chest. "i suggest a course of proceeding which cannot fail of success, and will, at the same time, be pleasant and agreeable to ourselves. we will sally forth and eat up all the provisions in the ship, cut holes in the water-casks and let out all the water. we will commence at the bottom, working our way upwards, so that we shall not run the risk of having our proceedings discovered. what we can't eat we will destroy, so that those wretched mortals triumphing in their strength and intelligence will be deprived of the means of sustaining life, and must succumb before long to inevitable death; and we whom they have despised and ill-treated will gain possession of the ship and be our own masters, and sail in whatever direction we may please. the kingdom will be our own. we shall be lords of all we survey, and there will be no one to interfere with our proceedings." "what about nero and pincher?" asked a small rat with a squeaky voice. "what will become of them, brother doublechops?" "when provisions run short they will to a certainty be killed and eaten by the bipeds," answered the stout orator. "i shall watch for the result with intense interest, and have made up my mind to have a nibble at their livers and other bits of their insides. it will afford me intense satisfaction to eat a portion of those who have destroyed if not devoured so many of our race." "oh! brother doublechops, oh! brother doublechops you are talking nonsense," said the aged orator, who was evidently one of the most influential rats of the assembly. "if, as i before observed, we were to kill the captain, officers, and crew, what's to become of the ship without any one to navigate her? she can't steer a course for harbour, and would remain tossed by the waves and blown about by the winds till she met the fate i before described, and went down to the bottom, carrying us with her." "has no one a further proposal to make?" inquired the president. nobody answered; even the squeaky voice of the little rat, who looked as if he had no end of suggestions to offer, was silent. a murmur of rattish voices filled the air. "friends, romans, citizens, again i ask you all to lend me your ears," exclaimed the president, at which all the rats put on a look of profound attention. "you have heard the proposals offered as well as the answers made to them. to me, speaking with due deference to the opinion of others, the proposals appear to be the most insane, foolish, and impracticable that could have been devised by rattish brains. here we are, cut off from all connexion with the dry land and the whole race of rats. it is very clear that we can't navigate this ship into harbour by ourselves. if we sink her we ensure our own destruction. if we kill the captain, officers, and crew by any of the means hinted at, we are equally certain ultimately to suffer. here we are, and here inexorable fate dooms us to remain till we once more get alongside the shore and a plank from the ship enables us during the dark hours of night to effect our escape. let us, therefore, like wise rats, in the meantime, be content with our condition, and enjoy at our ease the provisions with which the ship is stored." "granted, mr president, that your remarks are correct," exclaimed whiskerandos, who had before spoken, "i have still an idea which has long been hatching in my brain. i suggest that we wait until the ship reaches port and is moored securely alongside, when we will attack her planks both tooth and nail, and by boring holes in her bottom let in the water and make our escape." loud cheers followed this suggestion. no one waited to hear what the president said. it was sufficiently encouraging to suit the minds of the most fiercely disposed, while the more timid were pleased with it as it indefinitely put off the time of action. i had been an interested listener to all that was said, and was very thankful that the rats had arrived at this conclusion. at first i was afraid that they might decide on attempting to sink the ship, and though i might have tried to prevent them, yet should they have attacked me with overwhelming numbers i might have found it impossible to contend with them. i cared little for their projects of sinking the ship in harbour. i hoped before then to have made my escape. they had hitherto curiously enough not discovered me, and i hoped that i should be able to remain concealed, as i dreaded a conflict with the savage creatures now surrounding me in countless numbers. i remained perfectly quiet, scarcely daring even to breathe. suddenly i was seized with a fit of sneezing. at the first sternutation the rats jumped up and looked about them, evidently considerably alarmed. again i sneezed, when off they scampered, disappearing like greased lightning, as our american cousins say, through countless crevices and holes and other openings i had not before perceived. the light which had during the time pervaded the hold, faded away, and i was left in total darkness. it was sometime before i could persuade myself that what i had seen and heard had been only conjured up by my imagination, though i had no doubt that real rats had been running about in the neighbourhood, and had given rise to my dream. chapter eleven. the hold of the "emu"--further attempts at escape--the storm ceases--a rat hunt--slippery customers--oh, for a trap!--my ingenuity exercised--caught at last--my repugnance to rat's flesh--hunger needs no sauce--my subsequent impressions--cannibal rats--my solitary life-- the rats grow cautious--the crate--i make a welcome discovery--a fresh expedition--as black as a nigger--things might be worse. day and night to me were the same. my dreams having been troubled-- which was very natural considering the circumstances--i did not feel inclined to go to sleep, so i once more got up to try if i could find some food. i first took a draught of water. indeed, had it not been for that, i could not have existed so long. carefully putting in the plug, for i dreaded exhausting my store, i groped my way back to the opening i had lately discovered. i knew my position by feeling for the holes i had made in the cases. as no light reached me, i knew it was either night or that the hatch had been put on. i was puzzled to decide which was the case. i listened for the sound of human voices. none reached my ear. my hunger had become ravenous. food i must have, or i should perish. i felt conscious that i was much weaker. i again tried to make myself heard, shouting and shrieking as loud as i could, but my voice was faint though shrill, more like that of a puny infant than a stout boy. i was becoming desperate. i first crept in one direction, then in another, trying to force my way between the bales and other packages, but to no avail. everywhere i was stopped by some impediment i could not remove. the storm, i concluded, had ceased, as the ship was comparatively quiet, so that i was less afraid than before of being jammed up between the heavy packages and turned into a pancake. i felt about in every crevice for the possibility of finding something to eat. i cared not what it was, provided i could get my teeth into it. i remembered that rats often dragged away bits of food into their holes to devour at leisure, and i would gladly have found such a store. the idea that i might do so encouraged me to proceed. if i could get out of my confined space i knew that i should have a better chance of falling in with food, but how to get out was the question. i crept back for the handspike, and tried to move some of the bales, but all my efforts were unavailing. i then, carrying the handspike with me, went to the bulkhead at the other end of my prison, and endeavoured by repeated blows to knock in a plank. they were all too stout to give way to my apparently feeble efforts. i fancied that the blows must resound through the ship, and that the crew would come below to ascertain what produced the noise, but i waited and waited in vain. at last i went back to my couch, and sat down to consider what was to be done. i knew that as i grew weaker both my strength and wits would decrease, and that i should be less capable of exerting myself. after sitting quiet for some time, i heard the rats again running about. frequently they passed close to me, but when i darted out my hands they slipped by them. once i caught a fellow by the tail, but he wriggled it out of my fingers, and another whose nose i must have touched gave me a sharp nip and then bounded away. at last i thought i would form a trap with my knife. near me was a square case close to which i heard the rats frequently passing. i felt and discovered that there was a small opening between it and the large package. i had some string in my pocket, and my plan was to hang up my knife by the string, the lower end of which i hung close to the hole, while i passed the upper end over my finger. i thus hoped that when a rat should be running in or out of the hole it might be stopped long enough by the string to allow the knife to descend. my first attempt was not successful. down fell the knife, but when i felt about for the rat which i had expected to have been transfixed, it had gone. i tried again, but once more the rat escaped me. i began to fear that the creatures would discover my device, and take some other route when they wished to emerge from their hiding-places. still i knew that perseverance conquers all difficulties. i was convinced that my plan might succeed. why it had before failed i could not tell. perhaps i held the knife too high up, and the rat had got away before it had time to descend. i now held the knife rather lower down. several times i replaced the knife, but always found it exactly before the spot. again it fell, when i heard a loud squeak, and sprang down on my hands and knees in a moment, and caught the handle of the knife, which was moving rapidly along the plank. the blade had entered the side of a fat rat. the creature made an attempt to bite me, but i squeezed it by the neck. it lay dead in my hands. at first even my hunger could not overcome my disgust at the thought of eating the creature. i carried it by the tail to let the blood stream out of the body, and went to the butt, where i took a draught of water, hoping to put off the moment when i should find my teeth in its flesh. but hunger called loudly; i could resist no longer, and having cut off its head, i skinned it as well as i could in the dark. then stripping the flesh from the bones, i put a morsel of it in my mouth. it tasted infinitely better than i could have expected. there was no rankness, no disagreeable flavour. i wondered how i could have had so much objection to eating raw rat. i scraped the bones clean. as there were undoubtedly plenty more in the hold, though not so many as i had seen in my dream, i hoped that i should have been able to supply myself amply with game. i was now sorry that i had thrown away the head and the entrails, as they might have served me for bait to catch more. i therefore hunted about till i discovered the head, on the point, i suspect, of being seized by another rat, for i heard the creature scamper off as i put my hand upon my prize. the entrails must have been devoured, for i could not find them. my success encouraged me to try and catch another rat in the same way as before. i, however, somewhat changed my mode of proceeding. i fastened the head to the end of the string, and hung up the knife directly over it, by a small splinter which i stuck lightly into the crevice of the case. my expectation was that, when the rat pulled at the head of its slaughtered fellow, the knife would fall and transfix it. i had to wait for some time listening to the sound of the rats' footsteps. at length down came the knife, but no squeak followed, and i found it lying where it had fallen. i began to fear that the first rat had been killed by chance, and that my clever device could not be depended on. though the keen edge of my appetite had worn off, i knew that i should very soon be again hungry, and i therefore wanted, before i went to sleep, to catch another rat. i was aware that i must be moderate in my banquets, as i guessed that rat's flesh was not likely to prove very wholesome; but i no longer felt, as i had previously done, that i should be starved to death. i am afraid that i could boast of very few good qualities, but i possessed at all events that of perseverance. perhaps i had gained it during my experience as a fisherman, when i used to sit for hours by the side of a pond waiting for a bite, and seldom failed to get one at last. i therefore again hung up my knife. i can't tell how often it fell, but at last i caught one rat much as i had done the first, though at the expense of a bite on the thumb. by this time i was again hungry, and very soon had the rat's flesh between my teeth. to those who have not suffered as i had, my proceeding must appear very disgusting, but i would only advise any fellow who thinks so to try what he would do after going without food for three or four days. i certainly, during that time, had had nothing but two buns and unlimited draught of cold water. the cold water and the long spells of sleep i had enjoyed. i believe in reality that i was much longer than four days after i had finished the last bun, but i will not be positive, lest people should doubt the fact. the greater part of the time, however, was spent in sleep. my rat-dream, as i call it, might have occupied several hours, for i have not put down half of what i heard said, nor described the curious antics i saw, as i supposed, of the rats' play. i have since recollected that the words with which the president began his speech were those used by mark antony at the commencement of his oration over the dead body of caesar, which i learnt at school. after eating the second rat i felt greatly revived, and resolved to continue my explorations, but a drowsiness came over me before i made my way to the further end of the hold. i returned to my couch and lay down to sleep. it would be a good opportunity of sounding the praises of sleep, and if i were a poet i might indulge my fancy and produce something wonderfully novel; but as i never wrote a line in my life worthy of being called poetry, i will not inflict anything of this sort on my friends. i was becoming wonderfully accustomed to my solitary life. having rolled myself in the old sail, i closed my eyes with as much sense of security as i should have done in my own bed at home. i had ceased to think of my friends there, or of aunt deb and mr butterfield. i could not go on for ever troubling myself with thoughts of the anxiety my disappearance must have caused them. an intensely selfish feeling--for such i knew that it was--possessed me. my only thought was how i could get out of my prison, and if i could not succeed, how i might provide myself with food. i had no longer any fear of the rats. i had become their master. i looked upon them as the owner of an estate does on his hares and rabbits. the hold was my preserve, and i considered that i had a right to as many as i could catch. i must proceed faster in my narrative than i have hitherto been going, and must omit some of my wakings and sleepings and hunts for rats and searches for more palatable food. the rats, after i had killed four or five, had become cautious. they are at all times cunning fellows, and must have discovered my mode of trapping them. the ship all this time was gliding on with tolerable smoothness, and on some occasions, by putting my ear down to the planks, i could hear the rippling of the water. at other times, i guessed by the dashing of the sea against the sides, that there was a strong breeze. i knew also, by the steadiness of the movement, that the ocean was tolerably calm. i should have liked to have known where we had got to. i could only guess that we were bound for south america, and that we were holding a southerly course. i had made several exploring expeditions in search of food, when i discovered close to the bulkhead what seemed to me like a strong crate. by some chance or other i had not before put my hands upon it. i now moved them all over it, and at one place came to a space into which i could thrust my fingers. the board seemed loose. i tugged and tugged away till off it came with a crackling sound, and down i came. i picked myself up, happily not the worse for my tumble, and eagerly inserted my hand into the crate. there appeared to be several articles within, but what they were i could not make out. i had to take off another board before i could get hold of them. this i did, fixing my foot firmly so as not to fall back again, and after exerting myself for some time, the board gave way. the first thing i laid hold of was a small keg. it seemed too heavy to contain biscuits, but i was nearly sure that there was something eatable within. i tried to open it with my knife, but nearly broke the blade in the attempt. that would have been an irreparable misfortune. my hands next came in contact with a thick glass bottle with a large mouth to it. i was too eager to ascertain the contents of the keg and bottle to continue my search. i therefore carried them down to my sleeping-place, where i had left the handspike, and there soon broke in the head of the cask. it contained some small, round, hard and greasy fruit, i eagerly tasted one. they were olives. i knew this because mr butterfield a few days before gave me some at dessert. i then thought them very bitter and nasty, but as i saw him eating them i nibbled at two or three. in the end i liked them rather better than at first, or rather, i didn't dislike them so much. having eaten half-a-dozen, i was very glad that i had found them. they were at all events a change from rat's flesh. i next took the bottle in hand, and with my knife scraped away the sealing-wax with which it was covered. instead of trying to force out the cork i cut into it until i had made a hole big enough to insert my fingers, when i pulled it out. the bottle contained pickles. these, though they would not satisfy hunger would render the food i was doomed to live upon more palatable and wholesome. having put them away in the most secure place i could think of, i returned to the crate. by tearing off another plank i found that i could creep inside. it contained all sorts of things, apparently thrown in before the vessel began to be loaded to be out of the way, and afterwards forgotten. i came across two or three old brooms or scrubbing-brushes, a kettle with the spout broken, several large empty bottles, and other things i cannot enumerate. at last, when i thought i had turned everything over, my hand came against another cask, considerably larger than the first. i dragged it out. it was not so heavy as i should have supposed it would be from its size. it was too big to carry, so i rolled it along before me. from the first i fancied it must contain biscuits, but i was almost afraid to too soon congratulate myself on my good fortune. a few blows with the handspike shattered the top, and eagerly plunging in my hand, to my intense satisfaction i drew forth a captain's biscuit. i ate it at once and thought it deliciously sweet, though it was in reality musty and mouldy. i had now a store of food to last me for days, and even weeks, should i not obtain my liberation, provided i used the strictest economy. all i wanted was fresh air. to obtain that, supposing i could not work my way out or make myself heard, was now my chief object. before setting out on another expedition, i placed my provisions where i hoped the rats would not be able to get at them, after carefully corking down the bottles of pickles and the jar of olives, and closing the keg of biscuits. i thought it very likely that the rats would try to make their way through the latter, but i intended to examine it frequently to ascertain whether they had commenced operations. i had been turning in my mind a better means of catching the rats than the one i had before adopted. i thought and thought over the matter, but could not arrive at any conclusion. being no longer pressed by hunger, i was less in a hurry than i should have been had i only rats' flesh to depend on. i pined for fresh air, but at the same time i was most inconvenienced for want of light. i was, however, already able to find my way about in a wonderful manner. i had pictured in my mind's eye all the objects around, and had the whole of my prison mapped out clearly in my brain, as i supposed it to exist. perhaps it was not exactly according to reality. there were the kelson and the stout ribs of the ship, the planking over them, the water-butts on either side, the stout bulkheads. at one end my bed-place; the opening which i had formed at the other end, the bales, the packing-cases, the casks, and last of all the crate. into this last i intended soon again to return, in the faint hope that i might force my way through it into some upper region. it was, i judged from the ease with which i had torn off the planks, old and rotten, and i could not therefore suppose that any heavy weight had been placed above it. i should have observed that i had reason to congratulate myself the ship was new and well caulked, and that not a leak existed throughout her length, for had any bilge-water been in her the stench would have been insufferable, and would soon either have deprived me of life or produced a serious sickness. as it was, considering what ships' holds generally are, the air was comparatively pure, and i did not suffer much from the confinement. the fact i have mentioned would account for the number of rats in the hold, for being sagacious animals they are said always to desert a ship likely to go down. probably, being inconvenienced by the water in the regions to which they are quickly driven when discovered, they take their departure on the earliest opportunity. i have known ships to founder with rats on board, so that they cannot be said to be a preventative to such a disaster. i now set out on another expedition. as i got through the hole in the bulkhead a brighter light than i had before enjoyed came down into the open space, not directly, however, but through the various crevices among the numerous casks and cases piled up in the hold, so that i was able to distinguish the objects around me more clearly than i had hitherto done. i could not have read a book, but i could see my hands as i held them up before me, and they were as black as those of a negro. probably my face was much in the same condition. i knew that my feet and my clothes also were begrimed with dirt. strange as it may seem, i was so busy in taking a survey of the locality, that i forgot to shout out, for as the light came down my voice would certainly have been heard, as without doubt one of the hatches had been opened. my impulse was to take the opportunity of working my way upwards. i saw the crate close against the bulkhead and the place where i had torn off the plank. i eagerly scrambled in that direction, but could see no way over it. i must get inside, as i first intended. i thought then, if i could force off the top, i might make my way through it to an upper stratum of the cargo. i did as i proposed. in vain i tried with my back and hands to force up the top. i had forgotten to bring the handspike. it occurred to me that with that as a lever i should succeed. i returned for it. the atmosphere i fancied had already become fresher, or at all events the foul air had escaped, and its place had been supplied by purer air through unseen openings. the light, dim as it was, which my eyes had enjoyed for a short period, made the darkness of the hold still darker. my senses were for a few moments confused, and for some time i searched in vain for the handspike. i was sure, however, that i remembered where i had left it. at last my hand touched the instrument, and i dragged it back to the scene of my intended operations. as i reached the spot, what what was my dismay to find all in darkness. the hatch, had been replaced, and i had lost the opportunity of making myself heard. only then did it occur to me that i ought, immediately on seeing the light, to have shouted out. my wits, generally keen enough, were, i suspect, becoming somewhat confused. i had so long been accustomed to do things with the greatest deliberation, that i had lost the impulse to prompt action which was otherwise natural to me. i now shouted, but it was too late, no one heard me. the seamen had gone to their usual occupations at a distance from the hatchway. for some minutes i sat down, vexed with my stupidity and dilatoriness. on recovering myself i resolved never again to lose a similar opportunity. i had for so long worked in the dark, that i was not to be deterred from carrying out my intention. armed with the handspike, i entered the crate. i first felt in each corner, to try and find an opening in which i could insert the end of my implement. not one was to be found. i next drove it against the ends of the planks; they were too firmly nailed down to yield. i next knocked away in the centre, hoping that one of the planks might prove rotten, and that i should be able to force it upwards. again i was disappointed, and at last, tired with the exertions i had made, i was obliged to abandon the attempt; but i did not give it up altogether. i resolved, as soon as i had regained my strength and stretched my limbs, which had become cramped from being so long in a confined position, to set to work once more. i had been employed, i fancy, three or four hours; it may have been longer. at all events, i had become very hungry, and with a store of food near at hand i could not resist the temptation of eating. i accordingly retired to my berth and sat down. i had not contrived to catch a rat, so i had to content myself with a musty biscuit and a dozen olives for dinner, washed down by a copious draught of water. i was thankful for the food, though it could not be called a luxurious banquet. chapter twelve. still in the hold--conscience again troubles me--my new food and its effect on my health--i picture to myself the crew on deck--rather warm--another storm--my sufferings and despair--a cold bath--i lose my stock of provisions--the rats desert me--the storm subsides--my fancy gives itself rein. days, possibly weeks, may have passed by; i had no means of calculating the time. the ordinary sounds from the deck did not reach my ear, or i might have heard the bells strike, or the voice of the boatswain summoning the watch below on deck. i scarcely like to describe this part of my adventures, for fear that they should not be believed. i have since read of similar accounts of young stowaways being shut down in the hold of ships, but whether they were true or not i cannot say. perhaps they were written with the purpose of deterring boys running off to sea. if so, they had a good object in view, for from my own experience i can say that a more mad or foolish act a silly youth cannot commit. a sailor's life is not without its attractions; but to enjoy it he must have a good conscience, and be able to feel that he went to sea with his parents' or friends' consent; and then when disaster occurs, he has not bitterly to repent having acted contrary to their wishes. for my own part i tried to persuade myself that i was an unwilling stowaway, that i had only gone on board to take a look into the hold; but conscience whispered to me over and over again, "you know you thought of hiding yourself, and thus getting away to sea in spite of your aunt deb, and the kind old gentleman who was ready to do what he considered best for your advancement in life." i tried to silence conscience by replying, "i didn't intend it, i should never have actually concealed myself in the hold if i could have helped it. i am simply an unfortunate individual, who is undergoing all this suffering through no fault of his own. though i had no wish to become a merchant, i would, with all the contentment i could muster, have taken my seat in mr butterfield's office, and done my duty to the best of my ability." though i said this to myself over and over again, i found it more convenient to satisfy conscience and to think only of the present. i had plenty to do, much of my time being spent in endeavouring to catch rats. i seldom killed more than one in a day, though occasionally i was more successful. i ate them without the slightest disgust, taking some of the pickles at the same time with a piece of biscuit, my dessert consisting of three or four olives. i was afraid of exhausting my supply, or i could have swallowed many more. the rats' flesh was tolerably tender. i suspect that i generally caught the young ones, for at length i caught one which must have been the father, or grandfather for that matter, of the tribe, as he was so tough that it was only with considerable difficulty i could masticate him. this food, however unattractive according to the usual ideas, must be wholesome, for i kept my health in an extraordinary manner. i was much indebted for this, i believe, to the olives, which prevented my being attacked by that horrible disease, scurvy. i was not aware at the time of its existence, but i have since witnessed its horrible ravages among crews insufficiently supplied with antiscorbutics, or who have neglected the ordinary precautions against it. i every day made excursions to try and effect my liberation. the crate must have had something weighty on the top of it, i thought, or i should have been able to force it open. it had hitherto resisted all my efforts, though i frequently spent an hour within it. the ship all this time was gliding on smoothly, and i supposed was making a prosperous passage. i occasionally pictured to myself what was going on over my head, canvas spread below and aloft, the ship under her courses, topsails, topgallant sails and royals with studdingsails rigged out on either side. the sea glittering in the rays of the sun, the sky bright, the captain and officers walking the deck or reading in their cabins. the crew lolling about with folded arms, smoking their pipes or spinning yarns. i forgot that some of them would be employed in spinning very different sorts of yarns to what i fancied, and that chief mates are not apt to allow man to spend their time with their arms folded, doing nothing. on and on sailed the ship. the atmosphere was becoming sensibly warmer. i supposed that we should soon get into a tropical climate, and that then i might find it disagreeably hot even down below. but i didn't allow myself to think of the future, as i was beginning to abandon all hope of working my way out. my desire now was that the ship might reach a port in safety, and begin to discharge her cargo; when i should have the chance of liberating myself. i did not, however, abandon altogether my efforts, and the exercise i thus took every day contributed to keep me in health. during the time i was sitting down and not sleeping, i employed myself in repeating all the english poetry and latin speeches i had learnt, and sometimes i even attempted to sing the sea songs of which i had been so fond--"cease, rude boreas," "one night it blew a hurricane," "come, all ye jolly sailors bold," "here a sheer hulk lies poor tom bowling," and many others; but my voice was evidently not in singing trim, and i failed to do what orpheus might have accomplished, to charm the rats from their hiding-places. the sea continued calm for some time; at all events i felt no movement to indicate that it was otherwise; but whether the ship was moving fast or slowly i could not tell. i expected that she would continue her steady progress to the end of the voyage. i had gone to sleep, and i now generally slept on for eight or ten hours at a stretch, so i could not say whether it was night or day. all was the same to me. suddenly i was awakened by a fearful uproar, and i found myself jerked off my sleeping-place on to the hard boards. from the noises i heard i fancied the ship must be going to pieces, or that the masts were falling. she heeled over so much on one side it seemed impossible that the water-butts could keep their positions, and i thought every instant i should be crushed to death by the one on the weather side falling upon me. a fearful storm was raging. my ears were deafened by the dashing of the fierce waves, and the howling and whistling of the wind, which reached me even down where i was; and by the incessant creaking of the bulkheads. crash succeeded crash; the whole cargo seemed to be tossed about, now to one side now to the other. i could feel the ship rise to the summit of a sea, and then plunge down again to the depths below. i had hitherto retained my composure, but i now almost gave way to despair. it seemed that the ship, stout as she was, would not be able to survive the fierce contest in which she was engaged with the raging elements. not for a moment was she quiet; now she appeared to be rolling as if she would roll the masts out of her, had they not already gone; now she surged forward and went with a plunge into the sea, which made her quiver from stem to stern. i thought that ribs and planks could not possibly hold together. i expected every moment to be my last. it would have been bad enough to have had to endure this on deck, surrounded by my fellow-creatures--down in the dark hold it was terrible. i now wonder that my senses did not desert me, but matters had not yet come to their worst. i dared not move, for fear of being dashed against the casks. there i lay helpless and almost hopeless, while the violence of the movements increased. i did not feel sick, as before. terror banished all other sensations. suddenly i heard a loud crash close to me, and i found myself nearly overwhelmed by a strong rush of water. the instinct to live made me spring to my feet, for i should have been drowned had i remained where i was. i fully believed that the side of the ship had been forced in, and that before many seconds had passed i and all on board would be carried down to the bottom of the sea. still i endeavoured to escape from the water, which in large masses came rushing against me, though my efforts would have been utterly useless had what i had supposed occurred. i made frantic efforts to escape out of the way of the torrent, and endeavoured to reach the only opening i was aware of by which i might escape if i could find egress to the upper deck. in my hurry, not using the caution i had generally exercised, i ran my head against a cask with so much force that i fell back senseless on the kelson. there i lay unable to rise, and believing that the water would soon cover me up and terminate my sufferings. i was not altogether senseless; i should have been saved much wretchedness and suffering had i been so. i continued to feel the violent motion of the ship; to hear the uproar, the crashing of the cargo, the casks and chests being hurled against each other. i expected that the bulkhead near me, which had hitherto served as my protection, would give way, and that some of the huge cases would be hurled down upon me; but i had no strength to shriek out, and lay silent and motionless. suddenly the rush of water ceased, and i heard only a little washing about beneath me. this surprised me greatly. i began to recollect that it must have been impossible that the side of the ship should have been smashed in, or the water would have continued entering with as much force as at first. this idea made me fancy that matters might not be so bad as i had at first supposed. by slow degrees i recovered my courage. "the ship is not going to sink, i may yet survive," i thought, and i got up to try and ascertain the cause of the rush of water. i was not long in doing this. in groping my way about i came upon one of the huge butts, which, from the large fracture i felt in its side, had evidently burst and let out the whole of its contents. it was fortunately not the water-cask from which i drew my supplies of the necessary element, but i guessed that it would prove ultimately of serious consequence to the crew, who would probably be depending on it when their stock in the other part of the ship had been exhausted. still that at the time did not give me much concern. i was wet through, bruised, and exceedingly uncomfortable. i feared, too, that as one butt had given way, the others might before long follow its example, and that i should then have no water on which to support my life. having made this discovery, i crept back to my sleeping-place. as i had no other means of drying my clothes, i took them off and wrung them out, then wrapped myself in the sail, which being in a higher position had only been slightly wetted by the splash of the water. unpleasant as my life was, this altogether was the most miserable period of my existence in the hold of the "emu." i thought that the storm would never end. hour after hour the ship went plunging and rolling on, every timber shaking and quaking, my heart beating i must confess in sympathy. regrets were useless. my only consolation now was that should the ship in the meantime not founder or be driven on the rocks, this state of things must come to an end. i tried to forget where i was and what was happening and to bring my senses into a state of stupor. i would willingly have gone to sleep, but that seemed impossible. i was mistaken, however. after some time, in spite of the violent movements and the terrific uproar, i began to doze off, and an oblivion of all things, past and present, came over me. it was sent in mercy, for i do not think i could otherwise have endured my sufferings. when i awoke to the present matters had not improved, so i endeavoured, and successfully, to go to sleep again. this occurred several times. at last, in spite of my painful feelings, i found that i had become very hungry, and to my surprise my clothes, which i had hung up against the bulkhead on some nails stuck in the upper part, were very nearly dry. i put them on, unwilling to be without garments should i be discovered. i had no rats in store, so intended to make my meal off biscuits and olives. i put my hand down to where i had stowed them, when what was my dismay not to be able to find either the cask of biscuits or the jars of olives and pickles. i felt about in all directions, hoping that i had made a mistake as to their position. i was at length convinced that they had gone. i then recollected that the chief volume of water out of the butt must have washed them away. still they could not be far off. i lay down on the kelson and felt about with my hand on every side. my search for a moment was in vain. at last i picked up an olive, and then another. my fear was that the jar was broken. what if the pickles and biscuits had shared the same fate? that this was the case was too probable, and if so my stock of provisions, would be spoiled, if not lost altogether. after further search i came upon the jar broken in two. it was especially strong, so that the bottle of pickles would have had no chance of escaping. i had fortunately my handkerchief, and i managed to pick up several olives, which i put into it. creeping along i came at last upon the pickle-bottle, and nearly cut my hand in feeling for it. a few pickles were near it. i drew them out of the water which had escaped from the butt. their flavour i guessed would be gone and all the vinegar which was so cooling and refreshing; but almost spoiled as they were, i was glad to recover them. i found, however, scarcely a fourth of the olives and pickles. the loss of the biscuits was the most serious. they, if long in the water, would be mashed up into a pulp, and perhaps dispersed throughout the bottom of the ship. the sooner i could recover whatever remained the better. i ate three or four olives and a piece of pickle to stay the gnawings of hunger, and went on with my search. the ship, it must be remembered, was all this time rolling to and fro. i searched and searched, my hopes of recovering the biscuits in a form fit to be eaten growing fainter and fainter; still i knew that the keg, either entire or broken, must be somewhere within my prison-house, for so i must call it. i stopped at last to consider in what direction it could have been thrown. perhaps being lighter and of larger bulk than the other things, it might have been jerked farther off, and rolling away got jammed in the casks or cases. my search proved to me that it could not be close beneath the kelson; i therefore felt backwards and forwards everywhere i could get my hand. i tried to recollect whether i had, when last taking a biscuit out, fixed on the head tightly or not. having smashed it in, in order to broach the cask, it was not very easy to do so, and i had an unpleasant feeling that i had put on the top only sufficient to prevent the rats jumping down into the inside. if so, the chance of the biscuits having escaped was small indeed. at length i touched the cask, which had been thrown from one end of the hold to the other. it was on its side. with trembling eagerness i put in my hand. alas! only a few whole biscuits and a few broken ones remained. these i transferred to my pocket-handkerchief with the olives and pickles, for fear of losing them. the remainder must be somewhere on the way. i tried back in a direct line, but could not find even a mashed biscuit. i then recollected that the cask had probably been jerked from side to side before it had found its last resting-place. it was a wonder that any of its contents remained in it. without loss of time, i enlarged the field of my search, and picked up several large pulpy masses which had once been biscuit. they were too precious to be thrown away. i put them into the bottom of the cask. i got back also several bits, which, though wet, had not lost their consistency. i was grateful for them; for though they would not keep, they would assist me to prolong existence for some few days. i ate some of the pulp, and a couple of olives to enable me to digest it. the other pieces of biscuit and the olives and pickles had been, i suppose, washed away out of my reach, for i felt about in every direction, but could lay my hands on nothing more. it may be supposed that the exertions i had made were not very fatiguing, but it must be remembered that the ship was tossing about all this time, and that i had to hold on with one hand while i felt with the other, to prevent myself from being jerked about and battered and bruised. as it was, i slipped and tumbled several times, and hurt myself not a little. i therefore crawled back to my couch, and rolled myself up in the sail, to go to sleep. i had not for some time been annoyed by the rats, who i suspect sat quaking and trembling in their nests as much alarmed as i was, and possibly more so, and i was amused at thinking that they must have heartily regretted having come to sea, and wished themselves safe back on shore in the houses or barns from which they had emigrated. i hoped, however, that when the storm was over they would come forth again, and give me the opportunity of catching them. i expected that it would quickly cease, but in this i was disappointed. there came a lull, and the ship did not toss about as much as before. i was contemplating getting up and making an excursion among the cargo, supposing that i might do so without much risk, when i was again thrown off my couch by a sudden lurch; and from the sounds i heard, and the violent pitching and rolling, i had good reason to suppose that the hurricane was once more raging with redoubled force. with the greatest difficulty i crawled back to my couch, and drawing the canvas round me, tried to retain my position. every minute i imagined that one or the other water-butts would give way, and that i should be either crushed by its falling on me, or half-drowned by its contents. then i thought what would be my fate should the fearful buffeting the ship was receiving cause her to start a plank. the water would rush in, and before i could possibly make my escape to a higher level i should be drowned, even should the ship herself keep above water, and that i thought was not very likely. i had read enough about shipwrecks and disasters at sea to be aware that such a circumstance sometimes occurs. the end of a plank called a butt occasionally starts away from the timber to which it has been secured, and the water pressing its way in, opens the plank more and more, till the sea comes in like a mill-sluice; and unless the damage is at once discovered, and a thrummed sail is got over the spot, there is little chance of a ship escaping from foundering. when a butt starts from the fore end, and she is going rapidly through the water, her destruction is almost certain, as a plank is rapidly ripped off, and no means the crew possess can prevent it. though i had heard crashing noises which had made me fear that the masts had been carried overboard, yet i judged from the movement of the ship that they were standing. she was seldom on an even keel, but when she heeled over it was always on one side. as yet all the strain to which she had been subjected had produced no leaks, as far as i could judge from the small quantity of water in the hold, and that was chiefly what had come out of the butt. had i not put the remnants of the olives and biscuits in my pockets i should have starved. when hunger pressed, i took a small portion, sufficient to stop its gnawings. i suffered chiefly from thirst, as i was afraid of getting up to go to the water-butt, lest i should be thrown over to the opposite side after i had drawn out the spile, before i could catch any water as it spouted out, and that much of it would be lost. i felt the necessity of economising my store, for i so mainly depended on it for existence, as it enabled me to subsist on a much smaller quantity of food than i could have done without it. at length i could bear my tortures no longer, but getting up, cautiously crawled towards the butt, stopping to hold on directly i felt the ship beginning to give a lurch. i must again observe, that close down to the keel as i was, i felt this much less severely than i should have done at a higher level. i went on, until i believed that i was close to the butt, then waiting for another lurch. directly it had taken place, i drew myself carefully up, and searched about for the spile. i found it, and drew it out, and let the water spout out into my mouth. how i enjoyed the draught. it restored my strength and sadly flagging spirits. i stopped to breathe, and then again applied my mouth to the hole. i should have been wiser had i refrained, for before i could drive in the spile i was hove right away to the opposite side of the hold, almost into the opening of the water-butt which had burst. i could hear the water rushing out, and it was some time before i could recover myself sufficiently to crawl back to try and stop it. i was almost wet through before i could accomplish this, though i had to mourn the loss of no small quantity of the precious fluid. my purpose accomplished, i made my way back to my couch. hours passed by. sometimes i would fancy that the storm was never to end. in my disordered imagination, i pictured to myself the ship, officers, and crew under some dreadful doom, destined to be tossed about on the wide atlantic for months and years, then perhaps to be dismasted and lie floating motionless in the middle of the sargasso sea, of which i had read, where the weeds collect, driven by the current thrown off by the gulf-stream, till they attain sufficient thickness for aquatic birds to walk over them. i remembered the description that mr butterfield had given me of the captain of the "emu." i thought, perhaps, that he had committed some dreadful crime, and was being thus punished for it. the only one of the crew whom i remembered, gregory growles, was certainly a bad specimen of humanity. perhaps, though pretending to be honest traders, they were pirates; and even when i had obtained my liberty they would not scruple to make me walk the plank, should my presence be inconvenient. i cannot, however, describe the hundred-and-one gloomy ideas which i conjured up. how far they were from the truth time only was to show. the ship continued her eccentric proceedings with more or less violence. the tempest roared above my head. crashing sounds still rose from the cargo which had shifted, and which it appeared to me must ere long be smashed to atoms. the worst of the matter was, that i had no one to blame but myself. had i been seized and shut up in the hold by a savage captain, i should have felt myself like a martyr, and been able to lay my sufferings on others. when i was able to reflect more calmly on my situation, i remembered that the storm must inevitably some day or other come to an end. i had read of storms lasting a week, or even a fortnight, and sometimes longer, but if i could hold out to its termination, as by means of the biscuits and olives i might do, i hoped that i should at last effect my liberation. i must not, however, take up more time by further describing the incidents of this memorable portion of my existence. chapter thirteen. still in the hold--dreamland again--chicken-pie--return of the rats--i improve my plans for catching them--two rats at one meal--my state of mind--"mercy! mercy!"--while there's life there's hope--i recommence my exertions to get out of the hold with some success--purer air--my weakness returns--i recover my strength--still no outlet--i perform my ablutions--my desire to live at all hazards returns--"where ignorance is bliss 'tis folly to be wise"--the yarn of toney lawson--the evil effects of getting drunk--the "viper"--toney obliged to give in-- toney's thoughts of escape--the fate of the "viper" determines the question--toney's wonderful escape. perhaps one of the most painful circumstances connected with my imprisonment was the impossibility of calculating how the time went by. i remember that i suddenly awoke after dreaming that i was at a jolly picnic with old friends near roger riddle's cottage. that the cloth was spread with pies and tarts, a cold sirloin of beef, a dish of fowls, and a tempting ham, and that we were eating and drinking, and laughing and singing, in the merriest way possible. i had just had the breast and wing of a chicken and a slice of ham placed on my plate, and was running over to get the mustard-pot, when to my surprise it became covered with feathers, and off it flew. i was jumping up to catch hold of it, not wishing thus to lose my dinner, but instead found myself in total darkness, and gradually came to the disagreeable consciousness that i was in the hold of the "emu," and that i had only a few small biscuits and three olives remaining of my stock of provisions, independent of the pickles in the corner of my handkerchief. the ship, however, was perfectly quiet. the gale must have ceased some time before, to allow the sea to go down. by putting my ears to the planks i could catch the sound of a gentle ripple as she glided along, but no other noise was to be heard. the bulkheads had ceased to creak, the masts to complain, the cargo to crash, and all was perfectly quiet overhead. my hunger showed me that i must have been a long time asleep, and i could not resist the temptation of eating the remainder of my biscuits and olives. i had thus only the pickles to exist on, unless i could catch some rats with which to eat them. i took a draught of water, and then sat down to consider the plans i had before thought of to trap my game. one occurred to me as the most feasible. though i could not see i could feel, and my idea was to form a bag with a piece of the canvas, and give it a small mouth so contrived that i could close it suddenly with a string. among the articles in my pocket was a stock of string of various thicknesses; i found on measuring it that i had not only sufficient to make the bag, but enough to gather in the mouth with an additional piece to hold in my hand. my gimlet would serve as an awl or sailmaker's needle, though not an efficient substitute. i had been so long accustomed to the darkness that i fancied i could pass the string through the holes i had made without difficulty. my hunger was an incentive to perseverance. with my knife i first of all cut a piece off my canvas of sufficient size for my purpose. i am sure that i could not have done it so well at any time before, had i attempted to perform the operation in the dark. i then turned in the edges, and passing the string through the holes i had made, united the two sides. sometimes i could not get the string through without another boring, at others i succeeded at the first attempt, tying the string at each stitch. it was a slow operation, but the result was beyond my most sanguine expectations. i had a long, thickish piece of hard twine, which i devoted to the mouth of the bag. i had to make the holes for these with great regularity, so as not to leave an opening large enough for a rat to jump out at. i worked on without stopping till my task was accomplished, as i was anxious to ascertain whether it would answer the object i had in view. while i was working i heard the rats running about, and two or three knocked their noses against my feet, showing that they had again come out of their holes, and were either hunting for food or gambolling for their pleasure. i had, however, retained a small piece of biscuit in my pocket, which, although i longed to eat it up, i had sufficient resolution to devote as a bait to the rats. placing myself near the shattered butt, which seemed to be the spot most numerously frequented by them, i put down the bag with my foot at one end of it, holding the string in my hands, and leaving only a very small opening, which i could close of a sudden. i waited eagerly. rats ran about near my feet, leapt over the bag, and skipped and frolicked, uttering squeaks of delight. still none came actually into the bag. at last one more curious than his fellows poked his nose into the opening. i felt him running along inside, having discovered a biscuit within. with a sudden jerk i quickly closed the mouth of the bag. i felt about with my fingers, and soon came upon master rat inside. as i didn't wish to give him the opportunity of biting me, i grasped him tightly by the neck, and squeezed out his life. after drawing him out, i again put down the bag to tempt some more of his kindred, while i held him up by the tail. in a few minutes i felt others approaching, curious to explore the interior of the bag. i again gave a sudden jerk, and found that i had caught no less than three, who, as they felt themselves drawn up, began fighting and biting at each other, and would, i believe, had i not speedily put them out of existence, have been like the kilkenny cats, and left only their tails behind them. i had now ample food, though not of the character most people would have desired, and had also a bag to keep it in. i soon disposed of the first rat, with which i ate some small pieces of pickle as a relish, and i must confess that i enjoyed my meal amazingly. to me it appeared of a peculiarly delicate character. i could have eaten another rat with perfect satisfaction, but i considered it prudent to wait, so as not to give myself a surfeit. before long, however, i was again hungry, and on this occasion i ate two rats with some small pieces of pickle and drank a pint or more of water. i now felt sufficiently strong to recommence my attempt at escape. i was prepared for difficulties of all sorts, as i knew that the cargo had been much displaced during the storm. i have so often described my journeys to and fro, that i am afraid of becoming wearisome, but i must mention what now took place. as i made my way along i tumbled over several things which had not been there before, and had evidently been thrown out of their places by a violent jerk of the ship. at last i got to the bulkhead through which with such infinite pains i had previously made my way. what was my dismay to find it stopped! human hands could certainly not have put the obstacles there that i found. as i was feeling about i discovered a huge case of some sort which had been thrown down from above, and stopped up the way. it was not likely that my strength would be able to remove it. after feeling about to ascertain if there was any opening at the side or top through which i might squeeze myself, and finding none, i returned for my handspike, thinking that i would at all events try to force the case on one side or the other. it was so large, however, that when making the attempt i could not move it in the slightest degree, and after trying in all ways, i had to abandon the enterprise. i had been sensible of the greater closeness of the atmosphere, and i had now no doubt that the case prevented the air which descended from above from circulating through the hold as it before had done. the temperature also, i had no doubt, was increasing as the ship got into more southern latitudes, and i had some fears of being stewed alive. i was already streaming with perspiration from my efforts. i was, indeed, in a weak state, which was but natural, so that i was unable to undergo any exertion without feeling far more exhausted than i had previously done. sick and weary, i returned to my resting-place. i was seriously afraid of falling really ill. if i did so, what hope could i have of escaping? the olives and pickles and biscuits, which had hitherto preserved me in health were exhausted. rats' flesh might serve to keep me alive for a few days, but alone would certainly be very unwholesome. i was already beginning to feel a repugnance to eating it. perhaps this was in consequence of my having devoured two rats at one meal. my chief refreshment was cold water, and that i found a great luxury. i must have swallowed prodigious quantities of it, still the butt held out; though, if my imprisonment lasted much longer, that also must come to an end. i had never heard of hydropathy, but i was heartily willing to sing its praises, and i have ever since been a resolute water-drinker. i lay down to rest after my exertions, but my cogitations were not of an agreeable character. i was in different moods. sometimes i thought that i would abandon all further attempts at escaping, and yield to my fate; then i would shout out as loudly as my weak voice would allow: "help! help! i am dying! help! help! will any one come to take me out of this place? mercy! mercy!" finally a more courageous spirit animated me. "i'll not yield while i have life!" i exclaimed. "i'll cut my way with my knife through case after case, and draw out the contents so that i may make a passage through them." i got up, feeling resolute and bold, taking my knife and my handspike with me. i had no means of sharpening the blade of my knife except on a hard piece of oak, and that was not very effectual. on reaching the place where the opening had been, i felt all over the side of the chest. it didn't feel to be as even and regular as i had expected to find it. i began at once to use my knife, so as to cut a hole into the centre. as i pressed against it, the plank yielded slightly. the operation must inevitably be a long one, so instead of cutting on i took the handspike, and dealt several blows as hard as i could strike. the first blow i struck produced a creaking sound. i renewed my efforts. the plank began to give way. i struck again and again. the side flew inwards. i then struck about so as to knock off the splinters. i crept through the opening thus made, and from the articles i then found i was convinced that it was the old crate through which i had before made my way, and which had fallen down in front of the opening. i was sure of this when i found that i could creep out through the smaller fracture on the opposite side. still i was not free. no light permeated between the bales and packages. i felt about, but could not recognise any of the things with which i was before acquainted. many of the packages appeared so placed that i might, without great care, bring them down on myself. still, being thus far free, i determined to persevere. i thought that if i could once more get near the hatchway, i might be able to shout and make myself heard. i tried in all directions to find an opening. at last i thought that i discovered one at the spot from which the crate had fallen. i clambered up one huge bale, then got on another, and i was then on a higher level than i had been since i first fell into the hold. i was rejoiced at the prospect of liberating myself, when a faintness came over me, and i sank down on the top of the bale. as i thus lay i pictured to myself the crew above me going through their usual avocations. i fancied that i could even hear their footsteps on the deck, as they walked about or hauled at the ropes. i was sensible of a gentle movement of the ship, which instead of tumbling furiously about, was gliding on, rising and falling slowly to the sea. the air was purer than that in the part from which i had made my way, and i could breathe more freely. had my strength been sufficient i should have again shouted, as i felt sure i must have been heard, but when i attempted to raise my voice it failed me altogether. i could scarcely utter an articulate sound. i tried again and again, but in vain. i was conscious that i was becoming weaker and weaker. one thing i was determined on, and that was not to return to the dreadful hold. i looked back at it with horror, and i shuddered to think of the amount of rats' flesh i had eaten. yet in many respects i was not better off than before. i had not found any food. my position might be perilous in the extreme, for i could not tell what was around me. i might, should a sudden breeze come on, be thrown back again to the bottom of the hold. for some time i could not move, or exert my mental or physical powers. i again thought that i was going to die; but i was not really so weak as i supposed, for at length, a desire to live returning, i raised myself and tried once more to work my outward way. i could find no outlet, and as my voice had failed me, i was unable to shout, but i could manage to move about. i was very thirsty, and notwithstanding my previous resolution not to return to the lower part of the hold, i thought the wisest thing i could do was to go down and get a draught of water. i believed that i could easily find my way. i let myself down off one bale and then another, till i came to the crate. i crept through it, and curiously enough i felt as if i had returned home. i walked up to the water-cask as if it had been an old friend, with delight, and took a draught of water. it was cool and refreshing, and revived me greatly. i felt hungry; i had hoped never again to eat another rat, but the keenness of my appetite overcame my scruples, and i took one out of the bag. i even thought of placing the bag ready to catch some more. i, however, only ate one of the creatures, though not without difficulty, in spite of my hunger. i then bathed my face and washed my hands, to look a little more respectable should i ere long make my appearance among the crew. for this purpose i withdrew the spile, and allowed the fresh water to trickle first over my hands, and then over my face. this still further refreshed me, and i wished that i had performed a similar operation oftener. had i not suspected that the water at the bottom of the hold must have been by this time very foul, i should have taken off my clothes and had a bath. i refrained, however, from doing this, and contented myself with the pleasant sensation of feeling cleaner than i had been for a long time. i suspect that had i had a looking-glass placed before me, i should not have known myself. on feeling my arms and legs, they seemed like those of a skeleton; my cheeks were hollow, and my hair long and tangled. the rat which i had last eaten had dulled the sense of hunger. i felt a peculiar sensation afterwards, which convinced me more than ever that i could not long exist on rats' flesh. i fancy that i might have been wrong. it was night when i made my last attempt to get upwards, so i thought that i would take a sleep and renew my efforts in the daytime, when i should have a better chance of attracting notice should i get near the hatchway. i accordingly lay down to rest, hoping that it would be the last time i should have to sleep in the hold. i took only short snatches of sleep. when i awoke i lay for some time without moving, and could not help thinking over and over again of the events which had occurred since i left the quay at liverpool. i knew that the end of my confinement must be approaching in some form or other; i should either die, or be restored to the open air. in spite of the wretched condition to which i had been reduced, i had a strong wish to live. i especially wanted to go back to assure aunt deb that i had not intentionally run away, and also to relieve the minds of my father and mother, and brothers and sisters, of the anxiety i believed they must have felt on my account. suddenly also i remembered with painful distinctness the remarks mr butterfield had made respecting captain longfleet, the commander of the "emu," and his ruffianly crew. certainly their appearance was not in their favour; and old growles, who had received me so surlily, was not a good specimen of british seamen. what if the ship should prove to be a pirate, instead of an honest trader? i had heard of the crews of vessels, fitted out at liverpool, assisting slavers on the coast of africa in carrying out their nefarious trade, some committing all sorts of atrocities. should the "emu" prove to be one of these, even if i were not hove overboard, i might be sold as a slave in the spanish possessions, perhaps to labour in the mines among the hapless indians, who are thus employed by their cruel taskmasters. "where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise," and i should have been much less anxious had i not heard so much about such things. i remembered especially a yarn old riddle told me one day about a messmate of his, toney lawson. i may as well try to give the yarn in his own words, though that may be a hard matter, and i can scarcely hope to do full justice to his narrative. "toney, d'ye see, was once on a time knocking about plymouth, after he had been paid off from the ship he last sailed in, when who should he meet but joe gubbins, who had served with him for many years gone by. joe had always been a wild slip of a fellow when he was a youngster. "said joe to toney, `what are you doing in these 'ere parts, old ship?' "toney told him how he had been paid off and had pretty well emptied his pockets of shiners, and was thinking that before long he must join another craft. "`that's just what i was a thinking of too, so just step in here, mate, and we'll have a talk about the matter over a glass or two,' and he pointed to the door of a public-house which stood temptingly open to entice passers-by. "toney was not one of those chaps to get drunk on every occasion, but he had no objection to good liquor when it came in his way. so, intending to pay for what he had, he went in with joe. joe boasted of a craft he had served aboard--a privateer, he called her. she had taken no end of prizes, and had made every one on board her as rich as jews, only somehow or other they didn't keep their money as well as jews did, `and that's the reason why my pockets ain't lined as well as they were a few weeks ago,' observed joe. toney, who was a steady sort of a man, didn't quite like the account joe gave of the `viper's' cruise joe was talking about. "`why, to my mind, she's no better than a bloodthirsty pirate,' he said. "joe laughed. `you're too particular, mate,' said he. `'tain't no worse than many another crew afloat.' "however, he didn't press the point any longer, but emptying his glass, called upon toney to drink up his, and ordered more and more liquor in, when toney said he would not take another drop. at last toney didn't know what happened except that he found himself slipping off from his seat on to the sandy floor, and could not, for the life of him, get up again. he thought it would be better to go to sleep where he was, so he coiled himself away to have a snooze. when he woke he tried to recollect what had happened. "he remembered that he had been sitting with joe gubbins, and that he somehow or other got down on the floor, so he felt about, thinking he was there still. but all was dark; and instead of a sandy floor and the legs of the tables and chairs, his hand touched only some hard pitchy planks. he stretched out his arm as high as he could, and found that there was a deck close above him. he crawled along, and came right against a bulkhead. he knew then that he must be on board a craft of some sort. he was not a man to make a fuss about nothing; and as he was still only half awake, he thought he might as well turn round and go to sleep again. "when he roused up a second time, he felt the vessel moving to the heave of the sea. he had been too long afloat not to know that she was making good way through the water with a fresh breeze. as he was getting somewhat hungry, he didn't want to be any longer down in the hold. he thought it was time to sing out and let those on board know where he was. having a good pair of lungs of his own, he shouted pretty lustily, but no one came near him, nor hailed him. "`this seems a curious job,' he said to himself; `have they taken me for a bale of goods and hove me down here to stay till they discharge cargo?' "presently he heard the sound of a gun fired overhead; right aft, he judged, for he knew well enough by the movements of the vessel which way she was going. then another, and another followed; then came a cheer, though he heard it but faintly down where he was. the guns again went off. he guessed that the craft he was on board of was being chased, and that the cheer was given because the crew had knocked away some of the enemy's spars. he could hear two or three shots strike the hull of the vessel, so he knew that they were not having the game all to themselves. being fond of fighting, he wished that he was on deck to take his share in it. there was no use wishing without trying to get out, but whichever way he moved he found a strong bulkhead. "though he kicked with all his might he could not start a plank. he tried again and again, till every muscle in his body ached. at last he had to give it up. his temper was not growing very sweet, as may be supposed. he began to think whether it was joe gubbins that had brought him aboard, for he didn't come of his own accord, of that he was certain. he vowed that he would pay joe off whenever he fell in with him. at last the firing ceased. he felt, by the quiver running through every plank and timber that the craft was carrying as much sail as she could bear. there was no more cheering, and he could not tell whether she had got away altogether, or was still trying to escape from a big enemy. he tried to fancy why he was kept down there all this time. he supposed that he had been forgotten by whoever brought him aboard. he could not tell whether the vessel was a king's ship or a privateer, but that she was not a merchantman he was pretty sure. perhaps, if she was a man-of-war, or a privateer, she was being chased by a frenchman, but if she was a pirate she was more likely to be running from an english frigate than any other. still it was not likely that a pirate would venture into plymouth sound. "in either case toney didn't relish the thoughts of being captured. in one there would be a french prison in store for him, and in the other a man-of-war captain would not believe that he had been brought aboard against his will, and would declare that he had stowed himself away to escape. at last he got so hungry that he began to fear he should be starved to death. he tried another shout. his voice didn't reach those on deck. he knew by this time that it must be night. having nothing better to do, he was going off to sleep when he heard a bolt withdrawn from the outside, and a light streamed in to where he lay. "`who are you?' he asked, springing up and knocking his head against the deck above him with a force which sent him backwards. "`i'm coming to see how you're getting on, mate,' answered his visitor. "`badly enough,' said toney, `i'm as hungry as a shark, and don't like being shut up down here. who are you?' "`i've been sent down here to ask if you'll, like a wise man, join this craft. she wants hands, and as you're well-known to be a good seaman, you'll get a good berth aboard.' "`i never join a craft unless i know what sort of a captain and messmates i'm a-going to have,' said toney. "`there are times when a man mustn't be over particular,' said his visitor. `you're a fool if you don't say yes, so just come on deck and sign articles. you'll learn all about this craft afterwards.' "`no, no,' said toney; `i never buy a pig in a poke. tell me what? want to know, then i'll tell you whether i'll join or not.' "`you'll join, whether you like it or not,' said his visitor with a growl. `you've chosen to come aboard, and we don't allow idlers.' "`i didn't choose to come aboard,' said toney. `somebody brought me aboard when i was obfuscated, i suppose, and i'll have a reckoning with that somebody before long.' "`if that's your notion you'll stay where you are,' said his visitor, and he slammed the door and bolted it. "toney was a determined fellow, but there was one thing he couldn't stand, and that was hunger. he got worse and worse. he could not sleep, and he could not shout out. by the time his visitor came again he was as meek as a lamb. "`are you going to join or are you not?' was the question. "`i give in,' said toney. "`come along then,' said his visitor. "toney crawled out and up the ladder of the main hatchway. he found that he was on board a brigantine, a rakish-looking craft, with several officers standing aft by the captain, and a numerous crew, among whom he saw joe gubbins. he couldn't help lifting his fist and shaking it at joe, who stood with a brazen face looking as if the threat could not be intended for him. "`are you hungry, my man?' asked an officer, whom he supposed to be the captain. "`can't say but what i am,' said toney. "`then there'll be plenty of grub for you when you've signed these articles.' "`should like to know what they are, sir,' said toney. "`there's the book; you may read them,' said the captain. `put your name down at the bottom of the page.' "now toney was no great hand at reading or writing. he could just manage to scrawl his name. he tried to make out what the articles were about, but it was more than he could do. "`come, my man, are you ready for your grub?' asked the captain. "toney felt as if he should drop if he didn't get something to eat, and just then a whiff from the galley came across his nose. he took the pen and managed to write his name, in a fashion. "`that'll do, my man,' says the captain. `you're now one of the crew, and under my orders. we've pretty strict discipline aboard here. there's the yard-arm, and there's the sea alongside.' "toney was now allowed to go forward and enjoy a good blow out, which he much needed. he felt more like himself afterwards. he soon showed that there was not a better seaman aboard. "nothing particular occurred to show the character of the vessel. joe kept out of his way until he got into a better temper, and they became very good friends again. they ran to the southward till they were in the latitude of the guinea coast, when they fell in with a craft, into which they discharged part of their cargo in exchange for some bags of gold. they now carried on in a strange way, chasing several vessels, capturing some and taking their cargoes out of them, in spite of what their crews could say, afterwards putting them on board a spanish or a portuguese craft and getting doubloons in exchange. their guns and their numerous crew made resistance impossible. they were wonderfully successful in their proceedings, until one day they fell in with a british frigate and had to up stick and run for it. the african coast had become too hot for them, so they stood away for the caribbean sea and spanish main. here they carried on worse than before. the crews of all vessels which resisted were made to walk the plank, and the vessels, after everything had been taken out worth having, were sent to the bottom. "toney, being an honest man, could not stand this; but he knew that, being tarred with the same brush, if taken he would share the fate of the rest. he determined to cut and run on the first opportunity. a strict watch was kept on him; and joe, who knew his thoughts, hinted that the yard-arm would be his fate if he made the attempt and failed. still he was resolved to try and get off, but the matter was settled for him in a way he little expected. the brigantine, during a heavy gale one night, was struck by lightning and blew up, toney and two others only finding themselves floating among the wreck. joe gubbins was one of these. toney managed to get hold of the mainmast and clambered into the top, where he got his legs out of the water and was trying to help joe gubbins, when joe, with a shriek, disappeared. the other man shared the same fate. toney expected to die, but the next day he was picked up by an english sloop-of-war; and as he took care not to give a very clear account of the craft he had been aboard of, he was allowed to enter as one of her crew. here he met roger riddle, to whom he gave the account of his adventure." i thought to myself perhaps the "emu" is employed in the same sort of trade as the "viper," and if so, i shall be as badly off as toney lawson. chapter fourteen. the hold--my provisions become exhausted--a fresh attempt at escape-- pressed by hunger, i persevere--the spar-deck--not out yet--a ray of light--my prostrate condition--my mind gives way--a curious trio--the main hatchway--fresh difficulties arise--a last effort--i am rescued-- ghost of a ghost--i make a new friend and meet with an old one--the crew of the ship--my new quarters--i receive a piece of advice from my new friend--mark's adventures, and how he came aboard the "emu"--poor jack drage--mark gets into trouble. the recollection of toney lawson's adventure didn't tend to make me feel any more comfortable than before. i could scarcely hope to be as well off as he was, or to have so fortunate an escape. my provisions being exhausted, i was aware that i must soon get out of the hold or perish, yet i didn't anticipate much satisfaction from obtaining my liberty. no time was, however, to be lost, and i therefore nerved myself up for a fresh struggle. feeling that i had my knife about me, and having put on my shoes, i prepared to make a desperate attempt to effect my escape. i crawled on through the crate, and once more attempted to climb up over the packages into the main hold. i tried to do this in several directions, but i found no opening so promising as the one which i had before explored. my weakness prevented me from making the exertions that were required to force my way between the bales. i was in momentary fear of falling down a crevice, and being jammed to death. my situation in some respects was infinitely worse than that of toney lawson, who was bolted in, but then people knew where he was. no one on deck was aware of my deplorable condition. still i crawled on, resolved to succeed. while feeling about, i discovered a space between three or four bales. i crept in very much as a rat does into his hole, only he knows where he is going. i could not tell whether i should get through or have to force my way out again legs first. still the cravings of hunger induced me to venture. on i crept, when on putting up my hand i found that there was nothing above me which i could touch, so that i was able to stand upright, though there might be some depth in front down which i might fall. i moved with the greatest caution. it turned out, however, that they were only bales piled one upon another, and that i was standing in a sort of well. still there were stepping-places, and with the ropes which bound the bales i was able to work my way upwards. higher and higher i got. i could now distinctly hear the footsteps of the men on the deck, which i guessed, therefore, could be no great distance above me. the ship must have been moving calmly along, and i was thus preserved from being jerked off from the place to which i was clinging. i still moved on till i reached a part of the hold filled chiefly, it appeared to me, with large packing-cases and casks. i was almost on a level floor. it might have been the spar-deck. wearied with the fatigue i had undergone, i sat down on a box to rest. i could now distinctly hear not only the tread of the men's feet, but their voices. they were the first human voices which had reached my ears for days, or rather weeks. i tried to shout to attract their attention, but my voice had completely failed me. not a sound could i utter. i felt that i had not strength to move an inch further. twice i made the attempt, and had to sink back again on my seat. i was gazing upward, the only direction from which help could come, when a ray of light streamed right upon me. forgetting my weakness, i started up. it must come, i knew, from the partly open hatchway, or from a fracture in the hatch itself. this i afterwards found to have been the case, the fracture being covered up with a tarpaulin, which had at that instant been removed. again i endeavoured to shout out, but my voice was not under the control of my will. no sounds issued from my mouth. i stretched out my hands in an imploring attitude, fancying that i should be seen. i attempted to make my way directly under the opening, but ere i could reach it i sank down utterly exhausted. i had never before been so completely prostrated. i didn't lose my senses, but all physical power had deserted me. i could scarcely move my hands or feet; still i thought that the hatch must be again opened before long, and that i could not fail to be discovered. i earnestly prayed that help might be sent me. how it was to come i could not tell. notwithstanding what was before me, i still desired to be set free. although i was not sleeping, strange fancies filled my brain. i saw people flit about in the darkness, suddenly coming into the light, and then disappearing. some were people i knew, and others were strangers. aunt deb and mr butterfield came by, tripping it lightly, holding each other's hands, he in a bob wig with a sword by his side, she in high-heeled red shoes and a cap decked with flowers and ribbons. she smiled and ogled, as if about to dance a minuet. i almost laughed as i saw them, they appeared so vivid and real. then captain longfleet came upon the scene as i fancied him, dressed in a cocked-hat and feathers, a long sword buckled to his side, high boots, a red coat, and a waistcoat braided with gold. i fancy that i must have seen some picture of the sort of a pirate captain to cause him thus to be presented to my imagination. he walked about flourishing his sword till he met aunt deb, to whom, instead of cutting her head off, as i thought he was about to do, he made a profound bow, and then vanished. many other figures quite as bizarre and unnatural appeared before me. i mention these trivial circumstances to show the state of my mind. i had been so long by myself that i must be pardoned if i appear egotistical. again all was quiet. i lay for some time, if not unconscious, with very little power of thought. i was afraid that another night would come on, and that i should have to endure my sufferings for some hours longer, if death did not put an end to them. i could still hear the tread of the men's feet, and even the voices of the officers, shouting their orders. how i wished that i could shout also, for then i knew i should be heard. i tried once more to move, and managed to drag myself on till i got directly under the hatchway. although i could not shout, to my surprise i heard myself groaning. there being light sufficient to enable me to observe objects, my eye fell upon a loose piece of wood. i grasped it with all my remaining strength, and began beating away on the top of a cask, which proved to be empty from the sound which emanated from it. i beat on and on, but no notice appeared to be taken of the noise i was making. i was too ill and weak to reason on the subject, but i remembered hearing a loud voice shouting out some orders. presently there came a tramp of feet overhead, backwards and forwards and from side to side they seemed to run. the crew were evidently engaged in shortening or making sail, which it was i was unable to tell. i had sense enough remaining to know that whilst this was going forward on deck it was not likely that notice would be taken of my feeble knocking, for feeble it was, though it sounded loud to me. presently i felt a greater movement than i had experienced for some time, and the ship heeled over on one side. my fear was that the cases on which i lay might be again shifted, and that i might be thrown down to some lower depth of the hold, with bales and casks above me. of course i am describing what i fancied might happen, not what was likely to occur. i now guessed that a number of the crew must have gone aloft to shorten sail, and that even if they had heard the noise they would not have had time to ascertain what had caused it. i now more than ever feared that, before i could be liberated, i should become utterly exhausted, and should fall into a swoon from which i might never recover. i was too weak to pray, or any longer exert myself. still my senses did not altogether desert me. i lay on my back, looking up towards the hatchway. the ship heeled over more and more. to me, who had been accustomed to live so long down near the keel, it appeared at a frightful angle, and i though, she would go over altogether. again i heard voices shouting out orders, and the crew, i supposed, went aloft to take in more sail. i was afraid that another storm was coming on. fearful would be the consequences to me if such should be the case. presently i heard something dragged over the hatchway. the ray of light which had hitherto tended to keep up my waning spirits was obscured. a tarpaulin had been placed over the hatchway. perhaps the crew were about to batten down the hatches. in vain i tried, while this was going forward, to strike the cask. i had not sufficient strength to do it. a fearful faintness was coming over me. perhaps the movement of the ship contributed to this. i think i must have fainted, for i cannot recollect what happened. i had no strength to hold on or to grasp the stick, and might have been thrown helplessly about like a shuttlecock till life was extinct. i fancy that some time must have passed. when i recovered my senses, my first impulse was to feel for the stick. it was close to me. i had power to grasp it. the top of the chest on which i lay was perfectly level, but i expected to find it heeling over as before. instead of that, no movement took place. the ship was apparently gliding forward on an even keel. the storm had ceased, or probably the ship had only been struck by a sudden squall, which had passed over. my first impulse was again to try and strike the cask and to shout out, but i could only utter a few low groans. i managed, however, to give some blows on the cask, which resounded through the hold. the noise was loud enough, i fancy, to be heard on deck, or indeed in every part of the ship. i beat on and on. presently the tarpaulin was drawn off, and i heard some feet moving directly above me. a voice said distinctly, "below! what's that?" almost immediately the hatch was removed, and as i looked up a flood of light burst down upon me. for some seconds i could see nothing. gradually i made out a number of human faces peering down through the hatchway. "why, what can that be?" exclaimed one of the men. "ghost of a ghost," cried another. "it can't be a live thing," said a third. "why, jack, i do believe it's a boy," exclaimed a fourth; "we must get him up whatever he is, but how could he have come there?" presently a ladder was let down. none of the men seemed inclined to descend, evidently having some doubts as to my character, till the last speaker, calling the others cowards, came down. instead of at first reviving me, the effect of the fresh air was to make me faint away. when i recovered i found myself lying on the deck, surrounded by a number of strange faces. a seaman--the one who, i suppose, had brought me up--was supporting me and applying a wet cloth to my head and shoulders, while another, kneeling down, was examining my countenance. "why, youngster, how did you come aboard here? where have you been ever since we sailed from the mersey?" he asked. too weak to answer, i could only stretch out my hand and then point to my lips, to show that i wanted food and water. "if you've been down in the hold all these weeks, no wonder that you want something to eat," he remarked. still he didn't move, or propose to obtain any refreshment for me. as my lack-lustre eyes looked up at him, i recognised gregory growles, the old seaman to whom i had at first spoken with my cutter under my arm. no wonder that he didn't recollect me in my present forlorn and dirt-begrimed condition. at last the seaman against whom i leant told one of his messmates to get me some water. with indifference, if not unwillingness, the man did as requested, and going to the water-butt on deck brought me a mugful, which i greedily drank. "by the feel of his ribs he wants something more substantial than water," observed my friend. "we must get the poor young chap into a berth, and feed him up, or he'll be slipping his cable. there doesn't seem to be much life in him now." "that will be seen." "what business had he to stow himself away, and make us all fancy that a ghost was haunting the ship?" cried growles, in a surly way. "we shall hear what the captain has to say to him. to my notion, as he's made his bed, so he'll have to lie on it." "come, come, mate, it would be hard lines for the poor young chap if he were left to die, without any of us trying to bring him through. i, for one, can't stand by doing nothing, so just one of you lend a hand here, and we'll put him into my berth, and get the cook to make some broth for him," said the kind-hearted seaman. while he was speaking, a person, who was evidently one of the officers, came forward and expressed his surprise at seeing me, and inquired why he hadn't been informed of my having been discovered? the men replied, that i had only just been found and brought on deck, and that they thought i was dying. "it would have saved trouble to have hove him overboard before he came to himself," said the mate, with a careless laugh. "the captain doesn't allow of stowaways, and we don't want any aboard here." he said this, i suppose, to frighten me, indifferent to the consequences. "he's very bad, sir," said my friend, touching his hat, "and, maybe, it won't much matter what is done with him; but if you'll give me leave, i'll take him below to my berth, after we've washed off the dirt that sticks to him. he wants food more than anything else to bring him round, and when he's himself we can make some use of him at all events. we want a boy forward very badly, and he'll be worth his salt, i've a notion." "you may do what you like with him, tom trivett," answered the officer, "only don't let us be bothered with him. we've trouble enough with young riddle, the mutinous young rascal. he'll have to look out for himself, if he don't mind." the officer was the third mate of the ship, who happened just then to have charge of the deck. he made further inquiries about how i had been found, and asked the men whether they had before known of my being on board? trivett replied that they were entirely ignorant as to how i had come into the ship, but that hearing peculiar noises, they lifted the hatch, and that he had gone down and discovered me. "we shall hear by-and-by what he has to say for himself. in the meantime, trivett, take care of him, and i'll let the captain know he's been found. he's the ghost you fellows have been frightened about," said the mate. "we were no more frightened than he was," i heard some of the men utter, "but who could tell where all those strange noises we heard came from when any of us went down into the hold. he's precious ready to call us cowards, but he was more frightened than we were. why, he would never go down unless he had a couple of hands with him." while this was going on, tom trivett continued swabbing my head and neck. when the mate walked aft he called to the cook to bring him a bucket of warm water from the caboose, as well as a lump of soap, a scrubbing-brush, and a piece of canvas. the sun was shining brightly, and the air was warm, so that i did not feel the exposure so much as it might have been felt. tom forthwith set about to scrape me clean, taking his own pocket-comb to disentangle my matted hair after he had washed it. the operation, though somewhat hazardous, greatly refreshed me. before it was concluded, julius caesar, the black cook, who had some tender spot in his heart, brought out a basin of soup, from which trivett fed me as tenderly as a nurse would a young child. this still further revived me. "you shall have some more, boy, when i have done a-cleaning you," said tom. the rest of the crew sat round making remarks, but not even offering to assist their shipmate, evidently perfectly indifferent as to what happened to me, though perhaps curious to see whether i should revive under the treatment to which i was being subjected. judging by the colour of the water after i had been washed in it, i must have been as black as a coal. i rather think julius caesar must have fancied that i was one of his own race, and must have been greatly astonished at seeing a blackamoor washed white. when the operation was concluded, growles again came and had a look at me. "why, i do believe it's none other than the young chap who came aboard us at liverpool," he exclaimed. "i thought as when i saw him so often that he was up to something, but never fancied that he was going to stow himself away, or i should have been on the watch for him. well, he'll have to pay pretty smartly for the trick he has played us." my friend tom took no notice of this and similar remarks made by others of the crew; but after having again fed me, he called to a stout-looking lad who was coming forward from the companion-hatchway to assist in carrying me to his berth under the topgallant forecastle. the lad, without hesitation, did as he was directed, and took up my legs, while tom lifted me by the arms. as i was being carried along, my eyes turned towards the lad who was stepping backwards, when i at once recognised him as mark riddle, though he looked very different to the smart young chap he was when i last saw him, and he evidently did not know me. "can't you find a shirt and a pair of trousers for the poor fellow?" cried tom; "his own want washing terribly." mark ran aft, and in a short time returned with the garments, in which tom clothed me. notwithstanding the food which had been given me, i was still too weak to speak. he and tom lifted me into an upper bunk on the starboard side. as he did so, i stretched out my hand and seized his, which i pressed between my bony fingers. i could just say, "thank you, mark." he looked at me very hard, but still did not seem to have a suspicion who i was. this was not surprising, as he did not even know that i had gone to liverpool. i was so altered, that even my mother would scarcely have recognised me. he, however, asked tom trivett who i was. tom replied that i was a young stowaway, but that he knew no more about me than did the man in the moon. "go and fetch the remainder of the broth," i heard tom say. "a little more will do him good, and then if he gets a sound sleep he'll come round, i have a notion." "if he does, it will only be to lead a dog's life," murmured mark, as he left to get the broth. tom stood by me arranging the blankets, and trying to make me comfortable till mark returned with some soup, with some biscuits and rice floating in it. though i could drink the liquid, it was with difficulty that i could masticate the latter, but i managed to get down a few pieces. "he has eaten enough now," said tom; "but, i say, mark," he whispered, "you keep an eye on him whenever you can, so that none of the fellows play him any tricks. they'd do so, though they knew he was dying, out of devilry." "aye, aye," answered mark. "they shan't hurt the poor young chap if i can help it, though i've enough to do to keep clear of them myself." "well, we shall be three now, and shall be better able to stand up against them," said tom. i heard no more; for after taking the food a drowsiness crept over me, and i fell into a sound sleep. when i awoke i was in the dark, and felt very much more comfortable than i had for a long time. at first i fancied that i was down in the hold, but the loud snoring and groaning of the men in the neighbouring bunks made me remember what had happened. i felt about, and was soon convinced that i was in tom trivett's bunk, in a clean shirt and trousers, and a blanket over me. i heard the watch below turn out, the others shortly afterwards came in, but no one took any notice of me. when the latter were fast asleep i heard some one come into the berth and stop near my bunk. "who's that?" i asked. "glad to see you can speak again, my lad," said the person whom by his voice i knew to be tom trivett. "do you feel better?" "yes, thank you," i answered. "you've saved my life, and i'm very grateful to you." "don't talk o' that, lad," he said, "it's not much good i can do in the world, but i couldn't bear to see you allowed to die from neglect, though i'm afraid there are hard times coming for you. you're among as rough a lot as ever sailed on the salt ocean, and that's saying a good deal. i want to give you a piece of advice; i mayn't have another chance of giving it. don't be in a great hurry to get well, for though the fellows, bad as they are, won't have the cruelty to ill-treat you while you're sick, as soon as you come round they'll be down upon you, and you'll find that they'll give you more kicks than ha'pence. however, you must not mind them. don't attempt to retaliate, for they're too many for you. above all things don't grow sulky as poor mark did, and has ever since well-nigh had his life knocked out of him. now i must go on deck as it's my watch, but remember what i have said." i again thanked tom, and just as he was going i asked him if he could get me any more food. "i'll try and get you something as soon as the cook turns out; but he's asleep in his bunk, and at this hour it would be a difficult job to find any. i'll tell mark, however, to ask him when he wakes, though i'd advise you to go off to sleep again." saying this, tom left the berth, and i once more closed my eyes. i was awakened by the men turning out. the light streamed in at the door, showing me that it was morning. in consequence of the advice i received from tom, i kept quiet and pretended to be asleep. soon afterwards i saw mark riddle standing by my side. "tom told me you're hungry, boy," he said; "so i managed to get something for you from the pantry. i hope it won't be discovered, or the third mate will be giving me a rope's-ending." he had brought me a captain's biscuit and a slice of ham, with a tin mug of water. "i'll bring you a cup of hot coffee," he said, handing me the food. hungry as i was i could not help exclaiming, "what, don't you know me, mark?" he looked at me very hard, still not remembering me. "no, i don't think i ever saw you before," he answered; "but how do you happen to know my name?" "i didn't think i was so changed," i said. "i'm dick cheveley." "dick cheveley!" he cried out, looking at me still harder; "dick cheveley on board this ship! and yet it must be; and are you really dick cheveley?" "i don't believe i'm anybody else, though i have sometimes fancied i must be." "yes, yes, i see you're master cheveley," cried mark, "though i can't say i feel much happier to see you for your own sake, though i'm right glad for mine to have you with me," taking my hand and grasping it. "oh, master cheveley, what did bring you aboard?" i briefly told him while i was discussing the food he brought me. "it's a bad business for you, master dick," he said; "but the only thing now to be done is to make the best of it. they're a precious bad lot, and the captain and officers are no better. i've made up my mind to run as soon as i can, and i'd advise you to do the same." "that i certainly will when i have somewhere to run to, but at present it seems we should have to run overboard," i answered. "we must wait until we get into harbour. we shall have to touch at a good many places, and if we keep our wits about us we shall manage it one way or another." "we'll talk about that by-and-by, but tell me how you happened to be here. i heard that you had been sent on board a man-of-war," i said. "so i was, and i wish i had remained aboard her, too; but as i had been sent against my will, i cut and run on the first chance i got. she was the `beagle' sloop of war. we were ordered to cruise on the irish coast. we were not far off the town of belfast, when a boat's crew to which i belonged pulled ashore under charge of a mid-shipmite. while he went into a house to deliver a message, i ran off as fast as my legs could carry me. i at last reached a cottage in which there was a whiteheaded old fellow, a girl, and two young men. i told them that i had been pressed and ill-treated, and was trying to make my escape from the cruelty of the english. the young men said at once that they would protect me, and would answer that i should not be retaken. the old man warned them that they were playing a dangerous game, and said that he would have nothing to do with the business, advising them to take me back to the boat. the girl, however, pleaded for me, and observed that now i had run, my punishment would be ten times greater, and that it would be cruel and inhospitable to refuse me shelter. she prevailed on her old grandfather. that evening the young men took me down aboard a little `hooker,' which they said was just going to sail for liverpool, and that if i liked i could go in her. her cargo, they said, was timber and fruit, but turned out to be faggots and potatoes. i knew that at liverpool there was no chance of being discovered, and i at once agreed. we reached the mersey in a couple of days. as ill-luck would have it, i landed close to where the `emu' was getting ready for sea. knowing that i could not venture to return home, i went on board and asked if a boy was wanted. the first mate at once said yes, as one of the apprentices had cut and run and could not be found. i thought i was in good luck, but we hadn't been to sea many days before i found that i had fallen out of the frying-pan into the fire. the other apprentice, poor jack drage, told me that he had been kicked and cuffed from the first moment that he had stepped on board, and that if he had had any friends on shore, he'd have taken french leave as the other had done. things had grown worse instead of better, and he was already weary of his life. i advised him not to give in; that in time things must mend; but he was a poor-hearted fellow and only wrung his hands and cried, declaring that he was utterly miserable. i did my best to keep up his spirits, but it was all of no use. one night during a gale we had soon after sailing, he disappeared. whether he had thrown himself overboard into the sea, or been knocked overboard no one could tell. of course it was entered in the log that he had been knocked overboard. in my opinion he sacrificed his life rather than endure his miseries. i told the first mate so, and he knocked me down. the next time he called me a sulky rascal, but i answered that i was not going to do away with myself like jack drage, and that i would make a complaint of him to the british consul whenever we touched at a port. on this he knocked me down again. i know that i was taken with the sulks, and for days afterwards didn't speak to him or any one else; but as i had no wish to be killed, i did what i was ordered to do, and got on somewhat better. ever since that not a day passes that i don't get a kick or have a marline-spike hove at my head by either the officers or men forward. they're all very much alike for that matter, except tom trivett, and he's as good a fellow as ever lived. he has a hard life of it, for the men are always playing him tricks; and the officers spite him, and are constantly making him do dirty jobs which no able seaman should be called on to perform. but, i say, i mustn't stand talking here any longer, or i shall be suspected of being your friend. don't let any one find out that we know each other, and we shall get on all the better. i'll tell tom trivett, and he'll bring you the coffee if i can't manage it; meanwhile you stay quiet in the bunk, even if you feel well enough to get up." "there is no chance of my being able to do that for some days," i answered, "for i don't think i could stand if i were to try." mark now left me, and i fell back nearly exhausted from having talked so long to him. after some time tom appeared with a basin of hot black coffee, with some biscuit floating in it. "can't i have a little milk?" i asked. "we've not any cows on board here," he answered with a laugh; "and there are no dairies in the atlantic, unless daddy neptune happens to keep sea-cows." "you must have thought me very silly to ask for milk," i said, as i ate up the sopped biscuit, and drank the hot coffee, which was well sweetened with sugar. "it shows you are something of a greenhorn, lad," he answered, laughing, "but no wonder your wits aren't of the brightest after having been shut up in the dark so long; you shall have something else by-and-by. remember what i told you; don't be getting well too soon, that's all." chapter fifteen. my convalescence--julius caesar befriends me--we pass the cape de verde islands--our hopes of a change of diet disappear--my turn at last--a severe discipline--captain longfleet--"please, sir, i couldn't help it"--"there goes the baby and his nurse"--caesar's sympathy--how i owed my life to tom trivett--bad food--"it makes me sick to cook it"--the deputation to the captain--the discontent increases among the crew--crossing the line--"what ship is that?"--we receive a visit from daddy neptune and his court--rough play, and what it might have come to. i intended to take the advice of my friend and not get well too soon, but in reality there was no malingering in the case, for i remained too low and weak to get out of my bed. tom trivett all the time, having given up his berth to me, slept in a far more uncomfortable bunk right forward, but never uttered a word of complaint, or tried to induce me to turn out. his was true samaritan charity, and i was grateful to him. he even, i knew, tried to influence the rest of the crew for good, but did not succeed. they let him alone, which was all he could expect of them. the third mate, who knew i was there, never came near me to inquire how i was getting on. mark paid me a visit whenever he could venture to do so, and brought me my food when tom was on duty. the only other man who was kind to me was julius caesar, the black cook, and he frequently sent me wholesome messes which he had concocted for my special benefit; but he had to charge mark and tom not to let the other men see them, lest they should be gobbled up on their way. mark told me this, for julius caesar himself never came to have a look at me. "if i come, den dey say i friend of his--it worse for him." both mark and caesar slept in the larboard berth, so that they had no business in the one i occupied. i should explain that the space under the topgallant forecastle was divided by a bulkhead running fore and aft into parts forming separate cabins, one called the starboard, and the other the larboard berths, with bunks built up on both sides, one above another, or rather, in two stories, to explain myself better. in moderate weather they were tolerably comfortable, but with the sun beating down on the deck they were fearfully hot. in a gale of wind, as the seas dashed against the bows or she pitched into them, the noise and movement were tremendous. however, to that i in time got accustomed. sometimes the decks and upper works leaked, and the water coming in wetted the clothes and bedding. however, in other respects they were better than the forepeak in a flush-decked ship, which is generally close and hot, full of horrible odours, and totally destitute of ventilation, and often wet into the bargain, from unseen leaks which are not of sufficient consequence to trouble the officers, as they do not affect the safety of the ship. at length, one day tom told me that we were within sight of the cape de verde islands, at which he believed the captain intended to call. he was very glad, he said, of this, as he hoped to be able to get me a supply of oranges and limes, which he thought would do me more good than anything else. the very name of fruit made my mouth water, and i thought i would give a great deal just to have one good suck at an orange. great was my disappointment, therefore, when shortly afterwards mark came in, and said that a strong north-easterly wind had sprung up, and that we were standing away from the islands, but that the captain, he believed, intended to put into rio de janeiro. "i must wait patiently till we get there," i said. "i hope it won't take us long." "we have to pass through the horse latitudes, and to cross the line first, and rio is some way to the south of that, so i'm afraid you must suck your fingers instead of oranges," he answered. i was now rapidly getting better, and i began to pine for fresh air and exercise. "you'll be wiser to stay where you are, master dick," said mark. "no one believes that you're a gentleman's son, and if they did i'm very sure it would make very little difference. i should, perhaps, benefit by your getting about, as you would have all the dirty work to do which now falls to my lot. it's only surprising that the captain has allowed you to remain so long in the berth, for he knows that you're aboard, though he takes no notice of you. still i'd advise you, as long as you can, to stay where you are." i had not long the opportunity. two days afterwards the third mate came into the berth with a short, knotted rope in his hand. "come, youngster, you have been long enough malingering here," he exclaimed; "i find the cook has been serving out no end of good grub to you, and you've done nothing for it. we don't want idlers aboard the `emu;' show a leg there pretty smartly." i attempted to rise. tom had washed and dried my clothes. i got hold of my trousers, and slipt my legs into them. when i attempted to stand upright, my knees gave way and down i sank. at the same moment the mate's colt descended on my back. i was taken so completely by surprise that i shrieked out with pain. i tried to lift myself up by the supports of the bunk, and succeeded in getting on my feet. "i thought i'd cure you. do you want another dose of this rope?" "oh! no, sir! no, sir! don't! i'll dress as fast as i can," i called out. the moment i let go i felt that i must slip down again. still the fear of another lash made me exert myself in a way i could not otherwise have done, and i tried very hard to put on my waistcoat and jacket, and to tie my handkerchief, by sitting down on a lower bunk. "now, come along!" said the mate; "the captain wants to speak to you." i attempted to walk, but as i tottered on my knees again failed me, and i should have fallen had not the mate caught me by the shoulders and dragged me along the deck. it was a severe discipline, but it was effective, for the air and the necessity of moving quickly brought back strength to my limbs, and by the time i reached the quarterdeck i was able to keep my feet, though i should have fallen had not the mate still held me. we there found the captain pacing to and fro. on turning he stopped when he saw me. "is this the young stowaway, mr huggins?" he asked, eyeing me very sternly. "what business had you to come aboard, boy, without leave?" "please, sir, i couldn't help it," i said, and i told him that when merely intending to look round the ship i had fallen into the hold. "a likely story, youngster, which i don't intend to believe. you came on board to please yourself, and now you'll learn to please me, and do the work you're set to do." "i'll do my best, sir," i answered, for i saw he was not a man to be trifled with; "but i am not fit for much at present." "you contrived to live down in the hold in an extraordinary manner--how did you manage it?" i told him in a few words. "another likely story," he remarked. "in other words, you stole the ship's provisions as long as you could get at them, or you had an accomplice who kept you fed--he'll be made to smart for it." on hearing this, i began to tremble for the consequences to mark. though the captain didn't mention his name, i guessed that he pointed at him. i was much inclined to say who i was, and to speak of mr butterfield, but shame prevented me, and the captain made no inquiries on the subject. "now go forward," he said; "look out sharp, get back your strength, and make yourself useful." he turned on his heel, not deigning to hold any further conversation with so insignificant a person as he considered me. the mate let me go. i tried to walk, but staggered like a drunken man, and could only just manage to reach the side, and catch hold of a belaying-pin. i remained there until the captain turned round, when, afraid of his looks, i once more set off to make my way along the deck, the mate taking no trouble to help me, while the crew jeered and laughed at me; till tom trivett, who had been at work on the other side, crossing over, took my arm and led me along to the forehatch, where he bade me sit down. "there goes the baby and his nurse," said one of the men. "tom will be getting him some pap presently," said another--at which they laughed in chorus. the third mate, seeing tom standing over me, ordered him back to his work. mark made an attempt to join me, but was sent to perform some task or other, and i was left alone and forlorn to endure the gibes of my hardhearted shipmates. caesar, however, came out of his caboose, and whispered as he passed-- "neber you mind, dick, as long dey only use der tongue." he grinned and pointed with his finger, so that the rest fancied that he was only mocking me as they were. notwithstanding this, the fresh air and the necessity of exerting myself did me good, and after i had taken some food that caesar brought me when the men went into their berth to dinner, i felt quite another creature. at nightfall i was allowed to slink into my bunk, of which tom still refused to deprive me. "i'm very well where i am. i'm accustomed to it, and you are not, dick," he said, when i begged him to let me change places. the next day i was still better, and after this i rapidly recovered my strength, notwithstanding the cuffs and kicks and rope's-endings i frequently received, and the hard work i had to perform. my clothes were soon again as dirty as they were when i came out of the hold, and torn and tattered besides. "never mind, dick," said tom; "i'll rig you out in a suit of mine, which i'll cut down to suit you when we get into colder latitudes. it doesn't much matter about having old clothes now the weather is so hot." mark regretted that he could not help me, as he had only the clothes he stood up in, which would have been almost as bad as my own had they not been of stronger material, and thus held out better. though the rest of the crew ill-treated mark and me, and tom also when they had the chance, the captain and officers tyrannised over them in the most brutal fashion. it was no unusual occurrence for the first mate to heave a handspike at one of the men when he did not go about his work in a way to please him, and both captain and mates swore at the men on all occasions in the most fearful way. at first i was horrified, but in time i got as much accustomed to it as they were, and was only thankful that the oaths were not accompanied by a rope's-ending. all this time the discipline was really very slack, and the men behaved to each other as they pleased, and never failed to neglect their duty whenever the mates' eyes were off them. still they resented, notwithstanding, the treatment they received, growling fiercely, if not loudly, when the quality of their provisions had begun to fall off. at first the food had been pretty good, but it now became worse and worse, and the men swore that they would stand it no longer. at last, when some rancid pork had been served out with musty peas and weevilly biscuits, the men went aft in a body, headed by the boatswain, sass jowler, and growles, who were deputed to be spokesmen, to the quarterdeck, where the captain was walking. "i axes you, captain longfleet, whether you think this ere stuff is fit food for british seamen?" said the boatswain, holding up a piece of the pork at the end of a two-pronged fork. "it makes um sick to cook it," said caesar, who was standing behind the rest. "and i wants to know, in the name of the crew, whether this 'ere biscuit as is all alive with maggots, is the stuff we poor fellows forward should be made to put into our mouths?" cried growles. "what's that you're talking about, you mutinous rascals?" cried the captain; "stop a bit, and i'll answer you." saying this, he sprang back into the cabin, and while the men stood staring at the door without advancing, he reappeared with a pistol in the one hand and a cutlass in the other. i observed that he had a second pistol in his belt. "you know i never miss my aim, you scoundrels. the first man that utters a word on the subject i'll shoot through the head. the food's good enough for better men than you, so be off forward, and let this be the last time i hear any complaint. if not, look out for squalls." the men stood irresolute, and no one liked to run the chance of having a pistol-bullet sent through his head. "are you going, you villains?" thundered the captain, pointing his pistol at the boatswain. he used a good many other stronger expletives, which need not be repeated. the boatswain was a bold fellow, but his courage gave way, and he stepped back. the others, overawed by the determined manner of the captain, imitated the example of their leader, knowing that the pistol might be turned towards any one who stood his ground, and together they retreated forward, tumbling over each other in their endeavour to put as wide a distance as possible between themselves and their now furious commander. for my part, i felt a greater amount of respect for him than i had ever done before. his eye did not for a moment quail, his arm appeared as firm as iron. had he shown the slightest hesitation, the men, in the temper they were in, would have been upon him, and he would have lost his authority. mark and i remained at one side of the deck, where we happened to be at the time. tom trivett had not come aft, having refused to take any part in the affair, whereby he gained still greater ill-will than before from his shipmates. the discontent which had thus shown itself, though kept down for a time, was by no means quelled. we had to eat the food, bad as it was, though perhaps not altogether as bad as the samples exhibited to the captain. the third mate came forward much oftener than before, and tried hard to win back the men into something like good-humour, but his efforts were unavailing. "you see, mr simmons, as how we poor fellows have got to work hard, and except we gets good grub we can't do it," i heard the boatswain remark in an insinuating tone; "it's very hard lines for us to have to eat rancid pork and weevilly bread, when we knows well enough that the captain and mates has good grub in the cabin. share and share alike, and we sha'n't complain. but we must abide by it till the ship gets into harbour, and then we suppose that the captain will be getting good stores aboard and will serve out fresh meat and vegetables." "oh! of course he'll do that," said mr simmons, pleased, as he thought, at having brought the men to reason. "you know captain longfleet is a just man, though he's a determined one, and won't stand nonsense. everything will go well, i hope, by-and-by." i should have observed that our boatswain held a very different position among the crew to that occupied by a warrant officer on board a man-of-war. he was merely one of the men, and was so called from certain duties he had to perform, and was a sort of link between the officers and the crew. we were now in the tropics. when there was a breeze the heat was supportable enough, but when it fell calm we could scarcely bear our clothes on, and went about in shirts and trousers, with bare feet, and were glad to have the opportunity of getting into the shade. the pitch boiled up out of the seams, and old growles declared that he could cook a beefsteak on the capstan-head, if he only had a beefsteak to cook. the heat did not improve the temper of the men, and the ship became to mark and me a regular hell afloat. matters were almost as bad with tom trivett, but he could hold his own better than we could. one day mark came to me. "i say, dick," he exclaimed--a common fate had made us equal, and he had long ago dropped the master--"i've been hearing that to-morrow we're to cross the line. i wonder what sort of place we shall get into on t'other side; as far as i can make out, it's a kind of bar, and those who go over it for the first time have to pay toll to old daddy neptune, who is coming aboard to collect his dues." i was surprised that mark had never heard of the line, and so i tried to explain to him what it was. as to neptune coming on board, i knew that that was all nonsense, and so i told him. during that evening and the next morning some of the men were busily engaged in their berth, into which they allowed no one but themselves to enter. soon after noon the captain, having taken his observations, gave notice that we were about to cross the line. mark and i had been sent aft, when we heard a voice hail as if from under the bows. "what ship is that?" "the `emu,'" answered the captain, who with the officers was standing on the poop. "where did you come from, and for what port are you bound?" asked the voice. "from liverpool, and we're bound to rio and round cape horn," answered the captain. "all right, captain longfleet; with your leave my wife and i will pay you a visit and bring some of our children and attendants, and if you have any youngsters who have not crossed the line before, we shall have a word to say to them." "you're welcome, father neptune, for i suppose no one else would be desirous of giving me a call out in these seas." it was amusing to observe mark's look of astonishment when immediately afterwards a party of grotesque figures appeared clambering over the bows. the first was an old fellow with a long white beard, a gold paper crown on his head, and a sceptre in his hand, and dressed in a flowing robe painted all over with curious devices. with him came a huge woman, also wearing a crown and garments of many colours, a necklace of huge beads and a couple of clasp-knives hanging down from either side of her face to serve as ear-rings; another figure followed them equally curiously dressed, with a basin under one arm, a pair of sailmaker's shears hanging round his neck, and a piece of rusty hoop shaped like a razor in his hand. a fourth person, tall and gaunt, was seen in a cocked-hat, a thick cane in one hand, and a box of pills of large proportions in the other. following them came a party of monsters in green dresses with long tails, and heads covered by oakum wigs. the captain, wishing to humour the men, shouted out-- "glad to see your majesty on board my ship. you're welcome to come aft and look out for any of those whose acquaintance you have not before made." on this the whole gang came tramping aft. mark and i saw that their eyes were fixed upon us. we had no place to fly to but up the mizen rigging. we made the attempt, but were quickly caught by some of the monsters, who managed to climb up in spite of their tails. the barber had in the meantime placed a huge tub on the deck, and a couple of small casks. on these we were compelled to sit down, when he immediately with a paint-brush began to daub our faces over with the contents of a bucket of grease. he then drew out his razor, and scraped us in the most cruel fashion, taking off the skin at every stroke. the doctor in the meanwhile, with mock solemnity, felt our pulses, and then observing that we were terribly sick, crammed one of the boluses out of his box into our mouths, and forced it down with his tarry finger. "a bath would do them good," he growled out. we were seized, and soused head over heels in a tub till we were well-nigh drowned. in vain we struggled and shrieked. every time we opened our mouths the barber shoved his brush into them, and the monsters then ducked our heads under water to wash them out, as they said. more dead than alive we were at last allowed to go, but had scarcely strength left to crawl away. tom trivett was next dragged aft, though he declared that he had often crossed the line. daddy neptune refused, however, to believe him, protesting that he had never seen his face in those parts before. though he fought bravely he was overpowered, and was even worse treated than we had been, the monsters, aided by the doctor and barber and mrs neptune, holding his arms and legs. the captain and officers all the time in no way interfered, but seemed to enjoy the cruel sport. they wished, indeed, to allow the sailors to take their full fling according to their barbarous fancies. mark and i, seeing how our friend was treated, attempted to go to his rescue, but we had better have remained quiet, both for his sake and our own, for we were cuffed and kicked even worse than before, and with difficulty again made our escape. a double allowance of grog was served out, which made the men even more savage than before; and when they were tired of ill-treating us they took to rough play among themselves. daddy neptune's crown was torn off, his sceptre broken in two, his wife was despoiled of her finery; the doctor's hat and spectacles shared the same fate; he was made to swallow his own pills, and the barber had his brush nearly shoved down his throat. they would have come to serious blows had not the captain ordered them to knock off and return to their duty. the mates, with boats' stretchers in their hands, had to rush in among them before they could be induced to desist. not until a breeze sprang up, and they were ordered aloft to make sail, were they brought into anything like order. for days afterwards mark and i limped about the deck, with aching heads and sore faces, and tom trivett could with difficulty get through his duty. this relaxation of discipline had no good effect on the men. they still grumbled and growled as much as ever at every meal over the food served out to them. chapter sixteen. land ho!--cape frio--the sugar-loaf mountain--the castle of santa cruz--the harbour of rio de janeiro--a taste of fruit--we receive some passengers--a gale springs up--man overboard--poor tom trivett-- captain longfleet's inhumanity--mark and i are treated worse--i overhear a conversation--a proposed mutiny--the plot--differences will arise--who's to be captain?--i determine to reveal the plot--i consult with mark--our determination--southern latitudes--the southern cross-- the falkland islands--mark escapes, but i am retaken--highland blood-- mark's probable fate--a battle with an albatross. "land ho!" was shouted from the masthead. in a short time we came off cape frio, a high, barren, almost insular, promontory, which runs into the atlantic to the eastward of rio de janeiro. we stood on, the land appearing to be of a great height behind the beach, till we came in sight of the sugar-loaf mountain; the light land wind preventing us from entering the harbour, we had to stand off and on during the night. "well, i've made up my mind to get a precious good tuck out," i heard old growles say to the boatswain; "i suppose the skipper will order a good store of provisions aboard after the talk we had with him the other day." "not so sure of that, old ship," said the boatswain; "but if he doesn't, he'd better look out for squalls, as he said to us." the other men were rejoicing in the expectation of a hearty meal and wholesome food, and so indeed were mark and i; for we were not better off than the rest, except that mark occasionally got some pickings at the captain's table, and now and then, when he could manage it, brought me some. next morning a sea-breeze setting in, we stood towards the harbour, and as the fog lifted, several small islands near its mouth came into sight, and the sugar-loaf mountain loomed up high on the left, while on the right we saw the battlements of the castle of santa cruz, which stands at the foot of the mountain. as we passed under the guns of the fortress, we were hailed by a stentorian voice, which came out from among the stone-built walls, but the speaker was not seen. "what ship is that? where do you come from? how many days out?" the captain answered the questions through his speaking-trumpet as we glided by. we at length came to an anchor about a mile from the city of rio de janeiro, in one of the most beautiful and picturesque harbours in the world. i can't stop to describe it, or the fine-looking city, or the curiously-shaped boats filled with black, brown, and white people, though the whites were decidedly in the minority; indeed some of them could be only so called by courtesy. to our disappointment no one was allowed to go on shore. the captain and second mate almost immediately took a country boat and pulled for the landing-place. "i suppose they intend to send us off some grub," said old growles, in a voice loud enough for them to hear; but they took no notice, and pulled on. we waited in anxious expectation for the arrival of the provisions, but no boats appeared. it looked very much as if the captain had forgotten our necessities. at last a small one came alongside with fruit and vegetables, which those who had money eagerly purchased. i had a few shillings remaining in my pocket, but mark had nothing, and i insisted on buying enough for him and myself. mark declined taking them from me, saying he could do very well without them; but i pressed him, and we discussed a couple of dozen oranges between us. how delicious they tasted! we both felt like different creatures. those of the crew who had money were put into much better humour, but the rest were more sulky than ever. in the evening the boats brought off some fresh water, but no provisions. when the captain came on board at night we learnt that he had refused to purchase any, on account of their high price. whether this was the case or not i don't know, but it made the men very angry. next day he went on shore again, returning in the afternoon with four gentlemen, whom we heard were going as passengers round to columbia river, in north america. we soon found, from hearing them speak, that they were scotch, and of this i had no doubt when i learned their names, which were mctavish, mcdonald, mckay, and fraser. their vessel had been wrecked off cape frio, and notwithstanding the character borne by captain longfleet, they were glad to have an opportunity of continuing their voyage in the "emu." just before daybreak a small boat came alongside with fruit and vegetables; but they were all for the cabin, and the crew were none the better for them. next morning we sailed at daybreak with a land wind, followed by three or four other vessels, some bound round cape horn, others to cross the atlantic. they were still in sight when it came on to blow very hard. in a short time a sea got up which made the ship tumble about in a way i had not experienced since i had been down in the hold. the captain stood on, wanting to keep ahead of the other vessels. the topmasts bent like willow wands, and every moment looked as if they would go over the sides. we carried on, however, until it was nearly dark, when he ordered the hands aloft to reef sails. i had not as yet been ordered to perform this duty, but mark was as active as any one. he and tom were on the lee fore-topsail yard-arm. two reefs had already been taken in when the sail had to be closely reefed. it was now quite dark. the operation was being performed, when there was a cry from forward of "a man overboard!" to round the ship to might have been hazardous; but the second mate, who was the best of the officers, at once shouted out for volunteers to lower the boat. "hold hard," says the captain; "i'll not have the hands thrown away for a careless, useless lubber who can't hold fast." i had run aft when i heard some one say that the man who had gone was tom trivett. without waiting for orders i hove overboard an oar and a hen-coop, with half-a-dozen cackling hens in it, which not having been properly secured, had fetched away. in my excitement i was proceeding to throw some spars and other articles into the sea, when the captain, catching sight of me, ordered me to desist. "let the fellow drown," he exclaimed; "it's his own fault, and it'll be a lesson to the rest of you." though the men had no love for tom trivett, bad as they were these remarks greatly enraged them. "he cares no more for our lives than he does for that of a dog. it would have been just the same if any of us had gone," exclaimed several of them. the passengers were very indignant at the captain's barbarity. two of them had been ready to go in the boat, and they all declared that the seaman might have been saved if proper efforts had immediately been made. i heard the captain in a peremptory tone tell them to hold their tongues, as they knew nothing about the matter. he was captain of the ship, and would act as he thought fit, and not endanger her safety for the sake of a single man who was not worth his salt. i deeply grieved for tom since i discovered that he had been my firm friend, and i truly believed that i owed my life to him. had it been daylight we might have watched to see whether he had got hold of any of the things thrown overboard, but almost immediately after he fell he was lost to view. the gale lasted only a short time. we made sail again as soon as we could, and quickly lost sight of the other vessels. now that tom trivett had gone, my position became harder than ever, as i had no friend to stand up for me. i had often been protected by him when the others were inclined to bully me, and thus escaped many a cuff and kick. julius caesar was the only person who befriended me, and he didn't dare to do so openly. he often, indeed, appeared to be bullying me worse than the rest. i had been ordered to assist in cleaning his pots and pans, and sweeping out the caboose. whenever the rigging had to be blacked down i was sent to do it, and was called to perform all the dirty jobs. the men, knowing i was a gentleman's son, took pleasure in seeing me thus employed. mark would willingly have helped me, but he was always sent aft to some other work when seen near me. i would gladly have changed places with him, but he told me that he was as badly off as i was forward, for he got as much kicked about by the captain and officers as i was by the men. i had no one to talk to, for i could seldom get the opportunity of saying much to him. i felt that i had not a friend aboard. the men, when they had exhausted a few fresh provisions which they themselves had purchased, again began to grumble at the bad quality of their food. they took care, however, to say nothing when the third mate was forward, but they went about their duty in a manner which it seemed surprising he did not observe. one evening, being my watch below, still feeling the effect of the rough handling i had endured, i had crept into my berth to be out of the way of my persecutors. mark, as usual, was attending to his duties in the cabin. i had fallen asleep, when i was awakened by hearing some men speaking close to me, though it was too dark to see who they were, and even if they had looked into my berth they would not have discovered me; but i recognised the voices of old growles and the boatswain, and two other men, who were the worst of the crew and the leading spirits for bad on board. i was not much alarmed, though i scarcely dared to breathe for fear of attracting their notice. i cannot repeat all they said, for they frequently made allusions which they knew that each other understood; but i heard enough to convince me that they were hatching a plot to overpower the officers and passengers, and to take the vessel into buenos aires, or some other place on the banks of the river plate. one of the men proposed killing them and throwing them overboard. old growles suggested that they should be put into a boat and allowed to shift for themselves, just as their officers were treated by the mutineers of the "bounty." the boatswain said that he thought the best way of treating them would be to put them on shore on some desert island far-away to the southward, seldom visited by ships, so that they could not make their escape. "but they'll die of hunger, if you do that," remarked another man. "they'll die, at all events, so it matters little," answered the boatswain. "our business is to get rid of them, and either to go cruising on our own account, or to sell the ship at a spanish port to the westward, and enjoy ourselves on what we get for her." "dead men tell no tales," muttered the first speaker. "heave them overboard at once, and we shall be done with them." "i'm not for that sort of thing," said old growles. "i shouldn't like to see their white faces as they dropped astern; they'd be haunting us, depend on that." the boatswain and the others laughed. "who's to take the ship round cape horn, if we do away with the officers?" asked one of the men. "i know enough navigation for that," said the boatswain, "it won't be a long job." "then i suppose you intend to turn captain. is that it?" said another man. "we don't want no captain aboard." "if the ship was caught in a squall, you'd soon be calling out for some one to command you. call me what you will, there's no man, except myself, knows how to navigate the ship when the officers are gone." "i sees what you are after, boatswain," said old growles. "we should be just getting rid of one captain, and having another like him in his place. we must all be free and equal aboard, or it'll never do. i propose that one is captain one day, and one another; and that you, if you can, or any one else, shall navigate the ship. otherwise one man's as good as another, to my mind, and knows as well as you how to make or shorten sail." "well, i don't see how that can tell one way or the other," said the boatswain, who evidently didn't like the turn the conversation was taking. to me it seemed that the villains were ready for any mischief, but had not wit enough to carry it out. i lay as quiet as a mouse, scarcely venturing to breathe, for i knew that they would not scruple to put an end to me should they discover me, and fancy that i was awake and had overheard them. i determined, should i be found out, to pretend to be fast asleep. they talked on for some time longer, till all hands were summoned on deck to shorten sail. i was considering, as well as i could, what i had better do. the captain and officers had ill-treated me, but that was no reason i should allow them to be murdered, if i could in any way warn them of the danger, while the guiltless passengers must be saved at all costs. i thought that if i told captain longfleet, he would treat my statement as a cock-and-bull story, and declare i had been dreaming. probably i should be sent off with a kick and a cuff, and the crew would hear that i had informed against them. i thought, however, that i would tell the second mate, who was better disposed, and far more sensible than the rest of the officers. then it occurred to me that i had better consult mark first, and hear what he thought. perhaps he would consider it wiser to speak to one of the passengers, three of whom were determined-looking men. the fourth, mr alexander fraser, was much younger, and i liked his appearance. he had given me a kind nod sometimes when i went aft. their presence prevented the captain and officers from ill-treating mark and me as much as usual. we were therefore inclined to regard them with a friendly spirit. i finally came to the conclusion to tell mr fraser what i had heard, if i could get the opportunity of speaking to him out of hearing of the rest of the crew, though that might be difficult. i knew that, after all, i must be guided by circumstances. the would-be mutineers talked on, and might have talked on for a whole watch, had not all hands been summoned on deck to shorten sail. i waited till they had gone up the rigging, and then crept out. the ship had been struck by a squall. sheets were flying, blocks rattling, officers shouting, and a number of the men on deck pulling and hauling, made a hubbub so that i escaped aft unperceived, and was able to join mark at one of the ropes it was his duty to attend to. as there was no one near, i was able to tell him by snatches what i had heard. "i'm not surprised," he answered. "the villains would murder their own mothers or grandmothers if they could gain anything by it; but i only doubt whether they will venture to attack the captain." "still, we must let one of the officers know, or else their blood will be upon our heads. i propose warning mr fraser, or one of the other gentlemen," i observed. "that will do," said mark. "either you or i may find a chance to speak to one of them; but there's no time to be lost, for we can't say at what moment these ruffians may take it into their heads to carry out their villainous designs. we must be careful, however, that they don't suspect us of giving the information, or they might heave us overboard some dark night without ceremony." some time was occupied in taking in the canvas, but in the course of an hour the squall passed off, and we had again to make sail. while this was being done, mark and i had time to discuss the matter. that night, while it was my watch, i managed to get aft, where i found a person walking the deck, occasionally stopping and gazing at the bright stars overhead, the southern cross and others so different from those of the northern hemisphere. i waited till he had gone right aft out of earshot of the man at the wheel. i knew by his figure that it was mr fraser, so i went boldly up to him. "i have got something to say to you," i whispered. "it's of great consequence. i mustn't speak loud." i then briefly told him that i had heard the men propose to get rid of the officers and passengers in some way or other. "i've already heard something of this from your young messmate, but i'm very incredulous about it," he answered. "pray don't be that, sir," i said. "your life, and the lives of many others besides, depends on your believing the truth of what i say and taking measures to protect yourselves;" and i then told him more circumstantially what i had heard. he now seemed to listen attentively, and evidently considered that there was something in what i had said. "i'm very much obliged to you for the information you have given, and i'll consult my friends on the subject," he answered. "the captain seems to be a man who will know well how to deal with the villains, if what you say is true. we'll tell him what has come to our ears." "indeed what i say is true," i exclaimed with energy. "they may be upon you at any moment, while you are unprepared." "well, laddie, i'll lose no time," said mr fraser; and, afraid that if we remained much longer we might be observed by some of the men, i crept forward under the shadow of the bulwarks. i waited anxiously during the remainder of the watch to see what would occur; but as the men turned in, i was thankful to find that they had no intention of carrying out their project that night, and it was not likely that they would do anything in the daytime, when their movements would be observed by the officers. my only fear was that they might have seen mark and me talking to mr fraser, and might have their suspicions aroused. if so, mark and i would run, i knew, great risk of being knocked on the head as soon as darkness again came on. i therefore kept a sharp look out whilst i was on deck during the night, though i had an uncomfortable feeling that i might possibly be smothered in my sleep, or that mark might be treated in the same way. daylight, however, returned without anything having occurred. on meeting mark, i expressed my fears to him. "do you know, dick, i was thinking of the same thing, and i have made up my mind to cut and run on the first opportunity, and i advise you to do the same thing. indeed, i should not be happy if i left you behind; in truth, i would not run unless you promise to desert also." "that i will, with all my heart, though i don't think that mr fraser and the other gentlemen are likely to allow themselves to be taken by surprise, or to neglect putting the officers on their guard." "they can't protect us; and the men, if they find themselves even suspected, will certainly think that we informed on them." whenever we had the opportunity, mark and i discussed our plans for escaping. as far as we could judge, the officers and passengers were at their ease, and didn't act as if they thought any mutiny would occur. as the weather was now getting cold, the passengers had an excuse for coming on deck in their cloaks; and one day, when mr fraser's blew aside, i observed that he had a brace of pistols in his belt. they also brought their rifles on deck, and amused themselves by firing at passing birds, sometimes at porpoises, sharks, and other monsters of the deep who showed their backs above water. i guessed at last, by the looks of the men, that they saw that the passengers were on their guard. even the third mate didn't come forward as he had been accustomed to do; and at night, what was very unusual, there were two officers on deck at a time. we had now contrary winds and thick weather, which greatly delayed us for several days. no observations were taken. one morning land was discovered on the weather bow, which, the captain said, was the coast of south america, and he carefully kept along shore in order to pass between the falkland islands and the main land; but at noon, when a meridian observation had been obtained, he found that what he had at first supposed to be the main land was in reality the falkland islands. we had for many days been sailing entirely by dead reckoning, while the current had set us out of our course. as we had not taken a full supply of water on board at rio, and, owing to the bursting of the butt, which had frightened me so much, we had less on board than usual, the captain steered for one of the islands, where he knew that it could be obtained. we came to an anchor about half a mile from the shore just at sunset. as it would take the crew the whole day to get water, which had to be rolled down in small casks to the beach and brought on board, the passengers expressed their intention of making a shooting excursion on shore to kill some wild cattle--of which there are numbers in the island--or any other animals or birds they might fall in with. as the captain had no objection to having a supply of beef without cost to himself, he agreed to let them have a boat the next morning to take them on shore. they asked for one or two of the men to carry the meat. the captain said that they could not be spared, but finally told them that they could take mark and me, as we were of little use on board. "now," whispered mark, "is our opportunity. if there are cattle, we shall have some meat to live on; and i propose that we hide ourselves away, so that when the gentlemen return on board we shall be missing." the captain, we were sure, would not take the trouble to look for us. i agreed, provided that from the appearance of the island we should have the chance of obtaining food and shelter; if not, we might die of starvation, and it would be better to endure our miseries, and the danger we ran of our lives, for a short time longer than to do that. "well, as to that we must see about it," answered mark. soon after, our watch being over, we turned into our respective bunks. i didn't feel altogether comfortable, not knowing what the men might do to us. for some time i lay awake, for i wanted to be on the watch, lest any trick should be attempted, but at length dropped off to sleep. as we were in harbour, only an anchor watch was kept, and i was allowed to have my night's rest out, from which i rose fresh and ready for anything some time before daybreak. mark, who had gone aft to call the gentlemen, returned with an order for me to get ready to go in the boat. sufficient provisions for the party were put into the boat; and the gentlemen, taking their rifles and pistols with them, and with their swords at their sides, we shoved off, the boat being partly laden with empty water-casks. as there was not room for mark and me forward, we sat aft with the gentlemen, when mr fraser talked in a friendly way to mark and me. i saw the men eyeing us savagely at this; and i thought to myself at the moment, "those villains suspect that we have had something to do in putting the gentlemen on their guard." i answered mr fraser, however, and he went on talking to me. we landed not far from where the casks were to be filled with water. the gentlemen then, taking their guns, divided the provisions between themselves and us, and we set off towards the interior of the island, where we hoped to meet with the wild cattle. there was nothing attractive in its appearance. here and there were low scrubby woods, and the country generally was covered with thick patches of tussack grass, which, at a distance, gave it the appearance of being green and fertile. between the patches, the soil was dry and sandy, so that it cost us much fatigue to make our way over it. we had seen plenty of wild cattle, but the gentlemen had not yet succeeded in killing any. they winded us on all occasions on our approach, and scampered off beyond the limit of rifle range. at last the gentlemen agreed to separate by going in small parties, and thus hoped to get nearer to the creatures. mr fraser invited mark to go with him, and mr mctavish took me; the other two gentlemen went together. before starting they deposited their provisions inside of a hollow in a high bank, which, from its position, was easily to be found, and they agreed to return to dinner. if any one of the party killed an animal, he was to summon the rest to carry the meat. the object of the gentlemen was to kill as many animals as they could; for, as the weather was cool, it was hoped that the meat would last until we were well round cape horn. the island was of good size, but still there did not appear to be much risk of our losing our way. mr fraser, who was the most active of the party, said that he should go to the further end of the island and work his way back; that he was determined to kill some birds, if he couldn't knock over a cow. "remember," whispered mark to me, "that i shall slip away; and you do the same, and come and join me." to this i agreed. mr mctavish and i went away to the right. we had been looking out for cattle for some time when we heard two shots, and from the top of a hill we saw the two other gentlemen, standing by a couple of cattle they had shot. "come, dick," said mr mctavish; "though we cannot boast of killing a beast ourselves, we must go and help them." i thought that this would be a good opportunity to escape, and while he went down one side of the hill i proposed running down the other. i was just going when he caught sight of me. "hillo, youngster, where are you going to?" he cried out; and he came after me evidently with no intention of letting me escape. on getting up with me, he inquired, "what made you try to run off? come, tell me as we go along." he spoke very kindly. at last i confessed that i had determined to run away from the ship in consequence of the ill-treatment i had received. "you would have been starved to death in the midst of plenty," he said in a kind tone. "had the island been fertile, and you could have supported yourself, i, for one, would never have hindered you, for i have observed the way the officers and men behave to you. but for the future i think we can prevent that. i have a notion that we owe our lives to you and your messmate, and we're grateful to you for it; so come along, and don't again attempt to run away." he spoke so kindly that at last i promised to follow his advice, hoping that mr fraser would also have prevented mark from hiding himself, and would induce him to come back likewise. the gentlemen fired several shots to attract mr fraser's attention, but none were heard in return. they, in the meantime, cut up the animals and loaded themselves with as much as they could stagger under. the rest they covered up closely with the hides so as to keep the flies off, proposing to send some of the men for it. with our loads we returned to the place where we had left our dinner. as we were all very hungry we didn't wait for mr fraser, but set to at once, expecting that he and mark would appear before we had finished. we waited, however, for some time, the gentlemen lighting their pipes to enjoy a smoke. "i'm afraid that young companion of yours has bolted, and that fraser is delayed by looking for him," observed mr mctavish. "we can't delay much longer if we're to save the flesh," said mr mcdonald. "fraser knows what he's about; he will easily make his way down to the beach by the landing-place in the morning, and we must send a boat on shore for him." as the day was advancing the others agreed to this proposal; and, leaving the remainder of our provisions for mr fraser and mark, we set off. it was almost dark as we approached the harbour, and i began to fear that the crew would have taken the opportunity of attacking the officers--perhaps would have got the ship under weigh, and left us to our fate. i didn't, however, mention my fears to any one. i was greatly relieved when i made out through the gloom the ship at anchor, and soon after, the boat close to the beach. old growles answered mr mcdonald's hail. i observed that my companions had examined their pistols and reloaded their rifles, so that they would be on their guard should any treachery be attempted. on arriving on board, the captain received the gentlemen in a somewhat surly way, and inquired why mr fraser had not returned. mr mcdonald replied, that we had waited for him, and that he had not appeared; but they expected that he would turn up on the beach on the following morning; if not, they proposed going in search of him. "there won't be time for that," said captain longfleet. "we have got all the water we require on board to-night. if passengers choose to go on shore and not return at the time they are told to do, they must take the consequences." mr mcdonald's highland blood was up in a moment. "you have made a great mistake if you suppose that we will allow our friend to be deserted. we intend to go on shore to-morrow, and must beg to take two or three of your men with us, to ascertain what has become of fraser and his young companion," he exclaimed. "we shall see who commands this ship," cried the captain, turning on his heel and entering the cabin, outside of which this scene took place. this was nuts to the crew, who must have perceived that if there was division aft they had a good chance of succeeding in their project. next morning, at daybreak, the hands were turned up to get the ship under weigh. directly after, mr mcdonald and the other gentlemen came on deck. "we protest against this proceeding, captain longfleet," he exclaimed. "i told you that if mr fraser chooses to absent himself at the time i was prepared to sail, he must take the consequences. it may delay us a whole day if we send to search for him," answered the captain. "if it delays us a week we must look for him till he's found," exclaimed mr mcdonald, drawing a pistol. "get the ship under weigh at your peril." bold as captain longfleet was, he quailed under the eye of the determined fur trader. "hurrah! there's our friend," cried mr mctavish. "we must send a boat for him, and that will settle this dispute, i hope." "a boat shall not leave the ship," cried captain longfleet. "i can't spare the men." "i say again, get the ship under weigh at your peril," said mr mcdonald, stepping a pace towards the captain. none of the officers or crew attempted to interfere. those of the latter who were near only stood observing the scene and grinning their satisfaction. "are you going to send a boat?" again asked mr mcdonald. just then another shot was fired. "i'll do as you wish," replied the captain; "but i tell you it's more than your friend deserves." "i will go in her," said mr mcdonald. "no, you can't do that. i will send my own men; for what i know, you may delay the boat," answered the captain. "it matters not, provided fraser and the lad return," said mr mctavish, who was inclined to conciliatory measures. the captain now directed three of the hands to go in the smallest boat which was large enough for the purpose, while the rest were ordered to loose sails and heave up the anchor. while these precautions were going forward i observed the gentlemen watching the boat through their telescopes. she reached the shore, and after a short delay was seen returning. i looked out anxiously for mark, hoping that after the account i had received of the island that mr fraser would have brought him back. great was my grief and disappointment when i did not see him in the boat. still i hoped that the passengers would induce the captain to send a party on shore to look for him. i intended to ask mr mctavish to obtain leave for me to go, for i knew that if mark heard my voice shouting for him he would come out of his hiding-place. no sooner had mr fraser stepped on board than the boat was hoisted up. on this i ran off to ask mr mctavish to insist on the ship being delayed to allow of a search for mark. "we'll do what we can, my laddie," he answered; "though the captain doesn't appear to be in the humour to grant any requests." as mr fraser greeted his friends, i heard him say that he had missed mark, and supposed, after searching for him for some time, that he had joined one of our parties; and that at length he had made his way to the beach, having satisfied his hunger with some of the provisions we had left behind. it was night when he had come near the harbour; and as he knew the boat would have returned, he formed himself a nest under a bank with some tussack grass and slept soundly till daylight. when he found that mark had not returned, he was as eager as mr mcdonald to go in search of him, but all they could say would not move captain longfleet. "he is one of my crew, and you have no business to interfere with him," he answered. mr mcdonald replied, that he could not but say that this was the case, but that the lad had accompanied them, and they felt themselves answerable for his safe return. the captain, however, would not listen, but continued shouting out his orders to the men, who obeyed them with more alacrity than usual. i could not help thinking that they rejoiced at having thus easily got rid of mark. for my own part i regretted not having run away also, and shared his fate, whatever that might have been. had the distance not been so great, i should, even now, have jumped overboard and tried to join him. but the attempt would have been equivalent to suicide, and i dared not make it. away stood the ship out of the harbour, leaving my old friend all alone on the desert island. i pictured to myself his horror and disappointment at not seeing me; the miseries and hardships he might endure for want of food and companionship, and his too probable early death. i went about my duty in a disconsolate mood. i had now no friend to talk to. not one of the men appeared to pity me. even julius caesar uttered no word of comfort. we soon lost sight of the falkland islands and shaped a course to round cape horn. the ship was now surrounded by albatrosses, penguins, and pintado birds. several were shot, and others taken with a hook and bait. an enormous albatross was thus hauled in, and being brought on deck fought bravely for some time before it could be killed. chapter seventeen. south sea whaler--i write a letter home, and how far it got on its way there--the earl of lollipop--mr mctavish saves me from a flogging--my prospects somewhat improve--another storm--we lose another man--a struggle for life--tierra del fuego--cape horn--in the pacific--the coast of patagonia, and how we nearly got wrecked--juan fernandez-- robinson crusoe's island--i again determine to run away, but am prevented by an offer i receive--"shark! shark!"--a narrow escape-- valparaiso--callao--paita--the sandwich islands--the king and his court--royal guests--some queer dishes--pooah--am again prevented from deserting--columbia river at last--a glimpse of freedom--a farewell dinner--an untoward incident--once more a prisoner--my captors' fears my only safety--my friends give up the search--at sea again--my release--"dis curious ship." we had left the island for some days, when we fell in with a homeward-bound south sea whaler. as the ocean was calm, and the wind light, her captain came on board and politely offered to convey any message or letters home. "now," i thought, "will be an excellent opportunity of returning home. i'm sick of this life, and shall be glad to go back to mr butterfield's office and the high stool, and listen to aunt deb's lectures." how to accomplish my purpose was the difficulty. i went up to the captain of the whaler. "i'm a gentleman's son," i said; "i came off to sea unintentionally, and i want to go home again." he gave a loud "whew!" as i said this. "i can't take you, my lad, without your captain's leave," he answered. "if he gives it, i shall be happy to do so." captain longfleet just then came out of the cabin. "i don't know how he came on board, but here he is and here he'll remain," he said, as the captain of the whaler spoke to him. "go forward," he said to me, "and think yourself fortunate to escape a flogging for your impudence." however, i persevered, and turning to mr mctavish, asked him kindly to say a word for me. captain longfleet in reply told him that he had no business to interfere. "i've lost one boy through you gentlemen, and i'm not going to lose another," he answered. in vain mr mcdonald and the other gentlemen spoke to him; he replied in his usual rough way. "i'm sorry, my lad, that i can't take you out of the ship without your captain's permission," said the whaling captain; "but if you'll get a letter scribbled off, i'll undertake to post it." i had neither paper, pens, nor ink, but mr mctavish, hearing what was said, instantly brought me some, and i ran off into the berth to write it, hoping that i should be there undisturbed. i had great difficulty in penning the letter; and while i was kneeling down at the chest, old growles came in and mocked at me, and another fellow asked me whether i was sending a love-letter to my dearie, and a third gave me a knock on the elbow, which spattered the ink over the paper and nearly upset the ink-bottle. still i wrote on. "ship `emu,' somewhere off cape horn. "my dear father,--i didn't intend to run away, but tumbled down into the hold and was carried off. when i came to myself i found that i was at sea, and could not get out of my prison. i lived there for i don't know how many days, till, when almost dead, i was released. i have been treated worse than a dog ever since by the captain, officers, and men. he's a terrible tyrant and brute, and if it had not been for mark riddle--whom, wonderful to say, i found on board the ship--he and his mates would have been knocked on the head and hove overboard. "i would much rather be seated on the high stool in mr butterfield's office than where i am. i wanted to return home, but the captain wouldn't let me. i intend, however, to run on the first opportunity, and to get back if i can. i tried to get away in the falkland islands, but was prevented. mark succeeded, and was left behind. whether he'll manage to live there i don't know, but i hope he will, and get back to sandgate one of these days, i have no time to write more; so with love to mother, and my brothers and sisters, and even to aunt deb-- "i remain your affectionate son-- "richard cheveley." "ps--please tell old riddle all about his son." i hurriedly folded this letter, and addressed it to the reverend john cheveley, sandgate, england; and having no wax, i sealed it with a piece of pitch which i hooked out of a seam in the deck. i rushed out, intending to give it into the hands of the captain of the whaler; but what was my dismay to see his boat pulling away from the ship. i shouted and waved my letter, thinking that he would return; but at that moment the third mate snatched the letter out of my hand, and waved to the men in the boat to pull on. i turned round, endeavouring to recover the letter, but instead got a box on the ear. i made another snatch at it. "what's this about, you young rascal?" shouted the captain; "give me the letter, simmons. you'll try next to take it out of my hands, i suppose." in spite of all my efforts to regain it, the mate handed the letter to the captain, who, looking at the superscription, at once tore it open. he glanced at the commencement and end. "so you pretend to be a gentleman's son, you young scapegrace," he exclaimed. "you'll not get me to believe such a tale. why, bless my heart, the last voyage i had a fellow who was always writing to the earl of lollipop, and signing himself his son. the men called him my lord. he was made to black down the rigging, notwithstanding, and polish up the pots and pans. he was found at last to be a chimney-sweeper's son." i was convinced that the captain said this to be heard by the passengers, and to try and throw discredit on me, as they were already inclined to treat me kindly, through seeing that i was at all events a boy of education; and from the service i had already rendered them in giving them warning of the crew's design. i was in hopes that the captain would let me have my letter back, but to my dismay he again looked at it and read it. i saw a thunder-cloud gathering on his brow; his lips quivered with rage; i cannot repeat the terms he applied to me. "and so, you young anatomy, you dare to call me a tyrant and a brute," he shouted out in a hoarse voice; "to write all sorts of lies of me to your friends at home. you see that yard-arm. many a fellow has been run up for a less offence. look out for yourself. if the crew don't finish you off before the voyage is over, i'll make you wish you had never set foot on the deck of the `emu.'" "i wish i never had," i exclaimed. "what! you dare speak to me," roared the captain. "here, mr simmons, take this mutinous young rascal and give him three dozen. we'll keel-haul him next, if that doesn't bring him into order." here the passengers interfered. mr mctavish declared that he would not stand by and let me be unjustly punished. "if it were not for young cheveley, where should we be by this time, captain longfleet?" he asked. "you know as well as we do what was intended. if your mate attempts to touch him, he must take the consequences." the captain was silent for some minutes. perhaps some sense of what was right overcame his ill-feeling. "let him go, simmons," he said, turning to the mate. "it's lucky for you, boy, that this letter was not sent," he said, looking at me. he tore it up and threw the fragments overboard. "remember that the next time you write home, i intend to have a look at your letter. you may let your friends know where you are, but you can't accuse me of carrying you away from home." as the captain turned from me, i thought that the best thing i could do was to go forward. i saw two of the men, who had been within earshot while the captain was speaking, eyeing me with no friendly glances. i looked as innocent as i could; but weary though i was, when it was my watch below i was almost afraid lest i should never awake again in this world. when i was forward the men treated me as badly as ever, but i found the conduct of the captain and officers towards me greatly improved, owing to the influence of the passengers. i had frequently to go into the cabin to assist the steward, who, though he often gave me a slight cuff, never did so in the presence of my friends. knowing that i had those on board interested in me, i bore my sufferings and annoyances with more equanimity than before. i one day, unknown to captain longfleet, had the opportunity of giving my father's address to mr mctavish. he promised to write home from the first place at which we touched. it would be useless for me to attempt writing, as my letter would, i knew, be seen and taken from me. this was some comfort. i can but briefly relate the incidents of the voyage. while still to the southward of cape horn, the appearances of another heavy storm came on. the lighter canvas was instantly handed. almost in an instant a heavy sea got up, into which the ship violently pitched as she forced her way ahead. the flying jib having been carelessly secured, the gaskets, or small ropes which bound it to the jibboom, gave way. two hands were immediately sent out to make it fast. while they were thus employed, a tremendous sea struck the bows. one of the men, old growles, scrambled on to the bowsprit, to which he held on like grim death, but before the other man could follow his example, the jibboom was carried away and he with it. i saw the poor fellow struggling amid the foaming seas. the captain did not on this occasion refuse to try to save him. the ship was hove-to, and pieces of timber, an empty cask, and a hen-coop, were hove overboard to give him the chance of escaping. he failed to reach any of them. mr mctavish and two of the men and i were on the point of jumping into the jolly-boat to go to his rescue, but the captain shouted out in no gentle terms, ordering us to desist, and asked us if we wished to lose our lives also. this, if we had made the attempt, we should certainly have done. the boat could not have lived many moments in such a sea. for fully ten minutes the poor fellow was observed buffeting with the waves, but he at length disappeared. the ship was kept away, and we stood on our course. we soon afterwards perceived the snow-capped mountains of tierra del fuego rearing their majestic heads, and looking down on the raging waters below them. the weather soon after moderated, and as we sighted cape horn the captain ordered the topgallant and royal masts to be got up, and the lighter sails to be set. with a gentle breeze from the eastward we rounded the dreaded cape, and found ourselves in the pacific. i heard some of the men say that they had never passed cape horn in such fine weather. whales, and porpoises in countless numbers, were playing round us, and if we had had harpoons and gear on board we might have captured many of the former and filled up our ship with oil. we were not destined, however, to enjoy the fine weather long. another gale came on and nearly drove us on the western coast of patagonia, carrying away our bulwarks, and doing much other damage. when within about five or six miles of the coast the wind shifted, and we once more stood off the land. we sighted the far-famed island of juan fernandez, the scene of robinson crusoe's adventures, or rather those of the real alexander selkirk. the ship was hove-to when we were about two miles off shore, and the pinnace and jolly-boat were sent to obtain wood and water. the passengers taking the opportunity of going also, i slipped into the boat with mr mctavish, without being perceived by the captain. the second mate, who had charge of the boat, did not inquire whether i had leave. i was not aware till the moment before that the boat was going. there was no time for consideration; but the hope seized me that i might manage to make my escape and remain on the island. if robinson crusoe lived there, so might i. a solitary life would be infinitely better, i thought, than the existence i was doomed to live on board. i said nothing to mr mctavish, for fear he should try to prevent me. we found when approaching the shore that a heavy sea was breaking over it, and that it would be impossible to land. we soon, however, discovered that we had entered the wrong bay, and pulling out again, we got into another, where the landing was less difficult, though not free from danger. while some of the party remained on the beach to fill the water-casks and to draw a seine which had been brought to catch fish, i accompanied mr mctavish and the other gentlemen into the interior. the island appeared to be one vast rock split into various portions. we pushed on up a deep valley. at the bottom ran a stream of fine water, from which the water-casks were filled. the valley, scarcely a hundred yards wide at the entrance, gradually widened. we climbed up the wild rocks, ascending higher and higher, startling a number of goats, which scrambled off leaping from crag to crag; some of them fine-built old fellows with long beards, who looked as if they must have been well acquainted with robinson crusoe himself. we frequently had to turn aside to avoid cascades, which came rushing down the mountain's side. sometimes we were involved in the thickest gloom, and then again we emerged into bright sunlight as we gained a higher elevation. the appearance of the country was picturesque in the extreme, though it didn't tempt me to make it my residence for the remainder of my life; and then again, i considered that there must be other parts of a more gentle character where robinson crusoe must have resided. i had been often looking about, considering how i might accomplish my object, when mr mctavish said, "i know what you are thinking about, cheveley, but for your own sake i do not intend you to succeed; and even if it were otherwise, i am bound to see you safe on board the boat. so come along. you mustn't play me any trick." "well, i did think that i should like to stop here and live as robinson crusoe did. perhaps i might give an account of my adventures when i got home," i answered. "the chances are that you would be starved, or break your neck, or die of some disease, and never get home; so i intend to keep an eye on you, my laddie," said my friend, in a good-natured tone. "besides this, my friends and i propose to induce captain longfleet to set you at liberty when we reach the columbia river, and you can either wait at the fort till you can hear from your father, making yourself useful there as a clerk, or you can turn fur-hunter, and lead a life which i believe would be to your taste." "i'm very much obliged to you, sir," i said, "and accept your offer, and will not attempt to run away." after a tiring excursion we got back to the boats just as they were about to shove off. we after this touched at massafuero, an island mountain rising abruptly from the sea, surrounded by a narrow slip of beach. here we obtained a vast quantity of fish and a few goats. the abundance of food contributed much to tranquillise the minds of the crew, and also, i suspect, to prevent them from carrying their plans into execution. one day when we were becalmed, several of the crew who could swim jumped overboard to take a bathe, and as i was a good swimmer i did the same, and got farther than the rest from the ship. while i was sporting about, i heard the dreadful cry of "shark, shark!" the rest of the men quickly making for the side, clambered on board. i was swimming towards the ship, when i saw a dark fin rising between her and me. i knew what it indicated, for i had seen several sharks before. to gain the ship without encountering the monster seemed impossible. i therefore, instead of swimming on, stopped and trod water, beating the surface with my hands, and shouting out. i saw some of the men leaning over the sides with ropes. presently there was a shout. one of the men had lowered a rope with a bowling knot into the water, when the shark in its course round the ship ran its head and upper fin between it. at this moment it was secured to the cathead, and before the brute could get free it was hoisted on deck. i now darted forward, and seizing a rope which hung over the side hauled myself up. as i saw the monster floundering on deck, i was thankful that he had not caught me in his jaws. "you have had a narrow escape, my laddie," observed mr mctavish. "it will be a lesson to you not to swim about in these latitudes." not many other incidents worth relating occurred for some time. we touched at valparaiso, where we discharged some of our cargo, and afterwards at callao, where we got rid of a still larger quantity. we also put into paita farther north. as goods brought in english vessels were subject to a very high duty, or were altogether prohibited, they were smuggled on shore. had i been so disposed i might on two or three occasions have made good my escape, but i was relying on the promise of mr mctavish. from the coast of peru we steered to the sandwich islands, of which i should like to give a description. we there took on board three of the natives, to supply the place of the men who had been lost. the king and a brace of queens, besides several chiefs and a number of white men, visited the ship. the king and his brown consorts came in a large double canoe, formed by lashing two canoes together separated by bars. each canoe was paddled by twenty or thirty men. on the bars was raised a kind of seat, on which the ladies reposed. raised considerably higher than his consorts was a sort of throne placed on the top of a large arm-chest full of muskets, and on this his sandwich island majesty was seated in regal state. in front of him stood a dark-skinned native, carrying a handsome silver hanger in imitation of the sword-bearers of european monarchs; behind the king sat a boy holding a basin of dark-brown wood, in which his majesty ever and anon spat abundantly. instead of a crown the king's head was covered by an old beaver hat. his coat was of coarse woven cloth of ancient cut, with large metal buttons. his waistcoat was of brown velvet, which had once been black, while a pair of short, tight, and well-worn velveteen pantaloons, worsted stockings, and thick-soled shoes covered his lower extremities. his shirt and cravat had been once probably white, but had attained the hue of his own swarthy skin. on coming on deck he shook hands with every one he met between the gangway and cabin, assuring them of his affection. i had to attend at the dinner, to which the royal party were invited. the ladies, however, had to sit aside, the king taking his place at the table at the right hand of the captain, while the minister, who carried his saliva bowl, squatted behind him. he ate voraciously, and washed down the solids with numerous glasses of madeira. he drank the health of each person present, finishing well-nigh three decanters of his favourite wine. as soon as the king, the captain, passengers, and first mate had risen, the ladies were allowed to approach their dinner, which had been cooked on shore, and was now placed on the table. it consisted of a couple of roast dogs, several dishes of small fish, and a white mixture called pooah, of the consistency of flummery. the steward and i could scarcely keep our countenances as we saw them dipping the two forefingers of the right hand into the pooah, and after turning them round in the mixture until they were covered with three or four coats, by a dexterous twist rapidly transfer the food to their open mouths, when, with one smack of their lips, their fingers were cleared. their dress consisted of a cloth worn over the shoulders--a long piece of cloth wrapped in several folds--round the waist and reaching to their knees. the king spent a part of the afternoon in going over the ship, and measuring her from stem to stern, while the ladies played draughts and beat their antagonists hollow. there were a number of english and other white men settled on the island. two acted as the king's chief counsellors, and took an active part in all the affairs of the country, many of them having become very rich. i may here remark, that the daughter and granddaughter of one of these gentlemen afterwards became queen of the sandwich islands. the country, as far as i could see, appeared to be highly cultivated. the people in their habits and customs presented a curious mixture of savagery and civilisation. as i gazed on the shore on which i was not permitted to set foot, i considered whether i could not manage to get away and offer my services to the king, as i was better educated than most of those about him. i thought that i should probably rise to the highest dignities of the state; perhaps become his prime minister, his commander-in-chief, or admiral of his fleet, but i found that i was too strictly watched by old growles and the boatswain to accomplish my object. had mark been with me, i had little doubt but that we should have managed to escape. i at last asked mr mctavish if he would take me on shore. "no, no, my laddie, i know what is running in your mind," he said. "the natives would be too ready to assist, and i might find it difficult to prevent your being carried off and stowed away till the ship sails. you may fancy that your life would be a very pleasant one, but i know what it is to live among savages. you would, in course of time, have a brown wife given to you, and, unwilling to leave her, you would become a banished man from home and country. follow the plan i at first proposed. if you will remain with us you will in the course of a few years make your fortune, and be able to return home and enjoy it." i felt that the advice given was sound, and i promised mr mctavish not to try and run away while we remained at the sandwich islands. he said that the next day he would take me on shore if the captain would give me leave. shortly after, however, we went out of harbour. we had a quick passage to the entrance of the columbia river. a dangerous bar runs across the mouth of it, so that the captain was unwilling to enter until we had a fair wind and a favourable tide. boats were sent ahead to sound. while thus engaged a canoe, followed by a barge, were seen coming off. the canoe, which was paddled by six naked savages, and steered by an old indian chief, was soon alongside, but as they could not understand a word we said we could gain no information till the barge arrived, when our passengers greeted a number of their friends who had come off in her. the ship now entered the river, and came to an anchor off a fort which had been erected by the fur-traders. i never felt more happy in my life, believing that my sufferings were over, and that i should regain my liberty. i hoped that mr mctavish and his friends would at once go on shore and take me with them; but as it was late in the day, and they heard that the accommodation in the fort was limited, they accepted the captain's pressing invitation to remain with their friends on board till next morning. a more sumptuous repast than i had yet seen was prepared. the captain produced his best wine in abundance. the steward and i had to wait at table. the captain, when giving me my orders, spoke in a far more conciliatory tone than he had ever done before. "i suppose he wishes to make amends to me for his past conduct, and to show my friends that he has no ill-will towards me," i thought. the wine flowed freely, and hilarity and good-humour prevailed for some time, till a remark was made by one of the officers of the ship which offended a gentleman from the shore. his highland blood being up he hove a glass of wine in the face of the mate, telling him that the bottle should follow if he didn't apologise. this the mate did, in a somewhat humble fashion, at the request of the captain, and order was restored. the wine continued to flow freely; songs were sung and speeches made, and every one appeared to be talking at once at the top of their voices. the captain at last ordered me to go on deck with a message to the second mate, who was the officer of the watch, and to come back and let him know how the ship was riding. he said this in a loud voice so that every one might hear. i could not find the mate aft, so, supposing that he had gone forward to examine the cable, i was making my way in that direction when suddenly i found myself seized. a cloth was shoved into my mouth, and another bound over my eyes, so that i was unable to see or cry out, and i was carried down the main hatchway in the strong arms of a man whose voice i had been unable to recognise, though i fancied that he was either growles or the boatswain. in vain i struggled to get free. on reaching, as i supposed, the spar-deck, another man bound my arms and my legs, and i was then carried still farther down into the hold, when i was shoved into some place or other, a door was shut and locked on me, and i found myself alone. i was very nearly suffocated with the cloth in my mouth, but i managed after much exertion to work it out. having done this, i was inclined to shout; but i feared that if i did so old growles would return and put it back, and perhaps ill-treat me into the bargain. i therefore thought it wiser to remain silent, and to try and get the handkerchief off my eyes. i lay quiet for some time to recover my breath. though i could not move to feel about, i was convinced, by the closeness of the atmosphere, that i was in a small place--probably in a compartment of the boatswain's store-room. my next object was to get the handkerchief off my eyes, to ascertain if any light penetrated my place of confinement. it was a difficult matter to do this without hurting myself, but i tried, by turning over and rubbing the knot at the back of my head against the boards on which i lay, to work it upwards, though at the expense of making a sore place, so tightly was it secured. at last i succeeded in getting it off. all was dark, as i had expected. the next task i undertook was to free my arms. this was a far more difficult undertaking. i made up my mind to bite through the ropes if i could get my teeth into them; but that, after many attempts, i found to be impossible. i avoided, as much as i could, drawing them tighter round my wrists. i endeavoured, by making one of my hands as small as i could, to draw it out of the knot, but again and again i was obliged to desist. still i recollected how i had before escaped from the hold, as well as from the mill, and i repeated to myself, "fortune favours the persevering." i had been on foot for a number of hours; and, wearied by the exertions i had lately made, i at last began to feel very sleepy, and shortly dropped off into an uncomfortable slumber. i was awakened by a gruff voice, which i recognised as that of the boatswain. "gregory, i do believe the young rascal is dead," he said. "it may save a world of trouble if he is," answered old growles; "for those passengers are making a precious fuss about him. if he was to get ashore, he'd be telling tales. we can say he died in his sleep, and let them have his body, which will show how it happened." "not if he's black in the face. here, hand the lantern, and let's have a look." all this time i was afraid to open my eyes, or even to breathe; and i thought that, if i could sham being dead, they would carry me on deck, and i would then soon show them the contrary. i guessed that i must have rolled over with my face away from the door, so that they couldn't see it. presently i felt a hand placed on my shoulder to draw me round. i let them move me as they liked, and i knew, from the light which i saw through my eyelids, that the rays of a lantern were cast on me. i flattered myself that i was succeeding very well, till i heard the boatswain remark-- "people don't die with their eyes shut." then a hand was placed on my face, and old growles observed-- "the young chap's as alive as i am; he's quite warm. rouse up, dick, you rascal! but take care you don't sing out, or it'll be the worse for you." still i endeavoured to make them believe i was really dead. it was a satisfaction to find that they were casting off the lashings from my arms and legs; but when one of them lifted up my arm i let it fall down again, like that of a dead person. this seemed to puzzle them, and old growles gave me a cruel pinch on the arm. though i didn't cry out, i had the greatest difficulty not to flinch. he then bent back one of my fingers. it was a wonder he didn't break it. not able to endure the pain, i cried out. "i thought so," he said, with a low laugh. "you can't play your tricks off on us, youngster," said the boatswain, "and you'll gain nothing by it." i said nothing, but looked up at him as if i had just awakened out of a sleep or a trance. "now mind you," he continued, "if you shout out or make any noise, we'll gag you and leave you to starve; but if you keep quiet you shall have some food, and you won't be worse off than when you were shut up before in the hold." "what are you going to do with me?" i asked. "that's not for you to know," answered the boatswain. "we're not going to kill you, for fear you should haunt the ship, not for any love to you. we could have made away with you long ago, if we had thought fit. we're not going to let you go ashore, and let you give a bad name to the ship and us. we know who 'peached to the captain, and you may think yourself fortunate that you were not dropped overboard next night. will you promise to keep quiet?" i knew that i was in the hands of unscrupulous ruffians, whose fears alone prevented them from doing away with me; so there was no use holding out. i therefore said that i would make no noise if they would unlash my arms and legs and bring me some food. i found that i was in the place i had supposed--a big locker which had been cleaned out to make room for me. it smelt horribly of tar and rancid grease, and coils of small rope and balls of twine, mats, cans, pots, and brushes, up in the corners, showed me what was usually stowed in it. "shall we trust the young rascal?" asked the boatswain of his companion. "he daren't break his word," answered growles; "he knows what he'll get if he does." thereupon they unlashed my arms and legs. i considered for a moment whether i could spring past them and gain the deck. perhaps they thought i might make the attempt; and before i had time to do more than think of it, they had shut the door and locked me in. i knew, from the quietness of the ship, that she was still at anchor, and i hoped that my friends might make inquiries about me that might lead to my discovery; and this idea kept me up. as i lay perfectly still i could hear the crew hoisting the remainder of the cargo out of the hold. the noise they made would have drowned my voice, even had i ventured to cry out. i guessed, also, that most of them knew of my imprisonment, and would not assist me. my only solace was the thought that mr mctavish, who had been so friendly to me, would insist on searching the ship, and then i thought it probable a story would be told of my having fallen overboard. they would very likely say that i had got drunk with their wine, and been seen rolling along the deck, or something of that sort. i did not, indeed, altogether despair of making my escape. as i lay in the ill-odorous locker i thought and thought of all sorts of plans. in spite of the smells i was getting hungry, and i wished that the boatswain or growles would return with the food they had promised. if only one came i made up my mind to seize him by the throat, put my fingers into his eyes, spring up past him, and try to gain the deck. it would be hazardous in the extreme; for, if he caught me, he would not let me go, and in the struggle i should certainly be overcome, when he would not fail to punish me severely--perhaps to deprive me of life. still, anything was better than to have again to endure the sufferings i had gone through in the hold. i nerved myself up for the undertaking i proposed. all was again silent in the hold. the crew had, i concluded, knocked off work; whether to go to dinner or for the day i could not calculate. after some time i heard the sound as of some one moving near me, the door opened, and the light of a lantern fell on my face. there were two heads instead of one. it would be madness to attempt to spring past them, so i lay quiet. "here's the food i promised you," said the voice of old growles. "eat it and be thankful; it's more than you deserve." it consisted of biscuit and meat, and a cooked root of some sort. he placed also a can of water by my side. "don't capsize it; for you'll get no more," he said, drawing my attention to it. wishing to soothe him and throw him off his guard, i answered and thanked him. before i could finish the sentence he had shut to the door and left me to discuss my meal in the dark. i heard him and his companion go away. the air which had come in had revived my appetite, and i eagerly ate up the provisions and drank the water, supposing that i should have more in due time. as soon as i had finished my meal i tried to see if i could force open the door, but i could discover no tool of any description. i made up my mind therefore to wait patiently till the opportunity offered of getting out. perhaps the next time old growles or the boatswain would come alone, or they might send some one else; or, should my friends be searching the ship, i might make them hear me. while these thoughts were passing through my mind i again fell asleep. it might be found wearisome were i to describe my thoughts and sensations, my hopes and fears, while i was awake, or to say how often i slept. day after day passed. old growles and the boatswain invariably came together; they seemed to divine that should only one come i might in my desperation attempt to pass him. as far as i could judge the crew were now taking cargo on board, as i could hear the bales descending into the hold. they consisted, i afterwards found, of skins and peltries. how much longer the ship would remain in harbour i could not tell, nor could i conjecture when i was to be set free. they would scarcely keep me a prisoner during the remainder of the voyage, as, shut up, i could do nothing, but if i were at liberty i could make myself useful. drearily the time passed away. fear still prevented me from shouting out; for, from the position i was in, i could certainly have made myself heard by the crew, although my voice would not have reached to the cabin. from the remarks that i had heard from the passengers, when we were approaching the columbia river, i guessed that, having loaded with furs, we should cross the pacific to china, where they would fetch a high price, and thence, as i knew beforehand, with the produce of that country, we should proceed to australia, where we should load with wood for home. if i were kept a prisoner for the whole period i should lose my health, if not my life. how many days or nights i had been kept in confinement i could not calculate, when i heard the sounds of heaving up the anchor; a trampling of feet, as if sail was being made. some time afterwards i was sensible of a movement in the ship, and presently she plunged into a heavy sea, and i could hear much rushing of water against her sides. again she made a more furious plunge, and i guessed that we were crossing the bar. i knew that i was right, as shortly afterwards the ship glided on with a comparatively slight movement. all hope of being rescued by my friends was gone. i knew that we must have crossed the bar while it was light, but i was allowed to remain in prison for another night. at last the door was opened, and old growles and the boatswain appeared. "you may go on deck now, youngster," said old growles; "but remember, as you value your life, that you don't tell the captain or any one else who put you down here. you played the stowaway once, and you must say you did so again, 'cos you didn't want to go ashore and live among the injins. if he believes you or not, it doesn't much matter; only you stick to it, and, mind yer, you'll come to a bad end if you don't." i made no answer, for although i wished to get out of the locker and enjoy the fresh air once more, i could not make up my mind to tell a falsehood, notwithstanding the threats of the old ruffian. neither he nor the boatswain seemed to expect an answer. perhaps they thought it mattered very little whether or not i promised to do as they ordered me, not believing that i would keep my word if it suited my convenience to break it; for, without saying another word, they bound my eyes, and one of them dragged me along among bales and other articles of cargo, which i could feel as i passed by. "stay here," said the boatswain, "till it strikes four bells. you may then find your way on deck as you best can, and spin any yarn you like to account for yourself being there, only mind you don't 'peach on us, or, as i said afore it'll be the worse for you." as he spoke he took the bandage off my eyes, and i heard the men retiring. i was still in total darkness, but i had been so often accustomed to find my way about under such circumstances that i was not very anxious on that account. i thought it prudent, however, to remain seated until i heard four bells strike, when on feeling about i was almost convinced that i was on the spar-deck. i could distinguish the tramp of feet overhead as if sail was being made, and shortly afterwards, the hatchway being lifted up, daylight streamed down upon me. pining for fresh air, and desperately hungry, i lost no time in making my way on deck. there stood the captain and two mates. the ship was under all sail, gliding rapidly before a strong breeze over the ocean, while the blue outline of the land could dimly be seen astern. i stood irresolute whether to go at once up to the captain and get the worst over, or to run forward and ask the cook to give me something to eat. i was about to follow the latter course, when i heard the captain's voice shouting, "halloa, youngster, where on earth do you come from?" "that's more than i can exactly say, sir," i answered. "why, we thought you had gone overboard and been drowned, or had slipped ashore and been carried off by the indians," he continued; "mr mctavish and the other gentlemen were making a great ado about you. you have been playing your old trick again. for my part, i should have supposed you would have been glad enough to get out of the ship, as i understood they wished to take you with them." "please sir, i hope you'll pardon me for what has happened," i said, an idea at that moment striking me. "i want to become a sailor, and i'll promise to try and do my duty, and learn to be one if you'll allow me." the captain, from what i said, at once took it for granted that i had again acted the stowaway, and i flattered myself that i had not spoken an untruth, while i had avoided saying anything which would offend him. i observed that old growles had come aft, and was then within earshot. the captain seemed rather pleased than otherwise that i had not wished to leave the ship. "go forward," he said, "and let me see that you do your duty." he was evidently in better humour than usual, having got a rich freight which he had not expected. touching my cap, i hurried to the caboose. caesar rolled his eyes and opened his mouth with astonishment when he saw me. "where you been all dis time, dick?" he asked. "that's more than i can tell you, caesar. do in mercy give me some grub, for i'm well-nigh starved," i answered. he gave me part of a mess he had been cooking for himself. "dis curious ship," he said, as he remarked the ravenous way in which i devoured the food. "i no ask questions, you no tell lies, dat is it. oh you wise boy." i suspected from this that caesar had observed the visits of old growles and the boatswain to the hold, and shrewdly guessed that i had been a prisoner. i could not understand, however, how the captain didn't make some fuss about it, unless he also was cognisant of the fact; but of that i was left in uncertainty. i had expected from the way he had first treated me that some change for the better would take place in my condition, but in this i was mistaken. i was at the beck and call of every one, having to do all the dirty work in the cabin, and being knocked about and bullied by the men just as much as before. chapter eighteen. my position does not improve--another attempt at escape frustrated-- becalmed off japan--macao--a fresh cargo--extension of the voyage--not dead yet--i gain some important information as to the future fate awaiting me, and i determine to quit the ship--a carouse--my escape, and how i accomplished it--alone on the ocean--i sight land--the rock and my landing-place--my search for food--i meet with an accident--i lose my boat. i must pass rapidly over the voyage across the pacific. whatever better feelings the captain had at one time displayed towards me completely disappeared. i was treated by him and the officers and men as badly as ever. my spirit was not broken, and perhaps i may at times have shown too refractory a disposition to please them. i was compelled, however, to submit to and obey their orders, annoying and vexatious as they often were. i did not show my feelings so much by what i said as by my looks, and i often stopped to consider whether or no i would do as i was told. we fell in with a few ships--most of them whalers--the captains of which sometimes came on board, and i had hoped that i might be able to get off in one of them. i fancied that it would be impossible to change for the worse, but i in vain watched for an opportunity. one evening we were becalmed to the southward of japan, not far off a south sea whaler. the commander, who was an old acquaintance of captain longfleet, came aboard, and spent the evening with him in the cabin. i waited eagerly till it had become dark. the lights of the other ship could be seen in the distance, and i expected every instant that the captain would come on deck ready to take his departure. the boat's crew had come aboard, and were being entertained by our men. i thought if i could manage to slip down i might stow myself away under the foremost thwart, and should not be discovered till i had reached the other ship. i would then tell my story to the commander, who if he would not have compassion on me would probably not think it worth while to send me back that night, and before the morning a breeze might spring up and the ships be separated. i waited concealed under the long-boat stowed amidships till i fancied that there was no one near the side where the whale-boat lay. i then crept out and got into the main chains. i was just about to lower myself down when a huge hand was placed on my shoulder, and i heard a voice which i knew to be that of old growles. "come inboard, you young rascal!" he said; "you're not going to get off as easily as you fancy. it's lucky for you that you didn't get into the boat, for you would have been found to a certainty, and handed over to our skipper, who would have knocked the life out of you." "what's all this about? how did you know i wanted to get into the boat?" i asked, in a tone of assumed astonishment. "'cos i've seen you watching ever since she came alongside," answered growles; "so take that--and that,"--and hauling me inboard, he bestowed several blows with the end of a rope on my back. i ran forward to escape from him, and stowed myself away in my bunk, as it was my watch below. we at last reached macao, where our cargo of furs was discharged, and for which i believe a very high price was obtained. i had no wish, from what i had heard of the chinese, to go and live among them, and i therefore did not attempt to get on shore, although i had reason to believe that i was all the time narrowly watched by old growles and the boatswain. instead of the furs and skins we shipped a cargo of tea in chests, and other chinese produce. part of this was to be landed at sydney, new south wales, and the rest, if no market could be found there for it, was to be carried on to america. this would greatly prolong the voyage, and consequently my miseries. i had hitherto been supported by the expectation of soon reaching home and being emancipated from my bondage. i had no dislike to the sea; and had i been well treated even in my subordinate position i should have been contented to remain where i was, and to try and learn as much as i could; but to be kicked and beaten and knocked down every day of my life--to have the dirtiest of work and the worst of food--to be sworn at and abused at all hours--made me well-nigh weary of my life. i was one night standing just before the windlass, when i said something which offended sam dixon, one of the men. in return he struck me a blow on the head. i must have fallen immediately, and rolled down directly under the windlass. perhaps fancying that he had killed me, dixon walked away, without uttering anything to anybody as to what he had done. i probably lay there for some time in a state of unconsciousness--how long i could not tell. when i came to myself i heard some of my shipmates talking near me. i was about to crawl out when my own name caught my ears. "we have had enough of that youngster at present," said one; "he has 'peached once, and will ferret out what we're about, and 'peach again if he has the chance. i only wish we had dropped him overboard with a shot round his feet long ago." it was the boatswain who spoke. "i didn't think of the shot, as i suppose that would stop him from coming up again, and haunting the ship," remarked old growles; "that's what i was afeered of." "why, gregory, you're always thinking of ghosts and spirits--they wouldn't do harm to you or any of us," remarked another fellow who was looked upon as the chief sceptic of the crew, though it is difficult to say what they did or did not believe, for considering their lives it might be supposed that they were all infidels together. they continued talking in low voices. though i could not make out all they said, i gathered enough to be convinced that they had some plot or other which they intended soon to put into execution, and fearing lest i should get an inkling of it and inform the captain, they intended to do away with me. it was some satisfaction to discover that they had no immediate intention of executing their plans. i might have time to warn the officers or to make my escape. i for some time had had an idea in my head. we carried a small boat astern, generally called a dinghy. she could hold two or three people, and was useful for sending away to the shore, or for lowering at sea in calm weather when anything had to be picked up. if i could lower her into the water during the night when off the coast of some island, i might manage to escape to the shore before i was discovered. what i had heard made me resolve not to delay a moment longer than could be helped. that night nothing could be done, even should i find that the blow had not incapacitated me from exertion. i dare not move from my present uncomfortable position, for should i be discovered the men would not scruple to do away with me. i was thankful that the men at last got up and began to walk about the deck. i was fearful, however, that they might come by the windlass, when i must have been discovered. at last i heard the second mate, who was the officer of the watch, give the order to shorten sail, and they had to run to their stations; and as they did so, i crawled out and succeeded in reaching my bunk, into which i tumbled unperceived. i was far from comfortable, however, fearing that that very night they might smother me--the mode i fancied they would take to put me out of existence. i was not missed, i suppose, as no one called me, and when my watch on deck came round i turned out with the rest. my head ached, and i had a big lump on my forehead. in the morning, when the third mate saw me, he asked how i got that. i replied that it was the way i had got many another, that it was only what i expected, and had made up my mind to bear it. "you're a rum chap, and a bold one--more than i'd do," answered the mate, not troubling himself more about the matter. when i went aft to the cabin at breakfast, i heard one of the mates observe that we should make the coast of australia that day. then i thought to myself, "if i can get off i will." i had no intention of going without provisions. i knew that a good store was kept in the pantry, to which i had access. my intention was to tumble everything i could find into a cloth, to tie it up, and to carry it off, if i could, unperceived to the dinghy. how to lower that without being heard or seen by the watch on deck was the difficulty. the falls were so fitted that a single person might lower her, but then she would make a splash in the water. we made the land about four o'clock in the afternoon, but after standing on for some time till it was nearly dark, the captain ordered the ship's head to be put about, as he was not well acquainted with the coast, and there were dangerous reefs which ran off for a considerable distance. night came on, and a very dark night it was, but the darkness would favour my design. instead of being allowed to turn in when it was my watch below, i was sent aft by the cook with a dish of devilled biscuits to the cabin, where the captain and the first and second mates were taking supper, while the third mate had the watch on deck. i intended it to be the last time i would turn into my bunk. i had not been long in the cabin before i observed that the captain and mates had been drinking, and seemed disposed to continue their debauch. the devilled biscuits which i had placed before them still farther incited their thirst, and the captain ordered another bottle of rum. i noticed that the steward, when i told him, got out two bottles, one of which he kept in the pantry while he took the other into the cabin. "you'll do to attend on the officers, dick," he said to me; "i'm going to enjoy myself." i stood ready to obey any orders i should receive. the conversation i heard was far from edifying, but i was too much engaged in thinking of my own project to attend to it. as i was standing at the far end of the cabin i heard a crash. one of the mates had knocked over a couple of tumblers, and i was sent into the pantry to obtain others. i found the steward fast verging into a state of unconsciousness. he had been pulling away at the rum-bottle at a great rate, for fear he should not have time to finish it. as i got the tumblers i cast my eyes round the pantry to see what articles of food i could most readily carry off. i saw the best part of a cold ham, an ample supply of biscuits and some pots of chinese preserves, with several other things of less consequence. returning to the cabin i placed the tumblers on the table, and retired beyond the reach of the officers, having been taught by experience that they might at any moment think fit to give me a box on the ear or to knock me down. i watched them with intense interest, lest they should knock off before they were completely drunk. the third mate came into the cabin apparently to report something to the captain, but, seeing the state his commander was in, uttering a loud whew! he turned on his heel, and went out again, seeing the importance of keeping sober himself. i confess that i wished he had sat down with the others, and left the ship to take care of herself. soon afterwards, as i knew i should not be missed, i stole out of the cabin, and went into the pantry, where i quickly did up the provisions i intended to take with me. there was a jar of water, evidently quite full, which the steward kept ready for use. i now went on deck to ascertain what chance i had of carrying out my design. i could discover no one excepting the man at the helm, and the third mate had, i concluded, to take a look-out. i hurried back to get the jar and provisions, and unperceived placed them in the dinghy. i felt about in her, and found two oars and a boat-hook. the falls were, as i have said, so fitted that one person could lower the boat, but to do so without capsizing her when the ship was moving through the water was almost an impossible undertaking. the wind had previously been very light, and the vessel had scarcely any steerage way on her. to my intense satisfaction i noticed that it was now almost a stark calm. now or never i must carry out my project. i thought not of the dangers to be encountered; the chances of being chased and overtaken; the savages on shore; the risk of starvation; the want of water; the current that might sweep me along; or the chances of a storm arising before i could gain the land. i had not a moment to lose. the mate remained forward; the man at the helm stood motionless, and, i hoped, was asleep. i slipped into the boat, and passing the slack of the falls under two thwarts, gently lowered myself down. i had, the day before, unobserved, thoroughly greased the blocks. my chief fear now was, that the splash the boat would make on reaching the water would be heard. i therefore eased away with the greatest care, and stood ready in a moment to cast off the aft-most fall. i cleared it in the nick of time, and the boat was towed slowly ahead. i quickly cleared the foremost fall, and was now adrift. i was conscious that a light splash had been made, but i hoped that if the mate heard it he would fancy that it was caused by some monster of the deep rising above the surface. without waiting to ascertain whether this was the case or not, i seized the oars and pulled rapidly away from the stern of the vessel, the light from the cabin window assisting me to keep the course i desired to make towards the land. i congratulated myself at having accomplished my object before it was too late, for i felt a breeze fanning my ears as i pulled on. as i looked up at the tall masts, it seemed to me that the sails bulged out, and that the ship was rapidly increasing her distance from me. i was already a considerable way astern when i heard a loud hail. i recognised the voice of the mate, who had probably just discovered that the boat was gone. my fear was, that another would be lowered and sent in chase of me. this made me pull all the harder. my only idea was, to reach shore and escape from my persecutors. i dared not lose time by stopping even for a moment to listen for the sounds of a boat being lowered. i heard several other voices hail, but the ship stood on and gradually faded away in the gloom of night. i knew that being low in the water i could not be seen. presently i saw the flash of a musket; then another and another; but no shots came near me, and from this i was convinced that the third mate, or some one else, was firing at random. had the captain or the other mates been in their right senses the ship would probably have been hove-to and two boats, at least, have been sent in chase of me. the third mate was, i suspect, afraid of heaving to on account of the reefs. he kept the ship, therefore, before the wind. whatever the cause, i was thankful i was not pursued, and i trusted that the breeze would blow stronger and carry the ship farther and farther away from me. although, through there being no moon, the night was dark, and there was a mist which hung over the waters, yet i could observe overhead several stars, and as the lights from the cabin receded, i marked their position, and was thus able, with tolerable confidence, to continue my way towards the land. i fancied that i should be able to reach it early in the morning or during the next day. i at length began to grow weary, but as long as i could move my arms i determined to row on. the wind being off the land, the sea was perfectly calm. scarcely a ripple disturbed the surface. i was too anxious to feel hunger or thirst. at the same time, the joy at having escaped kept up my spirits. under other circumstances i do not think i could have accomplished what i did. i fancied that i was pulling at the rate of four miles an hour, and that i was nearing the shore. at length, however, my fatigue overcame me, and i felt that i could row no more. the moment i stopped i felt very sleepy, but had sense sufficient to take in my oars and place them by my side. i then lay down in the bottom of the boat, intending to rest for a few minutes, after which, i expected again to be able to pull on. as may be supposed, i was soon again fast asleep. my slumbers were peaceful and pleasant, rendered so, i presume, by the consciousness that i had escaped from the fate intended for me. i was awakened by a bright light flashing in my eyes. opening them, i sprang up and found that the sun had just risen above the horizon. i looked eagerly around, dreading lest i should see the ship near me, but to my infinite relief she was not visible, nor was the land i had expected to see and so soon to reach. my little boat was the only object on the waste of waters. the coast, i knew, was to the westward, and as the rising sun would guide me, i took out my oars and began to row away in that direction. i had not rowed long before i began to feel very hungry. i therefore again laid in my oars and took a hearty meal off the provisions i had brought, washing it down with an ample draught of water. then i once more turned to, but the heat soon became excessive, and i was streaming at every pore. still, as long as my strength lasted i determined not to give in. i occasionally stopped to take a pull at my water-bottle. with very little rest beside, i continued to paddle on till it was again dark. this showed me what had not occurred to me before, that i might have been rowing part of the time along the coast, instead of towards it, and i supposed that the ship had been much farther off than i had previously imagined. i had been in a dreamy state all day, and unable to think much. this was produced by the heat which beat down on my head. i felt somewhat revived as the sun set, but after a time excessive drowsiness came over me, and once more taking in my oars, i lay down to sleep. i must have slept the whole night, for when i again woke, it was already dawn. i stood up and looked about me, when to my surprise i observed some rocks between myself in the boat and the bright light which heralded the rising sun. i must have been carried by a current inside them. i was about to row away to the westward, when as the light increased i saw what i at first thought was the mast of a small vessel or boat near them. seizing my oars, i eagerly pulled towards the object. again looking round i soon discovered it; it was not a mast, but a pole stuck in the rock with a cask or basket fixed on the top of it. this was a sign that some civilised inhabitants must be on the neighbouring shore, and that they had placed that beacon to warn mariners of the dangers of the rock. a number of sea-fowl circled over the rock, occasionally dipping their wings in the clear water. as the sun rose, i made out the land running in a long line to a far distance, as i concluded north and south. it was now time for breakfast. i had no intention of landing on the rock, for this would only cause delay. i took my ham out from the stern sheets, but as i did so, the horrible odour which saluted my nostrils made me certain that it would be impossible to eat it, and, except the dry biscuits, i had no other food. i managed with the aid of some water to masticate a fair quantity, but it might be a long time even now before i could gain the shore, and even then i might be disappointed in obtaining food. it then occurred to me that perhaps the sea-fowl made their nests on the rock, and that i might get some of their eggs, which would give me an ample supply of provisions for some time to come. as i had once upon a time lived upon raw rats, i was not very particular; and even should i not obtain any eggs, i might find some young birds, which, though perhaps fishy in taste, would enable me to support existence. i therefore rowed towards the rock which i saw was of considerable extent, although one part only on which the beacon was placed rose a few feet above the surface. the clearness of the atmosphere had deceived me as to the distance. i rowed on for some time before i reached it. possibly also, there was a current against me, although that such was the case did not occur to me at the time. the sea-fowl shrieked loudly and wildly as i approached, as if to warn me off from their domain. some sat on the rock, others darted off and circled round and round the boat, but i was not to be deterred from landing by their threatening cries and movements. at last i got close to the rock, and found an indentation or little bay, into which i ran my boat. though several birds appeared, i found that they were merely resting on the rock, and that the water was too shallow to allow me to get close enough to step on shore. in many places the seaweed grew so thickly, and was so slimy, that i was afraid to venture on it, lest it offering a treacherous foothold i should slip back into the water. at last i saw a point some distance from the beacon where i thought i could land, and secure the boat's painter round a rough part of the coral rock. i succeeded in stepping on to it and making the rope fast; and confident that she would be secure, made my way along the rock with the assistance of the boat-hook. i found neither eggs nor young birds; indeed, on examining the rock, i knew that it must be covered occasionally, if not at every tide, by the water. still i thought that i should find them at the higher part, near the beacon. i accordingly scrambled on as well as i could, but here and there i came to a lower part of the rock over which the water washed, and i saw that to reach the beacon i must wade through it. i had to proceed very cautiously, for it was full of hollows and slippery in the extreme, and a fall might involve serious consequences. the shriek of the birds, though it sounded rather pleasant at a distance, became almost deafening as i got nearer to them. after going some way, i had to stop and rest, supporting myself on the boat-hook. i now saw, on looking round, that the sky which at sunrise had been bright and clear, was becoming fast covered with clouds. the wind, too, blew with much greater force than before. still, as it came off the land, i hoped that it might not cause such a sea as would prevent me from continuing my voyage. i was too eager, also, to obtain some eggs or young birds to allow the subject to trouble me. i therefore continued scrambling along over the rocks, hoping to find what i was in search of nearer the beacon. i was by this time nearly wet through up to the middle, but that did not matter, as the hot sun soon dried my clothes. having got on some distance without an accident, i perhaps became more careless; for when leaping from one rock to another, my foot slipped and i came down with a force which i thought must have broken my arm. i lay clutching the rock with the other hand, unable to move from the pain, while my boat-hook slipped from my grasp, and gliding into the water was borne away from the rock. i now saw that a rapid current was passing the rock, the influence of which i must have felt when approaching it in the boat. without the boat-hook i should find it still more difficult to get along; but i knew that i must not stay where i was for ever, and as soon therefore as the pain allowed me, i rose to my feet and endeavoured to continue my scramble over the rocks. i forgot that my return journey would be quite as difficult if not more so, as i should have no boat-hook, and at the same time should be loaded, i hoped, with eggs and birds. i went on and on, of course making very slow progress. at length i got close to the beacon, and great was my disappointment to find neither eggs nor young birds. i searched round and round the rock in all directions, and i at last came to the conclusion that if the birds lay their eggs there at all the hatching season must have passed, and the young birds grown strong on the wing, and have flown away. it was a great disappointment. as it was, i had had my difficult and tiring scramble for nothing, and had bruised my arm, though happily i had not broken it. i had also lost my boat-hook. i climbed to the higher part of the rock, and had a look at the land, which i judged was ten or twelve miles off at least. still i hoped to accomplish that distance long before dark, and to find a harbour, as i supposed there was one, or it was not likely that the beacon could have been placed on the rock. i therefore, without further delay, began my return journey. as i went along, i found that some places where i had crossed had become much deeper. at length it occurred to me that the tide was rising. i had regained sight of my boat, which at a distance could not be distinguished from the black rocks, when it suddenly appeared to me that she was moving. i rushed on at the risk of breaking my legs. what was my dismay at seeing that she was already at a considerable distance from the rock where i had left her, and there seemed every probability that i should lose her altogether. in my terror i shouted and shrieked to her to stop. i was on the point of rushing into the water to try and overtake her when i saw a black fin glide by, followed by another, and the wicked eye of a shark glanced up at me, daring me to venture on the undertaking. my despair overcoming me, i sank down on the rock. chapter nineteen. my adventures on the rock--my search for food, and what i found--the storm--despite my perilous position, i marvel at the grandeur of the scene--the storm subsides--my search for clams, and further explorations on the rock--the darkest night must come to an end--a welcome wetting--my only refuge--return of stormy weather--perilous moments--i climb the beacon-post. i had gone through a few misadventures, but this was the most trying of all. after lying on the rock for a few minutes or more, i recovered sufficiently to recollect that the tide was rising, and that unless i could select a higher spot i should be swept off, and become a prey to the monsters i dreaded. i therefore got up, and trying to pull myself together again, endeavoured to reach the beacon, which would at all events afford me temporary shelter. when taking out the biscuits in the morning i had shoved several into my pocket, which would enable me to sustain existence until i could make signals to some passing boat or vessel. having lost my boat-hook i made slower progress than before, and often with the greatest difficulty avoided falling. two or three times i had to wade up to my middle, and i dreaded lest one of the sharks should have shoved his nose through the opening, and might snap me up. still i went on. my anxiety made me forget the pain in my arm. fortunately i was not indeed deprived of its use, and by degrees the pain went off. i was so much engaged, that i did not for some time observe how completely the weather had changed. the beacon on the rock was reached, and i sat down below it to rest myself after my exertions. i now saw that the sea, which had hitherto been so calm, had begun to heave. sudden gusts blew across it, covering its surface with wavelets, which every moment increased in size. dark clouds chased each other across the sky, and gathered in thick masses overhead. to my dismay i saw that a storm was rising. it rapidly came on, while the sea getting up with the same speed, completely swept over the lower part of the rock along which i had made my way. the lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and the seas began to beat with violence against the rock. some of them came sweeping up to where i sat. i sprang to my feet, and stood gazing with awe and terror at the strife of the elements which raged around me. what hope, i thought, could i have of escaping. my boat gone; so far off from land that it was impossible i could be observed, while i could see no boats or vessels sailing over the whole expanse of ocean. indeed had there been any coming from the shore, they would have put back into harbour when they saw the storm coming on. still i was unharmed; i had biscuits enough in my pockets to keep soul and body together for a day or two longer, if i economised them as i intended to do. i might also find some shellfish; they would serve me for food for a much longer time, i therefore did not despair, but i was aware that at any moment the sea might sweep up and carry me off. with more calmness than i had given myself credit for possessing, i continued to survey the scene. i looked out again for my boat, thinking it possible that the current might drive her back to the rock, but she had been carried far beyond my ken. this made my heart sick. knowing, however, that my life depended very much on my keeping up my courage, i endeavoured to muster all i possessed. i thought if i could climb up to the top of the rock and make a signal, it might be observed, should any boat when the storm was over come out from the shore, or should any vessel be passing. i could see no other rocks to the eastward; i supposed, therefore that this was the highest part of the reef, and that vessels acquainted with the coast might pass by within sight of it. i spent several hours, i can scarcely describe how. when my hunger became too ravenous to bear longer, i munched a small quantity of biscuit. at length, as i watched the seas, i observed that they did not approach so close to me, and i was convinced that the tide was again going down. i calculated, indeed, from the time i had been on the rock, that this must be the case, as it was already rising when i first landed, and i now hoped that i should be able to obtain some shellfish by going down to the lee-side, and cutting them off with my knife. the idea having once occurred to me, i lost no time in carrying it out. i had to be excessively cautious, for by a false step i might have slipped into the sea, and not have been able to regain my hold on the rock. after searching about for some time, i caught sight of a few clams, but they were not to be obtained without risk, as the sea surged up and recovered them. i fixed my eye on one, then rushing down, i cut it off and threw it up out of the reach of the water. i obtained two more in the same way; and in attempting to secure a fourth, the waves swept round the rock, almost covering me, and i had to cling on for my life, losing my clam and very nearly my life. this taught me to be more cautious than ever; but i managed notwithstanding to obtain three or four more, and as i could see none others above water, i had to content myself with those i had collected. gathering those i had obtained together, i returned to the higher part of the rock, close under the beacon, where i was sheltered from the wind. i had no means of lighting a fire. there was no fuel on the rock to make one, and so i was compelled to eat the clams raw, with a little biscuit to make them more palatable. the whole day had passed away, and another night was coming on. i dreaded it, for i knew not what might happen during the hours of darkness. the storm had in no way abated, and i feared that when the tide again rose the sea might get still more over the rock. i had little idea, however, how fiercely it was about to do so. i have often spoken of my sleeping and waking, but thus our lives are spent. in spite of the storm raging around me, the seas thundering on the rock, and the wind whistling through the beacon, a drowsiness overpowered me, and i found myself dropping off to sleep. i was still conscious in some degree how i was situated. i felt all the time an overpowering sense of danger. sometimes i was in my little boat, gliding calmly over the ocean; now i was suddenly chased by big waves, which threatened every instant to engulf me. then i found myself cast upon the rock, my boat floating away, and tumbling and tossing till she disappeared. now i was seated all alone, gazing out over the ocean, which rose and fell, and tossed before my eyes just as i had seen it in the daytime, only rising to a far greater height, and descending in a more furious fashion. this sort of confused dream continued while i was asleep. now and then i awoke, only to hear the noises i have before described. the rock itself seemed quaking, as the seas with a thundering roar dashed against it. i could hear, too, the screams of the sea-birds as they swept round and round, disturbed from their usual resting-place, though many of them flew off, i suppose, to the far-away shores, or to other rocks perhaps higher out of the water. the night i had escaped from the "emu" was very dark; but this was unfortunately darker, except when a flash of lightning darted from the sky and illumined the white foam which, lashed by the wind into spray, flew in sheets over the rock. i was soon wet to the skin. i felt chilly in the extreme. even the most terrible night must come to an end. morning broke, but cheerless as could well be. the sky was of one leaden hue, broken here and there by the clouds which hung lower down in the strata. the waves, when not covered by foam, were of the same tint. to sit where i was i found was impossible. i got up and walked about and stretched my legs. to my dismay i found that the rocks, which at the same hour the previous day were high out of the water, were now almost covered by the furious seas which rolled over them. i trembled to think what would be the case at high water. i should have liked to have got some more clams for breakfast, but i could see none, even after searching for them, and there was a great risk of being swept away, so i contented myself with taking one of those i had saved from the previous day, with a biscuit, for breakfast. i was already very thirsty, having had nothing to drink since i had left the boat, and would have welcomed a heavy shower from the dark clouds overhead. i continued to walk, or rather to climb about the rock, as there was but a very small level place on which i could walk. then i sat down again, and with melancholy gaze watched the foaming seas, which i began to dread, as i saw them more and more frequently covering the rock, would prove my grave. at length i had to seek a higher and more exposed level, and as water occasionally surged up to the place where i had spent the night, and might at any moment sweep me off, i tried to nerve myself up to my fate. with difficulty i could restrain myself from drinking the sea-water. i was well aware of the danger of doing so, and resisted the temptation. at last, as i was looking up, i felt a drop fall on my face. it was not the spray of the sea. another and another followed, and down came a copious shower. i opened my mouth, at the same time holding out my cap to the rain, hoping to get a little in it. i got but little, so i placed it on the rock and spread it open. i then took off my jacket, and held it out that it might be well wetted. i hoped also to find some hollow in the rock that might be rilled with fresh water. the rain came down, as it does in the tropics, in a perfect deluge. my jacket was wet through in a minute, and i was able to wring out of it a sufficient amount of fresh water to quench my burning thirst. after this i was able to eat some biscuits. it should be remembered that the tide reaches its height nearly three-quarters of an hour later every day. i watched with intense anxiety its rising this afternoon. now it entirely covered the rocks where i had landed, then those over which i had made my way were concealed from view, and now it reached the base of the beacon-rock itself, against which the seas began to break with a fury surpassing that of the previous day. the spot on which i had been standing one minute was the next covered by the seething waters, when i retired to a higher level. again and again a wave broke over the rock, and striking one of the almost perpendicular sides flew high into the air above my head. every moment my hope of escape was becoming less and less. i cried to heaven for mercy. as i saw death drawing near, the desire to live increased. it seemed so terrible to have to die all alone away from friends and country. at last i was driven to the very foot of the beacon, and i clutched it as if it alone could afford me protection. i knew that i could not for a single moment stand upon the rock with the sea breaking over it, but the beacon itself withstood the furious waves. i had not as yet thought of climbing to it to see how it was fixed, but i now did so with intense anxiety. i found that the staff was of hard oak, and that it had been imbedded in a deep hole formed by art in the rock, and further secured by iron bars driven into it, and fastened round by iron hoops. this gave me some hopes that it would stand the fury of the seas should they rise high enough to strike it. that they would do this seemed every moment more probable. on every side around me they tossed and foamed and roared, as if eager to seize me. i frantically clutched the pole, which, from its size, i could with difficulty embrace. even now, though my chance of escape seemed small indeed, i did not abandon all hope. a small line hung down through the bottom of the cask. i tried its strength. it would enable me, i found, to mount upwards, but i was unwilling to make the attempt, as i could not tell whether the cask was fixed securely enough to bear my weight. there i stood, my arms round the pole, clutching the rope with my hands, and awaiting my fate. that that ere long would come i was fully convinced. though sea after sea broke on the rock, none actually touched me, though my feet occasionally were washed by the foam. to my surprise, and contrary to all my expectations, though the seas raged round me as fiercely as ever, the water sank, and as the sea rolled up it struck a lower level of the rock, and i began to hope once more that i should escape. then i recollected that if the tides had not yet reached their extreme height, or the spring tides had not come on, the next day might prove fatal. though the water had receded, i dare not leave the beacon-post, and kept clinging to it as my only comfort and friend. at length weary i sank down to rest, still grasping it in my arms. thus hours passed away, even now too painful to think of. i ate the remainder of the biscuit, and then fell into a heavy slumber, which must have lasted many hours. i awoke to find that it was night, and that the tide was once more rising, as i knew by hearing the seas breaking on the rocks close to me. already i was covered by the spray, which flew in showers over me. had i slept on much longer i must have been swept away, and awakened only to find myself in the cruel grasp of the relentless waves. i might, however, now never see another sunrise. i prayed as i had never prayed before, and resolved to struggle to the last for life. few have been placed in a more perilous position and escaped. i had the stout beacon to cling to. it had probably stood many a storm, but would it stand fast now? to that i held fast as before, but i feared that my strength would fail me, and that i might be torn away from it. i looked up at the cask above my head, wondering whether that would afford me an asylum i was unwilling, however, to exhaust my strength by attempting to climb the post. with increasing force the waves beat on the rock. again and again it trembled from their blows, though i fancied, and almost expected, to find it washed away beneath my feet. i was wet through, and blinded by the spray. as i cleared my eyes, i could discern through the darkness the seas dancing up level with the rock on which i stood. some appeared, as they rolled on meeting with no impediment, to be much higher. then i saw one coming roaring and hissing along towards me. it broke with fearful force, and rushed over the rock higher than my knees. had i not been firmly grasping the beacon-post, i should have been carried off my legs and washed helplessly away. i shrieked with terror as i saw another coming higher than the last. my cries were echoed by those of the wild sea-birds passing above. the foaming sea broke, and as i drew myself up the post, i found my legs floating behind me. a moment later, and my doom would have been sealed. i got up higher and higher. now, as i looked down, i saw that i was surrounded by a tumultuous ocean, without a particle of rock on which to place the soles of my feet. i knew that all depended on my strength holding out. the beacon might stand fast, but i might be torn away. had it been daylight i might better have endured the horrible position in which i was placed, but at night to be thus all alone, with the hungry waves leaping up and striving to snatch me from my holdfast, was truly dreadful. i wonder my senses did not give way. sometimes i thought that it was only a dream, but i then knew it to be a fearful reality. with arms and legs clinging round the post, and my hands clutching the rope as i had never clutched rope before, i hung on. i was almost afraid to climb higher, lest my muscles failing me for a moment i should lose my grasp, and yet the cask was only a few feet above me. suddenly i recollected that on board whalers casks are placed in the same manner as that was at the masthead, in order that the officers, protected in some degree, may in that position obtain a wide extended view in search of whales, and that they enter by a trap-door in the bottom. should this beacon possess such a trap, i might get through it and obtain shelter and rest. but again a doubt crossed my mind whether i could climb up even thus far, without the risk of sliding down again into the sea. i looked down to see if the tide was once more receding, but the waves seemed still to be rising higher and higher. some of their foam even sometimes now touched my feet as they swept over the rock. they might even cover the beacon itself; and if so, no human power could save me. after remaining quiet for some time, i felt as if i possessed sufficient strength, and resolved to make the attempt. with legs and arms and hands i worked my way up. i would have clung with my teeth to the rope could i have seized it. i was within a foot of the bottom of the cask, when i felt so exhausted that i thought i could get no higher. i looked down on the raging sea and then up at the only place which could afford me shelter. in the darkness i could not see whether or not there was a trap, and if there were one perhaps i might not be able to force it open, and, exhausted by the effort, might drop into the water. i dreaded the risk, but it must be run. nerving myself up to the undertaking, i slowly and carefully began to work my way higher up. my head struck the cask. i put up my hand, the bottom yielded, and now exerting all my remaining strength i seized the edges and drew myself up, holding well on with my hands and feet until i had got my head and shoulders into the interior. throwing myself on my chest, i felt round and discovered some beckets, evidently intended for the purpose of enabling a person situated as i was to draw himself up. i then, grasping the rope which hung from the top of the pole which passed through the cask, dragged myself up and placed my feet at the bottom. i pressed down the trap. i felt more secure than i had been for many hours. had i not still had a post to cling to after the strain my muscles had so long endured, i could not have stood upright. several cross-pieces secured the top of the cask to the post. i shoved my head through them, and could now look down on the wild and raging waters with which i was surrounded. still i dare not quit my hold of the post, fancying that if i pressed on one side of the cask or the other, it might give way. not that there was the slightest chance of that in reality. i did not long contemplate the fearful scene, but overcome by what i had gone through, i sank down to the bottom of the cask, and, wet and cold as i was, fell into a troubled slumber. chapter twenty. in the beacon--the storm continues--the tide turns--i again seek for food--i meet with another accident--brighter weather--a sail in sight--my hopes and fears--my signal--my rescue--a voice from the deep--three old friends meet again--on board the "falcon"--the good captain--sydney harbour, and why i did not go ashore there--the homeward voyage--mark and i learn navigation--my reception at liverpool--sad, sad news--my journey to sandgate--i enter mr butterfield's office, and have had no cause to regret doing so. i awoke to find the storm still raging around me; but as i opened my eyes i was sensible that a faint light came in from the top of the cask. i was cramped with the uncomfortable position in which i had been sleeping. when i looked out over the edge of the cask, though the seas were tossing as wildly as before, i perceived that the rock below me was once more uncovered, owing, as i knew, to the tide having ebbed. at first i thought of descending; then i recollected that the waters might again rise to their former level, and i feared that i might not have strength to regain my sheltering-place. i therefore remained where i was. i shortly began to feel the pangs of hunger and thirst. i eagerly felt in my pocket for some biscuit, forgetting that i had consumed the last the night before. i found a few crumbs, and with difficulty got them down, having no water to moisten my dry mouth. still, the wet state of my clothes prevented me from suffering so much from thirst as i should otherwise have done. the storm, i knew, would not last for ever. should it continue much longer, however, i might succumb before i could possibly be relieved; but having been hitherto so mercifully preserved, i did not despair. feeling weary of standing, i again crouched down at the bottom of the cask. i had reason to bless the persons who had placed it there. as i thus sat, half asleep and half awake, it seemed to me that the wind blew with less violence than it had done before. i got up to ascertain if this was the case. on looking round i felt confident that it was so. it appeared to me, also, that the seas were tumbling about with less violence than they had done on the previous day. if so, they might not again cover the rock. i was well accustomed to notice the tides on our own shore, and i remembered that, after the highest of the spring tides, they were said by the fishermen to "take off"--that is, to rise to a less elevation every subsequent day. thus, even should the storm continue, the rock might not again be covered. this idea brought considerable relief to me. my hunger made me resolve to descend to search for clams. perhaps i should find a fish thrown on the rock. the thought of obtaining some food made me get down at once. i opened the trap, and, grasping the rope, slid down with perfect ease. already the rocks over which i had clambered from the boat were bare, for the tide had fallen rapidly. i knew that it would fall in proportion as it had risen. i went as close to the edge as i could venture without running the risk of being carried off. the rocks, which were washed by the fierce seas, were slippery in the extreme, and i feared that any clams clinging to them must have been washed away. still, hunger urged me on. i made my way along the top of the coral reef. i observed several small pools ahead. there must be creatures of some sort within, which would enable me to satisfy the cravings of hunger. i had gone some little distance, when i slipped, and came down on the rock. in my weak state i felt unable again to rise for some minutes, though i was not seriously hurt. the clouds, some time before this, began to break, and suddenly the sun shone forth, his warm rays cheering me up. as i cast my eyes round, something glittered brightly just for a moment in one of the pools. rising with renewed strength, i scrambled, faster than i had moved before, towards it, and great was my delight to see a good-sized fish floundering in the pool. it attempted to escape me, but i pounced down upon it as a sea-bird would have done, and, giving it a blow on the head, quickly despatched it. i was too hungry to wait even to partially prepare it by hanging it up in the sun, and, taking out my knife, quickly cut some slices from the thickest part of the body. i did not stop to consider whether it was wholesome, but ate it raw as it was. i looked about in the hope of finding another, and was successful; it was of the same species as the first. i could exist now without the clams; and, therefore, thinking it prudent not to run any risk in trying to obtain them, i returned to the beacon. by this time the wind had fallen to a moderate breeze, though the seas still continued rolling on with foaming crests, but far less wildly than before, and were evidently decreasing in height. the atmosphere having cleared, i was able to distinguish the distant shore, which had the appearance of a blue irregular line to the westward. again and again i turned my eyes seaward, in hopes of seeing a passing ship, which might stand near enough to observe me. i was disappointed; not a sail came in sight, and another night approached. the waters covered some of the rocks, but only for a short time, when the tide again ran out. still i was unwilling to sleep upon the cold rock, and, taking my second fish, having consumed the first to the bones, i climbed up again into the tub. having coiled myself away round the bottom, i was soon fast asleep. my slumbers were peaceful and quiet. the gentle wind produced no sound round the cask; the roar of the surf on the rocks had ceased. i slept the whole night through, and not till the sun had risen out of the ocean did i wake. i at once stood up and looked round me. a light breeze from the northward sent the wavelets rippling against the rock. the sea was otherwise perfectly calm, and glowed in the rays of the bright orb of day. i looked landwards, in the expectation of seeing some vessels come out of the harbour, which, i thought, could not be far off, but none appeared. then i gazed anxiously to the northward, and round the horizon in all directions. presently i saw a spot appear of snowy whiteness, glittering in the rays of the sun. it rapidly increased in size. "a sail! a sail!" i shouted, though there was no one to hear me. i soon perceived that she was a large ship. first her topgallant sails, then her topsails, rose out of the water. i was so intently watching her that i forgot for a time to take my meal. as may be supposed, i turned many a look towards the ship. she was standing towards me, running before the wind along the coast. at last her courses, and then her hull, appeared, and i fancied that i could almost see the people moving on her deck. i was congratulating myself that i should have a speedy deliverance, when the thought came to me that she might be the "emu." if i were discovered i should be worse treated than before. i had not so often seen the ship on which i had spent so many dreary months, to be certain about her appearance at a distance. i trembled lest i should be right, though she had been steering in a different direction. as the stranger approached, i became more and more convinced that she was not the "emu." still i felt a feeling of uncertainty on the subject. should i make a signal, and try to attract the attention of those on board? the beacon would certainly be observed; perhaps they were looking out for it. had i possessed a supply of water, i might have hesitated longer; but my perilous position determined me at all risks to make a signal. i watched till the ship came nearly abreast of the beacon, when, stripping off my shirt, i climbed as high as i could, until i reached the cask. i waved the shirt frantically. in my eagerness i shouted also, though i might have known that my puny voice could not be heard. for some time it appeared to me that i was waving in vain; and then, what was my dismay to see the ship's head turned away from the shore. i was deserted. presently the sheets were let fly, the main-topsail was backed against the mast. she hove-to. i almost fell from my post with joy as i saw a boat lowered, which came rapidly pulling towards the rock. putting on my shirt--it was now perfectly dry--i descended from my perch to the rock, and there stood eagerly watching the boat. again a thought occurred to me, that she might, after all, be the "emu," and in another few minutes i might be in the clutches of old growles and the boatswain, and my other persecutors. but as i strained my eyes to discern their countenances. i became aware that none of the "emu's" crew were there. as far as i could make out, they were all perfect strangers. the boat steered for the lee-side of the rock. i hurried down to meet them. "why, my lad, who are you, and how came you here?" exclaimed one of the strangers. "has your ship gone to the bottom?" "that's more than i can say," i answered; "i came in a boat. the boat floated away, and i have been left here." "what ship do you belong to?" asked the stranger. "the `emu,'" i answered, thinking it was as well to acknowledge this much. "the `emu!'" he exclaimed. "why, who are you? let me let me look at you. don't you know me, dick?" and he grasped my hand. i looked at him hard. "why, if i didn't think you were at the bottom of the sea, i should have declared that you were tom trivett." "and so i am," he said, "though i'm not at the bottom of the sea, and right glad i am to find you, dick, out of that dreadful ship. come along, we mustn't stand talking here; we were sent to bring you off, and, judging by your looks, the sooner you're on board the better." "yes, indeed," i answered, "for i find it a hard matter to speak from the dryness in my throat; i haven't tasted water for a couple of days, and if you had not come i don't suppose i should have held out much longer, with the hot sun shining down on my head." "well, i am glad," cried tom, as he, with the aid of another hand, who was the third mate of the ship, helped me into the boat. she immediately shoved off, and pulled towards the ship. "who would have thought of finding you, dick, all alone by yourself out on yonder rock?" said tom, who was pulling stroke oar. "however, wonders never end. there's another old shipmate of yours on board, whom you'll be glad to see, i have a notion; and not a little surprised either, if you thought that he was left to perish on the falkland islands." "what! do you mean mark riddle?" i asked. "yes, mark himself," he said. "he didn't die, or he wouldn't be on board the `falcon.' we found him about ten days after. he had been pretty well worn out, but still with life enough in him to crawl down to the beach when we put in for water." "i am glad, i am glad!" i said, though i could say little more, and was unable to ask tom how he had escaped. the mate put questions to me which i was unable to answer; indeed i was almost fainting before i was lifted up the side of the "falcon." one of the first persons i set eyes on was mark riddle. he was much grown and bronzed. had i not been aware that he was on board, i should not at first have known him; nor did he guess who i was till tom told him, when he sprang to my side, and warmly grasped my hand. he forbore asking questions, as he saw that i was not in a state to reply. the first thing tom did was to bring me a mug of water, which i eagerly drank. after that the captain ordered that i should be carried to a spare berth in the cabin. "we must have him there, that he may be properly looked after. he'll be better off than in the forepeak," he said. from this i guessed that he was a kind-hearted man, very different to captain longfleet. in a short time some broth and a fresh roll baked on board were brought to me, and i was not so far gone that i was prevented from thankfully swallowing the food. it revived me greatly, and when captain mason looked in on me shortly afterwards, i was able to answer all the questions he put to me. i confessed who i was, and how i had come to sea. when he heard that i was the son of a clergyman, and related to mr butterfield, he was even kinder than before; though he did not, i suspect, quite believe my account. "truth should be adhered to, my lad, under all circumstances," he observed. "are you quite sure that you did not run away?" "i thought of doing so, sir; but i was carried off exactly as i have told you, and i was very sorry for it afterwards." "you have been severely punished for it, and i am afraid have caused great anxiety and grief to your friends. you might have lost your life, though you have been preserved in god's good providence, and when you get home i hope you will make amends for your fault. it is all you can do," he observed. the state of the ship contrasted greatly with that of the "emu." after a sound sleep, i was able the next day to get about, though i still remained somewhat sick and weak. tom told me that the "falcon" was the happiest ship he had ever been aboard. the crew were generally orderly and well behaved. mark corroborated what tom said. as soon as i was strong enough, i begged that i might be allowed to do duty on board, so that i might not pass my time idly. to this captain mason willingly agreed. i was separated more than i liked from mark, but he told me that he was not jealous. "but i say, dick," he said, "if you could teach me, when it's my watch below, some of the navigation and other things you're learning, i should be very much obliged." i willingly promised to do this; and, as he came down to the spar-deck, we at once set to work, and every day i imparted to him the knowledge i had obtained. one day the first mate, who was a very kind man, found us thus engaged. he said nothing at the time, but afterwards asked me if riddle was very anxious to learn navigation. i told him that he was. he reported this to the captain, who told mark that he could come into the cabin and study with the rest of us. our studies were interrupted when the ship entered sydney harbour. we lay there for some days, discharging our cargo, and taking on board bales of wool, which was now being produced in considerable quantities in that magnificent country, though the shipments of a whole year were not equal to what was afterwards exported in a month. as i knew that the "emu" was bound for sydney, i anxiously inquired whether she was there. she had not come in; but, as i thought she might possibly make her appearance, i was afraid to go on shore, lest i should encounter captain longfleet or the mates or the men. i felt sure, should they see me, that i should be captured, carried on board, and punished tremendously for stealing the boat. on returning on board, however, one day, tom trivett told me that he had heard a report that the "emu" had been lost in a gale which had occurred some time before, as part of her stern had been picked up with her name upon it. this account having been confirmed, left no doubt on my mind as to her having been wrecked, and, as none of those on board ever appeared, that all had perished. i had thus still greater reason than ever to be thankful that i had made my escape from her when i did. but captain mason blamed me for the way in which i had done so. "you've done many things that were wrong, my lad," he said, "there's no doubt about that; but all i can urge you is to be heartily sorry for them." i confess i found it very difficult to be sorry that i had run away with the boat, since i had saved my life by so doing. then i might afterwards have lost it on the rock; and the matter has been a very puzzling one to me ever since. we sailed with a fair wind, which carried us down the coast of australia. the wind then shifted to the eastward, and we passed through bass's straits, between the mighty continent and van diemen's land, as it was at that time called, the captain intending to go home by the cape of good hope instead of across the pacific and round cape horn, as ships of the present day generally do. i have few incidents to describe during our homeward voyage. i was far happier than i had been on board the "emu." somehow or other i had no longer that affection for a sea life which i fancied i possessed. i dreaded, however, the reception i should meet with, on my return home, from aunt deb and mr butterfield, and from my father and brothers and sisters. the only person who i knew would receive me affectionately was my mother. i was very certain of it. i was half inclined, from fear of the upbraiding that i should get from the rest of my family, to beg captain mason to let me remain on board, and to make another voyage with him, expecting that i should regain my love for the ocean. i at last mentioned the subject. "i would willingly do so, my lad, if your father and friends think it best you should become a sailor, but i cannot consent to act contrary to their wishes. you must at once, on landing, present yourself to mr butterfield; and as i am acquainted with him, i will accompany you and state how i have had the satisfaction of rescuing you from the perilous position in which you were placed." i thanked the captain very much for his offer, as i felt that i should have much more confidence in his presence than if i had gone alone. still, as we ran up the irish channel and sighted the welsh coast, i felt very nervous, and could scarcely attend to my duties. at length we entered the mersey and dropped anchor off liverpool. as soon as the ship had been taken into dock, and the captain was at liberty, he sent for me, and we walked together to mr butterfield's office, where we were at once shown into his private room. the old gentleman did not recognise me, i was so grown and altered. when captain mason said who i was, he started, and, eyeing me keenly, at last took my hand. "i'm thankful to see you again, my boy," he said; "but you have caused your aunt and me much anxiety, and trouble and sorrow to others of your family; but i won't say just now what has happened. your aunt will tell you that, by-and-by. i am unwilling to grieve your heart on first landing on your native shore." i did not then understand what he meant; but as his manner was kind, i congratulated myself on escaping the upbraiding i expected from him, at all events. captain mason having much business to get through, rose to take his leave, when mr butterfield expressed his desire to repay him for the trouble and expense he had been put to on my account. "pray don't speak of it, my kind sir," answered the worthy captain; "i am amply repaid by the satisfaction i feel at restoring the lad to his friends;" and shaking me warmly by the hand, he left the office. as it was late in the day, mr butterfield having signed a few letters, said he was ready to go home, and desired me to accompany him. as we walked along together, he questioned me about my adventures, seeming rather incredulous when i assured him that i had not intentionally run away to sea. "well, well, dick, we'll let by-gones be by-gones. i shall be glad to see you act rightly in future." i inquired if aunt deb was still with him. "she returned to your father soon after you disappeared, and has only lately come back to pay me another visit," he answered. i confess i wished she had stayed at home. however, i had to face her, though i felt very nervous about the interview. "i don't think she will recognise you, and i won't tell her who you are," he said, as i entered the house. we went into the drawing-room, where we found aunt deb seated in a high-backed chair. "here's a young gentleman come from the sea. he's come to dine with us," said mr butterfield. aunt deb rose from her seat, gave me a stiff bow, and sank down again on her seat. "i have no affection for the sea, or generally for those whose profession it is to sail upon it," she said, looking hard at me. "there are exceptions to every rule, and i hope that this young gentleman will show that he doesn't possess the objectionable manners and customs of sailors." "i trust you will not be mistaken in the favourable opinion you form of me, madam," i said, as stiffly as i could. "but i venture to think that you are prejudiced against seafaring men. let me assure you, however, that there are many estimable persons among them, though there are some as bad as any to be found on shore. you once had a nephew who went away to sea. i hope that you don't class him among the bad ones." "i class him among the very worst," she exclaimed. "he ran off without leave, without wishing me, his kind aunt, farewell, or letting us know where he had gone, or what had become of him. he made us all very miserable, and broke his poor mother's heart." "my mother dead!" i exclaimed. "oh, don't say that, don't say that! and i killed her." "who are you?" cried aunt deb, starting up and looking me in the face. "yes; i do believe that you are that graceless young monkey, dick!" "i am indeed your nephew, dick. i am indeed heartily sorry for all i have done, and shall never forgive myself if my conduct was the cause of my mother's death. did i not mistake what you said? oh, aunt deb, do tell me is she really dead?" and i grasped her hands and burst into tears. she was moved as i spoke more than i could have expected; and instead of further upbraiding me, tried to soothe the anguish i felt. i was indeed severely punished for my thoughtless conduct, to say the best of it. mr butterfield spoke to me more kindly than i expected or deserved, and when he again offered me a seat in his counting-house, and assured me that he would endeavour to further my interests and raise me according to my deserts, i thankfully accepted his proposal. before, however, commencing my career as a merchant, he allowed me to go home and see my father, who, i need not say, received me according to the dictates of his affectionate heart, without uttering a word of blame. my brothers and sisters were never tired of hearing of my adventures while i remained with them. on my mother's grave i promised to do my duty to the best of my power in the new situation of life i was about to occupy. after my arrival at home i paid a visit to old roger riddle, and had the satisfaction of telling him that mark had become a steady fellow, and as captain mason had promised to take him the next voyage in the "falcon," and to continue his instructions in navigation, he had every prospect of becoming an officer. tom trivett entered the navy, and having lost a leg, became an out-pensioner of greenwich hospital. he used frequently to come and see me in after years, and nothing pleased him so much as to talk over the adventures of our early days, and to spin long yarns to my children about those he subsequently went through. after a week's stay at sandgate, i returned to liverpool, where i at once set to work in mr butterfield's office, and have every reason to be thankful that i was enabled to take my place on one of the high stools which i had formerly looked upon with such intense disgust. by diligence and perseverance, and strict attention to my duties, i gained my principal's good opinion, and ultimately, on his death, i became the head of the firm. the end. a fool and his money by george barr mccutcheon contents chapter i. i make no effort to defend myself ii. i defend my property iii. i converse with a mystery iv. i become an ancestor v. i meet the foe and fall vi. i discuss matrimony vii. i receive visitors viii. i resort to diplomacy ix. i am invited out to dinner x. i agree to meet the enemy xi. i am invited to lend money xii. i am informed that i am in love xiii. i visit and am visited xiv. i am forced into being a hero xv. i traverse the night xvi. i indulge in plain language xvii. i see to the bottom of things xviii. i speed the parting guest xix. i burn a few bridges xx. i change garden spots xxi. she proposes illustrations in the aperture stood my amazing neighbour ... frontispiece i found myself staring as if stupefied at the white figure of a woman who stood in the topmost balcony. i sat bolt upright and yelled: "get out!" we faced each other across the bowl of roses up to that moment i had wondered whether i could do it with my left hand chapter i i make no effort to defend myself i am quite sure it was my uncle rilas who said that i was a fool. if memory serves me well he relieved himself of that conviction in the presence of my mother--whose brother he was--at a time when i was least competent to acknowledge _his_ wisdom and most arrogant in asserting my own. i was a freshman in college: a fact--or condition, perhaps,--which should serve as an excuse for both of us. i possessed another uncle, incidentally, and while i am now convinced that he must have felt as uncle rilas did about it, he was one of those who suffer in silence. the nearest he ever got to openly resenting me as a freshman was when he admitted, as if it were a crime, that he too had been in college and knew less when he came out than when he entered. which was a mild way of putting it, i am sure, considering the fact that he remained there for twenty-three years as a distinguished member of the faculty. i assume, therefore, that it was uncle rilas who orally convicted me, an assumption justified to some extent by putting two and two together after the poor old gentleman was laid away for his long sleep. he had been very emphatic in his belief that a fool and his money are soon parted. up to the time of his death i had been in no way qualified to dispute this ancient theory. in theory, no doubt, i was the kind of fool he referred to, but in practice i was quite an untried novice. it is very hard for even a fool to part with something he hasn't got. true, i parted with the little i had at college with noteworthy promptness about the middle of each term, but that could hardly have been called a fair test for the adage. not until uncle rilas died and left me all of his money was i able to demonstrate that only dead men and fools part with it. the distinction lies in the capacity for enjoyment while the sensation lasts. dead men part with it because they have to, fools because they want to. in any event, uncle rilas did not leave me his money until my freshman days were far behind me, wherein lies the solace that he may have outgrown an opinion while i was going through the same process. at twenty-three i confessed that _all_ freshmen were insufferable, and immediately afterward took my degree and went out into the world to convince it that seniors are by no means adolescent. having successfully passed the age of reason, i too felt myself admirably qualified to look with scorn upon all creatures employed in the business of getting an education. there were times when i wondered how on earth i could have stooped so low as to be a freshman. i still have the disquieting fear that my uncle did not modify his opinion of me until i was thoroughly over being a senior. you will note that i do not say he changed his opinion. modify is the word. his original estimate of me, as a freshman, of course,--was uttered when i, at the age of eighteen, picked out my walk in life, so to speak. after considering everything, i decided to be a literary man. a novelist or a playwright, i hadn't much of a choice between the two, or perhaps a journalist. being a journalist, of course, was preliminary; a sort of makeshift. at any rate, i was going to be a writer. my uncle rilas, a hard-headed customer who had read scott as a boy and the wall street news as a man,--without being misled by either,--was scornful. he said that i would outgrow it, there was some consolation in that. he even admitted that when he was seventeen he wanted to be an actor. there you are, said he! i declared there was a great difference between being an actor and being a writer. only handsome men can be actors, while i--well, by nature i was doomed to be nothing more engaging than a novelist, who doesn't have to spoil an illusion by showing himself in public. besides, i argued, novelists make a great deal of money, and playwrights too, for that matter. he said in reply that an ordinarily vigorous washerwoman could make more money than the average novelist, and she always had a stocking without a hole to keep it in, which was more to the point. now that i come to think of it, it _was_ uncle rilas who oracularly prejudged me, and not uncle john, who was by way of being a sort of literary chap himself and therefore lamentably unqualified to guide me in any course whatsoever, especially as he had all he could do to keep his own wolf at bay without encouraging mine, and who, besides teaching good english, loved it wisely and too well. i think uncle rilas would have held uncle john up to me as an example,--a scarecrow, you might say,--if it hadn't been for the fact that he loved him in spite of his english. he must have loved me in spite of mine. my mother felt in her heart that i ought to be a doctor or a preacher, but she wasn't mean: she was positive i could succeed as a writer if i set my mind to it. she was also sure that i could be president of the united states or perhaps even a bishop. we were episcopalian. when i was twenty-seven my first short story appeared in a magazine of considerable weight, due to its advertising pages, but my uncle rilas didn't read it until i had convinced him that the honorarium amounted to three hundred dollars. even then i was obliged to promise him a glimpse of the check when i got it. somewhat belated, it came in the course of three or four months with a rather tart letter in which i was given to understand that it wasn't quite the thing to pester a great publishing house with queries of the kind i had been so persistent in propounding. but at last uncle rilas saw the check and was properly impressed. he took back what he said about the washerwoman, but gave me a little further advice concerning the stocking. in course of time my first novel appeared. it was a love story. uncle rilas read the first five chapters and then skipped over to the last page. then he began it all over again and sat up nearly all night to finish it. the next day he called it "trash" but invited me to have luncheon with him at the metropolitan club, and rather noisily introduced me to a few old cronies of his, who were not sufficiently interested in me to enquire what my name was--a trifling detail he had overlooked in presenting me as his nephew--but who _did_ ask me to have a drink. a month later, he died. he left me a fortune, which was all the more staggering in view of the circumstance that had seen me named for my uncle john and not for him. it was not long afterward that i made a perfect fool of myself by falling in love. it turned out very badly. i can't imagine what got into me to want to commit bigamy after i had already proclaimed myself to be irrevocably wedded to my profession. nevertheless, i deliberately coveted the experience, and would have attained to it no doubt had it not been for the young woman in the case. she would have none of me, but with considerable independence of spirit and, i must say, noteworthy acumen, elected to wed a splendid looking young fellow who clerked in a jeweller's shop in fifth avenue. they had been engaged for several years, it seems, and my swollen fortune failed to disturb her sense of fidelity. perhaps you will be interested enough in a girl who could refuse to share a fortune of something like three hundred thousand dollars--(not counting me, of course)--to let me tell you briefly who and what she was. she was my typist. that is to say, she did piece-work for me as i happened to provide substance for her active fingers to work upon when she wasn't typing law briefs in the regular sort of grind. not only was she an able typist, but she was an exceedingly wholesome, handsome and worthy young woman. i think i came to like her with genuine resolution when i discovered that she could spell correctly and had the additional knack of uniting my stray infinitives with stubborn purposefulness, as well as the ability to administer my grammar with tact and discretion. unfortunately she loved the jeweller's clerk. she tried to convince me, with a sweetness i shall never forget, that she was infinitely better suited to be a jeweller's wife than to be a weight upon the neck of a genius. moreover, when i foolishly mentioned my snug fortune as an extra inducement, she put me smartly in my place by remarking that fortunes like wine are made in a day while really excellent jeweller's clerks are something like thirty years in the making. which, i take it, was as much as to say that there is always room for improvement in a man. i confess i was somewhat disturbed by one of her gentlest remarks. she seemed to be repeating my uncle rilas, although i am quite sure she had never heard of him. she argued that the fortune might take wings and fly away, and then what would be to pay! of course, it was perfectly clear to me, stupid as i must have been, that she preferred the jeweller's clerk to a fortune. i was loth to lose her as a typist. the exact point where i appear to have made a fool of myself was when i first took it into my head that i could make something else of her. i not only lost a competent typist, but i lost a great deal of sleep, and had to go abroad for awhile, as men do when they find out unpleasant things about themselves in just that way. i gave her as a wedding present a very costly and magnificent dining-room set, fondly hoping that the jeweller's clerk would experience a great deal of trouble in living up to it. at first i had thought of a marie antoinette bedroom set, but gave it up when i contemplated the cost. if you will pardon me, i shall not go any further into this lamentable love affair. i submit, in extenuation, that people do not care to be regaled with the heartaches of past affairs; they are only interested in those which appear to be in the process of active development or retrogression. suffice to say, i was terribly cut up over the way my first serious affair of the heart turned out, and tried my best to hate myself for letting it worry me. somehow i was able to attribute the fiasco to an inborn sense of shyness that has always made me faint-hearted, dilatory and unaggressive. no doubt if i had gone about it roughshod and fiery i could have played hob with the excellent jeweller's peace of mind, to say the least, but alas! i succeeded only in approaching at a time when there was nothing left for me to do but to start him off in life with a mild handicap in the shape of a dining-room set that would not go with anything else he had in the apartment. still, some men, no matter how shy and procrastinating they may be--or reluctant, for that matter--are doomed to have love affairs thrust upon them, as you will perceive if you follow the course of this narrative to the bitter end. in order that you may know me when you see me struggling through these pages, as one might struggle through a morass on a dark night, i shall take the liberty of describing myself in the best light possible under the circumstances. i am a tallish sort of person, moderately homely, and not quite thirty-five. i am strong but not athletic. whatever physical development i possess was acquired through the ancient and honourable game of golf and in swimming. in both of these sports i am quite proficient. my nose is rather long and inquisitive, and my chin is considered to be singularly firm for one who has no ambition to become a hero. my thatch is abundant and quite black. i understand that my eyes are green when i affect a green tie, light blue when i put on one of that delicate hue, and curiously yellow when i wear brown about my neck. not that i really need them, but i wear nose glasses when reading: to save my eyes, of course. i sometimes wear them in public, with a very fetching and imposing black band draping across my expanse of shirt front. i find this to be most effective when sitting in a box at the theatre. my tailor is a good one. i shave myself clean with an old-fashioned razor and find it to be quite safe and tractable. my habits are considered rather good, and i sang bass in the glee club. so there you are. not quite what yon would call a lady killer, or even a lady's man, i fancy you'll say. you will be surprised to learn, however, that secretly i am of a rather romantic, imaginative turn of mind. since earliest childhood i have consorted with princesses and ladies of high degree,--mentally, of course,--and my bosom companions have been knights of valour and longevity. nothing could have suited me better than to have been born in a feudal castle a few centuries ago, from which i should have sallied forth in full armour on the slightest provocation and returned in glory when there was no one left in the neighbourhood to provoke me. even now, as i make this astounding statement, i can't help thinking of that confounded jeweller's clerk. at thirty-five i am still unattached and, so far as i can tell, unloved. what more could a sensible, experienced bachelor expect than that? unless, of course, he aspired to be a monk or a hermit, in which case he reasonably could be sure of himself if not of others. last winter in london my mother went to a good bit of trouble to set my cap for a lady who seemed in every way qualified to look after an only son as he should be looked after from a mother's point of view, and i declare to you i had a wretchedly close call of it. my poor mother, thinking it was quite settled, sailed for america, leaving me entirely unprotected, whereupon i succeeded in making my escape. heaven knows i had no desperate longing to visit palestine at that particular time, but i journeyed thither without a qualm of regret, and thereby avoided the surrender without love or honour. for the past year i have done little or no work. my books are few and far between, so few in fact that more than once i have felt the sting of dilettantism inflicting my labours with more or less increasing sharpness. it is not for me to say that i despise a fortune, but i am constrained to remark that i believe poverty would have been a fairer friend to me. at any rate i now pamper myself to an unreasonable extent. for one thing, i feel that i cannot work,--much less think,--when opposed by distracting conditions such as women, tea, disputes over luggage, and things of that sort. they subdue all the romantic tendencies i am so parsimonious about wasting. my best work is done when the madding crowd is far from me. hence i seek out remote, obscure places when i feel the plot boiling, and grind away for dear life with nothing to distract me save an unconquerable habit acquired very early in life which urges me to eat three meals a day and to sleep nine hours out of twenty-four. a month ago, in vienna, i felt the plot breaking out on me, very much as the measles do, at a most inopportune time for everybody concerned, and my secretary, more wide-awake than you'd imagine by looking at him, urged me to coddle the muse while she was willing and not to put her off till an evil day, as frequently i am in the habit of doing. it was especially annoying, coming as it did, just as i was about to set off for a fortnight's motor-boat trip up the danube with elsie hazzard and her stupid husband, the doctor. i compromised with myself by deciding to give them a week of my dreamy company, and then dash off to england where i could work off the story in a sequestered village i had had in mind for some time past. the fourth day of our delectable excursion brought us to an ancient town whose name you would recall in an instant if i were fool enough to mention it, and where we were to put up for the night. on the crest of a stupendous crag overhanging the river, almost opposite the town, which isn't far from krems, stood the venerable but unvenerated castle of that highhanded old robber baron, the first of the rothhoefens. he has been in his sarcophagus these six centuries, i am advised, but you wouldn't think so to look at the stronghold. at a glance you can almost convince yourself that he is still there, with battle-axe and broad-sword, and an inflamed eye at every window in the grim facade. we picked up a little of its history while in the town, and the next morning crossed over to visit the place. its antiquity was considerably enhanced by the presence of a caretaker who would never see eighty again, and whose wife was even older. their two sons lived with them in the capacity of loafers and, as things go in these rapid times of ours, appeared to be even older and more sere than their parents. it is a winding and tortuous road that leads up to the portals of this huge old pile, and i couldn't help thinking how stupid i have always been in execrating the spirit of progress that conceives the funicular and rack-and-pinion railroads which serve to commercialise grandeur instead of protecting it. half way up the hill, we paused to rest, and i quite clearly remember growling that if the confounded thing belonged to me i'd build a funicular or install an elevator without delay. poor elsie was too fatigued to say what she ought to have said to me for suggesting and even insisting on the visit. the next day, instead of continuing our delightful trip down the river, we three were scurrying to saalsburg, urged by a sudden and stupendous whim on my part, and filled with a new interest in life. i had made up my mind to buy the castle! the hazzards sat up with me nearly the whole of the night, trying to talk me out of the mad design, but all to no purpose. i was determined to be the sort of fool that uncle rilas referred to when he so frequently quoted the old adage. my only argument in reply to their entreaties was that i had to have a quiet, inspirational place in which to work and besides i was quite sure we could beat the impoverished owner down considerably in the price, whatever it might turn out to be. while the ancient caretaker admitted that it was for sale, he couldn't give me the faintest notion what it was expected to bring, except that it ought to bring more from an american than from any one else, and that he would be proud and happy to remain in my service, he and his wife and his prodigiously capable sons, either of whom if put to the test could break all the bones in a bullock without half trying, moreover, for such strong men, they ate very little and seldom slept, they were so eager to slave in the interests of the master. we all agreed that they looked strong enough, but as they were sleeping with some intensity all the time we were there, and making dreadful noises in the courtyard, we could only infer that they were making up for at least a week of insomnia. i had no difficulty whatever in striking a bargain with the abandoned wretch who owned the schloss. he seemed very eager to submit to my demand that he knock off a thousand pounds sterling, and we hunted up a notary and all the other officials necessary to the transfer of property. at the end of three days, i was the sole owner and proprietor of a feudal stronghold on the danube, and the joyous austrian was a little farther on his way to the dogs, a journey he had been negotiating with great ardour ever since coming into possession of an estate once valued at several millions. i am quite sure i have never seen a spendthrift with more energy than this fellow seems to have displayed in going through with his patrimony. he was on his uppers, so to speak, when i came to his rescue, solely because he couldn't find a purchaser or a tenant for the castle, try as he would. afterwards i heard that he had offered the place to a syndicate of jews for one-third the price i paid, but luckily for me the hebraic instinct was not so keen as mine. they let a very good bargain get away from them. i have not told my most intimate friends what i paid for the castle, but they are all generous enough to admit that i could afford it, no matter what it cost me. their generosity stops there, however. i have never had so many unkind things said to me in all my life as have been said about this purely personal matter. well, to make the story short, the hazzards and i returned to schloss rothhoefen in some haste, primarily for the purpose of inspecting it from dungeon to battlement. i forgot to mention that, being very tired after the climb up the steep, we got no further on our first visit than the great baronial hall, the dining-room and certain other impressive apartments customarily kept open for the inspection of visitors. an interesting concession on the part of the late owner (the gentleman hurrying to catch up with the dogs that had got a bit of a start on him),--may here be mentioned. he included all of the contents of the castle for the price paid, and the deed, or whatever you call it, specifically set forth that i, john bellamy smart, was the sole and undisputed owner of everything the castle held. this made the bargain all the more desirable, for i have never seen a more beautiful assortment of antique furniture and tapestry in fourth avenue than was to be found in schloss rothhoefen. our second and more critical survey of the lower floors of the castle revealed rather urgent necessity for extensive repairs and refurbishing, but i was not dismayed. with a blithesome disregard for expenses, i despatched rudolph, the elder of the two sons to linz with instructions to procure artisans who could be depended upon to undo the ravages of time to a certain extent and who might even suggest a remedy for leaks. my friends, abhorring rheumatism and like complaints, refused to sleep over night in the drafty, almost paneless structure. they came over to see me on the ensuing day and begged me to return to vienna with them. but, full of the project in hand, i would not be moved. with the house full of carpenters, blacksmiths, masons, locksmiths, tinsmiths, plumbers, plasterers, glaziers, joiners, scrub-women and chimneysweeps, i felt that i couldn't go away and leave it without a controlling influence. they promised to come and make me a nice short visit, however, after i'd got the castle primped up a bit: the mould off the walls of the bedrooms and the great fireplaces thoroughly cleared of obstructive swallows' nests, the beds aired and the larder stocked. just as they were leaving, my secretary and my valet put in an appearance, having been summoned from vienna the day before. i confess i was glad to see them. the thought of spending a second night in that limitless bed-chamber, with all manner of night-birds trying to get in at the windows, was rather disturbing, and i welcomed my retainers with open arms. my first night had been spent in a huge old bed, carefully prepared for occupancy by herr schmick's frau; and the hours, which never were so dark, in trying to fathom the infinite space that reached above me to the vaulted ceiling. i knew there was a ceiling, for i had seen its beams during the daylight hours, but to save my soul i couldn't imagine anything so far away as it seemed to be after the candles had been taken away by the caretaker's wife, who had tucked me away in the bed with ample propriety and thoroughness combined. twice during that interminable night i thought i heard a baby crying. so it is not unreasonable to suppose that i was _more_ than glad to see poopendyke clambering up the path with his typewriter in one hand and his green baise bag in the other, followed close behind by britton and the gargantuan brothers bearing trunks, bags, boxes and my golf clubs. "whew!" said poopendyke, dropping wearily upon my doorstep--which, by the way, happens to be a rough hewn slab some ten feet square surmounted by a portcullis that has every intention of falling down unexpectedly one of these days and creating an earthquake. "whew!" he repeated. my secretary is a youngish man with thin, stooping shoulders and a habit of perpetually rubbing his knees together when he walks. i shudder to think of what would happen to them if he undertook to run. i could not resist a glance at them now. "it is something of a climb, isn't it?" said i beamingly. "in the name of heaven, mr. smart, what could have induced you to--" he got no farther than this, and to my certain knowledge this unfinished reproof was the nearest he ever came to openly convicting me of asininity. "make yourself at home, old fellow," said i in some haste. i felt sorry for him. "we are going to be very cosy here." "cosy?" murmured he, blinking as he looked up, not at me but at the frowning walls that seemed to penetrate the sky. "i haven't explored those upper regions," i explained nervously, divining his thoughts. "we shall do it together, in a day or two." "it looks as though it might fall down if we jostled it carelessly," he remarked, having recovered his breath. "i am expecting masons at any minute," said i, contemplating the unstable stone crest of the northeast turret with some uneasiness. my face brightened suddenly. "that particular section of the castle is uninhabitable, i am told. it really doesn't matter if it collapses. ah, britton! here you are, i see. good morning." britton, a very exacting servant, looked me over critically. "your coat and trousers need pressing, sir," said he. "and where am i to get the hot water for shaving, sir?" "frau schmick will supply anything you need, britton," said i, happy on being able to give the information. "it is not i as needs it, sir," said he, feeling of his smoothly shaven chin. "come in and have a look about the place," said i, with a magnificent sweep of my arm to counteract the feeling of utter insignificance i was experiencing at the moment. i could see that my faithful retinue held me in secret but polite disdain. a day or two later the castle was swarming with workmen; the banging of hammers, the rasp of saws, the spattering of mortar, the crashing of stone and the fumes of charcoal crucibles extended to the remotest recesses; the tower of babel was being reconstructed in the language of six or eight nations, and everybody was happy. i had no idea there were so many tinsmiths in the world. every artisan in the town across the river seems to have felt it his duty to come over and help the men from linz in the enterprise. there were so many of them that they were constantly getting in each other's way and quarrelling over matters of jurisdiction with even more spirit than we might expect to encounter among the labour unions at home. poopendyke, in great distress of mind, notified me on the fourth day of rehabilitation that the cost of labour as well as living had gone up appreciably since our installation. in fact it had doubled. he paid all of my bills, so i suppose he knew what he was talking about. "you will be surprised to know, mr. smart," he said, consulting his sheets, "that scrub-women are getting more here than they do in new york city, and i am convinced that there are more scrub-women. today we had thirty new ones scrubbing the loggia on the gun-room floor, and they all seem to have apprentices working under them. the carpenters and plasterers were not so numerous to-day. i paid them off last night, you see. it may interest you to hear that their wages for three days amounted to nearly seven hundred dollars in our money, to say nothing of materials--and breakage." "breakage?" i exclaimed in surprise. "yes, sir, breakage. they break nearly as much as they mend. we'll--we'll go bankrupt, sir, if we're not careful." i liked his pronoun. "never mind," i said, "we'll soon be rid of them." "they've got it in their heads, sir, that it will take at least a year to finish the--" "you tell the foremen that if this job isn't finished to our satisfaction by the end of the month, i'll fire all of them," said i, wrathfully. "that's less than three weeks off, mr. smart. they don't seem to be making much headway." "well, you _tell_ 'em, just the same." and that is how i dismissed it. "tell 'em _we've_ got to go to work ourselves." "by the way, old man schmick and his family haven't been paid for nearly two years. they have put in a claim. the late owner assured them they'd get their money from the next--" "discharge them at once," said i. "we can't get on without them," protested he. "they know the ropes, so to speak, and, what's more to the point, they know all the keys. yesterday i was nearly two hours in getting to the kitchen for a conference with mrs. schmick about the market-men. in the first place, i couldn't find the way, and in the second place all the doors are locked." "please send herr schmick to me in the--in the--" i couldn't recall the name of the administration chamber at the head of the grand staircase, so i was compelled to say: "i'll see him here." "if we lose them we also are lost," was his sententious declaration. i believed him. on the fifth day of our occupancy, britton reported to me that he had devised a plan by which we could utilise the tremendous horse-power represented by the muscles of those lazy giants, rudolph and max. he suggested that we rig up a huge windlass at the top of the incline, with stout steel cables attached to a small car which could be hauled up the cliff by a hitherto wasted human energy, and as readily lowered. it sounded feasible and i instructed him to have the extraordinary railway built, but to be sure that the safety device clutches in the cog wheels were sound and trusty. it would prove to be an infinitely more graceful mode of ascending the peak than riding up on the donkeys i had been persuaded to buy, especially for poopendyke and me, whose legs were so long that when we sat in the saddles our knees either touched our chins or were spread out so far that we resembled the prussian coat-of-arms. [illustration: i found myself staring as if stupefied at the white figure of a woman who stood in the topmost balcony] that evening, after the workmen had filed down the steep looking for all the world like an evacuating army, i sought a few moments of peace and quiet in the small balcony outside my bedroom windows. my room was in the western wing of the castle, facing the river. the eastern wing mounted even higher than the one in which we were living, and was topped by the loftiest watch tower of them all. we had not attempted to do any work over in that section as yet, for the simple reason that herr schmick couldn't find the keys to the doors. the sun was disappearing beyond the highlands and a cool, soft breeze swept up through the valley. i leaned back in a comfortable chair that britton had selected for me, and puffed at my pipe, not quite sure that my serenity was real or assumed. this was all costing me a pretty penny. was i, after all, parting with my money in the way prescribed for fools? was all this splendid antiquity worth the-- my reflections terminated sharply at that critical instant and i don't believe i ever felt called upon after that to complete the inquiry. i found myself staring as if stupefied at the white figure of a woman who stood in the topmost balcony of the eastern wing, fully revealed by the last glow of the sun and apparently as deep in dreams as i had been the instant before. chapter ii i defend my property for ten minutes i stood there staring up at her, completely bewildered and not a little shaken. my first thought had been of ghosts, but it was almost instantly dispelled by a significant action on the part of the suspected wraith. she turned to whistle over her shoulder, and to snap her fingers peremptorily, and then she stooped and picked up a rather lusty chow dog which promptly barked at me across the intervening space, having discovered me almost at once although i was many rods away and quite snugly ensconced among the shadows. the lady in white muzzled him with her hand and i could almost imagine i heard her reproving whispers. after a few minutes, she apparently forgot the dog and lifted her hand to adjust something in her hair. he again barked at me, quite ferociously for a chow. this time it was quite plain to her that he was not barking at the now shadowy moon. she peered over the stone balustrade and an instant later disappeared from view through the high, narrow window. vastly exercised, i set out in quest of herr schmick, martialing poopendyke as i went along, realising that i would have to depend on his german, which was less halting than mine and therefore, more likely to dovetail with that of the schmicks, neither of whom spoke german because they loved it but because they had to,--being austrians. we found the four schmicks in the vast kitchen, watching britton while he pressed my trousers on an oak table so large that the castle must have been built around it. herr schmick was weighted down with the keys of the castle, which never left his possession day or night. "herr schmick," said i, "will you be so good as to inform me who the dickens that woman is over in the east wing of the castle?" "woman, mein herr?" he almost dropped his keys. his big sons said something to each other that i couldn't quite catch, but it sounded very much like "der duyvil." "a woman in a white dress,--with a dog." "a dog?" he cried. "but, mein herr, dogs are not permitted to be in the castle." "who is she? how did she get there?" "heaven defend us, sir! it must have been the ghost of--" "ghost, your granny!" i cried, relapsing into english. "please don't beat about the bush, mr. schmick. she's over there in the unused wing, which i haven't been allowed to penetrate in spite of the fact that it belongs to me. you say you can't find the keys to that side of the castle. will you explain how it is that it is open to strange women and--and dogs?" "you must be mistaken, mein herr," he whined abjectly. "she cannot be there. she--ah, i have it! it may have been my wife. gretel! have you been in the east--" "nonsense!" i cried sharply. "this won't do, mr. schmick. give me that bunch of keys. we'll investigate. i can't have strange women gallivanting about the place as if they owned it. this is no trysting place for juliets, herr schmick. we'll get to the bottom of this at once. here, you rudolph, fetch a couple of lanterns. max, get a sledge or two from the forge. there _is_ a forge. i saw it yesterday out there back of the stables. so don't try to tell me there isn't one. if we can't unlock the doors, we'll smash 'em in. they're mine, and i'll knock 'em to smithereens if i feel like it." the four schmicks wrung their hands and shook their heads and, then, repairing to the scullery, growled and grumbled for fully ten minutes before deciding to obey my commands. in the meantime, i related my experience to poopendyke and britton. "that reminds me, sir," said britton, "that i found a rag-doll in the courtyard yesterday, on that side of the building, sir--i should say castle, sir." "i am quite sure i heard a baby crying the second night we were here, mr. smart," said my secretary nervously. "and there was smoke coming from one of the back chimney pots this morning," added britton. i was thoughtful for a moment. "what became of the rag-doll, britton?" i enquired shrewdly. "i turned it over to old schmick, sir," said he. he grinned. "i thought as maybe it belonged to one of his boys." on the aged caretaker's reappearance, i bluntly inquired what had become of the doll-baby. he was terribly confused. "i know nothing, i know nothing," he mumbled, and i could see that he was miserably upset. his sons towered and glowered and his wife wrapped and unwrapped her hands in her apron, all the time supplicating heaven to be good to the true and the faithful. from what i could gather, they all seemed to be more disturbed over the fact that my hallucination included a dog than by the claim that i had seen a woman. "but, confound you, schmick," i cried in some heat, "it barked at me." "gott in himmel!" they all cried, and, to my surprise, the old woman burst into tears. "it is bad to dream of a dog," she wailed. "it means evil to all of us. evil to--" "come!" said i, grabbing the keys from the old man's unresisting hand. "and, schmick, if that dog bites me, i'll hold you personally responsible. do you understand?" two abreast we filed through the long, vaulted halls, rudolph carrying a gigantic lantern and max a sledge. we traversed extensive corridors, mounted tortuous stairs and came at length to the sturdy oak door that separated the east wing from the west: a huge, formidable thing strengthened by many cross-pieces and studded with rusty bolt-heads. padlocks as large as horse-shoes, corroded by rust and rendered absolutely impracticable by age, confronted us. "i have not the keys," said old conrad schmick sourly. "this door has not been opened in my time. it is no use." "it is no use," repeated his grizzly sons, leaning against the mouldy walls with weary tolerance. "then how did the woman and her dog get into that part of the castle?" i demanded. "tell me that!" they shook their heads, almost compassionately, as much as to say, "it is always best to humour a mad man." "and the baby," added poopendyke, turning up his coat collar to protect his thin neck from the draft that smote us from the halls. "smash those padlocks, max," i commanded resolutely. max looked stupidly at his father and the old man looked at his wife, and then all four of them looked at me, almost imploringly. "why destroy a perfectly good padlock, mein herr?" began max, twirling the sledge in his hand as if it were a bamboo cane. "hi! look out there!" gasped britton, in some alarm. "don't let that thing slip!" "doesn't this castle belong to me?" i demanded, considerably impressed by the ease with which he swung the sledge. a very dangerous person, i began to perceive. "it does, mein herr," shouted all of them gladly, and touched their forelocks. "everything is yours," added old conrad, with a comprehensive sweep of his hand that might have put the whole universe in my name. "smash that padlock, max," i said after a second's hesitation. "i'll bet he can't do it," said britton, ingeniously. very reluctantly max bared his great arms, spit upon his hands, and, with a pitiful look at his parents, prepared to deal the first blow upon the ancient padlock. the old couple turned their heads away, and put their fingers to their ears, cringing like things about to be whipped. "now, one--two--three!" cried i, affecting an enthusiasm i didn't feel. the sledge fell upon the padlock and rebounded with almost equal force. the sound of the crash must have disturbed every bird and bat in the towers of the grim old pile. but the padlock merely shed a few scabs of rust and rattled back into its customary repose. "see!" cried max, triumphantly. "it cannot be broken." rudolph, his broad face beaming, held the lantern close to the padlock and showed me that it hadn't been dented by the blow. "it is a very fine lock," cried old conrad, with a note of pride in his voice. i began to feel some pride in the thing myself. "it is, indeed," i said. "try once more, max." it seemed to me that he struck with a great deal more confidence than before, and again they all uttered ejaculations of pleasure. i caught dame schmick in the act of thanking god with her fingers. "see here," i exclaimed, facing them angrily, "what does all this mean? you are deceiving me, all of you. now, let's have the truth--every word of it--or out you go to-morrow, the whole lot of you. i insist on knowing who that woman is, why she is here in my hou--my castle, and--everything, do you understand?" apparently they didn't understand, for they looked at me with all the stupidity they could command. "you try, mr. poopendyke," i said, giving it up in despair. he sought to improve on my german, but i think he made it worse. they positively refused to be intelligent. "give me the hammer," i said at last in desperation. max surrendered the clumsy, old-fashioned instrument with a grin and i motioned for them all to stand back. three successive blows with all the might i had in my body failed to shatter the lock, whereupon my choler rose to heights hitherto unknown, i being a very mild-mannered, placid person and averse to anything savouring of the tempestuous. i delivered a savage and resounding thwack upon the broad oak panel of the door, regardless of the destructiveness that might attend the effort. if any one had told me that i couldn't splinter an oak board with a sledge-hammer at a single blow i should have laughed in his face. but as it turned out in this case i not only failed to split the panel but broke off the sledge handle near the head, putting it wholly out of commission for the time being as well as stinging my hands so severely that i doubled up with pain and shouted words that dame schmick could not put into her prayers. the schmicks fairly glowed with joy! afterwards max informed me that the door was nearly six inches thick and often had withstood the assaults of huge battering rams, back in the dim past when occasion induced the primal baron to seek safety in the east wing, which, after all, appears to have been the real, simon pure fortress. the west wing was merely a setting for festal amenities and was by no means feudal in its aspect or appeal. here, as i came to know, the old barons received their friends and feasted them and made merry with the flagon and the horn of plenty; here the humble tithe payer came to settle his dues with gold and silver instead of with blood; here the little barons and baronesses romped and rioted with childish glee; and here the barons grew fat and gross and soggy with laziness and prosperity, and here they died in stupid quiescence. on the other side of that grim, staunch old door they simply went to the other extreme in every particular. there they killed their captives, butchered their enemies, and sometimes died with the daggers of traitors in their shivering backs. as we trudged back to the lower halls, defeated but none the less impressed by our failure to devastate our stronghold, i was struck by the awful barrenness of the surroundings. there suddenly came over me the shocking realisation: the "contents" of the castle, as set forth rather vaguely in the bill of sale, were not what i had been led to consider them. it had not occurred to me at the time of the transaction to insist upon an inventory, and i had been too busy since the beginning of my tenancy to take more than a passing account of my belongings. in excusing myself for this rather careless oversight, i can only say that during daylight hours the castle was so completely stuffed with workmen and their queer utensils that i couldn't do much in the way of elimination, and by night it was so horribly black and lonesome about the place and the halls were so littered with tools and mops and timber that it was extremely hazardous to go prowling about, so i preferred to remain in my own quarters, which were quite comfortable and cosy in spite of the distance between points of convenience. still i was vaguely certain that many articles i had seen about the halls on my first and second visits were no longer in evidence. two or three antique rugs, for instance, were missing from the main hall, and there was a lamentable suggestion of emptiness at the lower end where we had stacked a quantity of rare old furniture in order to make room for the workmen. "herr schmick," said i, abruptly halting my party in the centre of the hall, "what has become of the rugs that were here last week, and where is that pile of furniture we had back yonder?" rudolph allowed the lantern to swing behind his huge legs, intentionally i believe, and i was compelled to relieve him of it in order that we might extract ourselves from his shadow. i have never seen such a colossal shadow as the one he cast. old conrad was not slow in answering. "the gentlemen called day before yesterday, mein herr, and took much away. they will return to-morrow for the remainder." "gentlemen?" i gasped. "remainder?" "the gentlemen to whom the herr count sold the rugs and chairs and chests and--" "what!" i roared. even poopendyke jumped at this sudden exhibition of wrath. "do you mean to tell me that these things have been sold and carried away without my knowledge or consent? i'll have the law--" herr poopendyke intervened. "they had bills of sale and orders for removal of property dated several weeks prior to your purchase, mr. smart. we had to let the articles go. you surely remember my speaking to you about it." "i don't remember anything," i snapped, which was the truth. "why--why, i bought everything that the castle contained. this is robbery! what the dickens do you mean by--" old conrad held up his hands as if expecting to pacify me. i sputtered out the rest of the sentence, which really amounted to nothing. "the count has been selling off the lovely old pieces for the past six months, sir. ach, what a sin! they have come here day after day, these furniture buyers, to take away the most priceless of our treasures, to sell them to the poor rich at twenty prices. i could weep over the sacrifices. i have wept, haven't i, gretel? eh, rudolph? buckets of tears have i shed, mein herr. oceans of them. time after time have i implored him to deny these rascally curio hunters, these blood-sucking--" "but listen to me," i broke in. "do you mean to say that articles have been taken away from the castle since i came into possession?" "many of them, sir. always with proper credentials, believe me. ach, what a spendthrift he is! and his poor wife! ach, gott, how she must suffer. nearly all of the grand paintings, the tapestries that came from france and italy hundreds of years ago, the wonderful old bedsteads and tables that were here when the castle was new--all gone! and for mere songs, mein herr,--the cheapest of songs! i--i--" "please don't weep now, herr schmick," i made haste to exclaim, seeing lachrymose symptoms in his blear old eyes. then i became firm once more. this knavery must cease, or i'd know the reason why. "the next man who comes here to cart away so much as a single piece is to be kicked out. do you understand? these things belong to me. kick him into the river. or, better still, notify me and i'll do it. why, if this goes on we'll soon be deprived of anything to sit on or sleep in or eat from! lock the doors, conrad, and don't admit any one without first consulting me. by jove, i'd like to wring that rascal's neck. a count! umph!" "ach, he is of the noblest family in all the land," sighed old gretel. "his grandfather was a fine man." i contrived to subdue my rage and disappointment and somewhat loudly returned to the topic from which we were drifting. "as for those beastly padlocks, i shall have them filed off to-morrow. i give you warning, conrad, if the keys are not forthcoming before noon to-morrow, i'll file 'em off, so help me." "they are yours to destroy, mein herr, god knows," said he dismally. "it is a pity to destroy fine old padlocks--" "well, you wait and see," said i, grimly. his face beamed once more. "ach, i forgot to say that there are padlocks on the _other_ side of the door, just as on this side. it will be of no use to destroy these. the door still could not be forced. mein gott! how thankful i am to have remembered it in time." "confound you, schmick, i believe you actually want to keep me out of that part of the castle," i exploded. the four of them protested manfully, even gretel. "i have a plan, sir," said britton. "why not place a tall ladder in the courtyard and crawl in through one of the windows?" "splendid! that's what we'll do!" i cried enthusiastically. "and now let's go to bed! we will breakfast at eight, mrs. schmick. the early bird catches the worm, you know." "will you see the american ladies and gentlemen who are coming to-morrow to pick out the--" "yes, i'll see them," said i, compressing my lips. "don't let me over-sleep, britton." "i shan't, sir," said he. sleep evaded me for hours. what with the possible proximity of an undesirable feminine neighbour, mysterious and elusive though she may prove to be, and the additional dread of dogs and babies, to say nothing of the amazing delinquencies to be laid to the late owner of the place, and the prospect of a visit from coarse and unfeeling bargain-hunters on the morrow, it is really not surprising that i tossed about in my baronial bed, counting sheep backwards and forwards over hedges and fences until the vociferous cocks in the stable yard began to send up their clarion howdy-dos to the sun. strangely enough, with the first peep of day through the decrepit window shutters i fell into a sound sleep. britton got nothing but grunts from me until half-past nine. at that hour he came into my room and delivered news that aroused me more effectually than all the alarm clocks or alarm cocks in the world could have done. "get up, sir, if you please," he repeated the third time. "the party of americans is below, sir, rummaging about the place. they have ordered the workmen to stop work, sir, complaining of the beastly noise they make, and the dust and all that, sir. they have already selected half a dozen pieces and they have brought enough porters and carriers over in the boats to take the stuff away in--" "where is poopendyke?" i cried, leaping out of bed. "i don't want to be shaved, britton, and don't bother about the tub." he had filled my twentieth century portable tub, recently acquired, and was nervously creating a lather in my shaving mug, "you look very rough, sir." "so much the better." "mr. poopendyke is in despair, sir. he has tried to explain that nothing is for sale, but the gentlemen say they are onto his game. they go right on yanking things about and putting their own prices on them and reserving them. they are perfectly delighted, sir, to have found so many old things they really want for their new houses." "i'll--i'll put a stop to all this," i grated, seeing red for an instant. "and the ladies, sir! there are three of them, all from new york city, and they keep on saying they are completely ravished, sir,--with joy, i take it. your great sideboard in the dining-room is to go to mrs. riley-werkheimer, and the hall-seat that the first baron used to throw his armour on when he came in from--" "great snakes!" i roared. "they haven't moved it, have they? it will fall to pieces!" "no, sir. they are piling sconces and candelabra and andirons on it, regardless of what mr. poopendyke says. you'd better hurry, sir. here is your collar and necktie--" "i don't want 'em. where the dickens are my trousers?" his face fell. "being pressed, sir, god forgive me!" "get out another pair, confound you, britton. what are we coming to?" he began rummaging in the huge clothespress, all the while regaling me with news from the regions below. "mr. poopendyke has gone up to his room, sir, with his typewriter. the young lady insisted on having it. she squealed with joy at seeing an antique typewriter and he--he had to run away with it, 'pon my soul he did, sir." i couldn't help laughing. "and your golf clubs, mr. smart. the young gentleman of the party is perfectly carried away with them. he says they're the real thing, the genuine sixteenth century article. they _are_ a bit rusted, you'll remember. i left him out in the courtyard trying your brassie and mid-iron, sir, endeavouring to loft potatoes over the south wall. i succeeded in hiding the balls, sir. just as i started upstairs i heard one of the new window panes in the banquet hall smash, sir, so i take it he must have sliced his drive a bit." "who let these people in?" i demanded in smothered tones from the depths of a sweater i was getting into in order to gain time by omitting a collar. "they came in with the plumbers, sir, at half-past eight. old man schmick tried to keep them out, but they said they didn't understand german and walked right by, leaving their donkeys in the roadway outside." "couldn't rudolph and max stop them?" i cried, as my head emerged. "they were still in bed, sir. i think they're at breakfast now." "good lord!" i groaned, looking at my watch. "nine-thirty! what sort of a rest cure am i conducting here?" we hurried downstairs so fast that i lost one of my bedroom slippers. it went clattering on ahead of us, making a shameful racket on the bare stones, but britton caught it up in time to save it from the clutches of the curio-vandals. my workmen were lolling about the place, smoking vile pipes and talking in guttural whispers. all operations appeared to have ceased in my establishment at the command of the far from idle rich. two portly gentlemen in fedoras were standing in the middle of the great hall, discussing the merits of a dingy old spinet that had been carried out of the music room by two lusty porters from the hotel. from somewhere in the direction of the room where the porcelains and earthenware were stored came the shrill, excited voices of women. the aged schmicks were sitting side by side on a window ledge, with the rigid reticence of wax figures. as i came up, i heard one of the strangers say to the other: "well, if you don't want it, i'll take it. my wife says it can be made into a writing desk with a little--" "i beg your pardon, gentlemen," said i confronting them. "will you be good enough to explain this intrusion?" they stared at me as if i were a servant asking for higher wages. the speaker, a fat man with a bristly moustache and a red necktie, drew himself up haughtily. "who the devil are you?" he demanded, fixing me with a glare. i knew at once that he was the kind of an american i have come to hate with a zest that knows no moderation; the kind that makes one ashamed of the national melting pot. i glared back at him. "i happen to be the owner of this place, and you'll oblige me by clearing out." "what's that? here, here, none of that sort of talk, my friend. we're here to look over your stuff, and we mean business, but you won't get anywhere by talking like--" "there is nothing for sale here," i said shortly. "and you've got a lot of nerve to come bolting into a private house--" "say," said the second man, advancing with a most insulting scowl, "we'll understand each other right off the reel, my friend. all you've got to do is to answer us when we ask for prices. now, bear that in mind, and don't try any of your high-and-mighty tactics on us." "just remember that you're a junk-dealer and we'll get along splendidly," said the other, in a tone meant to crush me. "what do you ask for this thing?" tapping the dusty spinet with his walking-stick. it suddenly occurred to me that the situation was humorous. "you will have to produce your references, gentlemen, before i can discuss anything with you," i said, after swallowing very hard. (it must have been my pride.) they stared. "good lord!" gasped the bristly one, blinking his eyes. "don't you know who this gentleman is? you--you appear to be an american. you _must_ know mr. riley-werkheimer of new york." "i regret to say that i have never heard of mr. riley-werkheimer. i did not know that mrs. riley-werkheimer's husband was living. and may i ask who _you_ are?" "oh, i am also a nobody," said he, with a wink at his purple-jowled companion. "i am only poor old rocksworth, the president of the--" "oh, don't say anything more, mr. rocksworth," i cried. "i have heard of _you_. this fine old spinet? well, it has been reduced in price. ten thousand dollars, mr. rocksworth." "ten thousand nothing! i'll take it at seventy-five dollars. and now let's talk about this here hall-seat. my wife thinks it's a fake. what is its history, and what sort of guarantee can you--" "a fake!" i cried in dismay. "my dear mr. rocksworth, that is the very hall-seat that pontius pilate sat in when waiting for an audience with the first of the great teutonic barons. the treaty between the romans and the teutons was signed on that table over there,--the one you have so judiciously selected, i perceive. of course, you know that _this_ was the saxon seat of government. charlemagne lived here with all his court." they tried not to look impressed, but rather overdid it. "that's the sort of a story you fellows always put up, you skinflints from boston. i'll bet my head you _are_ from boston," said mr. rocksworth shrewdly. "i couldn't afford to have you lose your head, mr. rocksworth, so i shan't take you on," said i merrily. "don't get fresh now," said he stiffly. mr. riley-werkheimer walked past me to take a closer look at the seat, almost treading on my toes rather than to give an inch to me. "how can you prove that it's the genuine article?" he demanded curtly. "you have my word for it, sir," i said quietly. "pish tush!" said he. mr. rocksworth turned in the direction of the banquet hall. "carrie!" he shouted. "come here a minute, will you?" "don't shout like that, orson," came back from the porcelain closet. "you almost made me drop this thing." "well, drop it, and come on. this is important." i wiped the moisture from my brow and respectfully put my clenched fists into my pockets. a minute later, three females appeared on the scene, all of them dusting their hands and curling their noses in disgust. "i never saw such a dirty place," said the foremost, a large lady who couldn't, by any circumstance of fate, have been anybody's wife but rocksworth's. "it's filthy! what do you want?" "i've bought this thing here for seventy-five. you said i couldn't get it for a nickle under a thousand. and say, this man tells me the hall seat here belonged to pontius pilate in--" "pardon me," i interrupted, "i merely said that he sat in it. i am not trying to deceive you, sir." "and the treaty was signed on this table," said mr. riley-werkheimer. he addressed himself to a plump young lady with a distorted bust and a twenty-two inch waist. "maude, what do you know about the roman-teutonic treaty? we'll catch you now, my friend," he went on, turning to me. "my daughter is up in ancient history. she's an authority." miss maude appeared to be racking her brain. i undertook to assist her. "i mean the second treaty, after the fall of nuremburg," i explained. "oh," she said, instantly relieved. "was it _really_ signed here, right here in this hall? oh, father! we _must_ have that table." "you are sure there was a treaty, maude?" demanded her parent accusingly. "certainly," she cried. "the teutons ceded alsace-lorraine to--" "pardon me once more," i cried, and this time i plead guilty to a blush, "you are thinking of the other treaty--the one at metz, miss riley-werkheimer. this, as you will recall, ante-dates that one by--oh, several years." "thank you," she said, quite condescendingly. "i was confused for a moment. of course, father, i can't say that it was signed here or on this table as the young man says. i only know that there was a treaty. i do wish you'd come and see the fire-screen i've found--" "let's get this out of our system first," said her father. "if you can show me statistics and the proper proof that this is the genuine table, young man, i'll--" "pray rest easy, sir," i said. "we can take it up later on. the facts are--" "and this pontius pilate seat," interrupted rocksworth, biting off the end of a fresh cigar. "what about it? got a match?" "get the gentleman a match, britton," i said, thereby giving my valet an opportunity to do his exploding in the pantry. "i can only affirm, sir, that it is common history that pontius pilate spent a portion of his exile here in the sixth century. it is reasonable to assume that he sat in this seat, being an old man unused to difficult stairways. he--" "buy it, orson," said his wife, with authority. "we'll take a chance on it. if it isn't the right thing, we can sell it to the second-hand dealers. what's the price?" "a thousand dollars to you, madam," said i. they were at once suspicious. while they were busily engaged in looking the seat over as the porters shifted it about at all angles, i stepped over and ordered my workmen to resume their operations. i was beginning to get sour and angry again, having missed my coffee. from the culinary regions there ascended a most horrific odour of fried onions. if there is one thing i really resent it is a fried onion. i do not know why i should have felt the way i did about it on this occasion, but i am mean enough now to confess that i hailed the triumphal entry of that pernicious odour with a meanness of spirit that leaves nothing to be explained. "good gracious!" gasped the aristocratic mrs. riley-werkheimer, holding her nose. "do you smell _that_"? "onions! my gawd!" sniffed maude. "how i hate 'em!" mr. rocksworth forgot his dignity. "hate 'em?" he cried, his eyes rolling. "i just love 'em!" "orson!" said his wife, transfixing him with a glare. "_what_ will people think of you?" "i like 'em too," admitted mr. riley-werkheimer, perceiving at once whom she meant by "people." he puffed out his chest. at that instant the carpenters, plumbers and stone masons resumed their infernal racket, while scrubwomen, polishers and painters began to move intimately among us. "here!" roared mr. rocksworth. "stop this beastly noise! what the deuce do you mean, sir, permitting these scoundrels to raise the dead like this? confound 'em, i stopped them once. here! you! let up on that, will you?" i moved forward apologetically. "i am afraid it is not onions you smell, ladies and gentlemen." i had taken my cue with surprising quickness. "they _are_ raising the dead. the place is fairly alive with dead rats and--" "good lord!" gasped riley-werkheimer. "we'll get the bubonic plague here." "oh, i know _onions_," said rocksworth calmly. "can't fool me on onions. they _are_ onions, ain't they, carrie?" "they _are_!" said she. "what a pity to have this wonderful old castle actually devastated by workmen! it is an outrage--a crime. i should think the owner would turn over in his grave." "unhappily, i am the owner, madam," said i, slyly working my foot back into an elusive slipper. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself," she said, eyeing me coldly with a hitherto unexposed lorgnon. "i am," said i. "you quite took me by surprise. i should have made myself more presentable if i had known--" "well, let's move on upstairs," said rocksworth. addressing the porters he said: "you fellows get this lot of stuff together and i'll take an option on it. i'll be over to-morrow to close the deal, mr.--mr.--now, where is the old florentine mirror the count was telling us about?" "the count?" said i, frowning. "yes, the _real_ owner. you can't stuff me with your talk about being the proprietor here, my friend. you see, we happen to _know_ the count." they all condescended to laugh at me. i don't know what i should have said or done if britton had not returned with a box of matches at that instant--sulphur matches which added subtly to the growing illusion. almost simultaneously there appeared in the lower hall a lanky youth of eighteen. he was a loud-voiced, imperious sort of chap with at least three rolls to his trousers and a plum-coloured cap. "say, these clubs are the real stuff, all right, all right. they're as brittle as glass. see what i did to 'em. we can hae 'em spliced and rewound and i'll hang 'em on my wall. all i want is the heads anyhow." he held up to view a headless mid-iron and brassie, and triumphantly waved a splendid cleek. my favourite clubs! i could play better from a hanging lie with that beautiful brassie than with any club i ever owned and as for the iron, i was deadly with it. he lit a cigarette and threw the match into a pile of shavings. old conrad returned to life at that instant and stamped out the incipient blaze. "i shouldn't consider them very good clubs, harold, if they break off like that," said his mother. "what do you know about clubs?" he snapped, and i at once knew what class he was in at the preparatory school. if i was ever like one of these, said i to myself, god rest the sage soul of my uncle rilas! the situation was no longer humorous. i could put up with anything but the mishandling of my devoted golf clubs. striding up to him, i snatched the remnants from his hands. "you infernal cub!" i roared. "haven't you any more sense than to smash a golf club like that? for two cents i'd break this putter over your head." "father!" he yelled indignantly. "who is this mucker?" mr. rocksworth bounced toward me, his cane raised. i whirled upon him. "how dare you!" he shouted. the ladies squealed. if he expected me to cringe, he was mightily mistaken. my blood was up. i advanced. "paste him, dad!" roared harold. but mr. rocksworth suddenly altered his course and put the historic treaty table between him and me. he didn't like the appearance of my rather brawny fist. "you big stiff!" shouted harold. afterwards it occurred to me that this inelegant appellation may have been meant for his father, but at the time i took it to be aimed at me. before harold quite knew what was happening to him, he was prancing down the long hall with my bony fingers grasping his collar. coming to the door opening into the outer vestibule, i drew back my foot for a final aid to locomotion. acutely recalling the fact that slippers are not designed for kicking purposes, i raised my foot, removed the slipper and laid it upon a taut section of his trousers with all of the melancholy force that i usually exert in slicing my drive off the tee. i shall never forget the exquisite spasm of pleasure his plaintive "ouch!" gave me. then harold passed swiftly out of my life. mr. rocksworth, reinforced by four reluctant mercenaries in the shape of porters, was advancing upon me. somehow i had a vague, but unerring instinct that some one had fainted, but i didn't stop to inquire. without much ado, i wrested the cane from him and sent it scuttling after harold. "now, get out!" i roared. "you shall pay for this!" he sputtered, quite black in the face. "grab him, you infernal cowards!" but the four porters slunk away, and mr. rocksworth faced me alone. rudolph and max, thoroughly fed and _most_ prodigious, were bearing down upon us, accounting for the flight of the mercenaries. "get out!" i repeated. "i am the owner of this place, mr. rocksworth, and i am mad through and through. skip!" "i'll have the law--" "law be hanged!" "if it costs me a million, i'll get--" "it _will_ cost you a million if you don't get!" i advised him, seeing that he paused for want of breath. i left him standing there, but had the presence of mind to wave my huge henchmen away. mr. riley-werkheimer approached, but very pacifically. he was paler than he will ever be again in his life, i fear. "this is most distressing, most distressing, mr.-- mr.-- ahem! i've never been so outraged in my life. i--but, wait!" he had caught the snap in my atavistic eye. "i am not seeking trouble. we will go, sir. i--i--i think my wife has quite recovered. are--are you all right, my dear?" i stood aside and let them file past me. mrs. riley-werkheimer moved very nimbly for one who had just been revived by smelling-salts. as her husband went by, he half halted in front of me. a curious glitter leaped into his fishy eyes. "i'd give a thousand dollars to be free to do what you did to that insufferable puppy, mr.--mr.--ahem. a cool thousand, damn him!" i had my coffee upstairs, far removed from the onions. a racking headache set in. never again will i go without my coffee so long. it always gives me a headache. chapter iii i converse with a mystery late in the afternoon, i opened my door, hoping that the banging of hammers and the buzz of industry would have ceased, but alas! the noise was even more deafening than before. i was still in a state of nerves over the events of the morning. there had been a most distressing lack of poise on my part, and i couldn't help feeling after it was all over that my sense of humour had received a shock from which it was not likely to recover in a long time. there was but little consolation in the reflection that my irritating visitors deserved something in the shape of a rebuff; i could not separate myself from the conviction that my integrity as a gentleman had suffered in a mistaken conflict with humour. my headache, i think, was due in a large measure to the sickening fear that i had made a fool of myself, notwithstanding my efforts to make fools of them. my day was spoilt. my plans were upset and awry. espying britton in the gloomy corridor, i shouted to him, and he came at once. "britton," said i, as he closed the door, "do you think they will carry out their threat to have the law on me? mr. rocksworth was very angry--and put out. he is a power, as you know." "i think you are quite safe, sir," said he. "i've been waiting outside since two o'clock to tell you something, sir, but hated to disturb you. i--" "thank you, britton, my head was aching dreadfully." "yes, sir. quite so. shortly before two, sir, one of the porters from the hotel came over to recover a gold purse mrs. riley-werkheimer had dropped in the excitement, and he informed mr. poopendyke that the whole party was leaving at four for dresden. i asked particular about the young man, sir, and he said they had the doctor in to treat his stomach, sir, immediately after they got back to the hotel." "his stomach? but i distinctly struck him on the verso." "i know, sir; but it seems that he swallowed his cigarette." to my shame, i joined britton in a roar of laughter. afterwards i recalled, with something of a shock, that it was the first time i had ever heard my valet laugh aloud. he appeared to be in some distress over it himself, for he tried to turn it off into a violent fit of coughing. he is such a faithful, exemplary servant that i made haste to pound him on the back, fearing the worst. i could not get on at all without britton. he promptly recovered. "i beg pardon, sir," said he. "will you have your shave and tub now, sir?" later on, somewhat refreshed and relieved, i made my way to the little balcony, first having issued numerous orders and directions to the still stupefied schmicks, chief among which was an inflexible command to keep the gates locked against all comers. the sun was shining brightly over the western hills, and the sky was clear and blue. the hour was five i found on consulting my watch. naturally my first impulse was to glance up at the still loftier balcony in the east wing. it was empty. there was nothing in the grim, formidable prospect to warrant the impression that any one dwelt behind those dismantled windows, and i experienced the vague feeling that perhaps it had been a dream after all. far below at the foot of the shaggy cliff ran the historic donau, serene and muddy, all rhythmic testimonials to the contrary. with something of a shudder i computed the distance from my eerie perch to the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. five hundred feet, at least; an impregnable wall of nature surmounted by a now rank and obsolete obstruction built by the hand of man: a fortress that defied the legions of old but to-day would afford no more than brief and even desultory target practice for a smart battery. to scale the cliff, however, would be an impossibility for the most resourceful general in the world. all about me were turrets and minarets, defeated by the ancient and implacable foe--time. shattered crests of towers hung above me, grey and forbidding, yet without menace save in their senile prerogative to collapse without warning. tiny windows marked the face of my still sturdy walls, like so many pits left by the pox, and from these in the good old feudal days a hundred marksmen had thrust their thunderous blunderbusses to clear the river of vain-glorious foes. from the scalloped bastions cross-bowmen of even darker ages had shot their random bolts; while in the niches of lower walls futile pikemen waited for the impossible to happen: the scaling of the cliff! friend and foe alike came to the back door of schloss rothhoefen, and there found welcome or stubborn obstacles that laughed at time and locksmiths: monstrous gates that still were strong enough to defy a mighty force. there was my great stone-paved courtyard, flanked on all sides by disintegrating buildings once occupied by serfs and fighting men; the stables in which chargers and beasts of burden had slept side by side until called by the night's work or the day's work, as war or peace prescribed, ranged close by the gates that opened upon the steep, winding roadway that now dismayed all modern steeds save the conquering ass. here too were the remains of a once noble garden, and here were the granaries and the storehouses. far below me were the dungeons, with dead men's bones on their dripping floors; and somewhere in the heart of the peak were secret, unknown passages, long since closed by tumbling rocks and earth, as darkly mysterious as the streets in the buried cities of egypt. across the river and below me stood the walled-in town that paid tribute to the good and bad rothhoefens in those olden days: a red-tiled, gloomy city that stood as a monument to long-dead ambitions. a peaceful, quiet town that had survived its parlous centuries of lust and greed, and would go on living to the end of time. so here i sat me down, almost at the top of my fancy, to wonder if it were not folly as well! above me soared huge white-bellied birds, cousins germain to my dreams, but alas! infinitely more sensible in that they roamed for a more sustaining nourishment than the so-called food for thought. i looked backward to the tender years when my valiant young heart kept pace with a fertile brain in its swiftest flights, and pinched myself to make sure that this was not all imagination. was i really living in a feudal castle with romance shadowing me at every step? was this i, the dreamer of twenty years ago? or was i the last of the rothhoefens and not john bellamy smart, of madison avenue, new york? the sun shone full upon me as i sat there in my little balcony, but i liked the dry, warm glare of it. to be perfectly frank, the castle was a bit damp. i had had a pain in the back of my neck for two whole days. the sooner i got at my novel and finished it up the better, i reflected. then i could go off to the baths somewhere. but would i ever settle down to work? would the plumbers ever get off the place? (they were the ones i seemed to suspect the most.) suddenly, as i sat there ruminating, i became acutely aware of something white on the ledge of the topmost window in the eastern tower. even as i fixed my gaze upon it, something else transpired. a cloud of soft, wavy, luxurious brown hair eclipsed the narrow white strip and hung with spreading splendour over the casement ledge, plainly, indubitably to dry in the sun! my neighbour had washed her hair! and it was really a most wonderful head of hair. i can't remember ever having seen anything like it, except in the advertisements. for a long time i sat there trying to pierce the blackness of the room beyond the window with my straining eyes, deeply sensitive to a curiosity that had as its basic force the very natural anxiety to know what disposition she had made of the rest of her person in order to obtain this rather startling effect. of course, i concluded, she was lying on a couch of some description, with her head in the window. that was quite clear, even to a dreamer. and perhaps she was reading a novel while the sun shone. my fancy went to the remotest ends of probability: she might even be reading one of mine! what a glorious, appealing, sensuous thing a crown of hair--but just then mr. poopendyke came to my window. "may i interrupt you for a moment, mr. smart?" he inquired, as he squinted at me through his ugly bone-rimmed glasses. "come here, poopendyke," i commanded in low, excited tones. he hesitated. "you won't fall off," i said sharply. although the window is at least nine feet high, poopendyke stooped as he came through. he always does it, no matter how tall the door. it is a life-long habit with him. have i mentioned that my worthy secretary is six feet four, and as thin as a reed? i remember speaking of his knees. he is also a bachelor. "it is a dreadful distance down there," he murmured, flattening himself against the wall and closing his eyes. a pair of slim white hands at that instant indolently readjusted the thick mass of hair and quite as casually disappeared. i failed to hear mr. poopendyke's remark. "i think, sir," he proceeded, "it would be a very good idea to get some of our correspondence off our hands. a great deal of it has accumulated in the past few weeks. i wish to say that i am quite ready to attend to it whenever--" "time enough for letters," said i, still staring. "we ought to clean them all up before we begin on the romance, sir. that's my suggestion. we shan't feel like stopping for a lot of silly letters--by the way, sir, when do you expect to start on the romance?" he usually spoke of them as romances. they were not novels to poopendyke. i came to my feet, the light of adventure in my eye. "this very instant, poopendyke," i exclaimed. his face brightened. he loves work. "splendid! i will have your writing tablets ready in--" "first of all, we _must_ have a ladder. have you seen to that?" "a ladder?" he faltered, putting one foot back through the window in a most suggestive way. "oh," said i, remembering, "i haven't told you, have i? look! up there in that window. do you see _that_?" "what is it, sir? a rug?" "rug! great scott, man, don't you know a woman's hair when you see it?" "i've never--er--never seen it--you might say--just like that. is it _hair_?" "it is. you _do_ see it, don't you?" "how did it get there?" "good! now i know i'm not dreaming. come! there's no time to be lost. we may be able to get up there before she hears us!" i was through the window and half way across the room before his well-meant protest checked me. "for heaven's sake, mr. smart, don't be too hasty. we can't rush in upon a woman unexpectedly like this. who knows? she may be entirely--" he caught himself up sharply, blinked, and then rounded out his sentence in safety with the word "deshabille." i was not to be turned aside by drivel of that sort; so, with a scornful laugh, i hurried on and was soon in the courtyard, surrounded by at least a score of persons who madly inquired where the fire was, and wanted to help me to put it out. at last we managed to get them back at their work, and i instructed old conrad to have the tallest ladder brought to me at once. "there is no such thing about the castle," he announced blandly, puffing away at his enormous pipe. his wife shook her head in perfect serenity. somewhat dashed, i looked about me in quest of proof that they were lying to me. there was no sign of anything that even resembled a ladder. "where are your sons?" i demanded. the old couple held up their hands in great distress. "herr britton has them working their souls out, turning a windlass outside the gates--ach, that terrible invention of his!" groaned old conrad. "my poor sons are faint with fatigue, mein herr. you should see them perspire,--and hear them pant for breath." "it is like the blowing of the forge bellows," cried his wife. "my poor little boys!" "fetch them at once conrad," said i, cudgelling my brain for a means to surmount a present difficulty, and but very slightly interested in britton's noble contraption. the brothers soon appeared and, as if to give the lie to their fond parents, puffed complacently at their pipes and yawned as if but recently aroused from a nap. their sleeves were rolled up and i marvelled at the size of their arms. "is britton dead?" i cried, suddenly cold with the fear that they had mutinied against this brusque english overlord. they smiled. "he is waiting to be pulled up again, sir," said max. "we left him at the bottom when you sent for us. it is for us to obey." of course, everything had to wait while my obedient vassals went forth and reeled the discomforted britton to the top of the steep. he sputtered considerably until he saw me laughing at him. instantly he was a valet once more, no longer a crabbed genius. i had thought of a plan, only to discard it on measuring with my eye the distance from the ground to the lowest window in the east wing, second floor back. even by standing on the shoulders of rudolph, who was six feet five, i would still find myself at least ten feet short of the window ledge. happily a new idea struck me almost at once. in a jiffy, half a dozen carpenters were at work constructing a substantial ladder out of scantlings, while i stood over them in serene command of the situation. the schmicks segregated themselves and looked on, regarding the window with sly, furtive glances in which there was a distinct note of uneasiness. at last the ladder was complete. resolutely i mounted to the top and peered through the sashless window. it was quite black and repelling beyond. instructing britton and the two brothers to follow me in turn, i clambered over the wide stone sill and lowered myself gingerly to the floor. i will not take up the time or the space to relate my experiences on this first fruitless visit to the east wing of my abiding place. suffice to say, we got as far as the top of the stairs in the vast middle corridor after stumbling through a series of dim, damp rooms, and then found our way effectually blocked by a stout door which was not only locked and bolted, but bore a most startling admonition to would-be trespassers. pinned to one of the panels there was a dainty bit of white note-paper, with these satiric words written across its surface in a bold, feminine hand: "_please keep out. this is private property._" most property owners no doubt would have been incensed by this calm defiance on the part of a squatter, either male or female, but not i. the very impudence of the usurper appealed to me. what could be more delicious than her serene courage in dispossessing me, with the stroke of a pen, of at least two-thirds of my domicile, and what more exciting than the thought of waging war against her in the effort to regain possession of it? really it was quite glorious! here was a happy, enchanting bit of feudalism that stirred my romantic soul to its very depths. i was being defied by a woman--an amazon! even my grasping imagination could not have asked for more substantial returns than this. to put her to rout! to storm the castle! to make her captive and chuck her into my dungeon! splendid! we returned to the courtyard and held a counsel of war. i put all of the schmicks on the grill, but they stubbornly disclaimed all interest in or knowledge of the extraordinary occupant of the east wing. "we can smoke her out, sir," said britton. i could scarcely believe my ears. "britton," said i severely, "you are a brute. i am surprised. you forget there is an innocent babe--maybe a collection of them--over there. and a dog. we shan't do anything heathenish, britton. please bear that in mind. there is but one way: we must storm the place. i will not be defied to my very nose." i felt it to see if it was not a little out of joint. "it is a good nose." "it is, sir," said britton, and poopendyke, in a perfect ecstasy of loyalty, shouted: "long live your nose, sir!" my german vassals waved their hats, perceiving that a demonstration was required without in the least knowing what it was about. "to-night we'll plan our campaign," said i, and then returned in some haste to my balcony. the mists of the waning day were rising from the valley below. the smell of rain was in the air. i looked in vain for the lady's tresses. they were gone. the sun was also gone. his work for the day was done. i wondered whether she was putting up her hair with her own fair hands or was there a lady's maid in her menage. poopendyke and i dined in solemn grandeur in the great banquet hall, attended by the clumsy max. "mr. poopendyke," said i, after max had passed me the fish for the second time on my right side--and both times across my shoulder,--"we must engage a butler and a footman to-morrow. likewise a chef. this is too much." "might i suggest that we also engage a chambermaid? the beds are very poorly--" i held up my hand, smiling confidently. "we may capture a very competent chambermaid before the beds are made up again," i said, with meaning. "she doesn't write like a chambermaid," he reminded me. whereupon we fell to studying the very aristocratic chirography employed by my neighbour in barring me from my own possessions. after the very worst meal that frau schmick had ever cooked, and the last one that max under any circumstance would be permitted to serve, i took myself off once more to the enchanted balcony. i was full of the fever of romance. a perfect avalanche of situations had been tumbling through my brain for hours, and, being a provident sort of chap in my own way, i decided to jot them down on a pad of paper before they quite escaped me or were submerged by others. the night was very black and tragic, swift storm clouds having raced up to cover the moon and stars. with a radiant lanthorn in the window behind me, i sat down with my pad and my pipe and my pencil. the storm was not far away. i saw that it would soon be booming about my stronghold, and realised that my fancy would have to work faster than it had ever worked before if half that i had in mind was to be accomplished. why i should have courted a broken evening on the exposed balcony, instead of beginning my labours in my study, remains an unrevealed mystery unless we charge it to the account of a much-abused eccentricity attributed to genius and which usually turns out to be arrant stupidity. i have no patience with the so-called eccentricity of genius. it is merely an excuse for unkempt hair, dirty finger-nails, unpolished boots, open placquets, bad manners and a tendency to forget pecuniary obligations, to say nothing of such trifles as besottednesss, vulgarity and the superior knack of knowing how to avoid making suitable provision for one's wife and children. all the shabby short-comings in the character of an author, artist or actor are blithely charged to genius, and we are content to let it go at that for fear that other people may think we don't know any better. as for myself, i may be foolish and inconsequential, but heaven will bear witness that i am not mean enough to call myself a genius. so we will call it stupidity that put me where i might be rained upon at any moment, or permanently interrupted by a bolt of lightning. (there were low mutterings of thunder behind the hills, and faint flashes as if a monstrous giant had paused to light his pipe on the evil, wind-swept peaks of the caucasus mountains.) i was scribbling away in serene contempt for the physical world, when there came to my ears a sound that gave me a greater shock than any streak of lightning could have produced and yet left sufficient life in me to appreciate the sensation of being electrified. a woman's voice, speaking to me out of the darkness and from some point quite near at hand! indeed, i could have sworn it was almost at my elbow; she might have been peering over my shoulder to read my thoughts. "i beg your pardon, but would you mind doing me a slight favour?" those were the words, uttered in a clear, sweet, perfectly confident voice, as of one who never asked for favours, but exacted them. i looked about me, blinking, utterly bewildered. no one was to be seen. she laughed. without really meaning to do so, i also laughed,--nervously, of course. "can't you see me?" she asked. i looked intently at the spot from which the sound seemed to come: a perfectly solid stone block less than three feet from my right shoulder. it must have been very amusing. she laughed again. i flushed resentfully. "where are you?" i cried out rather tartly. "i can see you quite plainly, and you are very ugly when you scowl, sir. are you scowling at me?" "i don't know," i replied truthfully, still searching for her. "does it seem so to you?" "yes." "then i must be looking in the right direction," i cried impolitely. "you must be--ah!" my straining eyes had located a small, oblong blotch in the curve of the tower not more than twenty feet from where i stood, and on a direct line with my balcony. true, i could not at first see a face, but as my eyes grew a little more accustomed to the darkness, i fancied i could distinguish a shadow that might pass for one. "i didn't know that little window was there," i cried, puzzled. "it isn't," she said. "it is a secret loop-hole, and it isn't here except in times of great duress. see! i can close it." the oblong blotch abruptly disappeared, only to reappear an instant later. i was beginning to understand. of course it was in the beleaguered east wing! "i hope i didn't startle you a moment ago." i resolved to be very stiff and formal about it. "may i enquire, madam, what you are doing in my hou--my castle?" "you may." "well," said i, seeing the point, "what are you doing here?" "i am living here," she answered distinctly. "so i perceive," said i, rather too distinctly. "and i have come down to ask a simple, tiny little favour of you, mr. smart," she resumed. "you know my name?" i cried, surprised. "i am reading your last book--are you going?" "just a moment, please," i called out, struck by a splendid idea. reaching inside the window i grasped the lanthorn and brought its rays to bear upon the--perfectly blank wall! i stared open-mouthed and unbelieving. "good heaven! have i been dreaming all this?" i cried aloud. my gaze fell upon two tiny holes in the wall, exposed to view by the bright light of my lamp. they appeared to be precisely in the centre of the spot so recently marked by the elusive oblong. even as i stared at the holes, a slim object that i at once recognised as a finger protruded from one of them and wiggled at me in a merry but exceedingly irritating manner. sensibly i restored the lanthorn to its place inside the window and waited for the mysterious voice to resume. "are you so homely as all that?" i demanded when the shadowy face looked out once more. very clever of me, i thought. "i am considered rather good-looking," she replied, serenely. "please don't do that again. it was very rude of you, mr. smart." "oh, i've seen something of you before this," i said. "you have long, beautiful brown hair--and a dog." she was silent. "i am sure you will pardon me if i very politely ask who you are?" i went on. "that question takes me back to the favour. will you be so very, very kind as to cease bothering me, mr. smart? it is dreadfully upsetting, don't you feeling that at any moment you may rush in and--" "i like that. in my own castle, too!" "there is ample room for both of us," she said sharply. "i shan't be here for more than a month or six weeks, and i am sure we can get along very amiably under the same roof for that length of time if you'll only forget that i am here." "i can't very well do that, madam. you see, we are making extensive repairs about the place and you are proving to be a serious obstacle. i cannot grant your request. it will grieve me enormously if i am compelled to smoke you out but i fear--" "smoke me out!" "perhaps with sulphur," i went on resolutely. "it is said to be very effective." "surely you will not do anything so horrid." "only as a last resort. first, we shall storm the east wing. failing in that we shall rely on smoke. you will admit that you have no right to poach on my preserves." "none whatever," she said, rather plaintively. i can't remember having heard a sweeter voice than hers. of course, by this time, i was thoroughly convinced that she was a lady,--a cultured, high-bred lady,--and an american. i was too densely enveloped by the fogginess of my own senses at this time, however, to take in this extraordinary feature of the case. later on, in the seclusion of my study, the full force of it struck me and i marvelled. that plaintive note in her voice served its purpose. my firmness seemed to dissolve, even as i sought to reinforce it by an injection of harshness into my own manner of speech. "then you should be willing to vacate my premises er--or--" here is where i began to show irresoluteness--"or explain yourself." "won't you be generous?" i cleared my throat nervously. how well they know the cracks in a man's armour! "i am willing to be--amenable to reason. that's all you ought to expect." a fresh idea took root. "can't we effect a compromise? a truce, or something of the sort? all i ask is that you explain your presence here. i will promise to be as generous as possible under the circumstances." "will you give me three days in which to think it over?" she asked, after a long pause. "no." "well, two days?" "i'll give you until to-morrow afternoon at five, when i shall expect you to receive me in person." "that is quite impossible." "but i demand the right to go wherever i please in my own castle. you--" "if you knew just how circumspect i am obliged to be at present you wouldn't impose such terms, mr. smart." "oho! circumspect! that puts a new light on the case. what have you been up to, madam?" i spoke very severely. she very properly ignored the banality. "if i should write you a nice, agreeable letter, explaining as much as i can, won't you be satisfied?" "i prefer to have it by word of mouth." she seemed to be considering. "i will come to this window to-morrow night at this time and--and let you know," she said reluctantly. "very well," said i. "we'll let it rest till then." "and, by the way, i have something more to ask of you. is it quite necessary to have all this pounding and hammering going on in the castle? the noise is dreadful. i don't ask it on my own account, but for the baby. you see, she's quite ill with a fever, mr. smart. perhaps you've heard her crying." "the baby?" i muttered. "it is nothing serious, of course. the doctor was here to-day and he reassured me--" "a--a doctor here to-day?" i gasped. she laughed once more. verily, it was a gentle, high-bred laugh. "will you please put a stop to the noise for a day or two?" she asked, very prettily. "certainly," said i too surprised to say anything else. "is--is there anything else?" "nothing, thank you," she replied. then: "good night, mr. smart. you are very good." "don't forget to-morrow--" but the oblong aperture disappeared with a sharp click, and i found myself staring at the blank, sphynx-like wall. taking up my pad, my pipe and my pencil, and leaving all of my cherished ideas out there in the cruel darkness, never to be recovered,--at least not in their original form,--i scrambled through the window, painfully scraping my knee in passing,--just in time to escape the deluge. i am sure i should have enjoyed a terrific drenching if she had chosen to subject me to it. chapter iv i become an ancestor true to the promise she had extracted from me, i laid off my workmen the next morning. they trooped in bright and early, considerably augmented by fresh recruits who came to share the benefits of my innocuous prodigality, and if i live to be a thousand i shall never again experience such a noisome half hour as the one i spent in listening to their indignant protests against my tyrannical oppression of the poor and needy. in the end, i agreed to pay them, one and all, for a full day's work, and they went away mollified, calling me a true gentleman to my face and heaven knows what to my back. i spoke gently to them of the sick baby. with one voice they all shouted: "but _our_ babies are sick!" one octogenarian--a carpenter's apprentice--heatedly informed me, through schmick, that he had a child two weeks old that would die before morning if deprived of proper food and nourishment. somewhat impressed by this pitiful lament, i enquired how his wife was getting along. the ancient, being in a placid state of senility, courteously thanked me for my interest, and answered that she had been dead for forty-nine years, come september. i overlooked the slight discrepancy. during the remainder of the day, i insisted on the utmost quiet in our wing of the castle. poopendyke was obliged to take his typewriter out to the stables, where i dictated scores of letters to him. i caught britton whistling in the kitchen about noon-time, and severely reprimanded him. we went quite to the extreme, however, when we tiptoed about our lofty halls. all of the afternoon we kept a sharp lookout for the doctor, but if he came we were none the wiser. britton went into the town at three with the letters and a telegram to my friends in vienna, imploring them to look up a corps of efficient servants for me and to send them on post-haste. i would have included a request for a competent nurse-maid if it hadn't been for a report from poopendyke, who announced that he had caught a glimpse of a very nursy looking person at one of the upper windows earlier in the day. i couldn't, however, for the life of me understand why my neighbour enjoined such rigid silence in our part of the castle and yet permitted that confounded dog of hers to yowl and bark all day. how was i to know that the beast had treed a lizard in the lower hall and couldn't dislodge it? britton returned with news. the ferrymen, with great joy in the telling, informed him that the season for tourists parties was just beginning and that we might expect, with them, to do a thriving and prosperous business during the next month or two. indeed, word already had been received by the tourists company's agent in the town that a party of one hundred and sixty-nine would arrive the next day but one from munchen, bent on visiting my ruin. in great trepidation, i had all of the gates and doors locked and reinforced by sundry beams and slabs, for i knew the overpowering nature of the collective tourist. i may be pardoned if i digress at this time to state that the party of one hundred and sixty-nine, both stern and opposite, besieged my castle on the next day but one, with the punctuality of locusts, and despite all of my precautions, all of my devices, all of my objections, effected an entrance and over-ran the place like a swarm of ants. the feat that could not have been accomplished by an armed force was successfully managed by a group of pedagogues from ohio, to whom "keep off the grass" and "no trespass" are signs of utter impotence on the part of him who puts them up, and ever shall be, world without end. they came, they saw, they conquered, and they tried to buy picture postcards of me. i mention this in passing, lest you should be disappointed. more anon. punctually at nine o'clock, i was in the balcony, thanking my lucky stars that it was a bright, moonlit night. there was every reason to rejoice in the prospect of seeing her face clearly when she appeared at her secret little window. naturally, i am too much of a gentleman to have projected unfair means of illuminating her face, such as the use of a pocket electric lamp or anything of that sort. i am nothing if not gallant,--when it comes to a pinch. besides, i was reasonably certain that she would wear a thick black veil. in this i was wrong. she wore a white, filmy one, but it served the purpose. i naturally concluded that she was homely. "good evening," she said, on opening the window. "good evening," said i, contriving to conceal my disappointment. "how is the baby?" "very much better, thank you. it was so good of you to stop the workmen." [illustration: i sat bolt upright and yelled; "get out!"] "won't you take off your veil and stay awhile?" i asked, politely facetious. "it isn't quite fair to me, you know." her next remark brought a blush of confusion to my cheek. a silly notion had induced me to don my full evening regalia, spike-tail coat and all. nothing could have been more ludicrously incongruous than my appearance, i am sure, and i never felt more uncomfortable in my life. "how very nice you look in your new suit," she said, and i was aware of a muffled quality in her ordinarily clear, musical voice. she was laughing at me. "are you giving a dinner party?" "i usually dress for dinner," i lied with some haughtiness. "and so does poopendyke," i added as an afterthought. my blush deepened as i recalled the attenuated blazer in which my secretary breakfasted, lunched and dined without discrimination. "for gretel's benefit, i presume." "aha! you _do_ know gretel, then?" "oh, i've known her for years. isn't she a quaint old dear?" "i shall discharge her in the morning," said i severely. "she is a liar and her husband is a poltroon. they positively deny your existence in any shape or form." "they won't pay any attention to you," said she, with a laugh. "they are fixtures, quite as much so as the walls themselves. you'll not be able to discharge them. my grandfather tried it fifty years ago and failed. after that he made it a point to dismiss conrad every day in the year and gretel every other day. as well try to remove the mountain, mr. smart. they know you can't get on without them." "i have discharged her as a cook," i said, triumphantly. "a new one will be here by the end of the week." "oh," she sighed plaintively, "how glad i am. she is an atrocious cook. i don't like to complain, mr. smart, but really it is getting so that i can't eat _anything_ she sends up. it is jolly of you to get in a new one. now we shall be very happy." "by jove!" said i, completely staggered by these revelations. unable to find suitable words to express my sustained astonishment, i repeated: "by jove!" but in a subdued tone. "i have thought it over, mr. smart," she went on in a business-like manner, "and i believe we will get along much better together if we stay apart." ambiguous remarks ordinarily reach my intelligence, but i was so stunned by preceding admissions that i could only gasp: "do you mean to say you've been subsisting all this time on _my_ food?" "oh, dear me, no! how can you think that of me? gretel merely cooks the food i buy. she keeps a distinct and separate account of everything, poor thing. i am sure you will not find anything wrong with your bills, mr. smart. but did you hear what i said a moment ago?" "i'm not quite sure that i did." "i prefer to let matters stand just as they are. why should we discommode each other? we are perfectly satisfied as we--" "i will not have my new cook giving notice, madam. you surely can't expect her--or him--to prepare meals for two separate--" "i hadn't thought of that," she interrupted ruefully. "perhaps if i were to pay her--or him--extra wages it would be all right," she added, quickly. "we do not require much, you know." i laughed rather shortly,--meanly, i fear. "this is most extraordinary, madam!" "i--i quite agree with you. i'm awfully sorry it had to turn out as it has. who would have dreamed of your buying the place and coming here to upset everything?" i resolved to be firm with her. she seemed to be taking too much for granted. "much as i regret it, madam, i am compelled to ask you to evacuate--to get out, in fact. this sort of thing can't go on." she was silent for so long that i experienced a slow growth of compunction. just as i was on the point of slightly receding from my position, she gave me another shock. "don't you think it would be awfully convenient if you had a telephone put in, mr. smart?" she said. "it is such a nuisance to send max or rudolph over to town every whip-stitch on errands when a telephone--in your name, of course--would be so much more satisfactory." "a telephone!" i gasped. "circumstances make it quite unwise for me to have a telephone in my own name, but you could have one in yours without creating the least suspicion. you are--" "madam," i cried, and got no farther. "--perfectly free to have a telephone if you want one," she continued. "the doctor came this evening and it really wasn't necessary. don't you see you could have telephoned for me and saved him the trip?" it was due to the most stupendous exertion of self-restraint on my part that i said: "well, i'll be--jiggered," instead of something a little less unique. her audacity staggered me. (i was not prepared at that time to speak of it as superciliousness.) "madam," i exploded, "will you be good enough to listen to me? i am not to be trifled with. to-morrow sometime i shall enter the east wing of this building if i have to knock down all the doors on the place. do you understand, madam?" "i do hope, mr. smart, you can arrange to break in about five o'clock. it will afford me a great deal of pleasure to give you some tea. may i expect you at five--or thereabouts?" her calmness exasperated me. i struck the stone balustrade an emphatic blow with my fist, sorely peeling the knuckles, and ground out: "for two cents i'd do it to-night!" "oh, dear,--oh, dear!" she cried mockingly. "you must be a dreadful woman," i cried out. "first, you make yourself at home in my house; then you succeed in stopping my workmen, steal my cook and men-servants, keep us all awake with a barking dog, defying me to my very face--" "how awfully stern you are!" "i don't believe a word you say about a sick baby,--or a doctor! it's all poppy-cock. to-morrow you will find yourself, bag and baggage, sitting at the bottom of this hill, waiting for--" "wait!" she cried. "are you really, truly in earnest?" "most emphatically!" "then i--i shall surrender," she said, very slowly,--and seriously, i was glad to observe. "that's more like it," i cried, enthusiastically. "on one condition," she said. "you must agree in advance to let me stay on here for a month or two. it--it is most imperative, mr. smart." "i shall be the sole judge of that, madam," i retorted, with some dignity. "by the way," i went on, knitting my brows, "how am i to get into your side of the castle? schmick says he's lost the keys." a good deal depended on her answer. "they shall be delivered to you to-morrow morning, mr. smart," she said, soberly. "good night." the little window closed with a snap and i was left alone in the smiling moonlight. i was vastly excited, even thrilled by the prospect of a sleepless night. something told me i wouldn't sleep a wink, and yet i, who bitterly resent having my sleep curtailed in the slightest degree, held no brief against circumstances. in fact, i rather revelled in the promise of nocturnal distraction. fearing, however, that i might drop off to sleep at three or four o'clock and thereby run the risk of over sleeping, i dashed off to the head of the stairs and shouted for britton. "britton," i said. "i want to be called at seven o'clock sharp in the morning." noting his polite struggle to conceal his astonishment, i told him of my second encounter with the lady across the way. "she won't be expecting you at seven, sir," he remarked. "and, as for that, she may be expecting to call on you, instead of the other way round." "right!" said i, considerably dashed. "besides, sir, would it not be safer to wait till the tourist party has come and gone?" "no tourists enter this place to-morrow or any other day," i declared, firmly. "well, i'd suggest waiting just the same, sir," said he, evidently inspired. "confound them," i growled, somehow absorbing his presentiment. he hesitated for a moment near the door. "will you put in the telephone, sir?" he asked, respectfully. very curiously, i was thinking of it at that instant. "it really wouldn't be a bad idea, britton," i said, startled into committing myself. "save us a great deal of legging it over town and all that sort of thing, eh?" "yes, sir. what i was about to suggest, sir, is that while we're about it we might as well have a system of electric bells put in. that is to say, sir, in both wings of the castle. very convenient, sir, you see, for all parties concerned." "i see," said i, impressed. and then repeated it, a little more impressed after reflection. "i see. you are a very resourceful fellow, britton. i am inclined to bounce all of the schmicks. they have known about this from the start and have lied like thieves. by jove, she must have an extraordinary power over them,--or claim,--or something equally potent. now i think of it, she mentioned a grandfather. that would go to prove she's related in some way to some one, wouldn't it?" "i should consider it to be more than likely, sir," said britton, with a perfectly straight face. he must have been sorely tried in the face of my inane maunderings. "pardon me, sir, but wouldn't it be a tip-top idea to have it out with the schmicks to-night? being, sir, as you anticipate a rather wakeful night, i only make so bold as to suggest it in the hopes you may 'ave some light on the subject before you close your eyes. in other words, sir, so as you won't be altogether in the dark when morning comes. see wot i mean?" "excellent idea, britton. we'll have them up in my study." he went off to summon my double-faced servitors, while i wended my way to the study. there i found. mr. poopendyke, sound asleep in a great arm-chair, both his mouth and his nose open and my first novel also open in his lap. conrad and gretel appeared with britton after an unconscionable lapse of time, partially dressed and grumbling. "where are your sons?" i demanded, at once suspicious. conrad shook his sparsely covered head and mumbled something about each being his brother's keeper, all of which was greek to me until britton explained that they were not to be found in their customary quarters,--that is to say, in bed. of course it was quite clear to me that my excellent giants were off somewhere, serving the interests of the bothersome lady in the east wing. "conrad," said i, fixing the ancient with a stern, compelling gaze, "this has gone quite far enough." "yes, mein herr?" "do you serve me, or do you serve the lady in the east wing?" "i do," said he, with a great deal more wit than i thought he possessed. for a moment i was speechless, but not for the reason you may suspect. i was trying to fix my question and his response quite clearly in my memory so that i might employ them later in the course of a conversation between characters in my forthcoming novel. "i have been talking with the lady this evening," said i. "yes, mein herr; i know," said he. "oh, you do, eh? well, will you be good enough to tell me what the devil is the meaning of all this two-faced, underhanded conduct on your part?" he lowered his head, closed his thin lips and fumbled with the hem of his smock in a significantly sullen manner. it was evident that he meant to defy me. his sharp little eyes sent a warning look at gretel, who instantly ceased her mutterings and gave over asking god to bear witness to something or other. she was always dragging in the deity. "now, see here, conrad, i want the truth from you. who is this woman, and why are you so infernally set upon shielding her? what crime has she committed? tell me at once, or, by the lord harry, out you go to-morrow,--all of you." "i am a very old man," he whined, twisting his gnarled fingers, a suggestion of tears in his voice. "my wife is old, mein herr. you would not be cruel. we have been here for sixty years. the old baron--" "enough!" i cried resolutely. "out with it, man. i mean all that i say." he was still for a long time, looking first at the floor and then at me; furtive, appealing, uncertain little glances from which he hoped to derive comfort by catching me with a twinkle in my eye. i have a stupid, weak way of letting a twinkle appear there even when i am trying to be harsh and domineering. britton has noticed it frequently, i am sure, and i think he rather depends upon it. but now i realised, if never before, that to betray the slightest sign of gentleness would be to forever forfeit my standing as master in my own house. conrad saw no twinkle. he began to weaken. "to-morrow, mein herr, to-morrow," he mumbled, in a final plea. i shook my head. "she will explain everything to-morrow," he went on eagerly. "i am sworn to reveal nothing, mein herr. my wife, too, and my sons. we may not speak until she gives the word. alas! we shall be turned out to die in our--" "we have been faithful servants to the rothhoefens for sixty years," sobbed his wife. "and still are, i suspect," i cried angrily. "ach, mein herr, mein herr!" protested conrad, greatly perturbed. "where are the keys, you old rascal?" i demanded so sternly that even poopendyke was startled. conrad almost resorted to the expediency of grovelling. "forgive! forgive!" he groaned. "i have done only what was best." "produce the keys, sir!" "but not to-night, not to-night," he pleaded. "she will be very angry. she will not like it, mein herr. ach, gott! she will drive us out, she will shame us all! ach, and she who is so gentle and so unhappy and so--so kind, to all of us! i--i cannot--i cannot! no!" mr. poopendyke's common sense came in very handily at this critical juncture. he counselled me to let the matter rest until the next morning, when, it was reasonable to expect, the lady herself would explain everything. further appeal to schmick was like butting one's head against a stone wall, he said. moreover, conrad's loyalty to the lady was most commendable. conrad and gretel beamed on poopendyke. they thanked him so profoundly, that i couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for myself, a tyrant without a backbone. "jah, jah!" conrad cried gladly. "to-morrow she will explain. time enough, herr poopendyke. time enough, eh?" "well," said i, somewhat feebly, "where do i come in?" they caught the note of surrender in my voice and pounced upon their opportunity. before they had finished with me, it was quite thoroughly established that i was not to come in at all until my neighbour was ready to admit me. they convinced me that i was a meek, futile suppliant and not the master of a feudal stronghold. somehow i was made to feel that if i didn't behave myself i stood in considerable danger of being turned off the place. however, we forced something out of schmick before his stalwart sons came tramping up the stairs to rescue him. the old man gave us a touch of inside history concerning schloss rothhoefen and its erstwhile powerful barons, not to minimise in the least sense the peculiar prowess of the present amazon who held forth to-night in the east wing and who, i had some reason to suspect, was one of the family despite the unmistakable flavour of fifth avenue and newport. about the middle of the nineteenth century the last of the real barons,--the powerful, land-owning, despotic barons, i mean,--came to the end of his fourscore years and ten, and was laid away with great pomp and glee by the people of the town across the river. he was the last of the rothhoefens, for he left no male heir. his two daughters had married austrian noblemen, and neither of them produced a male descendant. the estate, already in a state of financial as well as physical disintegration, fell into the hands of women, and went from bad to worse so rapidly that long before the last quarter of the century was fairly begun the castle and the reduced holdings slipped away from the rothhoefens altogether and into the control of the father of the count from whom i purchased the property. the count's father, it appears, was a distiller of great wealth in his day, and a man of action. unfortunately he died before he had the chance to carry out his projects in connection with the rehabilitation of schloss rothhoefen, even then a deserted, ramshackle resort for paying tourists and a mecca for antique and picture dealers. the new count--my immediate predecessor--was not long in dissipating the great fortune left by his father, the worthy distiller. he had run through with the bulk of his patrimony by the time he was twenty-five and was pretty much run down at the heel when he married in the hope of recouping his lost fortune. the schmicks did not like him. they did not approve of him as lord and master, nor was it possible for them to resign themselves to the fate that had put this young scapegrace into the shoes, so to speak, of the grim old barons rothhoefen, who whatever else they may have been in a high-handed sort of way were men to the core. this pretender, this creature without brains or blood, this sponging reprobate, was not to their liking, if i am to quote conrad, who became quite forceful in his harangue against the recent order of things. he, his wife and his sons, he assured me, were full of rejoicing when they learned that the castle had passed from count hohendahl's hands into mine. i, at least, would pay them their wages and i might, in a pinch, be depended upon to pension them when they got too old to be of any use about the castle. at any rate, it seems, i was a distinct improvement over the count, who had been their master for a dozen very lean and unprofitable years. things might be expected to look up a bit, with me at the head of the house. was it not possible for a new and mighty race to rise and take the place of the glorious rothhoefens? a long line of baron schmarts? with me as the prospective root of a thriving family tree! at least, that is what conrad said, and i may be pardoned for quoting him. i am truly sorry the old rascal put it into my head. but the gist of the whole matter was this: there are no more rothhoefens, and soon, god willing, there would be no more hohendahls. long live the schmarts! conrad invariably pronounced my name with the extra consonants and an umlaut. all attempts on my part to connect the lady in the east wing with the history of the extinct rothhoefens were futile. he would not commit himself. "well," said i, yawning in helpless collusion with the sleepy gretel, "we'll let it go over till morning. call me at seven, britton." conrad made haste to assure me that the lady would not receive me before eleven o'clock. he begged me to sleep till nine, and to have pleasant dreams. i went to bed but not to sleep. it was very clear to me that my neighbour was a disturber in every sense of the word. she wouldn't let me sleep. for two hours i tried to get rid of her, but she filtered into my brain and prodded my thoughts into the most violent activity. she wouldn't stay put. my principal thoughts had to do with her identity. somehow i got it into my head that she was one of the female rothhoefens, pitiable nonentities if conrad's estimate is to be accepted. a descendant of one of those girl-bearing daughters of the last baron! it sounded very agreeable to my fancy's ear, and i cuddled the hope that my surmise was not altogether preposterous. my original contention that she was a poor relation of old schmick and somewhat dependent upon him for charity--to say the least--had been set aside for more reliable convictions. instead of being dependent upon the schmicks, she seemed to be in an exalted position that gave her a great deal more power over them than even i possessed: they served her, not me. from time to time there occurred to me the thought that my own position in the household was rather an ignoble one, and that i was a very weak and incompetent successor to baronial privileges, to say nothing of rights. a real baron would have had her out of there before you could mention half of jack robinson, and there wouldn't have been any sleep lost over distracting puzzles. i deplored my lack of bad manners. it was quite reasonable to assume that she was young, but the odds were rather against her being beautiful. pretty women usually adjure such precautions as veils. still, this was speculation, and my reasoning is not always sound, for which i sometimes thank heaven. she had a baby. at least, i suppose it was hers. if not, whose? this set me off on a new and apparently endless round of speculation, obviously silly and sentimental. now i have humbly tried to like babies. my adolescent friends and acquaintances have done their best to educate me along this particular line, with the result that i suppose i despise more babies than any man in the world. my friends, it would appear, are invariably married to each other and they all have babies for me to go into false ecstasies over. no doubt babies are very nice when they don't squawk or pull your nose or jab you in the eye, but through some strange and prevailing misfortune i have never encountered one when it was asleep. if they are asleep, the parents compel me to walk on tip-toe and speak in whispers at long range; the instant they awake and begin to yawp, i am ushered into the presence, or vice versa, and the whole world grows very small and congested and is carried about in swaddling clothes. there is but one way for a bachelor to overcome his horror of babies, and he shouldn't wait too long. i went to sleep about four o'clock, still oppressed by the dread of meeting a new baby. my contact with the one hundred and sixty-nine sight-seers was brief but exceedingly convincing. they invaded the castle before i was out of bed, having--as i afterwards heard--the breweries, an art gallery and the zoological gardens to visit before noon and therefore were required to make an early start. the cathedral, which is always open to visitors and never has any one sleeping in it, was reserved for the afternoon. i was aroused from my belated sleep by the sound of mighty cataracts and the tread of countless elephants. too late i realised that the tourists were upon me! too late i remembered that the door to my room had been left unlocked! the hundred and sixty-nine were huddled outside my door, drinking in the monotonous drivel of the guide who had a shrill, penetrating voice and not the faintest notion of a conscience. i listened in dismay for a moment, and then, actuated by something more than mere fury, leaped out of bed and prepared for a dash across the room to lock the door. on the third stride i whirled and made a flying leap into the bed, scuttling beneath the covers with the speed and accuracy of a crawfish. just in time, too, for the heavy door swung slowly open a second later, and the shrill, explanatory voice was projected loudly into my lofty bed chamber. "come a little closer, please," said the morose man with the cap. "this room was occupied for centuries by the masters of schloss rothhoefen. it is a bed chamber. see the great baronial bed. it has not been slept in for more than two hundred years. the later barons refused to sleep in it because one of their ancestors had been assassinated between its sheets at the tender age of six. he was stabbed by a step-uncle who played him false. this room is haunted. observe the curtains of the bed. they are of the rarest silk and have been there for three hundred years, coming from damascus in the year . now we will pass on to the room occupied by all of the great baronesses up to the nineteenth--" a resolute beholder spoke up: "can't we step inside?" "if you choose, madam. but we must waste no time." "i do so want to see where the old barons slept." "please do not handle the bedspreads and curtains. they will fall to pieces--" i heard no more, for the vanguard had pushed him aside and was swooping down upon me. a sharp-nosed lady led the way. she was within three feet of the bed and was stretching out her hand to touch the proscribed fabrics when i sat bolt upright and yelled: "get out!" afterwards i was told that the guide was the first to reach the bottom of the stairs and that he narrowly escaped death in the avalanche of horrified humanity that piled after him, pursued by the puissant ghost of a six-year-old ancestor. chapter v i meet the foe and fall the post that morning, besides containing a telegram from vienna apprising me of the immediate embarkation of four irreproachable angels in the guise of servants, brought a letter from my friends the hazzards, inquiring when my castle would be in shape to receive and discharge house parties without subjecting them to an intermediate season of peril from drafts, leaky roofs, damp sheets and vampires. they implored me to snatch them and one or two friends from the unbearable heat of the city, if only for a few days, appending the sad information that they were swiftly being reduced to grease spots. dear elsie added a postscript of unusual briefness and clarity in which she spelt grease with an e instead of an a, but managed to consign me to purgatory if i permitted her to become a spot no larger than the inky blot she naively deposited beside her signature, for all the world like the seal on a death warrant. i sat down and looked about me in gloomy despair. no words can describe the scene, unless we devote a whole page to repeating the word "dismal." devastation always appears to be more complete of a morning i have observed in my years of experience. a plasterer's scaffolding that looks fairly nobby at sunset is a grim, unsightly skeleton at breakfast-time. a couple of joiners' horses, a matrix or two, a pile of shavings and some sawed-off blocks scattered over the floor produce a matutinal conception of chaos that hangs over one like a pall until his aesthetic sense is beaten into subjection by the hammers of a million demons in the guise of carpenters. morning in the midst of repairs is an awful thing! i looked, despaired and then dictated a letter to the hazzards, urging them to come at once with all their sweltering friends! i needed some one to make me forget. at eleven o'clock, poopendyke brought me a note from the chatelaine of the east wing. it had been dropped into the courtyard from one of the upper windows. the reading of it transformed me into a stern, relentless demon. she very calmly announced that she had a headache and couldn't think of being disturbed that day and probably not the next. my mind was made up in an instant. i would not be put off by a headache,--which was doubtless assumed for the occasion,--and i would be master of my castle or know the reason why, etc. in the courtyard i found a score or more of idle artisans, banished by the on-sweeping tourists and completely forgotten by me in the excitement of the hour. commanding them to fetch their files, saws, broad-axes and augurs, i led the way to the mighty doors that barred my entrance to the other side. utterly ignoring the supplications of conrad schmick and the ominous frowns of his two sons, we set about filing off the padlocks, and chiselling through the wooden panels. i stood over my toiling minions and i venture to say that they never worked harder or faster in their lives. by twelve o'clock we had the great doors open and swept on to the next obstruction. at two o'clock the last door in the east ante-chamber gave way before our resolute advance and i stood victorious and dusty in the little recess at the top of the last stairway. beyond the twentieth century portieres of a thirteenth century doorway lay the goal we sought. i hesitated briefly before drawing them apart and taking the final plunge. as a matter of fact, i was beginning to feel ashamed of myself. suppose that she _really_ had a headache! what an uncouth, pusillanimous brute i-- just then, even as my hand fell upon the curtains, they were snatched aside and i found myself staring into the vivid, uptilted face of the lady who had defied me and would continue to do so if my suddenly active perceptions counted for anything. i saw nothing but the dark, indignant, imperious eyes. they fairly withered me. in some haste, attended by the most disheartening nervousness, i tried to find my cap to remove it in the presence of royalty. unfortunately i was obliged to release the somewhat cumbersome crowbar i had been carrying about with me, and it dropped with a sullen thwack upon my toes. in moments of gravity i am always doing something like that. the pain was terrific, but i clutched at the forlorn hope that she might at least smile over my agony. "i beg your pardon," i began, and then discovered that i was not wearing a cap. it was most disconcerting. "so you _would_ come," she said, very coldly and very levelly. i have a distinct recollection of shrinking. if you have ever tried to stand flatly upon a foot whose toes are crimped by an excruciating pain you may understand something of the added discomfiture that afflicted me. "it--it was necessary, madam," i replied as best i could. "you defied me. i think you should have appreciated my position--my motives--er--my--" she silenced me--luckily, heaven knows--with a curt exclamation. "your position! it is intensely napoleonic," said she with fine irony. her gaze swept my horde of panting, wide-eyed house-breakers. "what a noble victory!" it was quite time for me to assert myself. bowing very stiffly, i remarked: "i regret exceedingly to have been forced to devastate my own property in such a trifling enterprise, madam. the physical loss is apparent,--you can see that for yourself,--but of course you have no means of estimating the mental destruction that has been going on for days and days. you have been hacking away at my poor, distracted brain so persistently that it really had to give way. in a measure, this should account for my present lapse of sanity. weak-mindedness is not a crime, but an affliction." she did not smile. "well, now that you are here, mr. smart, may i be so bold as to inquire what you are going to do about it?" i reflected. "i think, if you don't mind, i'll come in and sit down. that was a deuce of a rap i got across the toes. i am sure to be a great deal more lenient and agreeable if i'm _asked_ to come in and see you. incidentally, i thought i'd step up to inquire how your headache is getting on. better, i hope?" she turned her face away. i suspected a smile. "if you choose to bang your old castle to pieces, in order to satisfy a masculine curiosity, mr. smart, i have nothing more to say," she said, facing me again--still ominously, to my despair. confound it all, she was such a slim, helpless little thing--and all alone against a mob of burly ruffians! i could have kicked myself, but even that would have been an aimless enterprise in view of the fact that poopendyke or any of the others could have done it more accurately than i and perhaps with greater respect. "will you be good enough to send your--your army away, or do you prefer to have it on hand in case i should take it into my head to attack you?" "take 'em away, mr. poopendyke," i commanded hurriedly. i didn't mind poopendyke hearing what she said, but it would be just like one of those beggars to understand english--and also to misunderstand it. "and take this beastly crowbar with you, too. it has served its purpose nobly." poopendyke looked his disappointment, and i was compelled to repeat the order. as they crowded down the short, narrow stairway, i remarked old conrad and his two sons standing over against the wall, three very sinister figures. they remained motionless. "i see, madam, that you do not dismiss _your_ army," i said, blandly sarcastic. "oh, you dear old conrad!" she cried, catching sight of the hitherto submerged schmicks. the three of them bobbed and scraped and grinned from ear to ear. there could be no mistaking the intensity of their joy. "don't look so sad, conrad. i know you are blameless. you poor old dear!" i have never seen any one who looked less sad than conrad schmick. or could it be possible that he was crying instead of laughing? in either case i could not afford to have him doing it with such brazen discourtesy to me, so i rather peremptorily ordered him below. "i will attend to you presently,--all of you," said i. they did not move. "do you hear me?" i snapped angrily. they looked stolidly at the slim young lady. she smiled, rather proudly, i thought. "you may go, conrad. i shall not need you. max, will you fetch up another scuttle of coal?" they took their orders from her! it even seemed to me that max moved swiftly, although it was doubtless a hallucination on my part, brought about by nervous excitement. "by jove!" i said, looking after my trusty men-servants as they descended. "i like _this!_ are they my servants or yours?" "oh, i suppose they are yours, mr. smart," she said carelessly. "will you come in now, and make yourself quite at home?" "perhaps i'd better wait for a day or two," said i, wavering. "your headache, you know. i can wait just as well as--" "oh, no. since you've gone to all the trouble i suppose you ought to have something for your pains." "pains?" i murmured, and i declare to heaven i limped as i followed her through the door into a tiny hall. "you are a most unreasonable man," she said, throwing open a small door at the end of the hall. "i am terribly disappointed in you. you looked to be so nice and sensible and amiable." "oh, i'm not such a nincompoop as you might suspect, madam," said i, testily, far from complimented. i dislike being called nice, and sometimes i think it a mistake to be sensible. a sensible person never gets anything out of life because he has to avoid so much of it. "and now, mr. smart, will you be kind enough to explain this incomprehensible proceeding on your part?" she said, facing me sternly. but i was dumb. i stood just inside the door of the most remarkable apartment it has ever been my good fortune to look upon. my senses reeled. was i awake? was this a part of the bleak, sinister, weather-racked castle in which i was striving so hard to find a comfortable corner? "well?" she demanded relentlessly. "by the lord harry," i began, finding my tongue only to lose it again. my bewilderment increased, and for an excellent reason. the room was completely furnished, bedecked and rendered habitable by an hundred and one articles that were mysteriously missing from my side of the castle. rugs, tapestries, curtains of the rarest quality; chairs, couches, and cushions; tables, cabinets and chests that would have caused the eyes of the most conservative collector of antiques to bulge with--not wonder--but greed; stands, pedestals, brasses, bronzes, porcelains--but why enumerate? on the massive oaken centre table stood the priceless silver vase we had missed on the second day of our occupancy, and it was filled with fresh yellow roses. i sniffed. their fragrance filled the room. and so complete had been the rifling of my rooms by the devoted vandals in their efforts to make this lady cosy and comfortable that they did not overlook a silver-framed photograph of my dear mother! her sweet face met my gaze as it swept the mantel-piece, beneath which a coal fire crackled merrily. i am not quite sure, but i think i repeated "by the lord harry" once if not twice before i caught myself up. i tried to smile. "how--how cosy you are here," i said. "you couldn't expect me to live in this awful place without some of the comforts and conveniences of life, mr. smart," she said defiantly. "certainly not," i said, promptly. "i am sure that you will excuse me, however, if i gloat. i was afraid we had lost all these things. you've no idea how relieved i am to find them all safe and sound in my--in their proper place. i was beginning to distrust the schmicks. now i am convinced of their integrity." "i suppose you mean to be sarcastic." "sarcasm at any price, madam, would be worse than useless, i am sure." crossing to the fireplace, i selected a lump of coal from the scuttle and examined it with great care. she watched me curiously. "do you recognise it?" she asked. "i do," said i, looking up. "it has been in our family for generations. my favourite chunk, believe me. still, i part with it cheerfully." thereupon i tossed it into the fire. "don't be shocked! i shan't miss it. we have coals to burn, madam!" she looked at me soberly for a moment. there was something hurt and wistful in her dark eyes. "of course, mr. smart, i shall pay you for everything--down to the smallest trifle--when the time comes for me to leave this place. i have kept strict account of--" she turned away, with a beaten droop of the proud little head, and again i was shamed. never have i felt so grotesquely out of proportion with myself as at that moment. my stature seemed to increase from an even six feet to something like twelve, and my bulk became elephantine. she was so slender, so lissom, so weak, and i so gargantuan, so gorilla-like, so heavy-handed! and i had come gaily up to crush her! what a fine figure of a man i was! she did not complete the sentence, but walked slowly toward the window. i had a faint glimpse of a dainty lace handkerchief fiercely clutched in a little hand. by nature i am chivalrous, even gallant. you may have reason to doubt it, but it is quite true. as i've never had a chance to be chivalrous except in my dreams or my imagination, i made haste to seize this opportunity before it was too late. "madam," i said, with considerable feeling. "i have behaved like a downright rotter to-day. i do not know who you are, nor why you are here, but i assure you it is of no real consequence if you will but condescend to overlook my insufferable--" she turned towards me. the wistful, appealing look still lingered in her eyes. the soft red nether lip seemed a bit tremulous. "i _am_ an intruder," she interrupted, smiling faintly. "you have every right to put me out of your--your home, mr. smart. i was a horrid pig to deprive you of all your nice comfortable chairs and--" "i--i haven't missed them." "don't you ever sit down?" "i will sit down if you'll let me," said i, feeling that i wouldn't appear quite so gigantic if i was sitting. "please do. the chairs all belong to you." "i'm sorry you put it in that way. they are yours as long as you choose to--to occupy a furnished apartment here." "i have been very selfish, and cattish, and inconsiderate, mr. smart. you see, i'm a spoilt child. i've always had my own way in everything. you must look upon me as a very horrid, sneaking, conspiring person, and i--i really think you ought to turn me out." she came a few steps nearer. under the circumstances i could not sit down. so i stood towering above her, but somehow going through a process of physical and mental shrinkage the longer i remained confronting her. suddenly it was revealed to me that she was the loveliest woman i had ever seen in all my life! how could i have been so slow in grasping this great, bewildering truth? the prettiest woman i had ever looked upon! of course i had known it from the first instant that i looked into her eyes, but i must have been existing in a state of stupefaction up to this illuminating moment. i am afraid that i stared. "turn you out?" i cried. "turn you out of this delightful room after you've had so much trouble getting it into shape? never!" "oh, you don't know how i've imposed upon you!" she cried plaintively. "you don't know how i've robbed you, and bothered you--" "yes, i do," said i promptly. "i know all about it. you've been stealing my coals, my milk, my ice, my potatoes, my servants, my sleep and "--here i gave a comprehensive sweep of my hand--"everything in sight. and you've made us walk on tip-toe to keep from waking the baby, and--" i stopped suddenly. "by the way, whose baby is it? not yours, i'm sure." to my surprise her eyes filled with tears. "yes. she is my baby, mr. smart." my face fell. "oh!" said i, and got no further for a moment or two. "i--i--please don't tell me you are married!" "what would you think of me if i were to tell you i'm not?" she cried indignantly. "i beg your pardon," i stammered, blushing to the roots of my hair. "stupid ass!" i muttered. crossing to the fireplace, she stood looking down into the coals for a long time, while i remained where i was, an awkward, gauche spectator, conscious of having put my clumsiest foot into my mouth every time i opened it and wondering whether i could now safely get it out again without further disaster. her back was toward me. she was dressed in a dainty, pinkish house gown--or maybe it was light blue. at any rate it was a very pretty gown and she was wonderfully graceful in it. ordinarily in my fiction i am quite clever at describing gowns that do not exist; but when it comes to telling what a real woman is wearing, i am not only as vague as a savage, but painfully stupid about colors. still, i think it was pink. i recall the way her soft brown hair grew above the slender neck, and the lovely white skin; the smooth, delicate contour of her half-averted cheek and the firm little chin with the trembling red lips above it; the shapely back and shoulders and the graceful curves of her hips, suggestive of a secret perfection. she was taller than i had thought at first sight, or was it that i seemed to be getting smaller myself? a hasty bit of comparison placed her height at five feet six, using my own as something to go by. she couldn't have been a day over twenty-two. but she had a baby! facing me once more she said: "if you will sit down, mr. smart, and be patient and generous with me, i shall try to explain everything. you have a right to demand it of me, and i shall feel more comfortable after it is done." i drew up a chair beside the table and sat down. she sank gracefully into another, facing me. a delicate frown appeared on her brow. "doubtless you are very much puzzled by my presence in this gloomy old castle. you have been asking yourself a thousand questions about me, and you have been shocked by my outrageous impositions upon your good nature. i confess i have been shockingly impudent and--" "pardon me; you are the only sauce i've had for an excessively bad bargain." "please do not interrupt me," she said coldly. "i am here, mr. smart, because it is the last place in the world where my husband would be likely to look for me." "your husband? look for you?" "yes. i shall be quite frank with you. my husband and i have separated. a provisional divorce was granted, however, just seven months ago. the final decree cannot be issued for one year." "but why should you hide from him?" "the--the court gave him the custody of our child during the probationary year. i--i have run away with her. they are looking for me everywhere. that is why i came here. do you understand?" i was stunned. "then, i take it, the court granted _him_ the divorce and not you," i said, experiencing a sudden chill about the heart. "you were deprived of the child, i see. dear me!" "you are mistaken," she said, a flash in her eyes. "it was an austrian court. the count--my husband, i should say--is an austrian subject. his interests must be protected." she said this with a sneer on her pretty lips. "you see, my father, knowing him now for what he really is, has refused to pay over to him something like a million dollars, still due for the marriage settlement. the count contends that it is a just and legal debt and the court supports him to this extent: the child is to be his until the debt is cleared up, or something to that effect. i really don't understand the legal complications involved. perhaps it were better if i did." "i see," said i, scornful in spite of myself. "one of those happy international marriages where a bride is thrown in for good measure with a couple of millions. won't we ever learn!" "that's it precisely," she said, with the utmost calmness and candour. "american dollars and an american girl in exchange for a title, a lot of debts and a ruined life." "and they always turn out just this way. what a lot of blithering fools we have in the land of the free and the home of the knave!" "my father objected to the whole arrangement from the first, so you must not speak of him as a knave," she protested. "he doesn't like counts and such things." "i don't see that it helps matters. i can hardly substitute the word 'brave' for the one i used," said i, trying to conceal my disgust. "please don't misunderstand me, mr. smart," she said haughtily. "i am not asking for pity. i made my bed and i shall lie in it. the only thing i ask of you is--well, kindness." she seemed to falter again, and once more i was at her feet, figuratively speaking. "you are in distress, in dread of something, madam," i cried. "consider me your friend." she shook her head ruefully. "you poor man! you don't know what you are in for, i fear. wait till i have told you everything. three weeks ago, i laid myself liable to imprisonment and heaven knows what else by abducting my little girl. that is really what it comes to--abduction. the court has ordered my arrest, and all sorts of police persons are searching high and low for me. now don't you see your peril? if they find me here, you will be in a dreadful predicament. you will be charged with criminal complicity, or whatever it is called, and--oh, it will be frightfully unpleasant for you, mr. smart." my expression must have convicted me. she couldn't help seeing the dismay in my face. so she went on, quite humbly. "of course you have but to act at once and all may be well for you. i--i will go if you--if you command me to--" i struck my knee forcibly. "what do you take me for, madam? hang the consequences! if you feel that you are safe here--that is, comparatively safe,--_stay!_" "it will be terrible if you get into trouble with the law," she murmured in distress. "i--i really don't know what might happen to you." still her eyes brightened. like all the rest of her ilk, she was selfish. i tried to laugh, but it was a dismal failure. after all, wasn't it likely to prove a most unpleasant matter? i felt the chill moisture breaking out on my forehead. "pray do not consider my position at all," i managed to say, with a resolute assumption of gallantry. "i--i shall be perfectly able to look out for myself,--that is, to explain everything if it should come to the worst." i could not help adding, however: "i certainly hope, however, that they don't get on to your trail and--" i stopped in confusion. "and find me here?" she completed gloomily. "and take the child away from you," i made haste to explain. a fierce light flamed in her eyes. "i should--kill--some one before that could happen," she cried out, clenching her hands. "i--i beg of you, madam, don't work yourself into a--a state," i implored, in considerable trepidation. "nothing like that can happen, believe me. i--" "oh, what do you know about it?" she exclaimed, with most unnecessary vehemence, i thought. "he wants the child and--and--well, you can see why he wants her, can't you? he is making the most desperate efforts to recover her. max says the newspapers are full of the--the scandal. they are depicting me as a brainless, law-defying american without sense of love, honour or respect. i don't mind that, however. it is to be expected. they all describe the count as a long-suffering, honourable, dreadfully maltreated person, and are doing what they can to help him in the prosecution of the search. my mother, who is in paris, is being shadowed; my two big brothers are being watched; my lawyers in vienna are being trailed everywhere--oh, it is really a most dreadful thing. but--but i will not give her up! she is mine. he doesn't love her. he doesn't love me. he doesn't love anything in the world but himself and his cigarettes. i know, for i've paid for his cigarettes for nearly three years. he has actually ridiculed me in court circles, he has defamed me, snubbed me, humiliated me, cursed me. you cannot imagine what it has been like. once he struck me in--" "struck you!" i cried. "--in the presence of his sister and her husband. but i must not distress you with sordid details. suffice it to say, i turned at last like the proverbial worm. i applied for a divorce ten months ago. it was granted, provisionally as i say. he is a degenerate. he was unfaithful to me in every sense of the word. but in spite of all that, the court in granting me the separation, took occasion to placate national honour by giving him the child during the year, pending the final disposition of the case. of course, everything depends on father's attitude in respect to the money. you see what i mean? a month ago i heard from friends in vienna that he was shamefully neglecting our--my baby, so i took this awful, this perfectly bizarre way of getting her out of his hands. possession is nine points in the law, you see. i--' "alas!" interrupted i, shaking my head. "there is more than one way to look at the law. i'm afraid you have got yourself into a serious--er--pickle."' "i don't care," she said defiantly. "it is the law's fault for not prohibiting such marriages as ours. oh, i know i must seem awfully foolish and idiotic to you, but--but it's too late now to back out, isn't it?" i did not mean to say it, but i did--and i said it with some conviction: "it is! you _must_ be protected." "thank you, thank you!" she cried, clasping and unclasping her little hands. i found myself wondering if the brute had dared to strike her on that soft, pink cheek! suddenly a horrible thought struck me with stunning force. "don't tell me that your--your husband is the man who owned this castle up to a week ago," i cried. "count james hohendahl?" she shook her head. "no. he is not the man." seeing that i waited for her to go on, she resumed: "i know count james quite well, however. he is my husband's closest friend." "good heaven," said i, in quick alarm. "that complicates matters, doesn't it? he may come here at any time." "it isn't likely, mr. smart. to be perfectly honest with you, i waited until i heard you had bought the castle before coming here myself. we were in hiding at the house of a friend in linz up to a week ago. i did not think it right or fair to subject them to the notoriety or the peril that was sure to follow if the officers took it into their heads to look for me there. the day you bought the castle, i decided that it was the safest place for me to stay until the danger blows over, or until father can arrange to smuggle me out of this awful country. that very night we were brought here in a motor. dear old conrad and mrs. schmick took me in. they have been perfectly adorable, all of them." "may i enquire, madam," said i stiffly, "how you came to select my abode as your hiding place?" "oh, i have forgotten to tell you that we lived here one whole summer just after we were married. count hohendahl let us have the castle for our--our honey-moon. he was here a great deal of the time. all sorts of horrid, nasty, snobbish people were here to help us enjoy our honeymoon. i shall never forget that dreadful summer. my only friends were the schmicks. every one else ignored and despised me, and they all borrowed, won or stole money from me. i was compelled to play bridge for atrociously high stakes without knowing one card from the other. but, as i say, the schmicks loved me. you see they were in the family ages and ages before i was born." "the family? what family?" "the rothhoefen family. haven't they told you that my great-grandmother was a rothhoefen? no? well, she was. i belong to the third generation of american-born descendants. doesn't it simplify matters, knowing this?" "immensely," said i, in something of a daze. "and so i came here, mr. smart, where hundreds of my ancestors spent their honeymoons, most of them perhaps as unhappily as i, and where i knew a fellow-countryman was to live for awhile in order to get a plot for a new story. you see, i thought i might be a great help to you in the shape of suggestion." she smiled very warmly, and i thought it was a very neat way of putting it. naturally it would be quite impossible to put her out after hearing that she had already put herself out to some extent in order to assist me. "i can supply the villain for your story if you need one, and i can give you oceans of ideas about noblemen. i am sorry that i can't give you a nice, sweet heroine. people hate heroines after they are married and live unhappily. you--" "the public taste is changing," i interrupted quickly. "unhappy marriages are so common nowadays that the women who go into 'em are always heroines. people like to read about suffering and anguish among the rich, too. besides, you are a countess. that puts you near the first rank among heroines. don't you think it would be proper at this point to tell me who you are?" she regarded me steadfastly for a moment, and then shook her head. "i'd rather not tell you my name, mr. smart. it really can't matter, you know. i've thought it all out very carefully, and i've decided that it is not best for you to know. you see if you don't know who it is you are sheltering, the courts can't hold you to account. you will be quite innocent of deliberately contriving to defeat the law. no, i shall not tell you my name, nor my husband's, nor my father's. if you'd like to know, however, i will tell you my baby's name. she's two years old and i think she'll like you to call her rosemary." by this time i was quite hypnotised by this charming, confident trespasser upon my physical--and i was about to say my moral estate. never have i known a more complacent violater of all the proprieties of law and order as she appeared to be. she was a revelation; more than that, she was an inspiration. what a courageous, independent, fascinating little buccaneer she was! her calm tone of assurance, her overwhelming confidence in herself, despite the occasional lapse into despair, staggered me. i couldn't help being impressed. if i had had any thought of ejecting her, bag and baggage, from my castle, it had been completely knocked out of my head and i was left, you might say, in a position which gave me no other alternative than to consider myself a humble instrument in the furthering of her ends, whether i would or no. it was most amazing. superior to the feeling of scorn i naturally felt for her and her kind,--the fools who make international beds and find them filled with thorns,--there was the delicious sensation of being able to rise above my prejudices and become a willing conspirator against that despot, common sense. she was very sure of herself, that was plain; and i am positive that she was equally sure of me. it isn't altogether flattering, either, to feel that a woman is so sure of you that there isn't any doubt concerning her estimate of your offensive strength. somehow one feels an absence of physical attractiveness. "rosemary," i repeated. "and what am i to call you?" "even my enemies call me countess," she said coldly. "oh," said i, more respectfully. "i see. when am i to have the pleasure of meeting the less particular rosemary?" "i didn't mean to be horrid," she said plaintively. "please overlook it, mr. smart. if you are very, very quiet i think you may see her now. she is asleep." "i may frighten her if she awakes," i said in haste, remembering my antipathy to babies. nevertheless i was led through a couple of bare, unfurnished rooms into a sunny, perfectly adorable nursery. a nursemaid,--english, at a glance,--arose from her seat in the window and held a cautious finger to her lips. in the middle of a bed that would have accommodated an entire family, was the sleeping rosemary--a tiny, rosy-cheeked, yellow haired atom bounded on four sides by yards of mattress. i stood over her timorously and stared. the countess put one knee upon the mattress and, leaning far over, kissed a little paw. i blinked, like a confounded booby. then we stole out of the room. "isn't she adorable?" asked the countess when we were at a safe distance. "they all are," i said grudgingly, "when they're asleep." "you are horrid!" "by the way," i said sternly, "how does that bedstead happen to be a yard or so lower than any other bed in this entire castle? all the rest of them are so high one has to get into them from a chair." "oh," she said complacently, "it was too high for blake to manage conveniently, so i had rudolph saw the legs off short." one of my very finest antique bedsteads! but i didn't even groan. "you will let me stay on, won't you, mr. smart?" she said, when we were at the fireplace again. "i am really so helpless, you know." i offered her everything that the castle afforded in the way of loyalty and luxury. "and we'll have a telephone in the main hall before the end of a week," i concluded beamingly. her face clouded. "oh, i'd much rather have it in my hallway, if you don't mind. you see, i can't very well go downstairs every time i want to use the 'phone, and it will be a nuisance sending for me when i'm wanted." this was rather high-handed, i thought. "but if no one knows you're here, it seems to me you're not likely to be called." "you never can tell," she said mysteriously. i promised to put the instrument in her hall, and not to have an extension to my rooms for fear of creating suspicion. also the electric bell system was to be put in just as she wanted it to be. and a lot of other things that do not seem to come to mind at this moment. i left in a daze at half-past three, to send britton up with all the late novels and magazines, and a big box of my special cigarettes. chapter vi i discuss matrimony poopendyke and i tried to do a little work that evening, but neither of us seemed quite capable of concentration. we said "i beg pardon" to each other a dozen times or more, following mental lapses, and then gave it up. my ideas failed in consecutiveness, and when i did succeed in hitching two intelligent thoughts together he invariably destroyed the sequence by compelling me to repeat myself, with the result that i became irascible. we had gone over the events of the day very thoroughly. if anything, he was more alarmed over our predicament than i. he seemed to sense the danger that attended my decision to shelter and protect this cool-headed, rather self-centred young woman at the top of my castle. to me, it was something of a lark; to him, a tragedy. he takes everything seriously, so much so in fact that he gets on my nerves. i wish he were not always looking at things through the little end of the telescope. i like a change, and it is a novelty to sometimes see things through the big end, especially peril. "they will yank us all up for aiding and abetting," he proclaimed, trying to focus his eyes on the shorthand book he was fumbling. "you wouldn't have me turn her over to the law, would you?" i demanded crossly. "please don't forget that we are americans." "i don't," said he. "that's what worries me most of all." "well," said i loftily, "we'll see." we were silent for a long time. "it must be horribly lonely and spooky away up there where she is," i said at last, inadvertently betraying my thoughts. he sniffed. "have you a cold?" i demanded, glaring at him. "no," he said gloomily; "a presentiment." "umph!" another period of silence. then: "i wonder if max--" i stopped short. "yes, sir," he said, with wonderful divination. "he did." "any message?" "she sent down word that the new cook is a jewel, but i think she must have been jesting. i've never cared for a man cook myself. i don't like to appear hypercritical, but what did you think of the dinner tonight, sir?" "i've never tasted better broiled ham in my life, mr. poopendyke." "ham! that's it, mr. smart. but what i'd like to know is this: what became of the grouse you ordered for dinner, sir? i happen to know that it was put over the fire at seven--" "i sent it up to the countess, with our compliments," said i, peevishly. i think that remark silenced him. at any rate, he got up and left the room. i laid awake half the night morbidly berating the american father who is so afraid of his wife that he lets her bully him into sacrificing their joint flesh and blood upon the altar of social ambition. she had said that her father was opposed to the match from the beginning. then why, in the name of heaven, wasn't he man enough to put a stop to it? why--but what use is there in applying whys to a man who doesn't know what god meant when he fashioned two sexes? i put him down as neutral and tried my best to forget him. but i couldn't forget the daughter of this browbeaten american father. there was something singularly familiar about her exquisite face, a conviction on my part that is easily accounted for. her portrait, of course, had been published far and wide at the time of the wedding; she must have been pictured from every conceivable angle, with illimitable gowns, hats, veils and parasols, and i certainly could not have missed seeing her, even with half an eye. but for the life of me, i couldn't connect her with any of the much-talked-of international marriages that came to mind as i lay there going over the meagre assortment i was able to recall. i went to sleep wondering whether poopendyke's memory was any better than mine. he is tremendously interested in the financial doings of our country, being the possessor of a flourishing savings' account, and as he also possesses a lively sense of the ridiculous, it was not unreasonable to suspect that he might remember all the details of this particular transaction in stocks and bonds. the next morning i set my labourers to work putting guest-rooms into shape for the coming of the hazzards and the four friends who were to be with them for the week as my guests. they were to arrive on the next day but one, which gave me ample time to consult a furniture dealer. i would have to buy at least six new beds and everything else with which to comfortably equip as many bed-chambers, it being a foregone conclusion that not even the husbands and wives would condescend to "double up" to oblige me. the expensiveness of this ill-timed visit had not occurred to me at the outset. still there was some prospect of getting the wholesale price. on one point i was determined; the workmen should not be laid off for a single hour, not even if my guests went off in a huff. at twelve i climbed the tortuous stairs leading to the countess's apartments. she opened the door herself in response to my rapping. "i neglected to mention yesterday that i am expecting a houseful of guests in a day or two," i said, after she had given me a very cordial greeting. "guests?" she cried in dismay. "oh, dear! can't you put them off?" "i have hopes that they won't be able to stand the workmen banging around all day," i confessed, somewhat guiltily. "women in the party?" "two, i believe. both married and qualified to express opinions." "they will be sure to nose me out," she said ruefully. "women are dreadful nosers." "don't worry," i said. "we'll get a lot of new padlocks for the doors downstairs and you'll be as safe as can be, if you'll only keep quiet." "but i don't see why i should be made to mope here all day and all night like a sick cat, holding my hand over rosemary's mouth when she wants to cry, and muzzling poor jinko so that he--" "my dear countess," i interrupted sternly, "you should not forget that these other guests of mine are invited here." "but i was here first," she argued. "it is most annoying." "i believe you said yesterday that you are in the habit of having your own way." she nodded her head. "well, i am afraid you'll have to come down from your high horse--at least temporarily." "oh, i see. you--you mean to be very firm and domineering with me." "you must try to see things from my point of--" "please don't say that!" she flared. "i'm so tired of hearing those words. for the last three years i've been _commanded_ to see things from some one else's point of view, and i'm sick of the expression." "for heaven's sake, don't put me in the same boat with your husband!" she regarded me somewhat frigidly for a moment longer, and then a slow, witching smile crept into her eyes. "i sha'n't," she promised, and laughed outright. "do forgive me, mr. smart. i am such a piggy thing. i'll try to be nice and sensible, and i will be as still as a mouse all the time they're here. but you must promise to come up every day and give me the gossip. you _can_ steal up, can't you? surreptitiously?" "clandestinely," i said, gravely. "i really ought to warn you once more about getting yourself involved," she said pointedly. "oh, i'm quite a safe old party," i assured her. "they couldn't make capital of me." "the grouse was delicious," she said, deliberately changing the subject. nice divorcees are always doing that. we fell into a discussion of present and future needs; of ways and means for keeping my friends utterly in the dark concerning her presence in the abandoned east wing; and of what we were pleased to allude to as "separate maintenance," employing a phrase that might have been considered distasteful and even banal under ordinary conditions. "i've been trying to recall all of the notable marriages we had in new york three years ago," said i, after she had most engagingly reduced me to a state of subjection in the matter of three or four moot questions that came up for settlement. "you don't seem to fit in with any of the international affairs i can bring to mind." "you promised you wouldn't bother about that, mr. smart," she said severely. "of course you _were_ married in new york?" "in a very nice church just off fifth avenue, if that will help you any," she said. "the usual crowd inside the church, and the usual mob outside, all fighting for a glimpse of me in my wedding shroud, and for a chance to see a real hungarian nobleman. it really was a very magnificent wedding, mr. smart." she seemed to be unduly proud of the spectacular sacrifice. a knitted brow revealed the obfuscated condition of my brain. i was thinking very intently, not to say remotely. "the whole world talked about it," she went on dreamily. "we had a real prince for the best man, and two of the ushers couldn't speak a word of english. don't you remember that the police closed the streets in the neighbourhood of the church and wouldn't let people spoil everything by going about their business as they were in the habit of doing? some of the shops sold window space to sight-seers, just as they do at a coronation." "i daresay all this should let in light, but it doesn't." "don't you read the newspapers?" she cried impatiently. she actually resented my ignorance. "religiously," i said, stung to revolt. "but i make it a point never to read the criminal news." "criminal news?" she gasped, a spot of red leaping to her cheek. "what do you mean?" "it is merely my way of saying that i put marriages of that character in the category of crime." "oh!" she cried, staring at me with unbelieving eyes. "every time a sweet, lovely american girl is delivered into the hands of a foreign bounder who happens to possess a title that needs fixing, i call the transaction a crime that puts white slavery in a class with the most trifling misdemeanours. you did not love this pusillanimous count, nor did he care a hang for you. you were too young in the ways of the world to have any feeling for him, and he was too old to have any for you. the whole hateful business therefore resolved itself into a case of give and take--and he took everything. he took you and your father's millions and now you are both back where you began. some one deliberately committed a crime, and as it wasn't you or the count, who levied his legitimate toll,--it must have been the person who planned the conspiracy. i take it, of course, that the whole affair was arranged behind your back, so to speak. to make it a perfectly fashionable and up-to-date delivery it would have been entirely out of place to consult the unsophisticated girl who was thrown in to make the title good. you were not sold to this bounder. it was the other way round. by the gods, madam, he was actually paid to take you!" her face was quite pale. her eyes did not leave mine during the long and crazy diatribe,--of which i was already beginning to feel heartily ashamed,--and there was a dark, ominous fire in them that should have warned me. she arose from her chair. it seemed to me she was taller than before. "if nothing else came to me out of this transaction," she said levelly, "at least a certain amount of dignity was acquired. pray remember that i am no longer the unsophisticated girl you so graciously describe. i am a woman, mr. smart." "true," said i, senselessly dogged; "a woman with the power to think for yourself. that is my point. if the same situation arose at your present age, i fancy you'd be able to select a husband without assistance, and i venture to say you wouldn't pick up the first dissolute nobleman that came your way. no, my dear countess, you were not to blame. you thought, as your parents did, that marriage with a count would make a real countess of you. what rot! you are a simple, lovable american girl and that's all there ever can be to it. to the end of your days you will be an american. it is not within the powers of a scape-grace count to put you or any other american girl on a plane with the women who are born countesses, or duchesses, or anything of the sort. i don't say that you suffer by comparison with these noble ladies. as a matter of fact you are surpassingly finer in every way than ninety-nine per cent. of them,--poor things! marrying an english duke doesn't make a genuine duchess out of an american girl, not by a long shot. she merely becomes a figure of speech. your own experience should tell you that. well, it's the same with all of them. they acquire a title, but not the homage that should go with it." we were both standing now. she was still measuring me with somewhat incredulous eyes, rather more tolerant than resentful. "do you expect me to agree with you, mr. smart?" she asked. "i do," said i, promptly. "you, of all people, should be able to testify that my views are absolutely right." "they are right," she said, simply. "still you are pretty much of a brute to insult me with them." "i most sincerely crave your pardon, if it isn't too late," i cried, abject once more. (i don't know what gets into me once in a while.) "the safest way, i should say, is for neither of us to express an opinion so long as we are thrown into contact with each other. if you choose to tell the world what you think of me, all well and good. but please don't tell _me_." "i can't convince the world what i think of you for the simple reason that i'd be speaking at random. i don't know who you are." "oh, you will know some day," she said, and her shoulders drooped a little. "i've--i've done a most cowardly, despicable thing in hunting you--" "please! please don't say anything more about it. i dare say you've done me a lot of good. perhaps i shall see things a little more clearly. to be perfectly honest with you, i went into this marriage with my you his queen? you'll find it better than being a countess, believe me." "i shall never marry, mr. smart," she said with decision. "never, never again will i get into a mess that is so hard to get out of. i can say this to you because i've heard you are a bachelor. you can't take offence." "i fondly hope to die a bachelor," said i with humility. "god bless you!" she cried, bursting into a merry laugh, and i knew that a truce had been declared for the time being at least. "and now let us talk sense. have you carefully considered the consequences if you are found out, mr. smart?" "found out?" "if you are caught shielding a fugitive from justice. i couldn't go to sleep for hours last night thinking of what might happen to you if--" "nonsense!" i cried, but for the life of me i couldn't help feeling elated. she _had_ a soul above self, after all! "you see, i am a thief and a robber and a very terrible malefactor, according to the reports max brings over from the city. the fight for poor little rosemary is destined to fill columns and columns in the newspapers of the two continents for months to come. you, mr. smart, may find yourself in the thick of it. if i were in your place, i should keep out of it." "while i am not overjoyed by the prospect of being dragged into it, countess, i certainly refuse to back out at this stage of the game. moreover, you may rest assured that i shall not turn you out." "it occurred to me last night that the safest thing for you to do, mr. smart, is to--to get out yourself." i stared. she went on hurriedly: "can't you go away for a month's visit or--" "well, upon my soul!" i gasped. "would you turn me out of my own house? this beats anything i've--" "i was only thinking of your peace of mind and your--your safety," she cried unhappily. "truly, truly i was." "well, i prefer to stay here and do what little i can to shield you and rosemary," said i sullenly. "i'll not say anything horrid again, mr. smart," she said quite meekly. (i take this occasion to repeat that i've never seen any one in all my life so pretty as she!) her moist red lip trembled slightly, like a censured child's. at that instant there came a rapping on the door. i started apprehensively. "it is only max with the coal," she explained, with obvious relief. "we keep a fire going in the grate all day long. you've no idea how cold it is up here even on the hottest days. come in!" max came near to dropping the scuttle when he saw me. he stood as one petrified. "don't mind mr. smart, max," said she serenely. "he won't bite your head off." the poor clumsy fellow spilled quantities of coal over the hearth when he attempted to replenish the fire at her command, and moved with greater celerity in making his escape from the room than i had ever known him to exercise before. somehow i began to regain a lost feeling of confidence in myself. the confounded schmicks, big and little, were afraid of me, after all. "by the way," she said, after we had lighted our cigarettes, "i am nearly out of these." i liked the way she held the match for me, and then flicked it snappily into the centre of a pile of cushions six feet from the fireplace. i made a mental note of the shortage and then admiringly said that i didn't see how any man, even a count could help adoring a woman who held a cigarette to her lips as she did. "oh," said she coolly, "his friends were willing worshippers, all of them. there wasn't a man among them who failed to make violent love to me, and with the count's permission at that. you must not look so shocked. i managed to keep them at a safe distance. my unreasonable attitude toward them used to annoy my husband intensely." "good lord!" "pooh! he didn't care what became of me. there was one particular man whom he favoured the most. a dreadful man! we quarrelled bitterly when i declared that either he or i would have to leave the house--forever. i don't mind confessing to you that the man i speak of is your friend, the gentle count hohendahl, some time ogre of this castle." i shuddered. a feeling of utter loathing for all these unprincipled scoundrels came over me, and i mildly took the name of the lord in vain. with an abrupt change of manner, she arose from her chair and began to pace the floor, distractedly beating her clinched hands against her bosom. twice i heard her murmur: "oh, god!" this startling exposition of feeling gave me a most uncanny shock. it came out of a clear sky, so to say, at a moment when i was beginning to regard her as cold-blooded, callous, and utterly without the emotions supposed to exist in the breast of every high-minded woman. and now i was witness to the pain she suffered, now i heard her cry out against the thing that had hurt her so pitilessly. i turned my head away, vastly moved. presently she moved over to the window. a covert glance revealed her standing there, looking not down at the danube that seemed so far away but up at the blue sky that seemed so near. i sat very still and repressed, trying to remember the harsh, unkind things i had said to her, and berating myself fiercely for all of them. what a stupid, vainglorious ass i was, not to have divined something of the inward fight she was making to conquer the emotions that filled her heart unto the bursting point. the sound of dry, suppressed sobs came to my ears. it was too much for me. i stealthily quit my position by the mantel-piece and tip-toed toward the door, bent on leaving her alone. half-way there i hesitated, stopped and then deliberately returned to the fireplace, where i noisily shuffled a fresh supply of coals into the grate. it would be heartless, even unmannerly, to leave her without letting her know that i was heartily ashamed of myself and completely in sympathy with her. wisely, however, i resolved to let her have her cry out. some one a great deal more far-seeing than i let the world into a most important secret when he advised man to take that course when in doubt. for a long while i waited for her to regain control of herself, rather dreading the apology she would feel called upon to make for her abrupt reversion to the first principles of her sex. the sobs ceased entirely. i experienced the sharp joy of relaxation. her dainty lace handkerchief found employment. first she would dab it cautiously in one eye, then the other, after which she would scrutinise its crumpled surface with most extraordinary interest. at least a dozen times she repeated this puzzling operation. what in the world was she looking for? to this day, that strange, sly peeking on her part remains a mystery to me. she turned swiftly upon me and beckoned with her little forefinger. greatly concerned, i sprang toward her. was she preparing to swoon? what in heaven's name was i to do if she took it into her pretty head to do such a thing as that? involuntarily i shot a quick look at her blouse. to my horror it was buttoned down the back. it would be a bachelor's luck to--but she was smiling radiantly. saved! "look!" she cried, pointing upward through the window. "isn't she lovely?" i stopped short in my tracks and stared at her in blank amazement. what a stupefying creature she was! she beckoned again, impatiently. i obeyed with alacrity. obtaining a rather clear view of her eyes, i was considerably surprised to find no trace of departed tears. her cheek was as smooth and creamy white as it had been before the deluge. her eyelids were dry and orderly and her nose had not been blown once to my recollection. truly, it was a marvellous recovery. i still wonder. the cause of her excitement was visible at a glance. a trim nurse-maid stood in the small gallery which circled the top of the turret, just above and to the right of us. she held in her arms the pink-hooded, pink-coated rosemary, made snug against the chill winds of her lofty parade ground. her yellow curls peeped out from beneath the lace of the hood, and her round little cheeks were the colour of the peach's bloom. "now, _isn't_ she lovely?" cried my eager companion. "even a crusty bachelor can see that she is adorable." "i am not a crusty bachelor," i protested indignantly, "and what's more, i am positive i should like to kiss those red little cheeks, which is saying a great deal for me. i've never voluntarily kissed a baby in my life." "i do not approve of the baby-kissing custom," she said severely. "it is extremely unhealthy and--middle-class. still," seeing my expression change, "i sha'n't mind your kissing her once." "thanks," said i humbly. it was plain to be seen that she did not intend to refer to the recent outburst. superb exposition of tact! catching the nurse's eye, she signalled for her to bring the child down to us. rosemary took to me at once. a most embarrassing thing happened. on seeing me she held out her chubby arms and shouted "da-da!" at the top of her infantile lungs. _that_ had never happened to me before. i flushed and the countess shrieked with laughter. it wouldn't have been so bad if the nurse had known her place. if there is one thing in this world that i hate with fervour, it is an ill-mannered, poorly-trained servant. a grinning nurse-maid is the worst of all. i may be super-sensitive and crotchety about such things, but i can see no excuse for keeping a servant--especially a nurse-maid--who laughs at everything that's said by her superiors, even though the quip may be no more side-splitting than a two syllabled "da-da." "ha, ha!" i laughed bravely. "she--she evidently thinks i look like the count. he is very handsome, you say." "oh, that isn't it," cried the countess, taking rosemary in her arms and directing me to a spot on her rosy cheek. "kiss right there, mr. smart. there! wasn't it a nice kiss, honey-bunch? if you are a very, very nice little girl the kind gentleman will kiss you on the other cheek some day. she calls every man she meets da-da," explained the radiant young mother. "she's awfully european in her habits, you see. you need not feel flattered. she calls conrad and rudolph and max da-da, and this morning in the back window she applied the same handsome compliment to your mr. poopendyke." "oh," said i, rather more crestfallen than relieved. "would you like to hold her, mr. smart? she's such a darling to hold." "no--no, thank you," i cried, backing off. "oh, you will come to it, never fear," she said gaily, as she restored rosemary to the nurse's arms. "won't he, blake?" "he will, my lady," said blake with conviction. i noticed this time that blake's smile wasn't half bad. at that instant jinko, the chow, pushed the door open with his black nose and strolled imposingly into the room. he proceeded to treat me in the most cavalier fashion by bristling and growling. the countess opened her eyes very wide. "dear me," she sighed, "you must be very like the count, after all. jinko never growls at any one but him." * * * * * at dinner that evening i asked poopendyke point blank if he could call to mind a marriage in new york society that might fit the principals in this puzzling case. he hemmed and hawed and appeared to be greatly confused. "really, sir, i--i--really, i--" "you make it a point to read all of the society news," i explained; "and you are a great hand for remembering names and faces. think hard." "as a matter of fact, mr. smart, i _do_ remember this particular marriage very clearly," said he, looking down at his plate. "you do?" i shouted eagerly. the new footman stared. "splendid! tell me, who is she--or was she?" my secretary looked me steadily in the eye. "i'm sorry, sir, but--but i can't do it. i promised her this morning i wouldn't let it be dragged out of me with red hot tongs." chapter vii i receive visitors she was indeed attended by faithful slaves. * * * * * * * * the east wing of the castle was as still as a mouse on the day my house party arrived. grim old doors took on new padlocks, keyholes were carefully stopped up; creaking floors were calked; windows were picketed by uncompromising articles of furniture deployed to keep my ruthless refugee from adventuring too close to the danger zone; and adamantine instructions were served out to all of my vassals. everything appeared to be in tip-top shape for the experiment in stealth. and yet i trembled. my secret seemed to be safely planted, but what would the harvest be? i knew i should watch those upper windows with hypnotic zeal, and listen with straining ears for the inevitable squall of a child or the bark of a dog. my brain ran riot with incipient subterfuges, excuses, apologies and lies with which my position was to be sustained. there would not be a minute during the week to come when i would be perfectly free to call my soul my own, and as for nerves! well, with good luck they might endure the strain. popping up in bed out of a sound sleep at the slightest disturbance, with ears wide open and nerves tingling, was to be a nightly occupation at uncertain intervals; that was plain to be seen. all day long i would be shivering with anxiety and praying for night to come so that i might lie awake and pray for the sun to rise, and in this way pass the time as quickly as possible. there would be difficulty in getting my visitors to bed early, another thing to test my power at conniving. they were bridge players, of course, and as such would be up till all hours of the morning overdoing themselves in the effort to read each other's thoughts. i thanked the lord that my electric lighting system would not be installed until after they had departed. ordinarily the lord isn't thanked when an electric light company fails to perform its work on schedule time, but in this case delay was courted. we were all somewhat surprised and not a little disorganised by the appearance of four unexpected servants in the train of my party. we hadn't counted on anything quite so elaborate. there were two lady's maids, not on friendly terms with each other; a french valet who had the air of one used to being served on a tray outside the servants' quarters; and a german attendant with hands constructed especially for the purpose of kneading and gouging the innermost muscles of his master, who it appears had to be kneaded and gouged three times a day by a masseur in order to stave off paralysis, locomotor ataxia or something equally unwelcome to a high liver. we had ample room for all this physical increase, but no beds. i transferred the problem to poopendyke. how he solved it i do not know, but from the woe-be-gone expression on his face the morning after the first night, and the fact that britton was unnecessarily rough in shaving me, i gathered that the two of them had slept on a pile of rugs in the lower hall. elsie hazzard presented me to her friends and, with lordly generosity, i presented the castle to them. her husband, dr. george, thanked me for saving all their lives and then, feeling a draft, turned up his coat collar and informed me that we'd all die if i didn't have the cracks stopped up. he seemed unnecessarily testy about it. there was a russian baron (the man who had to be kneaded) the last syllable of whose name was vitch, the first five evading me in a perpetual chase up and down the alphabet. for brevity's sake, i'll call him umovitch. the french valet's master was a viennese gentleman of twenty-six or eight (i heard), but who looked forty. i found myself wondering how dear, puritanic, little elsie hazzard could have fallen in with two such unamiable wrecks as these fellows appeared to be at first sight. the austrian's name was pless. he was a plain mister. the more i saw of him the first afternoon the more i wondered at george hazzard's carelessness. then there were two very bright and charming americans, the billy smiths. he was connected with the american embassy at vienna, and i liked him from the start. you could tell that he was the sort of a chap who is bound to get on in the world by simply looking at his wife. the man who could win the love and support of such an attractive creature must of necessity have qualifications to spare. she was very beautiful and very clever. somehow the unforgetable resplendency of my erstwhile typist (who married the jeweller's clerk) faded into a pale, ineffective drab when opposed to the charms of mrs. betty billy smith. (they all called her betty billy.) after luncheon i got elsie off in a corner and plied her with questions concerning her friends. the billy smiths were easily accounted for. they belonged to the most exclusive set in new york and newport. he had an incomprehensible lot of money and a taste for the diplomatic service. some day he would be an ambassador. the baron was in the russian embassy and was really a very nice boy. "boy?" i exclaimed. "he is not more than thirty," said she. "you wouldn't call that old." there was nothing i could say to that and still be a perfect host. but to you i declare that he wasn't a day under fifty. how blind women can be! or is silly the word? from where we sat the figure of mr. pless was plainly visible in the loggia. he was alone, leaning against the low wall and looking down upon the river. he puffed idly at a cigarette. his coal black hair grew very sleek on his smallish head and his shoulders were rather high, as if pinched upward by a tendency to defy a weak spine. "and this mr. pless, who is he?" elsie was looking at the rakish young man with a pitying expression in her tender blue eyes. "poor fellow," she sighed. "he is in great trouble, john. we hoped that if we got him off here where it is quiet he might be able to forget--oh, but i am not supposed to tell you a word of the story! we are all sworn to secrecy. it was only on that condition that he consented to come with us." "indeed!" she hesitated, uncomfortably placed between two duties. she owed one to him and one to me. "it is only fair, john, that you should know that pless is not his real name," she said, lowering her voice. "but, of course, we stand sponsor for him, so it is all right." "your word is sufficient, elsie." she seemed to be debating some inward question. the next i knew she moved a little closer to me. "his life is a--a tragedy," she whispered. "his heart is broken, i firmly believe. oh!" the billy smiths came up. elsie proceeded to withdraw into herself. "we were speaking of mr. pless," said i. "he has a broken heart." the newcomers looked hard at poor elsie. "broken fiddle-sticks," said billy smith, nudging elsie until she made room for him beside her on the long couch. i promptly made room for betty billy. "we ought to tell john just a little about him," said elsie defensively. "it is due him, billy." "but don't tell him the fellow's heart is broken. that's rot." "it isn't rot," said his wife. "wouldn't your heart be broken?" he crossed his legs comfortably. "wouldn't it?" repeated betty billy. "not if it were as porous as his. you can't break a sponge, my dear." "what happened to it?" i inquired, mildly interested. "women," said billy impressively. "then it's easily patched," said i. "like cures like." "you don't understand, john," said elsie gravely. "he was married to a beautiful--" "now, elsie, you're telling," cautioned betty billy. "well," said elsie doggedly, "i'm determined to tell this much: his name isn't pless, his wife got a divorce from him, and now she has taken their child and run off with it and they can't find--what's the matter?" my eyes were almost popping from my head. "is--is he a count?" i cried, so loudly that they all said "sh!" and shot apprehensive glances toward the pseudo mr. pless. "goodness!" said elsie in alarm. "don't shout, john." billy smith regarded me speculatively. "i dare say mr. smart has read all about the affair in the newspapers. they've had nothing else lately. i won't say he is a count, and i won't say he isn't. we're bound by a deep, dark, sinister oath, sealed with blood." "i haven't seen anything about it in the papers," said i, trying to recover my self-possession which had sustained a most tremendous shock. "thank heaven!" cried elsie devoutly. "do you mean to say you won't tell me his name?" i demanded. elsie eyed me suspiciously. "why did you ask if he is a count?" "i have a vague recollection of hearing some one speak of a count having trouble with his young american wife, divorce, or something of the sort. a very prominent new york girl, if i'm not mistaken. all very hazy, however. what is his name?" "john," said mrs. hazzard firmly, "you must not ask us to tell you. won't you please understand?" "the poor fellow is almost distracted. really, mr. smart, we planned this little visit here simply in order to--to take him out of himself for a while. it has been such a tragedy for him. he worshipped the child." it was mrs. billy who spoke. "and the mother made way with him?" i queried, resorting to a suddenly acquired cunning. "it is a girl," said elsie in a loud whisper. "the _loveliest_ girl. the mother appeared in vienna about three weeks or a month ago and--whiff! off goes the child. abducted--kidnapped! and the court had granted him the custody of the child. that's what makes it so terrible. if she is caught anywhere in europe--well, i don't know what may happen to her. it is just such silly acts as this that make american girls the laughing stocks of the whole world. i give you my word i am almost ashamed to have people point me out and say: 'there goes an american. pooh!'" by this time i had myself pretty well in hand. "i daresay the mother loved the child, which ought to condone one among her multitude of sins. i take it, of course, that she was entirely to blame for everything that happened." they at once proceeded to tear the poor little mother to shreds, delicately and with finesse, to be sure, but none the less completely. no doubt they meant to be charitable. "this is what a silly american nobody gets for trying to be somebody over here just because her father has a trunkful of millions," said elsie, concluding a rather peevish estimate of the conjugal effrontery laid at the door of mr. pless's late wife. "or just because one of these spendthrift foreigners has a title for sale," said billy smith sarcastically. "he was deeply in love with her when they were married," said his wife. "i don't believe it was his fault that they didn't get along well together." "the truth of the matter is," said elsie with finality, "she couldn't live up to her estate. she was a drag, a stone about his neck. it was like putting one's waitress at the head of the table and expecting her to make good as a hostess." "what was her social standing in new york?" i enquired. "oh, good enough," said betty billy. "she was in the smartest set, if that is a recommendation." "then you admit, both of you, that the best of our american girls fall short of being all that is required over here. in other words, they can't hold a candle to the europeans." "not at all," they both said in a flash. "that's the way it sounds to me." elsie seemed repentant. "i suppose we are a little hard on the poor thing. she was very young, you see." "what you mean to say, then, is that she wasn't good enough for mr. pless and his coterie." "no, not just precisely that," admitted betty billy smith. "she made a bid for him and got him, and my contention is that she should have lived up to the bargain." "wasn't he paid in full?" i asked, with a slight sneer. "what do you mean?" "didn't he get his money?" "i am sure i don't see what money has to do with the case," said elsie, with dignity. "mr. pless is a poor man i've heard. there could not have been very much of a marriage settlement." "a mere million to start with," remarked billy smith ironically. "it's all gone, my dear elsie, and i gather that father-in-law locked the trunk you speak of and hid the key. you don't know women as well as i do, mr. smart. both of these charming ladies professed to adore mr. pless's wife up to the time the trial for divorce came up. now they've got their hammers and hat-pins out for her and--" "that isn't true, billy smith," cried elsie in a fierce whisper. "we stood by her until she disobeyed the mandate--or whatever you call it--of the court. she did steal the child, and you can't deny it." "poor little kiddie," said he, and from his tone i gathered that all was not rosy in the life of the infant in this game of battledore and shuttlecock. to my disgust, the three of them refused to enlighten me further as to the history, identity or character of either mr. or mrs. pless, but of course i knew that i was entertaining under my roof, by the most extraordinary coincidence, the count and countess of something-or-other, who were at war, and the child they were fighting for with motives of an entirely opposite nature. right or wrong, my sympathies were with the refugee in the lonely east wing. i was all the more determined now to shield her as far as it lay in my power to do so, and to defend her if the worst were to happen. mr. pless tossed his cigarette over the railing and sauntered over to join us. "i suppose you've been discussing the view," he said as he came up. there was a mean smile on his--yes, it was a rather handsome face--and the two ladies started guiltily. the attack on his part was particularly direct when one stops to consider that there wasn't any view to be had from where we were sitting, unless one could call a three-decked plasterer's scaffolding a view. "we've been discussing the recent improvements about the castle, mr. pless," said i with so much directness that i felt mrs. billy smith's arm stiffen and suspected a general tension of nerves from head to foot. "you shouldn't spoil the place, mr. smart," said he, with a careless glance about him. "don't ruin the ruins," added billy smith, of the diplomatic corps. "what time do we dine?" asked mr. pless, with a suppressed yawn. "at eight," said elsie promptly. we were in the habit of dining at seven-thirty, but i was growing accustomed to the over-riding process, so allowed my dinner hour to be changed without a word. "i think i'll take a nap," said he. with a languid smile and a little flaunt of his hand as if dismissing us, he moved languidly off, but stopped after a few steps to say to me: "we'll explore the castle to-morrow, mr. smart, if it's just the same to you." he spoke with a very slight accent and in a peculiarly attractive manner. there was charm to the man, i was bound to admit. "i know schloss rothhoefen very well. it is an old stamping ground of mine." "indeed," said i, affecting surprise. "i spent a very joyous season here not so many years ago. hohendahl is a bosom friend." when he was quite out of hearing, billy smith leaned over and said to me: "he spent his honeymoon here, old man. it was the girls' idea to bring him here to assuage the present with memories of the past. quite a pretty sentiment, eh?" "it depends on how he spent it," i said significantly. smith grinned approvingly. being a diplomat he sensed my meaning at once. "it was a lot of money," he said. at dinner the russian baron, who examined every particle of food he ate with great care and discrimination, evidently looking for poison, embarrassed me in the usual fashion by asking how i write my books, where i get my plots, and all the rest of the questions that have become so hatefully unanswerable, ending up by blandly enquiring _what_ i had written. this was made especially humiliating by the prefatory remark that he had lived in washington for five years and had read everything that was worth reading. if elsie had been a man i should have kicked her for further confounding me by mentioning the titles of all my books and saying that he surely must have read them, as everybody did, thereby supplying him with the chance to triumphantly say that he'd be hanged if he'd ever heard of any one of them. i shall always console myself with the joyful thought that i couldn't remember his infernal name and would now make it a point never to do so. mr. pless openly made love to elsie and the baron openly made love to betty billy. being a sort of noncommittal bachelor, i ranged myself with the two abandoned husbands and we had quite a reckless time of it, talking with uninterrupted devilishness about the growth of american dentistry in european capitals, the way one has his nails manicured in germany, the upset price of hot-house strawberries, the relative merit of french and english bulls, the continued progress of the weather and sundry other topics of similar piquancy. elsie invited all of us to a welsh rarebit party she was giving at eleven-thirty, and then they got to work at the bridge table, poor george hazzard cutting in occasionally. this left billy smith and me free to make up a somewhat somnolent two-some. i was eager to steal away to the east wing with the news, but how to dispose of billy without appearing rude was more than i could work out. it was absolutely necessary for the countess to know that her ex-husband was in the castle. i would have to manage in some way to see her before the evening was over. the least carelessness, the smallest slip might prove the undoing of both of us. i wondered how she would take the dismal news. would she become hysterical and go all to pieces? would the prospect of a week of propinquity be too much for her, even though thick walls intervened to put them into separate worlds? or, worst of all, would she reveal an uncomfortable spirit of bravado, rashly casting discretion to the winds in order to show him that she was not the timid, beaten coward he might suspect her of being? she had once said to me that she loathed a coward. i have always wondered how it felt to be in a "pretty kettle of fish," or a "pickle," or any of the synonymous predicaments. now i knew. nothing could have been more synchronous than the plural howdy-do that confronted me. my nervousness must have been outrageously pronounced. pacing the floor, looking at one's watch, sighing profoundly, putting one's hands in the pockets and taking them out again almost immediately, letting questions go by unanswered, and all such, are actions or conditions that usually produce the impression that one is nervous. a discerning observer seldom fails to note the symptoms. mr. smith said to me at nine-sixteen (i know it was exactly nine-sixteen to the second) with polite conviction in his smile: "you seem to have something on your mind, old chap." now no one but a true diplomat recognises the psychological moment for calling an almost total stranger "old chap." "i have, old fellow," said i, immensely relieved by his perspicuity. "i ought to get off five or six very important letters to--" he interrupted me with a genial wave of his hand. "run along and get 'em off," he said. "don't mind me. i'll look over the magazines." ten minutes later i was sneaking up the interminable stairways in the sepulchral east wing, lighting and relighting a tallow candle with grim patience at every other landing and luridly berating the drafts that swept the passages. mr. poopendyke stood guard below at the padlocked doors, holding the keys. he was to await my signal to reopen them, but he was not to release me under any circumstance if snoopers were abroad. my secretary was vastly disturbed by the news i imparted. he was so startled that he forgot to tell me that he wouldn't spend another night on a pile of rugs with britton as a bed-fellow, an omission which gave britton the opportunity to anticipate him by _almost_ giving notice that very night. (the upshot of it was the hasty acquisition of two brand new iron beds the next day, and the restoration of peace in my domestic realm.) somewhat timorously i knocked at the countess's door. i realised that it was a most unseemly hour for calling on a young, beautiful and unprotected lady, but the exigencies of the moment lent moral support to my invasion. after waiting five minutes and then knocking again so loudly that the sound reverberated through the empty halls with a sickening clatter, i heard some one fumbling with the bolts. the door opened an inch of two. the countess's french maid peered out at me. "tell your mistress that i must see her at once." "madame is not at home, m'sieur," said the young woman. "not at home?" i gasped. "where is she?" "madame has gone to bed." "oh," i said, blinking. "then she _is_ at home. present my compliments and ask her to get up. something very exasperating has hap--" "madame has request me to inform m'sieur that she knows the count is here, and will you be so good as to call to-morrow morning." "what! she knows he's here? who brought the information?" "the bountiful max, m'sieur. he bring it with _dejeuner_, again with _diner_, and but now with the hot water, m'sieur." "oh, i see," said i profoundly. "in that case, i--i sha'n't disturb her. how--er--how did she take it?" she gave me a severely reproachful look. "she took it as usual, m'sieur. in that dreadful little tin tub old conrad--" "good heavens, girl! i mean the news--the news about the count." "mon dieu! i thought m'sieur refer to--but yes! she take it beautifully. i too mean the news. madame is not afraid. has she not the good, brave m'sieur to--what you call it--to shoulder all the worry, no? she is not alarm. she reads m'sieur's latest book in bed, smoke the cigarette, and she say what the divil do she care." "what!" "non, non! i, helene marie louise antoinette, say it for madame. pardon! pardon, m'sieur! it is i who am wicked." very stiffly and ceremoniously i advised caution for the next twelve hours, and saying good night to helene marie louise antoinette in an unintentionally complimentary whisper, took myself off down the stairs, pursued by an equally subdued _bon soir_ which made me feel like a soft-stepping lothario. now it may occur to you that any self-respecting gentleman in possession of a castle and a grain of common sense would have set about to find out the true names of the guests beneath his roof. the task would have been a simple one, there is no doubt of that. a peremptory command with a rigid alternative would have brought out the truth in a jiffy. but it so happens that i rather enjoyed the mystery. the situation was unique, the comedy most exhilarating. of course, there was a tragic side to the whole matter, but now that i was in for it, why minimise the novelty by adopting arbitrary measures? three minutes of stern conversation with elsie hazzard would enlighten me on all the essential points; perhaps half an hour would bring poopendyke to terms; a half a day might be required in the brow-beating of the frail countess. with the schmicks, there was no hope. but why not allow myself the pleasure of enjoying the romantic feast that had been set before me by the gods of chance? chance ordered the tangle; let chance unravel it. somewhat gleefully i decided that it would be good fun to keep myself in the dark as long as possible! "mr. poopendyke," said i, after that nervous factotum had let me into my side of the castle with gratifying stealthiness, "you will oblige me by not mentioning that fair lady's name in my presence." "you did not stay very long, sir," said he in a sad whisper, and for the life of me i couldn't determine what construction to put upon the singularly unresponsive remark. when i reached the room where my guests were assembled, i found mr. pless and the baron umovitch engaged in an acrimonious dispute over a question of bridge etiquette. the former had resented a sharp criticism coming from the latter, and they were waging a verbal battle in what i took to be five or six different tongues, none of which appeared to bear the slightest relationship to the english language. suddenly mr. pless threw his cards down and left the table, without a word of apology to the two ladies, who looked more hurt than appalled. he said he was going to bed, but i noticed that he took himself off in the direction of the moonlit loggia. we were still discussing his defection in subdued tones--with the exception of the irate baron--when he re-entered the room. the expression on his face was mocking, even accusing. directing his words to me, he uttered a lazy indictment. "are there real spirits in your castle, mr. smart, or have you flesh and blood mediums here who roam about in white night dresses to study the moods of the moon from the dizziest ramparts?" i started. what indiscretion had the countess been up to? "i don't quite understand you, mr. pless," i said, with a politely blank stare. confound his insolence! he winked at me! chapter viii i resort to diplomacy "my dear countess," said i, the next morning, "while i am willing to admit that all you say is true, there still remains the unhappy fact that you were very near to upsetting everything last night. mr. pless saw you quite plainly. the moon was very full, you'll remember. fortunately he was too far away from your window to recognise you. think how easy it might--" "but i've told you twice that i held my hand over pinko's nose and he just couldn't bark, mr. smart. you are really most unreasonable about it. the dog had to have a breath of fresh air." "why not send him up to the top of the tower and let him run around on the--" "oh, there's no use talking about it any longer," she said wearily. "it is all over and no real harm was done. i am awfully sorry if they made it uncomfortable for you. it is just like him to suggest something--well, scandalous. and the rest of them are dreadful teases, especially mrs. smith. they love anything risque. but you haven't told me what they said that kept you awake all night." my dignity was worth beholding. "it was not what they said to me, countess, but what they left unsaid. i sha'n't tell you what they said." "i think i can make a pretty good guess--" "well, you needn't!" i cried hastily, but too late. she would out with it. "they accuse you of being a sad, sad dog, a foxy; bachelor, and a devil of a fellow. they all profess to be very much shocked, but they assure you that it's all right,--not to mind them. they didn't think you had it in you, and they're glad to see you behaving like a scamp. oh, i know them!" as a matter of fact, she was pretty near to being right. "all the more reason for you to be cautious and circumspect," said i boldly. "pray think of my position, if not your own." she gave me a queer little look and then smiled brightly. (she _is_ lovely!) "i'll promise to be good," she said. "i only ask you to be careful," said i, blunderingly. she laughed aloud: her merriest, most distracting gurgle. "and now will you be good enough to tell me who i am?" she asked, after a few minutes. "that is, who am i supposed to be?" "oh," said i uneasily, "you are really nobody. you are britton's wife." "what! does britton know it?" "yes," said i, with a wry smile. "he took a mean advantage of me in the presence of george hazzard not an hour ago, and asked for a raise in wages on account of his wife's illness. it seems that you are an invalid." "i hope he hasn't forgotten the baby in his calculations." "he hasn't, you may be sure. he has named the baby after me." "how original!" "i thought it rather clever to change rosemary's sex for a few days," said i. "moreover, it will be necessary for britton to take max's place as your personal servant. he will fetch your meals and--" "oh, i can't agree to that, mr. smart," she cried with decision. "i must have max. he is--" "but britton must have some sort of a pretext for--" "nonsense! no one cares about britton and his sick wife. let well enough alone." "i--i'll think it over, countess," said i weakly. "and now tell me all about--mr. pless. how is he looking? does he appear to be unhappy?" there was a curious note in her voice, as of anxiety or eagerness, it was hard to tell which. in any case, i found myself inwardly resenting her interest in the sneering hungarian. (i had discovered that he was not an austrian.) there was a queer sinking sensation in the region of my heart, and a slight chill. could it be possible that she--but no! it was preposterous! "he appears to be somewhat sentimental and preoccupied. he gazes at the moon and bites his nails." "i--i wish i could have a peep at him some time without being--" "for heaven's sake, don't even consider such a thing," i cried in alarm. "just a little peek, mr. smart," she pleaded. "no!" said i firmly. "very well," she said resignedly, fixing me with hurt eyes. "i'm sorry to be such a bother to you." "i believe you'll go back to him, after all," i said angrily. "women are all alike. they--" "just because i want to see how unhappy he is, and enjoy myself a little, you say horrid things to me," she cried, almost pathetically. "you treat me very badly." "there is a great deal at stake," said i. "the peril is--well, it's enormous. i am having the devil's own time heading off a scheme they've got for exploring the entire castle. your hus--your ex-husband says he knows of a secret door opening into this part of the--" she sprang to her feet with a sharp cry of alarm. "heavens! i--i forgot about _that!_ there is a secret panel and--heaven save us!--it opens directly into my bedroom!" her eyes were very wide and full of consternation. she gripped my arm. "come! be quick! we must pile something heavy against it, or nail it up, or--do something." she fairly dragged me out into the corridor, and then, picking up her dainty skirts, pattered down the rickety stairs at so swift a pace that i had some difficulty in keeping her pink figure in sight. why is it that a woman can go downstairs so much faster than a man? i've never been able to explain it. she didn't stumble once, or miss a step, while i did all manner of clumsy things, and once came near to pitching headlong to the bottom. we went down and down and round and round so endlessly that i was not only gasping but reeling. at last we came to the broad hall at the top of the main staircase. almost directly in front of us loomed the great padlocked doors leading to the other wing. passing them like the wind she led the way to the farthermost end of the hall. light from the big, paneless windows overlooking the river, came streaming into the vast corridor, and i could see doors ahead to the right and the left of us. "your bedroom?" i managed to gasp, uttering a belated question that should have been asked five or six flights higher up at a time when i was better qualified to voice it. "what the dickens is it doing down here?" she did not reply, but, turning to the left, threw open a door and disappeared into the room beyond. i followed ruthlessly, but stopped just over the threshold to catch my breath in astonishment. i was in "my lady's bed-chamber." the immense gothic bed stood on its dais, imposing in its isolation. three or four very modern innovation trunks loomed like minarets against the opposite walls, half-open; one's imagination might have been excused if it conjured up sentries who stood ready to pop out of the trunks to scare one half to death. some of my most precious rugs adorned the floor, but the windows were absolutely undraped. there were a few old chairs scattered about, but no other article of furniture except an improvised wash-stand, and a clumsy, portable tin bath-tub which leaned nonchalantly against the foot of the bed. there were great mirrors, in the wall at one end of the room, cracked and scaly it is true, but capable of reflecting one's presence. "don't stand there gaping," she cried in a shrill whisper, starting across the room only to turn aside with a sharp exclamation. "that stupid helene!" she cried, flushing warmly. catching up a heap of tumbled garments, mostly white, from a chair, she recklessly hurled them behind the bed. "this is the mirror--the middle one. it opens by means of a spring. there is a small hole in the wall behind it and then there is still another secret door beyond that, a thick iron one with the sixth baron rothhoefen's portrait on the outer side of it. the canvas swings open. we must--" i was beginning to get my bearings. "the sixth baron? old ludwig the red?" "the very one." "then, by jove, he is in my study! you don't mean to say--" "please don't stop to talk," she cried impatiently, looking about in a distracted manner, "but for goodness sake get something to put against this mirror." my mind worked rapidly. the only object in the room heavy enough to serve as a barricade was the bed, and it was too heavy for me to move, i feared. i suggested it, of course, involuntarily lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "pull it over, quick!" she commanded promptly. "perhaps i'd better run out and get max and ru--" "if my hus--if mr. pless should open that secret door from the other side, mr. smart, it will be very embarrassing for you and me, let--" i put my shoulder to the huge creaky bed and shoved. there were no castors. it did not budge. the countess assisted me by putting the tips of her small fingers against one end of it and pushing. it was not what one would call a frantic effort on her part, but it served to make me exert myself to the utmost. i, a big strong man, couldn't afford to have a slim countess pushing a bedstead about while i was there to do it for her. "don't do that," i protested. "i can manage it alone, thank you." i secured a strong grip on the bottom of the thing and heaved manfully. "you might let me help," she cried, firmly grasping a side piece with both hands. the bed moved. the veins stood out on my neck and temples. my face must have been quite purple, and it is a hue that i detest. when i was a very small laddie my mother put me forward to be admired in purple velveteen. the horror of it still lingers. by means of great straining i got the heavy bed over against the mirror, upsetting the tin bathtub with a crash that under ordinary circumstances would have made my heart stand still but now only tripled its pumping activities. one of the legs was hopelessly splintered in the drop from the raised platform. "there," she said, standing off to survey our joint achievement, "we've stopped it up very nicely." she brushed the tips of her fingers daintily. "this afternoon you may fetch up a hammer and some nails and fasten the mirror permanently. then you can move the bed back to its proper place. goodness! what a narrow squeak!" "madam," said i, my hand on my heart but not through gallantry, "that bed stays where it is. not all the king's horses nor all the king's men can put it back again." "was it so heavy, mr. smart?" i swallowed very hard. a prophetic crick already had planted itself in my back. "will you forgive me if i submit that you sleep quite a distance from home?" i remarked with justifiable irony. "why the deuce don't you stay on the upper floors?" "because i am mortally afraid," she said, with a little shudder. "you've no idea how lonely, how spooky it is up there at the dead hour of night. i couldn't sleep. after the third night i had my things moved down here, where i could at least feel that there were strong men within--you might say arm's length of me. i'm--i'm shockingly timid." she smiled; a wavering, pleading little smile that conquered. "of course, i don't mind, countess," i hastened to say. "only i thought it would be cosier up there with rosemary and the two maids for company." she leaned a little closer to me. "we all sleep down here," she said confidentially. "we bring rosemary's little mattress down every night and put it in the bathtub. it is a very good fit and makes quite a nice cradle for her. helene and blake sleep just across the hall and we leave the doors wide open. so, you see, we're not one bit afraid." i sat down on the edge of the bed and laughed. "this is delicious," i cried, not without compunction for i was looking directly into her eager, wistful eyes. a shadow crossed them. "i beg your pardon. i--i can't help laughing." "pray do not stop laughing on my account," she said icily. "i am used to being laughed at since i left america. they laugh at all of us over here." "i dare say they laugh at me, confound them," said i, lugubriously. "they do," said she flatly. before i could quite recover from this sentient dig, she was ordering me to put the bathtub where it belonged. this task completed, i looked up. she was standing near the head of the bed, with a revolver in her hand. i stared. "i keep it under my pillow, mr. smart," she said nervously. i said nothing, and she replaced it under the pillow, handling the deadly weapon as gingerly as if it were the frailest glass. "of course i couldn't hit anything with it, and i know i should scream when it went off, but still--accidents will happen, you know." "urn!" said i, judicially. "and so my study is just beyond this mirror, eh? may i enquire how you happen to know that i have my study there?" "oh, i peeked in the other day," she said, serene once more. "the deuce you did!" "i was quite sure that you were out," she explained. "i opened ludwig the red an inch or two, that's all. you are quite cosy in there, aren't you? i envy you the grand old _chaise longe_." i wavered, but succeeded in subduing the impulse. "it is the only comfortable piece of furniture i have left in my apartments," said i, with convincing candour. "you poor man," she said, with her rarest smile. "how fortunate you are that i did not remember the chaise longe. you would have been deprived of it, i am quite sure. of course i couldn't think of robbing you of it now." "as a matter of fact, i never lie in it," i said, submitting to a once conquered impulse. "if you'd really like to have it, i'll see that it is taken up to your rooms at once." "thank you," she said, shaking her head. "it's kind of you, but i am not so selfish as all that, believe me." "it is--quite in the way, countess." "some one would be sure to miss it if you sent it up now," she said reflectively. "we'll wait till they're all gone," said i. she smiled and the bargain was settled without a word from her. you've heard of men being wrapped about little fingers, haven't you? well, there you are. we returned to the corridor. she closed the door softly, a mockery in view of the clatter i had made in shifting the bed and its impediments. "we can't be too careful," she said in a whisper. she might have spoken through a megaphone and still been quite safe. we were tramping up the stairs. "don't you think your guests will consider you rather inhospitable if you stay away from them all morning?" i stopped short. "by jove, now that you remind me of it, i promised to take them all out for a spin in the motor boat before luncheon. hazzard has had his boat sent down." she looked positively unhappy. "oh, how i should love to get out for a spin on the river! i wonder if i'll ever be free to enjoy the things i like most of--" "listen!" i whispered suddenly, grasping her arm. "did you hear footsteps in the--sh!" some one was walking over the stone floor in the lower hall, brisk strides that rang out quite clearly as they drew nearer. "it is--it is mr. pless," she whispered in a panic. "i recognise his tread. as if i could ever forget it! oh, how i hate him! he--" "don't stop here to tell me about it," i cut in sharply. "make haste! get up to your rooms and lock yourself in. i'll--i'll stop him. how the deuce did he get into this side of the--" "through the dungeons. there is a passage," she, whispered, and then she was gone, flying noiselessly up the narrow stairway. assuming a nonchalance i certainly did not feel, i descended the stairs. we met in the broad hallway below. mr. pless approached slowly, evidently having checked his speed on hearing my footsteps on the stairs. "hello," i said agreeably. "how did you get in?" he surveyed me coolly. "i know the castle from top to bottom, mr. smart. to be perfectly frank with you, i tried the secret panel in your study but found the opposite door blocked. you have no objection, i trust, to my looking over the castle? it is like home to me." my plan was to detain him in conversation until she had time to secrete herself on the upper floor. somehow i anticipated the banging of a door, and it came a moment later--not loud but very convicting, just the same. he glanced at me curiously. "then how _did_ you get in?" i repeated, cringing perceptibly in response to the slam of the distant door. "by the same means, i daresay, that you employ," said he. for a moment i was confounded. then my wits came to the rescue. "i see. through the dungeon. you _do_ know the castle well, mr. pless." "it is a cobwebby, unlovely passage," said he, brushing the dirt and cobwebs from his trousers. my own appearance was conspicuously immaculate, but i brushed in unison, just the same. "grewsome," said i. he was regarding me with a curious smile in his eyes, a pleasantly bantering smile that had but one meaning. casting an eye upwards, he allowed his smile to spread. "perhaps you'd rather i didn't disturb mrs.-- mrs.--" "britton," said i. "my valet's wife. i don't believe you will disturb her. she's on the top floor, i think." he still smiled. "a little remote from britton, isn't she?" i think i glared. what right had he to meddle in britton's affairs? "i am afraid your fancy draws a rather long bow, mr. pless," said i, coldly. he was at once apologetic. "if i offend, mr. smart, pray forgive me. you are quite justified in rebuking me. shall we return to our own ladies?" nothing could have been more adroit than the way he accused me in that concluding sentence. it was the quintessence of irony. "i'd like to have your opinion as to the best way of restoring or repairing those mural paintings in the dome of the east hall," i said, detaining him. it was necessary for me to have a good excuse for rummaging about in the unused part of the castle. "it seems too bad to let those wonderful paintings go to ruin. they are hanging down in some places, and are badly cracked in others. i've been worrying about them ever since i came into possession. for instance, that murillo in the centre. it must be preserved." he gave me another queer look, and i congratulated myself on the success of my strategy. he took it all in. the mocking light died out in his eyes, and he at once became intensely interested in my heaven-sent project. for fifteen or twenty minutes we discussed the dilapidated frescoes and he gave me the soundest sort of advice, based on a knowledge and experience that surprised me more than a little. he was thoroughly up in matters of art. his own chateau near buda pesth, he informed me, had only recently undergone complete restoration in every particular. a great deal of money had been required, but the expenditures had been justified by the results. paintings like these had been restored to their original glory, and so on and so forth. he offered to give me the address of the men in munich who had performed such wonders for him, and suggested rather timidly that he might be of considerable assistance to me in outlining a system of improvements. i could not help being impressed. his manner was most agreeable. when he smiled without malice, his dark eyes were very boyish. one could then forget the hard lines of dissipation in his face, and the domineering, discontented expression which gave to him the aspect of a far greater age than he had yet attained. a note of eager enthusiasm in his voice proved beyond cavil that if this sprig of nobility had had half a chance in the beginning he might have been nobler than he was to-day. but underneath the fascinating charm of manner, back of the old world courtliness, there lurked the ever dominant signs of intolerance, selfishness and--even cruelty. he was mean to the core. he had never heard of the milk of human kindness, much less tasted of it. there was no getting away from the fact that he despised me for no other reason than that i was an american. i could not help feeling the derision in which he held not only me but the hazzards and the smiths as well. he looked upon all of us as coming from an inferior race, to be tolerated only as passers-by and by no means worthy of his august consideration. we were not of his world and never could be. ignoble to him, indeed, must have been the wife who came with the vulgar though welcome dollars and an ambition to be his equal and the sharer of his heaven-born glory! he could not even pity her! while he was discoursing so amiably upon the subjects he knew so well by means of an inherited intelligence that came down through generations, i allowed my thoughts to drift upstairs to that frightened, hunted little fellow-countrywoman of mine, as intolerant, as vain perhaps as he after a fashion, and cursed the infernal custom that lays our pride so low. infinitely nobler than he and yet an object of scorn to him and all his people, great and small; a discredited interloper who could not deceive the lowliest menial in her own household into regarding her as anything but an imitation. her loveliness counted for naught. her wit, her charm, her purity of heart counted for even less than that. she was a thing that had been bartered for and could be cast aside without loss--a pawn. and she had committed the inconceivable sin of rebelling against the laws of commerce: she had defaulted! they would not forgive her for that. my heart warmed toward her. she had been afraid of the dark! i can forgive a great deal in a person who is afraid of the dark. i looked at my watch. assuming a careless manner, i remarked: "i am afraid we shall be late for the start. are you going out with us in the boat or would you prefer to browse about a little longer? will you excuse me? i must be off." his cynical smile returned. "i shall forego the pleasure of browsing in another man's pasture, if you don't mind." it was almost a direct accusation. he did not believe a word of the britton story. i suddenly found myself wondering if he suspected the truth. had he, by any chance, traced the fugitive countess to my doors? were his spies hot upon the trail? or had she betrayed herself by indiscreet acts during the past twenty-four hours? the latter was not unlikely; i knew her whims and her faults by this time. in either case, i had come to feel decidedly uncomfortable, so much so, in fact, that i was content to let the innuendo pass without a retort. it behooved me to keep my temper as well as my wits. "come along," said i, starting off in the direction of the lower regions. he followed. i manoeuvred with such success that ultimately he took the lead. i hadn't the remotest idea how to get to the confounded dungeons! it never rains but it pours. just as we were descending the last flight of stairs before coming to the winding stone steps that led far down into the earth, who but britton should come blithely up from the posterior regions devoted to servants and their ilk. he was carrying a long pasteboard box. i said something impressive under my breath. britton, on seeing us, stopped short in his tracks. he put the box behind his back and gazed at me forlornly. "ah, britton," said i, recovering myself most creditably; "going up to see little john bellamy, i suppose." i managed to shoot a covert look at mr. pless. he was gazing at the half-hidden box with a perfectly impassive face, and yet i knew that there was a smile about him somewhere. the miserable box contained roses, i knew, because i had ordered them for rosemary. "yes, sir," said my valet, quite rigid with uncertainty, "in a way, sir." a bright look flashed into his face. "i'm taking up the wash, mr. smart. from the laundry over in the town, sir. it is somethink dreadful the way they mangle things, sir. especially lady's garments. thank you, sir." he stood aside to let us pass, the box pinned between him and the wall. never in my life have i known roses with a more pungent and penetrating odour! britton seemed to fairly reek with it. "i like the perfumes the women are using nowadays," said mr. pless affably, as we felt our way down the steps. "attar of roses," said i, sniffing. "umph!" said he. it was quite dark and very damp in the underground passages. i had the curious sensation of lizards wriggling all about me in the sinister shadows. then and there i resolved that the doors of this pestilential prison should be locked and double locked and never opened again, while i was master of the place. moreover, old man schmick was down for a bad half-hour with me. how came these doors to be unlocked when the whole place was supposed to be as tight as a drum? if nothing else sufficed, the two prodigious schmicks would be required to stand guard, day and night, with bludgeons if needs be. i intended to keep snooping busybodies out of that side of the castle if i had to nail up every door in the place, even at the risk of starving those whom i would defend. especially was i firm in my resolve to keep the meddling ex-husband in his proper place. granted that he suspected me of a secret amour, what right had he to concern himself about it? none whatever. i was not the first baron to hold a fair prisoner within these powerful walls, and i meant to stand upon my dignity and my rights, as every man should who--but, great heaven, what an imbecile view to take of the matter! truly my brain was playing silly tricks for me as i stumbled through the murky corridors. i had my imagination in a pretty fair state of subjection by the time we emerged from the dungeons and started up the steps. facts were facts, and i would have to stick to them. that is why i bethought myself to utter this sage observation: "britton is a faithful, obliging fellow, mr. pless. it isn't every englishman who will gracefully submit to being chucked out of comfortable quarters to make room for others. we're a bit crowded, you know. he gave up his room like a gentleman and moved over temporarily into the other wing. he was afraid, don't you see, that the baby might disturb my guests. a very thoughtful, dependable fellow." "yes," said he, "a very dependable fellow, mr. smart. my own man is much the same sort of a chap. he also is married." did i imagine that he chuckled? half an hour later when i rejoined my guests after a session with conrad schmick, i was somewhat annoyed by the dig george hazzard planted in my devoted ribs, and the furtive wink he gave me. the two ladies were regarding me with expressions that seemed pretty well divided between disapproval and mirth. the baron, whose amicable relations with mr. pless evidently had been restored, was grinning broadly at me. and the countess imperiously had directed me to supply her with all the scandal of the hour! chapter ix i am invited out to dinner i sometimes wonder what would happen if i really had a mind of my own. would i be content to exercise it capably? would i cease to be putty in the hands of other people? i doubt it. even a strong, obdurate mind is liable to connect with conditions that render it weak and pliable for the simple reason that it is sometimes easier to put up with a thing than to try to put it down. an exacting, arbitrary mind perhaps might evolve a set of resolutions that even the most intolerant would hesitate to violate, but for an easygoing, trouble-dodging brain like my own there is no such thing as tenacity of purpose, unless it be in the direction of an obfuscated tendency to maintain its own pitiful equilibrium. i try to keep an even ballast in my dome of thought and to steer straight through the sea of circumstance, a very difficult undertaking and sometimes hazardous. a man with a firm, resolute grip on himself would have checked mr. pless and baron umovitch at the outset of their campaign to acquire undisputed possession of _all_ the comforts and conveniences that the castle afforded. he would have said no to their demands that all work about the place should be regulated according to their own life-long habits, which, among other things, included lying in bed till noon, going back to bed at three for a quiet nap, and staying up all night so that they might be adequately worn out by the time they went to bed in the first place. i mention this as a single instance of their power to over-ride me. it got to be so that when a carpenter wanted to drive a nail he had to substitute a screw and use a screw-driver, a noiseless process but an insufferable waste of time and money. lathers worked four days on a job that should have been accomplished in as many hours. can you imagine these expert, able-bodied men putting laths on a wall with screw-drivers? when elsie hazzard, painfully aware of my annoyance, asked the two noblemen why on earth they couldn't get up for breakfast, they coldly informed her that they were civilised human beings and not larks. they used my study for purposes of their own, and glared at me when i presumed to intrude upon their privacy. mr. pless took possession of this room, and here received all sorts of secret operatives engaged in the task of unearthing the former mrs. pless. here he had as many as fifteen reports a day by messenger from all parts of the land and here he discussed every new feature of the chase as it presented itself, coolly barring me out of my sanctum sanctorum with the impassive command to knock before attempting to enter. in spite of their acrimonious tilts over the card table, he and the baron were as thick as could be when it came to the question of the derelict countess. they maintained the strictest privacy and resented even the polite interest of their four american friends. finding mr. poopendyke at work over some typing one day, mr. pless peremptorily ordered him out of the study and subsequently complained to me about the infernal racket the fellow made with his typewriter. just as i was on the point of telling him to go to the devil, he smilingly called my attention to a complete plan for the restoration of the two great halls as he had worked it out on paper. he had also written a personal letter, commanding the munich firm to send their most competent expert to schloss rothhoefen without delay, to go over the plans with him. as i recall it, he merely referred to me as a rich american who needed advice. they cursed my servants, drank my wines, complained of the food, and had everybody about the place doing errands for them. my butler and footman threatened to leave if they were compelled to continue to serve drinks until four in the morning; but were somewhat appeased when i raised their wages. britton surreptitiously thrashed the french valet, and then had to serve mr. pless (to my despair) for two days while francois took his time recovering. the motor boat was operated as a ferry after the third day, hustling detectives, lawyers, messengers and newspaper correspondents back and forth across the much be-sung danube. time and again i shivered in my boots when these sly-faced detectives appeared and made their reports behind closed doors. when would they strike the trail? to my surprise the hazzards and the smiths were as much in the dark as i concerning development in the great kidnapping case. the wily mr. pless suddenly ceased delivering his confidences to outsiders. evidently he had been cautioned by those in charge of his affairs. he became as uncommunicative as the sphinx. i had the somewhat valueless satisfaction of knowing a blessed sight more about the matter than he and all of his bloodhounds put together. i could well afford to laugh, but under the extremely harassing conditions it was far from possible for me to get fat. as a matter of fact, it seemed to me that i was growing thinner. mrs. betty billy smith, toward the end of her visit, dolefully--almost tearfully--remarked upon my haggard appearance. she was very nice about it, too. i liked her immensely. it did not require half an eye to see that she was thoroughly sick of the baron and mr. pless. she was really quite uncivil to them toward the end. at last there came a day of deliverance. the guests were departing and i can truthfully say that i was speeding them. elsie hazzard took me off to a remote corner, where a little later on betty billy and the two husbands found us. "john, will you ever forgive me?" she said very soberly. "i swear to you i hadn't the faintest idea what it--" "please, please, elsie," i broke in warmly; "don't abuse yourself in my presence. i fully understand everything. at least, _nearly_ everything. what i can't understand, for the life of me, is this: how did you happen to pick up two such consummate bounders as these fellows are?" "alas, john," said she, shaking her head, "a woman never knows much about a man until she has lived a week in the same house with him. now _you_ are a perfect angel." "you've always said that," said i. "you did not have to live in the same house with me to find it out, did you?" she ignored the question. "i shall never, never forgive myself for this awful week, john. we've talked it all over among ourselves. we are ashamed--oh, so terribly ashamed. if you can ever like us again after--" "like you!" i cried, taking her by the shoulders. "why, elsie hazzard, i have never liked you and george half so much as i like you now. you two and the smiths stand out like gibraltars in my esteem. i adore all of you. i sha'n't be happy again until i know that you four--and no more--are coming back to schloss rothhoefen for an indefinite stay. good lord, how happy we shall be!" i said it with a great deal of feeling. the tears rushed into her eyes. "you _are_ a dear, john," she sighed. "you'll come?" "in a minute," said she with vehemence, a genuine american girl once more. "just as soon as these pesky workmen are out of the place, i'll drop you a line," said i, immeasurably exalted. "but i draw the line at noblemen." "don't worry," she said, setting her nice little white teeth. "i draw it too. never again! _never_!" it occurred to me that here was an excellent opening for a bit of missionary work. very pointedly i said to her: "i fancy you are willing to admit now that she wasn't such a simpleton for leaving him." she went so far as to shudder, all the time regarding me with dilated eyes. "i can't imagine anything more dreadful than being that man's wife, john." "then why won't you admit that you are sorry for her? why won't you be a little just to her?" she looked at me sharply. "do you know her?" "not by a long shot," i replied hastily, and with considerable truthfulness. "why are you so keen to have me take sides with her?" "because i did, the instant i saw that infernal cad." she pursed her lips. it was hard for her to surrender. "out with it, elsie," i commanded. "you know you've been wrong about that poor little girl. i can tell by the look in your eyes that you have switched over completely in the last four days, and so has betty billy." "i can't forgive her for marrying him in the first place," she said stubbornly. "but i think she was justified in leaving him. as i know him now, i don't see how she endured it as long as she did. yes, i am sorry for her. she is a dear girl and she has had a--a--" "i'll say it, my dear: a hell of a time." "thank you." "and i daresay you now think she did right in taking the child, too," i persisted. "i--i hope she gets safely away with little rosemary, back to god's country as we are prone to call it. oh, by the way, john, i don't see why i should feel bound to keep that wretch's secret any longer. he has treated us like dogs. he doesn't deserve--" "hold on! you're not thinking of telling me his name, are you?" "don't you want to know it? don't you care to hear that you've been entertaining the most talked of, the most interesting--" "no, i don't!" "don't you care to hear who it was that he married and how many millions he got from--" "no, i don't." "and why not?" "well," said i, judicially, "in the first place i like the mystery of it all. in the second place, i don't want to know anything more about this fellow than i already know. he is enough of a horror to me, as it is, god knows, without giving a name to him. i prefer to think of him as mr. pless. if you don't mind, elsie, i'll try to eradicate him thoroughly from my system as pless before i take him on in any other form of evil. no, i don't want to know his name at present, nor do i care a hang who it was he married. silly notion, i suppose, but i mean what i say." she looked at me in wonder for a moment and then shook her head as if considering me quite hopeless. "you are an odd thing, john. god left something out when he fashioned you. i'm just dying to tell you all about them, and you won't let me." "is she pretty?" i asked, yielding a little. "she is lovely. we've been really quite hateful about her, betty and i. down in our hearts we like her. she was a spoiled child, of course, and all that sort of thing, but heaven knows she's been pretty thoroughly made over in a new crucible. we used to feel terribly sorry for her, even while we were deriding her for the fool she had made of herself in marrying him. i've seen her hundreds of times driving about alone in vienna, where they spent two winters, a really pathetic figure, scorned not only by her husband but by every one else. he never was to be seen in public with her. he made it clear to his world that she was not to be inflicted upon it by any unnecessary act of his. she came to see betty and me occasionally; always bright and proud and full of spirit, but we could see the wounds in her poor little heart no matter how hard she tried to hide them. i tell you, john, they like us as women but they despise us as wives. it will always be the same with them. they won't let us into their charmed circle. thank god, i am married to an american. he _must_ respect me whether he wants to or not." "poor little beggar," said i, without thinking of how it would sound to her; "she has had her fling, and she has paid well for it." "if her stingy old father, who permitted her to get into the scrape, would come up like a man and pay what he ought to pay, there would be no more pother about this business. he hasn't lived up to his bargain. the--mr. pless has squandered the first million and now he wants the balance due him. a trade's a trade, john. the old man ought to pay up. he went into it with his eyes open, and i haven't an atom of sympathy for him. you have read that book of mrs. o'burnett's, haven't you?--'the shuttle'? well, there you are. this is but another example of what fools american parents can be when they get bees in their bonnets." she seemed to be accusing me! "i hope she gets away safely with the kiddie," said i, non-committally. "heaven knows where she is. maybe she's as safe as a bug in a rug." "i shouldn't be surprised," said i. the billy smiths and george hazzard came up at this juncture. elsie at once proceeded to go into a long series of conjectures as to the probable whereabouts of mr. pless's former wife and their child. i was immensely gratified to find that they were now undivided in their estimate of mr. pless and firmly allied on the side of the missing countess. i gathered from their remarks that the young woman's mother and brothers were still in paris, where their every movement was being watched by secret agents. they were awaiting the arrival from new york of the father of the countess, after which they were to come to vienna for the purpose of making a determined fight for the daughter's absolute freedom and the custody of the child. somehow this news gave me a strange feeling of apprehension, a sensation that later on was to be amply justified. i daresay an historian less punctilious about the truth than i propose to be, would, at this stage of the narrative, insert a whopping lie for the sake of effect, or "action," or "heart interest," as such things are called in the present world of letters. he would enliven his tale by making mr. pless do something sensational while he was about it, such as yanking his erstwhile companion out of her place of hiding by the hair of her head, or kicking down all the barricades about the place, or fighting a duel with me, or--well, there is no end of things he might do for the sake of a "situation." but i am a person of veracity and the truth _is_ in me. mr. pless did none of these interesting things, so why should i say that he did? he went away with the others at half-past eleven, and that was the end of his first visit to my domain. for fear that you, kind reader, may be disappointed, i make haste to assure you that he was to come again. of course there was more or less turmoil and--i might say disaffection--attending his departure. he raised cain with my servants because they did this and that when they shouldn't have done either; he (and the amiable baron) took me to task for having neglected to book compartments for them in the orient express; he insisted upon having a luncheon put up in a tea basket and taken to the railway station by britton, and he saw to it personally that three or four bottles of my best wine were neatly packed in with the rest. he _said_ three or four, but britton is firm in his belief that there was nearer a dozen, judging by the weight. he also contrived to have mr. poopendyke purchase first-class railway tickets for him and the baron, and then forgot to settle for them. it amounted to something like four hundred and fifty kronen, if i remember correctly. he took away eleven hundred and sixty-five dollars of my money, besides, genially acquired at roulette, and i dread to think of what he and the baron took out of my four friends at auction bridge. i will say this for him: he was the smartest aristocrat i've ever known. need i add that the hazzards and the smiths travelled second-class? "well, thank the lord!" said i, as the ferry put off with the party, leaving me alone on the little landing. the rotten timbers seemed to echo the sentiment. at the top of the steep all the schmicks were saying it, too; in the butler's pantry it was also being said; a score of workmen were grunting it; and the windlass that drew me up the hill was screaming it in wild, discordant glee. i repeated it once more when britton returned from town and assured me that they had not missed the train. "that's what i'd like to say, sir," said he. "well, say it," said i. and he said it so vociferously that i know it must have been heard in the remotest corners of heaven. the merry song of the hammer and the sweet rasp of the saw greeted my delighted ear as i entered the castle. men were singing and whistling for all they were worth; the air was full of music. it was not unlike the grand transformation scene in the pantomime when all that has been gloom and despondency gives way in the flash of an eye to elysian splendour and dazzling gaiety. 'pon my soul, i never felt so exuberant in all my life. the once nerve-racking clangour was like the soothing strains of an invisible orchestra to my delighted senses. ha! ha! what a merry old world it is, after all! nearing my study, i heard an almost forgotten noise: the blithe, incessant crackle of a typewriting machine. never have i heard one rattle so rapidly or with such utter garrulousness. i looked in at the door. over in his corner by the window poopendyke was at work, his lanky figure hunched over the key-board, his head enveloped in clouds from a busy pipe, for all the world like a tugboat smothering in its own low-lying smoke. sheets of paper were strewn about the floor. even as i stood there hesitating, he came to the end of a sheet and jerked it out of the machine with such a resounding snap that the noise startled me. he was having the time of his life! i stole away, unwilling to break in upon this joyful orgy. conrad, grinning from ear to ear, was waiting for me outside my bedroom door late in the day. he saluted me with unusual cordiality. "a note, mein herr," said he, and handed me a dainty little pearl-grey envelope. he waited while i read the missive. "i sha'n't be home for dinner, conrad," said i, my eyes aglow. "tell hawkes, will you?" he bowed and scraped himself away; somehow he seemed to have grown younger by decades. it was in the air to be young and care-free. i read the note again and felt almost boyish. then i went up to my room, got out my gayest raiment without shame or compunction, dressed with especial regard for lively effects, and hied me forth to carry sunshine into the uttermost recesses of my castle. the countess welcomed me with a radiant smile. we shook hands. "well, he has gone," said i, drawing a deep breath. "thank the lord," said she, and then i knew that the symphony was complete. we all had sung it. it must not be supposed for an instant that i had been guilty of neglecting my lovely charge during that season of travail and despair. no, indeed! i had visited her every day as a matter of precaution. she required a certain amount of watching. i do not hesitate to say at this time that she seemed to be growing lovelier every day. in a hundred little ways she was changing, not only in appearance but in manner. now, to be perfectly frank about it, i can't explain just what these little changes were--that is, not in so many words--but they were quite as pronounced as they were subtle. i may risk mentioning an improvement in her method of handling me. she was not taking quite so much for granted as she did at first. she was much more humble and considerate, i remarked; instead of bullying me into things she now cajoled me; instead of making demands upon my patience and generosity, she rather hesitated about putting me to the least trouble. she wasn't so arrogant, nor so hard to manage. in a nutshell, i may say with some satisfaction, she was beginning to show a surprising amount of respect for me and my opinions. where once she had done as she pleased, she now did so only after asking my advice and permission, both of which i gave freely as a gentleman should. fundamentally she was all right. it was only in a superficial sort of way that she fell short of being ideal. she really possessed a very sweet, lovely nature. i thought i could see the making of a very fine woman in her. i do not say that she was perfect or ever could be, but she might come very close to it if she went on improving as she did every day. as a matter of fact, i found an immense amount of analytical pleasure in studying the changes that attended the metamorphosis. it seemed to my eager imagination that she was being translated before my eyes; developing into a serious, sensible, unselfish person with a soul preparing to mount higher than self. her voice seemed to be softer, sweeter; the satirical note had disappeared almost entirely, and with it went the forced raillery that had been so pronounced at the beginning of our acquaintance. her devotion to rosemary was wonderful to see. by the way, while i think of it, the child was quite adorable. she was learning to pronounce my name, and getting nearer and nearer to it every day. at the time of which i now write she was calling me (with great enthusiasm), by the name of "go-go," which, reduced to aboriginal american, means "man-with-the-strong-arm-who-carries-baby." "it is very nice of you to ask me up to dine with you," said i. "isn't it about time i was doing something for you in return for all that you have done for me?" she inquired gaily. "we are having a particularly nice dinner this evening, and i thought you'd enjoy a change." "a change?" said i, with a laugh. "as if we haven't been eating out of the same kettle for days!" "i was not referring to the food," she said, and i was very properly squelched. "nevertheless, speaking of food," said i, "it may interest you to know that i expected to have rather a sumptuous repast of my own to celebrate the deliverance. a fine plump pheasant, prepared a la oscar, corn fritters like mother used to make, potatoes picard,--" "and a wonderful alligator pear salad," she interrupted, her eyes dancing. i stared. "how in the world did you guess?" she laughed in pure delight, and i began to understand. by the lord harry, the amazing creature was inviting me to eat my own dinner in her _salle manger!_ "well, may i be hanged! you do beat the dutch!" she was wearing a wonderful dinner gown of irish lace, and she fairly sparkled with diamonds. there was no ornament in her brown hair, however, nor were her little pink ears made hideous by ear-rings. her face was a jewel sufficient unto itself. i had never seen her in an evening gown before. the effect was really quite ravishing. as i looked at her standing there by the big oak table, i couldn't help thinking that the count was not only a scoundrel but all kinds of a fool. "it was necessary for me to bribe all of your servants, mr. smart," she said. "you did not offer the rascals money, i hope," i said in a horrified tone. "no, indeed!" she did not explain any farther than that, but somehow i knew that money isn't everything to a servant after all. "i hope you don't mind my borrowing your butler and footman for the evening," she went on. "not that we really need two to serve two, but it seems so much more like a function, as the newspapers would call it." it was my turn to say "no, indeed." "and now you must come in and kiss rosemary good night," she said, glancing at my great amsterdam clock in the corner. we went into the nursery. it was past rosemary's bedtime by nearly an hour and the youngster was having great difficulty in keeping awake. she managed to put her arms around my neck when i took her up from the bed, all tucked away in her warm little nightie, and sleepily presented her own little throat for me to kiss, that particular spot being where the honey came from in her dispensation of sweets. i was full of exuberance. an irresistible impulse to do a jig seized upon me. to my own intense amazement, and to blake's horror, i began to dance about the room like a clumsy kangaroo. rosemary shrieked delightedly into my ear and i danced the harder for that. the countess, recovering from her surprise, cried out in laughter and began to clap time with her hands. blake forgot herself and sat down rather heavily on the edge of the bed. i think the poor woman's knees gave way under her. "hurrah!" i shouted to rosemary, but looking directly at the countess. "we're celebrating!" whereupon the girl that was left in the countess rose to the occasion and she pirouetted with graceful abandon before me, in amazing contrast to my jumping-jack efforts. only blake's reserved and somewhat dampening admonition brought me to my senses. "please don't drop the child, mr. smart," she said. i had the great satisfaction of hearing rosemary cry when i delivered her up to blake and started to slink out of the room in the wake of my warm-cheeked hostess. "you would be a wonderful father, sir," said blake, relenting a little. i had the grace to say, "oh, pshaw!" and then got out while the illusion was still alive. (as i've said before, i do not like a crying baby.) it was the most wonderful dinner in the world, notwithstanding it was served on a kitchen table moved into the living room for the occasion. imposing candelabra adorned the four corners of the table and the very best plate in the castle was put to use. there were roses in the centre of the board, a huge bowl of short-stemmed marechal niel beauties. the countess's chair was pulled out by my stately butler, hawkes; mine by the almost equally imposing footman, and we faced each other across the bowl of roses and lifted an american cocktail to the health of those who were about to sit down to the feast. i think it was one of the best cocktails i've ever tasted. the countess admitted having made it herself, but wasn't quite sure whether she used the right ingredients or the correct proportions. she asked me what i thought of it. "it is the best manhattan i've ever tasted," said i, warmly. her eyes wavered. also, i think, her faith in me. "it was meant to be a martini," she said sorrowfully. then we both sat down. was it possible that the corners of hawkes' mouth twitched? i don't suppose i shall ever know. my sherry was much better than i thought, too. it was deliciously oily. the champagne? but that came later, so why anticipate a joy with realisation staring one in the face? we began with a marvellous hors-d'oeuvres. then a clear soup, a fish aspec, a--why rhapsodise? let it be sufficient if i say that in discussing the aladdin-like feast i secretly and faithfully promised my chef a material increase in wages. i had never suspected him of being such a genius, nor myself of being such a pantegruelian disciple. i must mention the alligator pear salad. for three weeks i had been trying to buy alligator pears in the town hard by. these came from paris. the chef had spoken to me about them that morning, asking me when i had ordered them. inasmuch as i had not ordered them at all, i couldn't satisfy his curiosity. my first thought was that elsie hazzard, remembering my fondness for the vegetable--it is a vegetable, isn't it?--had sent off for them in order to surprise me. it seems, however, that elsie had nothing whatever to do with it. the countess had ordered them for me through her mother, who was in paris at the time. also she had ordered a quantity of parisian strawberries of the hot-house, one-franc-apiece variety, and a basket of peaches. at the risk of being called penurious, i confess that i was immensely relieved when i learned that these precious jewels in the shape of fruit had been paid for in advance by the opulent mother of the countess. "have i told you, mr. smart, that i am expecting my mother here to visit me week after next?" she tactfully put the question to me at a time when i was so full of contentment that nothing could have depressed me. i must confess, however, that i was guilty of gulping my champagne a little noisily. the question came with the salad course. "you don't say so!" i exclaimed, quite cheerfully. "that is to say, she is coming if you think you can manage it quite safely." "i manage it? my dear countess, why speak of managing a thing that is so obviously to be desired?" "you don't understand. can you smuggle her into the castle without any one knowing a thing about it? you see, she is being watched every minute of the time by detectives, spies, secret agents, lawyers, and heaven knows who else. the instant she leaves paris, bang! it will be like the starter's shot in a race. they will be after her like a streak. and if you are not very, very clever they will play hob with everything." "then why run the risk?" i ventured. "my two brothers are coming with her," she said reassuringly. "they are such big, strong fellows that--" "my dear countess, it isn't strength we'll need," i deplored. "no, no, i quite understand. it is cunning, strategy, caution, and all that sort of thing. but i will let you know in ample time, so that you may be prepared." "do!" i said gallantly, trying to be enthusiastic. "you are so wonderfully ingenious at working out plots and conspiracies in your books, mr. smart, that i am confident you can manage everything beautifully." blatchford was removing my salad plate. a spasm of alarm came over me. i had quite forgotten the two men. the look of warning i gave her brought forth a merry, amused smile. "don't hesitate to speak before blatchford and hawkes," she said, to my astonishment. "they are to be trusted implicitly. isn't it true, hawkes?" "it is, madam," said he. "do you mean to say, countess, that--" "it has all been quite satisfactorily attended to through mr. poopendyke," she said. "he consulted me before definitely engaging any one, mr. smart, and i referred him to my lawyers in vienna. i do hope hawkes and blatchford and henri, the chef, are quite satisfactory to you. they were recently employed by some one in the british embassy at--" "pray rest easy, countess," i managed to say, interrupting out of consideration for hawkes and blatchford, who, i thought, might feel uncomfortable at hearing themselves discussed so impersonally. "everything is most satisfactory. i did not realise that i had you to thank for my present mental and gastronomical comfort. you have surrounded me with diadems." hawkes and blatchford very gravely and in unison said: "thank you, sir." "and now let us talk about something else," she said complacently, as if the project of getting the rest of her family into the castle were already off her mind. "i can't tell you how much i enjoyed your last book, mr. smart. it is so exciting. why do you call it 'the fairest of the fair'?" "because my publisher insisted on substituting that title for the one i had chosen myself. i'll admit that it doesn't fit the story, my dear countess, but what is an author to do when his publisher announces that he has a beautiful head of a girl he wants to put on the cover and that the title must fit the cover, so to speak?" "but i don't consider it a beautiful head, mr. smart. a very flashy blonde with all the earmarks of having posed in the chorus between the days when she posed for your artist. and your heroine has very dark hair in the book. why did they make her a blonde on the cover?" "because they didn't happen to have anything but blonde pictures in stock," said i, cheerfully. "a little thing like that doesn't matter, when it comes to literature, my dear countess. it isn't the hair that counts. it's the hat." "but i should think it would confuse the reader," she insisted. "the last picture in the book has her with inky black hair, while in all the others she is quite blonde." "a really intelligent reader doesn't have to be told that the artist changed his model before he got to the last picture," said i, and i am quite confident she didn't hear me grate my teeth. "but the critics must have noticed the error and commented upon it." "my dear countess, the critics never see the last picture in a book. they are much too clever for that." she pondered. "i suppose they must get horribly sick of all the books they have to read." "and they never have a chance to experience the delicious period of convalescence that persons with less chronic afflictions have to look forward to," said i, very gently. "they go from one disease to another, poor chaps." "i once knew an author at newport who said he hated every critic on earth," she said. "i should think he might," said i, without hesitation. it was not until the next afternoon that she got the full significance of the remark. as i never encourage any one who seeks to discuss my stories with me, being a modest chap with a flaw in my vanity, she abandoned the subject after a few ineffectual attempts to find out how i get my plots, how i write my books, and how i keep from losing my mind. "would you be entertained by a real mystery?" she asked, leaning toward me with a gleam of excitement in her eyes. very promptly i said i should be. we were having our coffee. hawkes and blatchford had left the room. "well, tradition says that one of the old barons buried a vast treasure in the cellar of this--" "stop!" i commanded, shaking my head. "haven't i just said that i don't want to talk about literature? buried treasure is the very worst form of literature." "very well," she said indignantly. "you will be sorry when you hear i've dug it up and made off with it." i pricked up my ears. this made a difference. "are you going to hunt for it yourself?" "i am," she said resolutely. "in those dark, dank, grewsome cellars?" "certainly." "alone?" "if necessary," she said, looking at me over the edge of the coffee cup. "tell me all about it," said i. "oh, we sha'n't find it, of course," said she calmly. i made note of the pronoun. "they've been searching for it for two centuries without success. my--that is, mr. pless has spent days down there. he is very hard-up, you know. it would come in very handy for him." i glowered. "i'm glad he's gone. i don't like the idea of his looking for treasures in my castle." she gave me a smile for that. chapter x i agree to meet the enemy that night i dreamed of going down, down, down into the bowels of the earth after buried treasure, and finding at the end of my hours of travel the countess's mother sitting in bleak splendour on a chest of gold with her feet drawn up and surrounded by an audience of spiders. for an hour or more after leaving the enchanted rooms near the roof, i lounged in my study, persistently attentive to the portrait of ludwig the red, with my ears straining for sounds from the other side of the secret panels. alas! those panels were many cubits thick and as staunch as the sides of a battleship. but there was a vast satisfaction in knowing that she was there, asleep perhaps, with her brown head pillowed close to the wall but little more than an arm's length from the crimson waistcoat of ludwig the red,--for he sat rather low like a chinese god and supported his waistcoat with his knees. a gross, forbidding chap was he! the story was told of him that he could quaff a flagon of ale at a single gulp. looking at his portrait, one could not help thinking what a pitifully infinitesimal thing a flagon of ale is after all. morning came and with it a sullen determination to get down to work on my long neglected novel. i went down to breakfast. everything about the place looked bleak and dreary and as grey as a granite tombstone. hawkes, who but twelve hours before had seemed the embodiment of life in its most resilient form, now appeared as a drab nemesis with wooden legs and a frozen leer. my coffee was bitter, the peaches were like sponges, the bacon and rolls of uniform sogginess and the eggs of a strange liverish hue. i sat there alone, gloomy and depressed, contrasting the hateful sunshine with the soft, witching refulgence of twenty-four candles and the light that lies in a woman's eyes. "a fine morning, sir," said hawkes in a voice that seemed to come from the grave. it was the first time i had ever heard him speak so dolorously of the morning. ordinarily he was a pleasant voiced fellow. "is it?" said i, and my voice sounded gloomier than his. i was not sure of it, but it seemed to me that he made a movement with his hand as if about to put it to his lips. seeing that i was regarding him rather fixedly, he allowed it to remain suspended a little above his hip, quite on a line with the other one. his elbows were crooked at the proper angle i noticed, so i must have been doing him an injustice. he couldn't have had anything disrespectful in mind. "send mr. poopendyke to me, hawkes, immediately after i've finished my breakfast." "very good, sir. oh, i beg pardon, sir. i am forgetting, mr. poopendyke is out. he asked me to tell you he wouldn't return before eleven." "out? what business has he to be out?" "well, sir, i mean to say, he's not precisely out, and he isn't just what one would call in. he is up in the--ahem!--the east wing, sir, taking down some correspondence for the--for the lady, sir." i arose to the occasion. "quite so, quite so. i had forgotten the appointment." "yes, sir, i thought you had." "ahem! i daresay britton will do quite as well. tell him to--" "britton, sir, has gone over to the city for the newspapers. you forget that he goes every morning as soon as he has had his--" "yes, yes! certainly," i said hastily. "the papers. ha, ha! quite right." it was news to me, but it wouldn't do to let him know it. the countess read the papers, i did not. i steadfastly persisted in ignoring the paris edition of the _new york herald_ for fear that the delightful mystery might disintegrate, so to speak, before my eyes, or become the commonplace scandal that all the world was enjoying. as it stood now, i had it all to myself--that is to say, the mystery. mr. poopendyke reads aloud the baseball scores to me, and nothing else. it was nearly twelve when my secretary reported to me on this particular morning, and he seemed a trifle hazy as to the results of the games. after he had mumbled something about rain or wet grounds, i coldly enquired: "mr. poopendyke, are you employed by me or by that woman upstairs?" i would never have spoken of her as "that woman," believe me, if i had not been in a state of irritation. he looked positively stunned. "sir?" he gasped. i did not repeat the question, but managed to demand rather fiercely: "are you?" "the countess had got dreadfully behind with her work, sir, and i thought you wouldn't mind if i helped her out a bit," he explained nervously. "work? what work?" "her diary, sir. she is keeping a diary." "indeed!" "it is very interesting, mr. smart. rather beats any novel i've read lately. we--we've brought it quite up to date. i wrote at least three pages about the dinner last night. if i am to believe what she puts into her diary, it must have been a delightful occasion, as the newspapers would say." i was somewhat mollified. "what did she have to say about it, fred?" i asked. it always pleased him to be called fred. "that would be betraying a confidence," said he. "i will say this much, however: i think i wrote your name fifty times or more in connection with it." "rubbish!" said i. "not at all!" said he, with agreeable spirit. a sudden chill came over me. "she isn't figuring on having it published, is she?" "i can't say as to that," was his disquieting reply. "it wasn't any of my business, so i didn't ask." "oh," said i, "i see." "i think it is safe to assume, however, that it is not meant for publication," said he. "it strikes me as being a bit too personal. there are parts of it that i don't believe she'd dare to put into print, although she reeled them off to me without so much as a blush. 'pon my soul, mr. smart, i never was so embarrassed in my life. she--" "never mind," i interrupted hastily. "don't tell tales out of school." he was silent for a moment, fingering his big eyeglasses nervously. "it may please you to know that she thinks you are an exceedingly nice man." "no, it doesn't!" i roared irascibly. "i'm damned if i like being called an exceedingly nice man." "they were my words, sir, not hers," he explained desperately. "i was merely putting two and two together--forming an opinion from her manner not from her words. she is very particular to mention everything you do for her, and thanks me if i call her attention to anything she may have forgotten. she certainly appreciates your kindness to the baby." "that is extremely gratifying," said i acidly. he hesitated once more. "of course, you understand that the divorce itself is absolute. it's only the matter of the child that remains unsettled. the--" i fairly barked at him. "what the devil do you mean by that, sir? what has the divorce got to do with it?" "a great deal, i should say," said he, with the rare, almost superhuman patience that has made him so valuable to me. "upon my soul!" was all that i could say. hawkes rapped on the door luckily at that instant. "the men from the telephone company are here, sir, and the electricians. where are they to begin, sir?" "tell them to wait," said i. then i hurried to the top of the east wing to ask if she had the least objection to an extension 'phone being placed in my study. she thought it would be very nice, so i returned with instructions for the men to put in three instruments: one in her room, one in mine, and one in the butler's pantry. it seemed a very jolly arrangement all 'round. as for the electric bell system, it would speak for itself. toward the middle of the afternoon when mr. poopendyke and i were hard at work on my synopsis we were startled by a dull, mysterious pounding on the wall hard by. we paused to listen. it was quite impossible to locate the sound, which ceased almost immediately. our first thought was that the telephone men were drilling a hole through the wall into my study. then came the sharp rat-a-ta-tat once more. even as we looked about us in bewilderment, the portly facade of ludwig the red moved out of alignment with a heart-rending squeak and a long thin streak of black appeared at the inner edge of the frame, growing wider,--and blacker if anything,--before our startled eyes. "are you at home?" inquired a voice that couldn't by any means have emanated from the chest of ludwig, even in his mellowest hours. i leaped to my feet and started across the room with great strides. my secretary's eyes were glued to the magic portrait. his fingers, looking like claws, hung suspended over the keyboard of the typewriter. "by the lord harry!" i cried. "yes!" the secret door swung quietly open, laying ludwig's face to the wall, and in the aperture stood my amazing neighbour, as lovely a portrait as you'd see in a year's trip through all the galleries in the world. she was smiling down upon us from the slightly elevated position, a charming figure in the very latest parisian hat and gown. something grey and black and exceedingly chic, i remember saying to poopendyke afterwards in response to a question of his. "i am out making afternoon calls," said she. her face was flushed with excitement and self-consciousness. "will you please put a chair here so that i may hop down?" for answer, i reached up a pair of valiant arms. she laughed, leaned forward and placed her hands on my shoulders. my hands found her waist and i lifted her gently, gracefully to the floor. "how strong you are!" she said admiringly. "how do you do, mr. poopendyke! dear me! i am not a ghost, sir!" his fingers dropped to the keyboard. "how do you do," he jerked out. then he felt of his heart. "my god! i don't believe it's going." together we inspected the secret doors, going so far as to enter the room beyond, the countess peering through after us from my study. to my amazement the room was absolutely bare. bed, trunks, garments, chairs--everything in fact had vanished as if whisked away by an all-powerful genie. "what does this mean?" i cried, turning to her. "i don't mind sleeping upstairs, now that i have a telephone," she said serenely. "max and rudolph moved everything up this afternoon." poopendyke and i returned to the study. i, for one, was bitterly disappointed. "i'm sorry that i had the 'phone put in," i said. "please don't call it a 'phone!" she objected. "i hate the word 'phone." "so do i," said poopendyke recklessly. i glared at _him_. what right had he to criticise my manner of speech? he started to leave the room, after a perfunctory scramble to put his papers in order, but she broke off in the middle of a sentence to urge him to remain. she announced that she was calling on both of us. "please don't stop your work on my account," she said, and promptly sat down at his typewriter and began pecking at the keys. "you must teach me how to run a typewriter, mr. poopendyke. i shall be as poor as a church mouse before long, and i know father won't help me. i may have to become a stenographer." he blushed abominably. i don't believe i've ever seen a more unattractive fellow than poopendyke. "oh, every cloud has its silver lining," said he awkwardly. "but i am used to gold," said she. the bell on the machine tinkled. "what do i do now?" he made the shift and the space for her. "go right ahead," said he. she scrambled the whole alphabet across his neat sheet but he didn't seem to mind. "isn't it jolly, mr. smart? if mr. poopendyke should ever leave you, i may be able to take his place as your secretary." i bowed very low. "you may be quite sure, countess, that i shall dismiss mr. poopendyke the instant you apply for his job." "and i shall most cheerfully abdicate," said he. silly ass! i couldn't help thinking how infinitely more attractive and perilous she would be as a typist than the excellent young woman who had married the jeweller's clerk, and what an improvement on poopendyke! "i came down to inquire when you would like to go exploring for buried treasure, mr. smart," she said, after the cylinder had slipped back with a bang that almost startled her out of her pretty boots and caused her to give up typewriting then and there, forevermore. "never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day," quoted i glibly. she looked herself over. "if you knew how many times this gown had to be put off till to-morrow, you wouldn't ask me to ruin it the second time i've had it on my back." "it is an uncommonly attractive gown," said i. "shall we set to-morrow for the treasure quest?" "to-morrow is sunday." "can you think of a better way to kill it?" "yes, you might have me down here for an old-fashioned midday dinner." "capital! why not stay for supper, too?" "it would be too much like spending a day with relatives," she said. "we'll go treasure hunting on monday. i haven't the faintest notion where to look, but that shouldn't make any difference. no one else ever had. by the way, mr. smart, i have a bone to pick with you. have you seen yesterday's papers? well, in one of them, there is a long account of my--of mr. pless's visit to your castle, and a lengthy interview in which you are quoted as saying that he is one of your dearest friends and a much maligned man who deserves the sympathy of every law-abiding citizen in the land." "an abominable lie!" i cried indignantly. "confound the newspapers!" "another paper says that your fortune has been placed at his disposal in the fight he is making against the criminally rich americans. in this particular article you are quoted as saying that i am a dreadful person and not fit to have the custody of a child." "good lord!" i gasped helplessly. "you also expect to do everything in your power to interest the administration at washington in his behalf." "well, of all the--oh, i say, countess, you don't believe a word of all this, do you?" she regarded me pensively. "you have said some very mean, uncivil things to me." "if i thought you believed--" i began desperately, but her sudden smile relieved me of the necessity of jumping into the river. "by jove, i shall write to these miserable sheets, denying every word they've printed. and what's more, i'll bring an action for damages against all of 'em. why, it is positively atrocious! the whole world will think i despise you and--" i stopped very abruptly in great confusion. "and--you don't?" she queried, with real seriousness in her voice. "you don't despise me?" "certainly _not!_" i cried vehemently. turning to poopendyke, i said: "mr. poopendyke, will you at once prepare a complete and emphatic denial of every da--of every word they have printed about me, and i'll send it to all the american correspondents in europe. we'll cable it ourselves to the united states. i sha'n't rest until i am set straight in the eyes of my fellow-countrymen. the whole world shall know, countess, that i am for you first, last and all the time. it shall know--" "but you don't know who i am, mr. smart," she broke in, her cheeks very warm and rosy. "how can you publicly espouse the cause of one whose name you refuse to have mentioned in your presence?" i dismissed her question with a wave of the hand: "poopendyke can supply the name after i have signed the statement. i give him carte blanche. the name has nothing to do with the case, so far as i am concerned. write it, fred, and make it strong." she came up to me and held out her hand. "i knew you would do it," she said softly. "thanks." i bent low over the gloved little hand. "don quixote was a happy gentleman, countess, with all his idiosyncrasies, and so am i." she not only came for dinner with us on sunday, but made the dressing for my alligator pear salad. we were besieged by the usual crowd of sunday sight-seers, who came clamouring at our staunch, reinforced gates, and anathematised me soundly for refusing admission. one bourgeoise party of fifteen refused to leave the plaza until their return fares on the ferry barge were paid stoutly maintaining that they had come over in good faith and wouldn't leave until i had reimbursed them to the extent of fifty hellers apiece, ferry fare. i sent britton out with the money. he returned with the rather disquieting news that he had recognised two of mr. pless's secret agents in the mob. "i wonder if he suspects that i am here," said the countess paling perceptibly when i mentioned the presence of the two men. "it doesn't matter," said i. "he can't get into the castle while the gates are locked, and, by jove, i intend to keep them locked." "what a delightful ogre you are, mr. smart," said she. nevertheless, i did not sleep well that night. the presence of the two detectives outside my gates was not to be taken too lightly. unquestionably they had got wind of something that aroused suspicion in their minds. i confidently expected them to reappear in the morning, perhaps disguised as workmen. nor were my fears wholly unjustified. shortly after nine o'clock a sly-faced man in overalls accosted me in the hall. "i beg your pardon, mr. smart," he said in fairly good english, "may i have a word with you? i have a message from mr. pless." i don't believe he observed the look of concern that flitted across my face. "from mr. pless?" i inquired, simulating surprise. then i looked him over so curiously that he laughed in a quiet, simple way. "i am an agent of the secret service," he explained coolly. "yesterday i failed to gain admission as a visitor, to-day i come as a labourer. we work in a mysterious way, sir." "is it necessary for mr. pless to resort to a subterfuge of this character in order to get a message to me?" i demanded indignantly. he shrugged his shoulders. "it was not necessary yesterday, but it is to-day," said he. he leaned closer and lowered his voice. "our every movement is being watched by the countess's detectives. we are obliged to resort to trickery to throw them off the scent. mr. pless has read what you had to say in the newspapers and he is too grateful, sir, to subject you to unnecessary annoyance at the hands of her agents. your friendship is sacred to him. he realises that it means a great deal to have the support of one so powerful with the united states government. if we are to work together, mr. smart, in bringing this woman to justice, it must be managed with extreme skill or her family may--" "what is this you are saying?" i broke in, scarcely able to believe my ears. "i speak english so badly," he apologised. "perhaps i should do no more than to give you his message. he would have you to meet him secretly to-night at the rempf hotel across the river. it is most important that you should do so, and that you should exercise great caution. i am to take your reply back to him." for an instant i was fairly stupefied. then i experienced a feeling of relief so vast that he must have seen the gleam of triumph in my eyes. the trick was mine, after all. "come into my study," i said. he followed me upstairs and into the room. poopendyke was there. "this is my secretary, you may speak freely before him." turning to poopendyke, i said: "you have not sent that statement to the newspapers, have you? well, let it rest for a day or two. mr. pless has sent a representative to see me." i scowled at my secretary, and he had the sense to hide his astonishment. the fellow repeated what he had said before, and added a few instructions which i was to follow with care if i would do mr. pless the honour to wait upon him that evening at the rempf hotel. "you may tell mr. pless that i shall be there at nine," said i. the agent departed. when he was safely out of the room, i explained the situation to poopendyke, and then made my way through the secret panels to the countess's rooms. she was ready for the subterranean journey in quest of treasure, attired in a neat walking skirt, with her bonny hair encased in a swimming cap as a guard against cobwebs. "then you don't intend to send out the statements?" she cried in disappointment. "you are going to let every one think you are his friend and not mine?" i was greatly elated. her very unreasonableness was a prize that i could not fail to cherish. "only for the time being," i said eagerly. "don't you see the advantage we gain by fooling him? why, it is splendid--positively splendid!" she pouted. "i don't feel at all sure of you now, mr. smart," she said, sitting down rather dejectedly in a chair near the fireplace. "i believe you are ready to turn against me. you want to be rid of me. i am a nuisance, a source of trouble to you. you will tell him that i am here--" i stood over her, trying my best to scowl. "you know better than that. you know i--i am as loyal as--as can be. hang it all," i burst out impulsively, "do you suppose for a minute that i want to hand you over to that infernal rascal, now that i've come to--that is to say, now that we're such ripping good friends?" she looked up at me very pathetically at first. then her expression changed swiftly to one of wonder and the most penetrating inquiry. slowly a flush crept into her cheeks and her eyes wavered. "i--i think i can trust you to--to do the right thing by me," she said, descending to a banality in her confusion. i held out my hand. she laid hers in it rather timidly, almost as if she was afraid of me. "i shall not fail you," said i without the faintest intention to be heroic but immediately conscious of having used an expression so trite that my cheek flamed with humiliation. for some unaccountable reason she arose hastily from the chair and walked to the window. a similar reason, no doubt, held me rooted rather safely to the spot on which i stood. i have a vague recollection of feeling dizzy and rather short of breath. my heart was acting queerly. "why do you suppose he wants to see you?" she asked, after a moment, turning toward me again. she was as calm as a summer breeze. all trace of nervousness had left her. "i can't even supply a guess." "you must be very, very tactful," she said uneasily. "i know him so well. he is very cunning." "i am accustomed to dealing with villains," said i. "they always come to a bad end in my books, and virtue triumphs." "but this isn't a book," she protested. "besides virtue never triumphs in an international marriage. you must come--to see me to-night after you return from town. i won't sleep until i've heard everything." "i may be very late," i said, contriving to hide my eagerness pretty well, i thought. "i shall wait for you, mr. smart," she said, very distinctly. i took it as a command and bowed in submission. "there is no one here to gossip, so we may be as careless as we please about appearances. you will be hungry, too, when you come in. i shall have a nice supper ready for you." she frowned faintly. "you must not, under any circumstance, spoil everything by having supper with _him._" "again i repeat, you may trust me implicitly to do the right thing," said i beamingly. "and now, what do you say to our trip to the bottom of the castle?" she shook her head. "not with the house full of spies, my dear friend. we'll save that for another day. a rainy day perhaps. i feel like having all the sunshine i can get to-day. to-night i shall be gloomy and very lonely. i shall take rosemary and jinko out upon the top of the tower and play all day in the sun." i had an idea. "i am sure i should enjoy a little sunshine myself. may i come too?" she looked me straight in the eye. there was a touch of dignity in her voice when she spoke. "not to-day, mr. smart." a most unfathomable person! chapter xi i am invited to spend money any one who has travelled in the valley of the donau knows the rempf hotel. it is an ancient hostelry, frequented quite as much in these days as it was in olden times by people who are by way of knowing the excellence of its cuisine and the character of its wines. unless one possesses this intelligence, either through hearsay or experience, he will pass by the rempf without so much as a glance at its rather forbidding exterior and make for the modern hotel on the platz, thereby missing one of the most interesting spots in this grim old town. is it to the fashionable bellevue that the nobility and the elect wend their way when they come to town? not by any means. they affect the rempf, and there you may see them in fat, inglorious plenty smugly execrating the plebeian rich of many lands who dismiss rempf's with a sniff, and enjoying to their heart's content a privacy which the aforesaid rich would not consider at any price. you may be quite sure that the rates are low at the historic rempf, and that they would be much lower if the nobility had anything to say about it. one can get a very comfortable room, without bath, at the rempf for a dollar a day, provided he gets in ahead of the native aristocracy. if he insists on having a room with bath he is guilty of _lese majeste_ and is sent on his way. but, bath or no bath, the food is the best in the entire valley and the cellar without a rival. i found mr. pless at the rempf at nine o'clock. he was in his room when i entered the quaint old place and approached the rotund manager with considerable uncertainty in my manner. for whom was i to inquire? would he be known there as pless? the manager gave me a broad (i was about to say serviceable) smile and put my mind at rest by blandly inquiring if i was the gentleman who wished to see mr. pless. he directed me to the top floor of the hotel and i mounted two flights of stairs at the heels of a porter who exercised native thrift by carrying up a large trunk, thus saving time and steps after a fashion, although it may be hard to see wherein he really benefited when i say that after escorting me to a room on the third floor and knocking at the door while balancing the trunk on his back, he descended to the second and delivered his burden in triumph to the lady who had been calling for it since six o'clock in the evening. but even at that he displayed considerable cunning in not forgetting what room the luggage belonged in, thereby saving himself a trip all the way down to the office and back with the trunk. mr. pless welcomed me with a great deal of warmth. he called me "dear old fellow" and shook hands with me with more heartiness than i had thought him capable of expressing. his dark, handsome face was aglow with pleasure. he was quite boyish. a smallish old gentleman was with him. my introduction to the stranger was a sort of afterthought, it seemed to me. i was informed that he was one of the greatest lawyers and advocates in vienna and mr. pless's personal adviser in the "unfortunate controversy." i accepted a cigar. "so you knew who i was all the time i was at schloss rothhoefen," said mr. pless, smiling amiably. "i was trying to maintain my incognito so that you might not be distressed, mr. smart, by having in your home such a notorious character as i am supposed to be. i confess it was rather shabby in me, but i hold your excellent friends responsible for the trick." "it is rather difficult to keep a secret with women about," said i evasively. "but never difficult to construct one," said mr. schymansky, winking rather too broadly. i think schymansky was the name. "by the way," said i, "i have had no word from our mutual friends. have you seen them?" mr. pless stiffened. his face grew perceptibly older. "i regret to inform you, mr. smart, that our relations are not quite as friendly as they once were. i have reason to suspect that mr. smith has been working against me for the past two or three days, to such an extent, i may say, that the ambassador now declines to advise your government to grant us certain privileges we had hoped to secure without trouble. in short, we have just heard that he will not ask the united states to consider anything in the shape of an extradition if the countess is apprehended in her own country. up to yesterday we felt confident that he would advise your state department to turn the child over to our representatives in case she is to be found there. there has been underhand work going on, and mr. smith is at the bottom of it. he wantonly insulted me the day we left rothhoefen. i have challenged him, but he--he committed the most diabolical breach of etiquette by threatening to kick my friend the baron out of his rooms when he waited upon him yesterday morning." with difficulty i restrained a desire to shout the single word: "good!" i was proud of billy smith. controlling my exultation, i merely said: "perfectly diabolical! perfectly!" "i have no doubt, however, should our minister make a formal demand upon your secretary of state, the cause of justice would be sustained. it is a clear case of abduction, as you so forcibly declare in the interviews, mr. smart. i cannot adequately express my gratification for the stand you have taken. will you be offended if i add that it was rather unexpected? i had the feeling that you were against me, that you did not like me." i smiled deprecatingly. "as i seldom read the newspapers, i am not quite sure that they have done justice to my real feelings in the matter." the lawyer sitting directly opposite to me, was watching my face intently. "they quoted you rather freely, sir," said he. instinctively i felt that here was a wily person whom it would be difficult to deceive. "the count is to be congratulated upon having the good will of so distinguished a gentleman as john bellamy smart. it will carry great weight, believe me." "oh, you will find to your sorrow that i cut a very small figure in national politics," said i. "pray do not deceive yourselves." "may i offer you a brandy and soda?" asked mr. pless, tapping sharply on the table top with his seal ring. instantly his french valet, still bearing faint traces of the drubbing he had sustained at britton's hands, appeared in the bedchamber door. "thank you, no," i made haste to say. "i am on the water wagon." "i beg your pardon," said mr. pless in perplexity. "i am not drinking, mr. pless," i explained. "sorry," said he, and curtly dismissed the man. i had a notion that the great lawyer looked a trifle disappointed. "i fancy you are wondering why i sent for you, mr. smart." "i am." "am i to assume that the newspapers were correct in stating that you mean to support my cause with--i may say, to the full extent of your powers?" "it depends on circumstances, mr. pless." "circumstances?" he eyed me rather coldly, as if to say, "what right have you to suggest circumstances?" "perhaps i should have said that it depends somewhat on what my powers represent." he crossed his slender legs comfortably and looked at me with a queer little tilt of his left eyebrow, but with an unsmiling visage. he was too cocksure of himself to grant me even so much as an ingratiating smile. was not i a glory-seeking american and he one of the glorious? it would be doing me a favour to let me help him. "i trust you will understand, mr. smart, that i do not ask a favour of you, but rather put myself under a certain obligation for the time being. you have become a land-owner in this country, and as such, you should ally yourself with the representative people of our land. it is not an easy matter for a foreigner to plant himself in our midst, so to speak,--as a mushroom,--and expect to thrive on limited favours. i can be of assistance to you. my position, as you doubtless know, is rather a superior one in the capital. an unfortunate marriage has not lessened the power that i possess as a birthright nor the esteem in which i am held throughout europe. the disgraceful methods employed by my former wife in securing a divorce are well known to you, i take it, and i am gratified to observe that you frown upon them. i suppose you know the whole story?" "i think i do," said i, quietly. i have never known such consummate self-assurance as the fellow displayed. "then you are aware that her father has defaulted under the terms of an ante-nuptial agreement. there is still due me, under the contract, a round million of your exceedingly useful dollars." "with the interest to be added," said the lawyer, thrumming on the chair-arm with his fingers something after the fashion my mother always employs in computing a simple sum in addition. "certainly," said mr. pless, sharply. "mr. smart understands that quite clearly, mr. schymansky. it isn't necessary to enlighten him." the lawyer cleared his throat. i knew him at once for a shyster. mr. pless continued, addressing me. "of course he will have to pay this money before his daughter may even hope to gain from me the right to share the custody of our little girl, who loves me devotedly. when the debt is fully liquidated, i may consent to an arrangement by which she shall have the child part of the time at least." "it seems to me she has the upper hand of you at present, however," i said, not without secret satisfaction. "she may be in america by this time." "i think not," said he. "every steamship has-been watched for days, and we are quite positive she has not sailed. there is the possibility, however, that she may, have been taken by motor to some out-of-the-way place where she will await the chance to slip away by means of a specially chartered ship. it is this very thing that we are seeking to prevent. i do not hesitate to admit that if she once gets the child to new york, we may expect serious difficulty in obtaining our rights. i humbly confess that i have not the means to fight her in a land where her father's millions count for so much. i am a poor man. my estates are heavily involved through litigation started by my forbears. you understand my position?" he said it with a rather pathetic twist of his lips. "i understand that you received a million in cash at the time of the wedding," said i. "what has become of all that?" he shrugged his shoulders. "can you expect me to indulge an extravagant wife, who seeks to become a social queen, and still save anything out of a paltry million?" "oh, i see. this is a new phase of the matter that hasn't been revealed to me. it was she who spent the million?" "after a fashion, yes," said he, without a spark of shame. "the chateau was in rather a dilapidated condition, and she insisted on its restoration. it was also necessary to spend a great deal of money in the effort to secure for herself a certain position in society. my own position was not sufficient for her. she wanted to improve upon it, i might say. we entertained a great deal, and lavishly. she was accustomed to gratifying every taste and whim that money could purchase. naturally, it was not long before we were hard pressed for funds. i went to new york a year ago and put the matter clearly before her father. he met me with another proposition which rather disgusted me. i am a man who believes in fair dealing. if i have an obligation i meet it. isn't that true, mr. schymansky?" "it is," said the lawyer. "her father revoked his original plan and suggested an alternative. he proposed to put the million in trust for his granddaughter, our rosemary,--a name, sir, that i abominate and which was given to her after my wife had sulked for weeks,--the interest to be paid to his daughter until the child reached the age of twenty-one. of course, i could not accept such an arrangement. it--" "acting on my advice,--for i was present at the interview,--the count emphatically declined to entertain--" "never mind, schymansky," broke in the count petulantly. "what is the use of going into all that?" he appeared to reflect for a moment. "will you be good enough to leave the room for awhile, mr. schymansky? i think mr. smart and i can safely manage a friendly compact without your assistance. eh, mr. smart?" i couldn't feel sorry for schymansky. he hadn't the backbone of an angleworm. if i were a lawyer and a client of mine were to speak to me as pless spoke to him, i firmly believe i should have had at least a fair sprinkling of his blood upon my hands. "i beg of you, count, to observe caution and--" "if you please, sir!" cut in the count, with the austerity that makes the continental nobleman what he is. "if you require my services, you will find me in the--" "not in the hall, i trust," said his client in a most insulting way. schymansky left the room without so much as a glance at me. he struck me as a man who knew his place better than any menial i've ever seen. i particularly noticed that not even his ears were red. "rather rough way to handle a lawyer, it strikes me," said i. "isn't he any good?" "he is as good as the best of them," said the count, lighting his fourth or fifth cigarette. "i have no patience with the way they muddle matters by always talking law, law, law! if it were left to me, i should dismiss the whole lot of them and depend entirely upon my common-sense. if it hadn't been for the lawyers, i am convinced that all this trouble could have been avoided, or at least amicably adjusted out of court. but i am saddled with half a dozen of them, simply because two or three banks and as many private interests are inclined to be officious. they claim that my interests are theirs, but i doubt it, by jove, i do. they're a blood-sucking lot, these bankers. but i sha'n't bore you with trivialities. now here is the situation in a word. it is quite impossible for me to prosecute the search for my child without financial assistance from outside sources. my funds are practically exhausted and the banks refuse to extend my credit. you have publicly declared yourself to be my friend and well-wisher. i have asked you to come here to-night, mr. smart, to put you to the real test, so to i speak. i want one hundred thousand dollars for six months." while i was prepared in a sense for the request, the brazenness with which he put it up to me took my breath away. i am afraid that the degage manner in which he paid compliment to my affluence was too much for me. i blinked my eyes rapidly for a second or two and then allowed them to settle into a stare of perplexity. "really, mr. pless," i mumbled in direct contrast to his sangfroid, "you--you surprise me." he laughed quietly, almost reassuringly, as he leaned forward in his chair the better to study my face. "i hope you do not think that i expect you to produce so much ready money to-night, mr. smart. oh, no! any time within the next few days will be satisfactory. take your time, sir. i appreciate that it requires time to arrange for the--" i held up my hand with a rather lofty air. "was it one hundred and fifty thousand that you mentioned, or--" "that was the amount," said he, a sudden glitter in his eyes. i studied the ceiling with a calculating squint, as if trying to approximate my balance in bank. he watched me closely, almost breathlessly. at last, unable to control his eagerness, he said: "at the usual rate of interest, you understand." "certainly," i said, and resumed my calculations. he got the impression that i was annoyed by the interruption. "i beg your pardon," he said. "what security can you give, mr. pless?" i demanded in a very business-like way. "oh, you americans!" he cried, his face beaming with premature relief. "you will pin us down, i see. i do not wonder that you are so rich. i shall give you my personal note, mr. smart, for the amount, secured by a mortgage--a supplementary mortgage--on the chateau tarnowsy." tarnowsy! now i remembered everything. tarnowsy! the name struck my memory like a blow. what a stupid dolt i had been! the whole world had rung wedding bells for the marriage of the count maris tarnowsy, scion of one of the greatest hungarian houses, and aline, the nineteen-year-old daughter of gwendolen and jasper titus, of new york, newport, tuxedo, hot springs, palm beach and so forth. jasper titus, the banker and railway magnate, whose name as well as his hand was to be seen in every great financial movement of the last two decades! what a fool i was not to recall a marriage that had been not only on the lips of every man, woman and child in the states but on mine in particular, for i had bitterly execrated the deliverance into bondage of this young girl of whose beauty and charm i had heard so much. the whole spectacular travesty came back to me with a rush, as i sat there in the presence of the only man who had ever been known to get the better of jasper titus in a trade. i remembered with some vividness my scornful attitude toward the newspapers of the metropolis, all of which fairly sloshed over with the news of the great event weeks beforehand and weeks afterward. i was not the only man who said harsh things about jasper titus in those days. i was but one of the multitude. i also recalled my scathing comments at the time of the divorce proceedings. they were too caustic to be repeated here. it is only necessary to state that the proceedings came near to putting two friendly nations into very bad temper. statesmen and diplomats were drawn into the mess, and jingo congressmen on our side of the water introduced sensational bills bearing specifically upon the international marriage market. newspaper humourists stood together as one man in advocating a revision of the tariff upward on all foreign purchases coming under the head of the sons of old masters. as i have said before i did not follow the course of the nasty squabble very closely, and was quite indifferent as to the result. i have a vague recollection of some one telling me that a divorce had been granted, but that is all. there was also something said about a child. my pleasant little mystery had come to a sharp and rather depressing end. the lovely countess about whom i had cast the veil of secrecy was no other than the much-discussed aline titus and mr. pless the expensive count tarnowsy. cold, hard facts took the place of indulgent fancies. the dream was over. i was sorry to have it end. a joyous enthusiasm had attended me while i worked in the dark; now a dreary reality stared me in the face. the sparkle was gone. is there anything so sad as a glass of champagne when it has gone flat and lifeless? my cogitations were brief. the count after waiting for a minute or two to let me grasp the full importance of the sacrifice he was ready to make in order to secure me against personal loss, blandly announced that there were but two mortgages on the chateau, whereas nearly every other place of the kind within his knowledge had thrice as many. "you wish me to accept a third mortgage on the place?" i inquired, pursing my lips. "the chateau is worth at least a million," he said earnestly. "but why worry about that, mr. smart? my personal note is all that is necessary. the matter of a mortgage is merely incidental. i believe it is considered business-like by you americans, so i stand quite ready to abide by your habits. i shall soon be in possession of a million in any event, so you are quite safe in advancing me any amount up to--" "just a moment, count," i interrupted, leaning forward in my chair. "may i inquire where and from whom you received the impression that i am a rich man?" he laughed easily. "one who indulges a whim, mr. smart, is always rich. schloss rothhoefen condemns you to the purgatory of croesus." "croesus would be a poor man in these days," said i. "if he lived in new york he would be wondering where his next meal was to come from. you have made a very poor guess as to my wealth. i am not a rich man." he eyed me coldly. "have you suddenly discovered the fact, sir?" "what do you mean?" "i suggest a way in which you can be of assistance to me, and you hesitate. how am i to take it, sir?" his infernal air of superiority aggravated me. "you may take it just as you please, mr. pless." "i beg you to remember that i am count tarnowsy. mr.--" i arose. "the gist of the matter is this: you want to borrow one hundred and fifty thousand dollars of me. that is--" he hastened to correct me. "i do not call it borrowing when one gives ample security for the amount involved." "what is your idea of borrowing, may i ask?" "borrowing is the same thing as asking a favour according to our conception of the transaction. i am not asking a favour of you, sir. far from it. i am offering you an opportunity to put a certain amount of money out at a high rate of interest." "well, then, we'll look at it in that light. i am not in a position to invest so much money at this time. to be perfectly frank with you, i haven't the money lying loose." "suppose that i were to say that any day inside the next three or four weeks would be satisfactory to me," said he, as if he were granting me a favour. "please be seated, mr. smart." he glanced at his watch. "i have ordered a light supper to be sent up at ten o'clock. we can--" "thank you. i fear it is impossible for me to remain." "i shall be disappointed. however, another time if not to-night, i trust. and now to come to the point. may i depend upon you to help me at this trying period? a few thousand will be sufficient for present needs, and the balance may go over a few weeks without seriously inconveniencing me. if we can come to some sort of an understanding to-night, my attorney will be happy to meet you to-morrow at any time and place you may suggest." i actually was staggered. upon my word it was almost as if he were dunning me and magnanimously consenting to give me an extension of time if i could see my way clear to let him have something on account. my choler was rising. "i may as well tell you first as last, count tarnowsy, that i cannot let you have the money. it is quite impossible. in the first place, i haven't the amount to spare; in the second--" "enough, sir," he broke in angrily. "i have committed the common error of regarding one of you as a gentleman. damn me, if i shall ever do so again. there isn't one in the whole of the united states. will you be good enough, mr. smart, to overlook my mistake? i thank you for taking the trouble to rush into print in my defence. if you have gained anything by it, i do not begrudge you the satisfaction you must feel in being heralded as the host of count tarnowsy and his friend. you obtained the privilege very cheaply." "you will do well, sir, to keep a civil tongue in your head," said i, paling with fury. "i have nothing more to say to you, mr. smart," said he contemptuously. "good night. francois! conduct mr. smart to the corridor." francois--or "franko" as britton, whose french is very lame, had called him--preceded me to the door. in all my experience, nothing has surprised me so much as my ability to leave the room without first kicking francois' master, or at least telling him what i thought of him. strangely enough i did not recover my sense of speech until i was well out into the corridor. then i deliberately took a gold coin out of my pocket and pressed it into the valet's hand. "kindly give that to your master with my compliments," said i, in a voice that was intended to reach tarnowsy's ear. "bon soir, m'sieu," said francois, with an amiable grin. he watched me descend the stairs and then softly closed the door. in the office i came upon mr. schymansky. "i trust everything is satisfactorily arranged, mr.--" he began smiling and rubbing his hands. he was so utterly unprepared for the severity of the interruption that the smile was still in process of congealing as i stepped out into the narrow, illy-lighted street. max and rudolph were waiting at the wharf for me. their excellent arms and broad backs soon drove the light boat across the river. but once during the five or ten minutes of passage did i utter a word, and that word, while wholly involuntary and by no means addressed to my oarsmen, had the remarkable effect of making them row like fury for the remainder of the distance. mr. poopendyke was waiting for me in the courtyard. he was carrying a lantern, which he held rather close to my face as if looking for something he dreaded to see. "what the devil is the matter with you?" i demanded irascibly. "what's up? what are you doing out here with a lantern?" "i was rather anxious," he said, a note of relief in his voice. "i feared that something unexpected might have befallen you. five minutes ago the--mr. pless called up on the telephone and left a message for you. it rather upset me, sir." "he did, eh? well, what did he say?" "he merely commanded me to give you his compliments and to tell you to go to the devil. i told him that you would doubtless be at home a little later on and it would sound very much better if it came from him instead of from me. whereupon he told me to accompany you, giving rather explicit directions. he appeared to be in a tremendous rage." i laughed heartily. "i must have got under his confounded skin after all." "i was a little worried, so i came out with the lantern. one never can tell. did you come to blows?" "blows? what puts that idea into your head?" "the countess was listening on the extension wire while he was speaking to me. she thought it was you calling up and was eager to hear what had happened. it was she who put it into my head. she said you must have given his nose a jolly good pulling or something of the sort. i am extremely sorry, but she heard every word he said, even to the mildest damn." "it must have had a very familiar sound to her," i said sourly. "so she informed me." "oh, you've seen her, eh?" "she came down to the secret door a few minutes ago and urged me to set out to meet you. she says she can hardly wait for the news. i was to send you upstairs at once." confound him, he took that very instant to hold the lantern up to my face again, and caught me grinning like a cheshire cat. i hurried to my room and brushed myself up a bit. on my bureau, in a glass of water, there was a white boutonniere, rather clumsily constructed and all ready to be pinned in the lapel of my coat. i confess to a blush. i wish britton would not be so infernally arduous in his efforts to please me. the countess gave a little sigh of relief when i dashed in upon her a few minutes later. she had it all out of me before i had quite recovered my breath after the climb upstairs. "and so it was i who spent all the money," she mused, with a far-away look in her eyes. "in trying to be a countess," said i boldly. she smiled. "are you hungry?" "delightfully," said i. we sat down at the table. "now tell me everything all over again," she said. chapter xii i am informed that i am in love mr. poopendyke began to develop a streak of romantic invention--in fact, tomfoolery--a day or two after my experience with count tarnowsy in the rempf hotel. he is the last person in the world of whom i--or any one else--would suspect silliness of a radical nature. we were finding it rather difficult to get down to actual, serious work on the book. the plot and the synopsis, of course, were quite completely outlined; with ordinary intensity of purpose on my part the tale might have galloped through the introductory chapters with some clarity and decisiveness. but for some reason i lacked the power of concentration, or perhaps more properly speaking the power of initiative. i laid it to the hub-bub created by the final effort of the workmen to finish the job of repairing my castle before cold weather set in. "that isn't it, mr. smart," said my secretary darkly. we were in the study and my pad of paper was lying idly on my knees. for half an hour i had been trying to think of a handy sentence with which to open the story; the kind of sentence that catches the unwary reader's attention at a glance and makes for interest. "what is it, then?" i demanded, at once resenting an opinion. he smiled mysteriously. "you were not thinking of the workmen just now, were you?" "certainly," said i, coldly. "what's that got to do with it?" "nothing, i suppose," said he resignedly. i hesitated. "of course it is the work that upsets me. what are you driving at?" he stared for a long time at the portrait of ludwig the red. "isn't it odd that the countess, an american, should be descended from the old rothhoefens? what a small world it is, after all!" i became wary. "nothing odd about it to me. we've all got to descend from somebody." "i dare say. still it is odd that she should be hiding in the castle of her ances--" "not at all, not at all. it just happens to be a handy place. perfectly natural." we lapsed into a prolonged spell of silence. i found myself watching him rather combatively, as who would anticipate the move of an adversary. "perfect rot," said i, at last, without rhyme or reason. he grinned. "nevertheless, it's the general opinion that you are," said he. i sat up very straight. "what's that?" "you're in love," said he succinctly. it was like a bomb, and a bomb is the very last thing in succinctness. it comes to the point without palaver or conjecture, and it reduces havoc to a single synonymous syllable. "you're crazy!" i gasped. "and the workmen haven't anything at all to do with it," he pronounced emphatically. it was a direct charge. i distinctly felt called upon to refute it. but while i was striving to collect my thoughts he went on, somewhat arbitrarily, i thought: "you don't think we're all blind, do you, mr. smart?" "we?" i murmured, a curious dampness assailing me. "that is to say, britton, the schmicks and myself." "the schmicks?" it was high time that i should laugh. "ha! ha! the schmicks! good lord, man,--the _schmicks_." it sounded inane even to me, but, on my soul, it was all i could think of to say. "the schmicks are tickled to death over it," said he. "and so is britton." collecting all the sarcasm that i could command at the instant, i inquired: "and you, mr. poopendyke,--are you not ticklish?" "very," said he. "well, i'm not!" said i, savagely. "what does all this nonsense mean. don't be an ass, fred." "perhaps you don't know it, mr. smart, but you _are_ in love," said he so convincingly that i was conscious of an abrupt sinking of the heart. good heavens! was he right? was there anything in this silly twaddle? "you are quite mad about her." "the deuce you say!" i exclaimed, rather blankly. "oh, i've seen it coming. for that matter, so has she. it's as plain as the nose--" i leaped to my feet, startled. "she? you don't--has she said anything that leads you to believe--oh, the deuce! what rot!" "no use getting angry over it," he said consolingly. "falling in love is the sort of thing a fellow can't help, you know. it happens without his assistance. it is so easy. now i was once in love with a girl for two years without really knowing it." "and how did you find it out?" i asked, weakly. "i didn't find it out until she married another chap. then i knew i'd been in love with her all the time. but that's neither here nor there. you are heels over head in love with the countess tarnowsy and--" "shut up, fred! you're going daffy from reading my books, or absorbing my manuscripts, or--" "heaven is my witness, i don't read your books and i merely correct your manuscripts. god knows there is no romance in that! you _are_ in love. now what are you going to do about it?" "do about it?" i demanded. "you can't go on in this way, you know," he said relentlessly. "she won't--" "why, you blithering idiot," i roared, "do you know what you are saying? i'm not in love with anybody. my heart is--is--but never mind! now, listen to me, fred. this nonsense has got to cease. i won't have it. why, she's already got a husband. she's had all she can stand in the way of husb--" "rubbish! she can stand a husband or two more, if you are going to look at it in a literal way. besides, she hasn't a husband. she's chucked him. good riddance, too. now, do you imagine for a single instant that a beautiful, adorable young woman of twenty-three is going to spend the rest of her life without a man? not much! she's free to marry again and she will." "admitting that to be true, why should she marry me?" "i didn't say she was in love with you. i said you were in love with her." "oh," i said, and my face fell "i see." he seemed to be considering something. after a few seconds, he nodded his head decisively. "yes, i am sure of it. if the right man gets her, she'll make the finest, sweetest wife in the world. she's never had a chance to show what's really in her. she would be adorable, wouldn't she?" the sudden question caught me unawares. "she would!" i said, with conviction. "well," said he, slowly and deliberately, "why don't you set about it, then?" he was so ridiculous that i thought for the fun of it, i'd humour him. "assuming that you are right in regard to my feelings toward her, fred, what leads you to believe that i would stand a chance of winning her?" it was a silly question, but i declare i hung on his answer with a tenseness that surprised me. "why not? you are good looking, a gentleman, a celebrity, and a man. bless my soul, she _could_ do worse." "but you forget that i am--let me see--thirty-five and she is but twenty-three." "to offset that, she has been married and unhappy. that brings her about up to your level, i should say. she's a mother, and that makes you seem a good bit younger. moreover, she isn't a sod widow. she's a grass widow, and she's got a living example to use as a contrast. regulation widows sometimes forget the past because it is dim and dead; but, by george, sir, the divorced wife doesn't forget the hard time she's had. she's mighty careful when she goes about it the second time. the other kind has lost her sense of comparison, her standard, so to speak. her husband may have been a rotter and all that sort of thing, but he's dead and buried and she can't see anything but the good that was in him for the simple reason that it's on his tombstone. but when they're still alive and as bad as ever,--well, don't you see it's different?" "it occurs to me she'd be more likely to see the evil in all men and steer clear of them." "that isn't feminine nature. all women want to be loved. they want to be married. they want to make some man happy." "i suppose all this is philosophy," i mused, somewhat pleased and mollified. "but we'll look at it from another point of view. the former miss titus set out for a title. she got it. do you imagine she'll marry a man who has no position--by jove! that reminds me of something. you are altogether wrong in your reasoning, fred. with her own lips she declared to me one day that she'd never marry again. there you are!" he rolled his eyes heavenward. "they take delight in self-pity," said he. "you can't believe 'em under oath when they're in that mood." "well, granting that she will marry again," said i, rather insistently, "it doesn't follow that her parents will consent to a marriage with any one less than a duke the next time." "they've had their lesson." "and she is probably a mercenary creature, after all. she's had a taste of poverty, after a fashion. i imagine--" "if i know anything about women, the countess tarnowsy wants love more than anything else in the world, my friend. she was made to be loved and she knows it. and she hasn't had any of it, except from men who didn't happen to know how to combine love and respect. i'll give you my candid opinion, mr. john bellamy smart. she's in a receptive mood. strike while the iron is hot. you'll win or my name isn't--" "fred poopendyke, you haven't a grain of sense," i broke in sharply. "do you suppose, just to oblige you, i'll get myself mixed up in this wretched squabble? why, she's not really clear of the fellow yet. she's got a good many months to wait before the matter of the child and the final decree--" "isn't she worth waiting a year for--or ten years? besides, the whole squabble will come to an end the minute old man titus puts up the back million. and the minute the countess goes to him and says she's _willing_ for him to pay it, you take my word for it, he'll settle like a flash. it rests with her." "i don't quite get your meaning." "she isn't going to let a stingy little million stand between her and happiness." "confound you, do you mean to say she'd ask her father to pay over that million in order to be free to marry--" i did not condescend to finish the sentence. "why not?" he demanded after a moment. "he owes it, doesn't he?" i gasped. "but you wouldn't have him pay over a million to that damned brute of a count!" he grinned. "you've changed your song, my friend. a few weeks ago you were saying he ought to pay it, that it would serve him right, and--" "did i say that?" "you did. you even said it to the countess." "but not with the view to making it possible for her to hurry off and marry again. please understand that, fred." "he ought to pay what he owes. he gave a million to get one husband for her. he ought to give a million to be rid of him, so that she could marry the next one without putting him to any expense whatsoever. it's only fair to her, i say. and now i'll tell you something else: the countess, who has stood out stubbornly against the payment of this money, is now halfway inclined to advise the old gentleman to settle with tarnowsy." "she is?" i cried in astonishment. "how do you know?" "i told her i thought it was the cheapest and quickest way out of it, and she said: 'i wonder!'" "have you been discussing her most sacred affairs with her, you blithering--" "no, sir," said he, with dignity. "she has been discussing them with _me_." i have no recollection of what i said as i stalked out of the room. he called out after me, somewhat pleadingly, i thought: "ask britton what he has to say about it." things had come to a pretty pass! couldn't a gentleman be polite and agreeable to a young and charming lady whom circumstances had thrown in his way without having his motives misconstrued by a lot of snooping, idiotic menials whose only zest in life sprung from a temperamental tendency to belittle the big things and enlarge upon the small ones? what rot! what utter rot! ask britton! the more i thought of poopendyke's injunction the more furious i grew. what insufferable insolence! ask britton! the idea! ask _my valet_! ask him what? ask him politely if he could oblige me by telling me whether i was in love? i suppose that is what poopendyke meant. it was the silliest idea in the world. in the first place i was _not_ in love, and in the second place whose business was it but mine if i were? certainly not poopendyke's, certainly not britton's, certainly not the schmicks'! absolute lack of any sense of proportion, that's what ailed the whole bally of them. what looked like love to them--benighted dolts!--was no more than a rather resolute effort on my part to be kind to and patient with a person who had invaded my home and set everybody--including myself--by the ears. but, even so, what right had my secretary to constitute himself adviser and mentor to the charming invader? what right had he to suggest what she should do, or what her father should do, or what _anybody_ should do? he was getting to be disgustingly officious. what he needed was a smart jacking up, a little plain talk from me. give a privileged and admittedly faithful secretary an inch and he'll have you up to your ears in trouble before you know what has happened. by the same token, what right had she to engage herself in confidential chats with--but just then i caught sight of britton coming upstairs with my neatly polished tan shoes in one hand and a pair of number - / a tan pumps in the other. not expecting to meet me in the hall, he had neglected to remove his cap when he came in from the courtyard. in some confusion, he tried to take it off, first with one hand, then with the other, sustaining what one might designate as absent treatment kicks on either jaw from two distinct sexes in the shape of shoes. he managed to get all four of them into one hand, however, and then grabbed off his cap. "anythink more, sir?" he asked, purely from habit. i was regarding the shoes with interest. never have i known anything so ludicrous as the contrast between my stupendous number tens and the dainty pumps that seemed almost babyish beside them. then i did the very thing i had excoriated poopendyke for even suggesting. i asked britton! "britton, what's all this gossip i hear going the rounds of the castle behind my back?" confound him, he looked pleased! "it's quite true, sir, quite true." "quite true!" i roared. "what's quite true, sir?" "isn't it, sir?" he asked, dismayed. "isn't what?" "i mean to say, sir, isn't it true?" "my god!" i cried, throwing up my hands in hopeless despair. "you--you--wait! i'm going to get to the bottom of this. i want the truth, britton. who put it into that confounded head of yours that i am--er--in love with the countess? speak! who did it?" he lowered his voice, presumably because i had dropped mine to a very loud whisper. i also had glanced over both shoulders. "begging your pardon, sir, but i must be honest, sir. it was you as first put it into my 'ead, sir." "i?" my face went the colour of a cardinal's cap. "you, sir. it's as plain as the nose on your--" "that will do, britton," i commanded. he remained discreetly silent. "that will do, i say," i repeated, somewhat testily. "do you hear, sir?" "yes, sir," he responded. "that will do, you says." "ahem! i--ahem!" somewhat clumsily i put on my nose-glasses and made a pretext of examining his burden rather closely. "what's this you have here." "shoes, sir." "i see, i see. let me have them." he handed me my own. "the others, if you please," i said, disdaining the number tens. "may i inquire, sir, where you are taking _these_?" i had the countess's pumps in my hands. he explained that he was going to drop mine in my room and then take hers upstairs. "you may drop mine as you intended. i shall take care of these." "very good, sir," said he, with such positive relief in his voice that i glared at him. he left me standing there, a small pump in each hand. five minutes later i was at her door, a pump in each hand and my heart in my mouth. a sudden, inexplicable form of panic took possession of me. i stood there ready to tap resoundingly on the panel of the door with the heel of a slipper; i never raised my hand for the purpose. instead of carrying out my original design, i developed an overpowering desire to do nothing of the sort. why go on making a fool of myself? why add fuel to the already pernicious flame? of course i was not in love with her, the idea was preposterous. but, just the same, the confounded servants were beginning to gossip, and back stair scandal is the very worst type. it was wrong for me to encourage it. like a ninny, i had just given britton something to support his contention, and he wouldn't be long in getting down to the servants' hall with the latest exhibit in the charge against me. moreover, if every one was talking about it, what was to prevent the silly gossip from reaching the sensitive ears of the countess? a sickening thought struck me: could it be possible that the countess herself suspected me of being in love with her? a woman's vanity goes a long way sometimes. the thought did not lessen the panic that afflicted me. i tip-toed away from the door to a less exposed spot at the bend in the stairway. there, after some deliberation, i came to a decision. the proper thing for me to do was to show all of them that their ridiculous suspicions were wrong. i owed it to the countess, to say the least. she was my guest, as it were, and it was my duty to protect her while she was in my house. the only thing for me to do, therefore, was to stay away from her. the thought of it distressed me, but it seemed to be the only way, and the fair one. no doubt she would expect some sort of an explanation for the sudden indifference on my part, but i could attribute everything to an overpowering desire to work on my story. (i have a habit of using my work as an excuse for not doing a great many things that i ought to do.) all this time i was regarding the small tan pumps with something akin to pain in my eyes. i could not help thinking about the tiny feet they sometimes covered. by some sort of intuitive computation i arrived at the conclusion that they were adorably small, and pink, and warm. suddenly it occurred to me that my present conduct was reprehensible, that no man of honour would be holding a lady's pumps in his hands and allowing his imagination to go too far. resolutely i put them behind my back and marched downstairs. "britton," said i, a few minutes later, "you may take these up to the countess, after all." he blinked his eyes. "wasn't she at 'ome, sir?" "don't be insolent, britton. do as i tell you." "very good, sir." he held the pumps up to admire them. "they're very cute, ain't they, sir?" "they are just like _all_ pumps," said i, indifferently, and walked away. if i could have been quite sure that it was a chuckle i heard, i should have given britton something to think about for the rest of his days. the impertinent rascal! for some two long and extremely monotonous days i toiled. a chapter shaped itself--after a fashion. even as i wrote, i knew that it wasn't satisfactory and that i should tear it up the instant it was finished. what irritated me more than anything else was the certain conviction that poopendyke, who typed it as i progressed, also knew that it would go into the waste paper basket. both nights i went to bed early and to sleep late. i could not deny to myself that i was missing those pleasant hours with the countess. i _did_ miss them. i missed rosemary and jinko and helen marie louise antoinette and blake. an atmosphere of gloom settled around poopendyke and britton. they eyed me with a sort of pathetic wonder in their faces. as time went on they began to look positively forlorn and unhappy. once or twice i caught them whispering in the hallway. on seeing me they assumed an air of nonchalance that brought a grim smile to my lips. i was beginning to hate them. toward the end of the second day, the four schmicks became so aggravatingly doleful that i ordered them, one and all, to keep out of my sight. even the emotionless hawkes and the perfect blatchford were infected. i don't believe i've ever seen a human face as solemnly respectful as hawkes' was that night at dinner. he seemed to be pitying me from the bottom of his heart. it was getting on my nerves. i took a stroll in the courtyard after dinner, and i may be forgiven i hope for the few surreptitious glances i sent upwards in the direction of the rear windows in the eastern wing. i wondered what she was doing, and what she was thinking of my extraordinary behaviour, and why the deuce she hadn't sent down to ask me to come up and tell her how busy i was. she had not made a single sign. the omission was not particularly gratifying, to say the least. approaching the servants' hall, i loitered. i heard voices, a mixture of tongues. britton appeared to be doing the most of the talking. gradually i became aware of the fact that he was explaining to the four schmicks the meaning of an expression in which must have been incorporated the words "turned him down." hawkes, the impeccable hawkes, joined in. "if i know anything about it, i'd say she has threw the 'ooks into 'im." then they had to explain _that_ to conrad and gretel, who repeated "ach, gott" and other simple expletives in such a state of misery that i could almost detect tears in their voices. "it ain't that, mr. 'awkes," protested britton loyally. "he's lost his nerve, that's wot it is. they allus do when they realise 'ow bad they're hit. turn 'im down? not much, mr. 'awkes. take it from me, mr. 'awkes, he's not going to give 'er the _chawnce_ to turn 'im down." "ach, gott!" said gretel. i will stake my head that she wrung her hands. "women is funny," said hawkes. (i had no idea the wretch was so ungrammatical.) "you can't put your finger on 'em ever. while i 'aven't seen much of the countess during my present engagement, i will say this: she has a lot more sense than people give 'er credit for. now why should she throw the 'ooks into a fine, upstanding chap like 'im, even if he is an american? she made a rotten bad job the first time, mind you. if she has threw the 'ooks into 'im, as i am afeared, i can't see wot the deuce ails 'er." my perfect footman, blatchford, ventured an opinion, and i blessed him for it. "we may be off our nuts on the 'ole bloomink business," said he. "maybe he 'as thrown the 'ooks into 'er. who knows? it looks that w'y to me." (i remember distinctly that he used the word "thrown" and i was of half a mind to rush in and put him over hawkes, there and then.) "in any case," said britton, gloom in his voice, "it's a most unhappy state of affairs. he's getting to be a perfect crank. complines about everything i do. he won't 'ave 'is trousers pressed and he 'asn't been shaved since monday." i stole away, rage in my soul. or was it mortification? in any event, i had come to an irrevocable decision: i would ship the whole lot of them, without notice, before another day was gone. the more i thought of the way i was being treated by my own servants, and the longer i dwelt upon the ignominious figure i must have presented as the hero of their back-door romance, the angrier i got. i was an object of concern to them, an object of pity! confound them, they were feeling sorry for me because i had received my _conge_, and they were actually finding fault with me for not taking it with a grin on my face! before going to bed i went into the loggia (for the first time in three days) and, keeping myself pretty well hidden behind a projection in the wall, tried to get a glimpse of the countess's windows. failing there, i turned my steps in another direction and soon stood upon my little balcony. there was no sign of her in the windows, although a faint light glowed against the curtains of a well-remembered room near the top of the tower. ah, what a cosy, jolly room! what a delicious dinner i had had there! and what a supper! somehow, i found myself thinking of those little tan pumps. as a matter of fact, they had been a source of annoyance to me for more than forty-eight hours. i had found myself thinking of them at most inopportune times, greatly to the detriment of my work as a realist. it was cool on the balcony, and i was abnormally warm, as might be expected. it occurred to me that i might do worse than to sit out there in the cool of the evening and enjoy a cigar or two--three or four, if necessary. but, though i sat there until nearly midnight and chattered my teeth almost out of my head with the cold, she did not appear at her window. the aggravating part of it was that while i was shivering out there in the beastly raw, miasmic air, she doubtless was lying on a luxurious couch before a warm fire in a dressing gown and slippers,--ah, slippers!--reading a novel and thinking of nothing in the world but her own comfort! and those rascally beggars presumed to think that i was in love with a selfish, self-centred, spoiled creature like that! rubbish! i am afraid that poopendyke found me in a particularly irascible frame of mind the next morning. i know that britton did. i thought better of my determination to discharge britton. he was an exceptionally good servant and a loyal fellow, so why should i deprive myself of a treasure simply because the eastern wing of my abode was inhabited by an unfeeling creature who hadn't a thought beyond fine feathers and bonbons? i was not so charitably inclined toward hawkes and blatchford, who were in my service through an influence over which i did not appear to have any control. they would have to go. "mr. poopendyke," said i, after blatchford had left the breakfast room, "i want you to give notice to hawkes and blatchford to-day." "notice?" he exclaimed incredulously. "notice," said i, very distinctly. he looked distressed. "i thought they were most; satisfactory to you." "i've changed my opinion." "by jove, mr. smart, i--i don't know how the countess will take such high-handed--ahem! you see, sir, she--she was good enough to recommend them to me. it will be quite a shock to--" "by the lord harry, fred, am i to--" "don't misunderstand me," he made haste to say. "this is your house. you have a perfect right to hire and discharge, but--but--don't you think you'd better consider very carefully--" he seemed to be finding his collar rather tight. i held up my hand. "of course i do not care to offend the countess tarnowsy. it was very kind of her to recommend them. we--we will let the matter rest for a few days." "she has informed me that you were especially pleased with the manner in which they served the dinner the other night. i think she said you regarded them as incomparable diadems, or something of the sort. it may have been the champagne." my thoughts leaped backward to that wonderful dinner. "it wasn't the champagne," said i, very stiffly. "do you also contemplate giving notice to the chef and his wife, our only chambermaid?" "no, i don't," i snapped. "i think they were in bed." he looked at me as if he thought i had gone crazy. i wriggled uncomfortably in my chair for a second or two, and then abruptly announced that we'd better get to work. i have never ceased to wonder what construction he could have put on that stupid slip of the tongue. i cannot explain why, but at the slightest unusual sound that morning i found myself shooting an involuntary glance at the imperturbable features of ludwig the red. sometimes i stopped in the middle of a sentence, to look and to listen rather more intently than seemed absolutely necessary, and on each occasion i was obliged to begin the sentence all over again, because, for the life of me, i couldn't remember what it was i had set out to say in dictation. poopendyke had an air of patient tolerance about him that irritated me intensely. more than once i thought i detected him in the act of suppressing a smile. at eleven o'clock, blatchford came to the door. his ordinarily stoical features bore signs of a great, though subdued excitement. i had a fleeting glimpse of britton in the distance,--a sort of passing shadow, as it were. "a note for you, sir, if you please," said he. he was holding the salver almost on a level with his nose. it seemed to me that he was looking at it out of the corner of his eye. my heart--my incomprehensible heart--gave a leap that sent the blood rushing to my face. he advanced, not with his usual imposing tread but with a sprightliness that pleased me vastly. i took the little pearl grey envelope from the salver, and carelessly glanced at the superscription. there was a curious ringing in my ears. "thank you, blatchford; that will do." "i beg pardon, sir, but there is to be an answer." "oh," said i. i had the feeling that at least fifty eyes were upon me, although i am bound to admit that both poopendyke and the footman were actively engaged in looking in another direction. i tore open the envelope. "_have you deserted me entirely? won't you please come and see me? thanks 'for the violets, but i can't talk to violets, you know. please come up for luncheon._" i managed to dash off a brief note in a fairly nonchalant manner. blatchford almost committed the unpardonable crime of slamming the door behind him, he was in such a hurry to be off with the message. then i went over and stood above mr. poopendyke. "mr. poopendyke," said i slowly, darkly, "what do you know about those violets?" he quailed. "i hope you don't mind, mr. smart. it's all right. i put one of your cards in, so that there couldn't be any mistake." chapter xiii i visit and am visited halfway up the winding stairways, i paused in some astonishment. it had just occurred to me that i was going up the steps two at a time and that my heart was beating like mad. i reflected. here was i racing along like a schoolboy, and wherefor? what occasion was there for such unseemly haste? in the first place, it was now but a few minutes after eleven, and she had asked me for luncheon; there was no getting around that. at best luncheon was two hours off. so why was i galloping like this? the series of self-inflicted questions found me utterly unprepared; i couldn't answer one of them. my brain somehow couldn't get at them intelligently; i was befuddled. i progressed more slowly, more deliberately, finally coming to a full stop in a sitting posture in one of the window casements, where i lighted a cigarette and proceeded to thresh the thing out in my mind before going any farther. the fundamental problem was this: why was i breaking my neck to get to her before blatchford had time to deliver my response to her appealing little note? it was something of a facer, and it set me to wondering. why was i so eager? could it be possible that there was anything in the speculation of my servants? i recalled the sensation of supreme delight that shot through me when i received her note, but after that a queer sort of oblivion seems to have surrounded me, from which i was but now emerging in a timely struggle for self-control. there was something really startling about it, after all. i profess to be a steady, level-headed, prosaic sort of person, and this surprising reversion to extreme youthfulness rather staggered me. in fact it brought a cold chill of suspicion into existence. grown-up men do not, as a rule, fly off the head unless confronted by some prodigious emotion, such as terror, grief or guilt. and yet here was i going into a perfect rampage of rapture over a simple, unconventional communication from a lady whom i had known for less than a month and for whom i had no real feeling of sympathy whatever. the chill of suspicion continued to increase. if it had been a cigar that i was smoking it would have gone out through neglect. a cigarette goes on forever and smells. after ten minutes of serious, undisturbed consideration of the matter, i came to the final conclusion that it was not love but pity that had driven me to such abnormal activity. it was nonsense to even argue the point. having thoroughly settled the matter to my own satisfaction and relief, i acknowledged a feeling of shame for having been so precipitous. i shudder to think of the look she would have given me if i had burst in upon her while in the throes of that extraordinary seizure. obviously i had lost my wits. now i had them once more, i knew what to do with them. first of all, i would wait until one o'clock before presenting myself for luncheon. clearly that was the thing to do. secondly, i would wait on this side of the castle instead of returning to my own rooms, thereby avoiding a very unpleasant gauntlet. luckily i had profited by the discussion in the servants' quarters and was not wearing a three days' growth of beard. moreover, i had taken considerable pains in dressing that morning. evidently a presentiment. for an hour and a half by my watch, but five or six by my nerves, i paced the lonely, sequestered halls in the lower regions of the castle. two or three times i was sure that my watch had stopped, the hands seemed so stationary. the third time i tried to wind it, i broke the mainspring, but as it was nearly one o'clock not much harm was done. that one little sentence, _"have you deserted me?"_ grew to be a voluminous indictment. i could think of nothing else. there was something ineffably sad and pathetic about it. had she been unhappy because of my beastly behaviour? was her poor little heart sore over my incomprehensible conduct? perhaps she had cried through sheer loneliness--but no! it would never do for me to even think of her in tears. i remembered having detected tears in her lovely eyes early in our acquaintance and the sight of them--or the sensation, if you please--quite unmanned me. at last i approached her door. upon my soul, my legs were trembling! i experienced a silly sensation of fear. a new problem confronted me: what was i to say to her? following close upon this came another and even graver question: what would she say to me? suppose she were to look at me with hurt, reproachful eyes and speak to me with a little quaver in her voice as she held out her hand to me timidly--what then? what would become of me? by jove, the answer that flashed through my whole body almost deprived me of reason! i hesitated, then, plucking up my courage and putting all silly questions behind me, i rapped resoundingly on the door. the excellent hawkes opened it! i started back in dismay. he stood aside impressively. "mr. smart!" he announced. damn it all! i caught sight of the countess. she was arranging some flowers on the table. blatchford was placing the knives and forks. helen marie louise antoinette stood beside her mistress holding a box of flowers in her hands. what was it that i had been thinking out there in those gloomy halls? that she would greet me with a pathetic, hurt look and... "good morning!" she cried gaily. hurt? pathetic? she was radiant! "so glad to see you again. hawkes has told me how busy you've been." she dried her hands on the abbreviated apron of helen marie louise antoinette and then quite composedly extended one for me to shake. i bowed low over it. "awfully, awfully busy," i murmured. was it relief at finding her so happy and unconcerned that swept through me? i am morally, but shamelessly certain it wasn't! "don't you think the roses are lovely in that old silver bowl?" "exquisite." "blatchford found it in the plate vault," she said, standing off to admire the effect. "do you mind if i go on arranging them?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer resumed her employment. "bon jour, m'sieur," said helen marie louise antoinette over her mistress's shoulder. one never knows whether a french maid is polite or merely spiteful. "it seems ages since i saw you last," said the countess in a matter-of-fact tone, jiggling a rose into position and then standing off to study the effect, her head cocked prettily at an angle of inquiry. it suddenly occurred to me that she had got on very well without me during the ages. the discovery irritated me. she was not behaving at all as i had expected. this cool, even casual reception certainly was not in keeping with my idea of what it ought to have been. "but mr. poopendyke has been awfully kind. he has given me all the news." poopendyke! had he been visiting her without my knowledge or--was i about to say consent? "there hasn't been a great deal of news," i said. she dropped a long-stemmed rose and waited for me to pick it up. "thank you," she said. "oh, did it prick you?" "yes," said i flatly. then we both gave the closest attention to the end of my thumb while i triumphantly squeezed a tiny drop of blood out of it. i sucked it. the incident was closed. she was no longer interested in the laceration. "mr. poopendyke knew how lonely i would be. he telephoned twice a day." i thought i detected a slight note of pique in her voice. but it was so slight that it was hardly worth while to exult. "so you thought i had deserted you," i said, and was a little surprised at the gruffness in my voice. "the violets appeased me," she said, with a smile. for the first time i noticed that she was wearing a large bunch of them. "you will be bankrupt, mr. smart, if you keep on buying roses and violets and orchids for me." so the roses were mine also! i shot a swift glance at the mantelpiece, irresistibly moved by some mysterious force. there were two bowls of orchids there. i couldn't help thinking of the meddling, over-zealous geni that served the hero of anstey's "brass bottle" tale. he was being outdone by my efficacious secretary. "but they are lovely," she cried, noting the expression in my face and misconstruing it. "you are an angel." that was the last straw. "i am nothing of the sort," i exclaimed, very hot and uncomfortable. "you _are_," was her retort. "there! isn't it a lovely centre-piece? now, you must come and see rosemary. she adores the new elephant you sent to her." "ele--" i began, blinking my eyes. "oh--oh, yes, yes. ha, ha! the elephant." good heavens, had that idiotic poopendyke started a menagerie in my castle? i was vastly relieved to find that the elephant was made of felt and not too large to keep rosemary from wielding it skilfully in an assault upon the hapless jinko. she had it firmly gripped by the proboscis, and she was shrieking with delight. jinko was barking in vain-glorious defence. the racket was terrible. the countess succeeded in quelling the disturbance, and rosemary ran up to kiss me. jinko, who disliked me because i looked like the count, also ran up but his object was to bite me. i made up my mind, there and then that if i should ever, by any chance, fall in love with his mistress i would inaugurate the courting period by slaying jinko. rosemary gleefully permitted me to sip honey from that warm little spot on her neck, and i forgot many odious things. as i held her in my arms i experienced a vivid longing to have a child of my own, just like rosemary. our luncheon was not as gay nor as unconventional as others that had preceded it. the countess vainly tried to make it as sprightly as its predecessors, but gave over in despair in the face of my taciturnity. her spirits drooped. she became strangely uneasy and, i thought, preoccupied. "what is on your mind, countess?" i asked rather gruffly, after a painful silence of some duration. she regarded me fixedly for a moment. she seemed to be searching my thoughts. "you," she said very succinctly. "why are you so quiet, so funereal?" i observed a faint tinge of red in her cheeks and an ominous steadiness in her gaze. was there anger also? i apologised for my manners, and assured her that my work was responsible. but her moodiness increased. at last, apparently at the end of her resources, she announced that she was tired: that after we had had a cigarette she would ask to be excused, as she wanted to lie down. would i come to see her the next day? "but don't think of coming, mr. smart," she declared, "if you feel you cannot spare the time away from your work." i began to feel heartily ashamed of my boorishness. after all, why should i expend my unpleasant humour on her? "my dear countess," i exclaimed, displaying a livelier interest than at any time before, "i shall be delighted to come. permit me to add that my work may go hang." her face brightened. "but men must work," she objected. "not when women are willing to play," i said. "splendid!" she cried. "you are reviving. i feel better. if you are going to be nice, i'll let you stay." "thanks. i'll do my best." she seemed to be weighing something in her mind. her chin was in her hands, her elbows resting on the edge of the table. she was regarding me with speculative eyes. "if you don't mind what the servants are saying about us, mr. smart, i am quite sure i do not." i caught my breath. "oh, i understand everything," she cried mischievously, before i could stammer anything in reply. "they are building a delightful romance around us. and why not? why begrudge them the pleasure? no harm can come of it, you see." "certainly no harm," i floundered. "the gossip is confined to the castle. it will not go any farther. we can afford to laugh in our sleeves, can't we?" "ha, ha!" i laughed in a strained effort, but not into my sleeve. "i rejoice to hear you say that you don't mind. no more do i. it's rather jolly." "fancy any one thinking we could possibly fall in love with each other," she scoffed. her eyes were very bright. there was a suggestion of cold water in that remark. "yes, just fancy," i agreed. "absurd!" "but, of course, as you say, if they can get any pleasure out of it, why should we object? it's a difficult matter keeping a cook any way." "well, we are bosom friends once more, are we not? i am so relieved." "i suppose poopendyke told you the--the gossip?" "oh, no! i had it from my maid. she is perfectly terrible. all french maids are, mr. smart. beware of french maids! she won't have it any other way than that i am desperately in love with you. isn't she delicious?" "eh?" i gasped. "and she confides the wonderful secret to every one in the castle, from rosemary down to jinko." "'pon my soul!" i murmured. "and so now they all are saying that i am in love with you," she laughed. "isn't it perfectly ludicrous?" "perfectly," i said without enthusiasm. my heart sank like lead. ludicrous? was that the way it appeared to her? i had a little spirit left. "quite as ludicrous as the fancy britton has about me. he is obsessed by the idea that i am in love with you. what do you think of that?" she started. i thought her eyes narrowed for a second. "ridiculous," she said, very simply. then she arose abruptly. "please ring the bell for hawkes." i did so. hawkes appeared. "clear the table, hawkes," she said. "i want you to read all these newspaper clippings, mr. smart," she went on, pointing to a bundle on a chair near the window. we crossed the room. "now that you know who i am, i insist on your reading all that the papers have been saying about me during the past five or six weeks." i protested but she was firm. "every one else in the world has been reading about my affairs, so you must do likewise. no, it isn't necessary to read all of them. i will select the most lurid and the most glowing. you see there are two sides to the case. the papers that father can control are united in defending my action; the european press is just the other way. sit down, please. i'll hand them to you." for an hour i sat there in the window absorbing the astonishing history of the tarnowsy abduction case. i felt rather than observed the intense scrutiny with which she favoured me. at last she tossed the remainder of the bundle unread, into a corner. her face was aglow with pleasure. "you've read both sides, and i've watched you--oh, so closely. you don't believe what the papers over here have to say. i saw the scowls when you read the translations that mr. poopendyke has typed for me. now i know that you do not feel so bitterly toward me as you did at first." i was resolved to make a last determined stand for my original convictions. "but our own papers, the new york, boston, philadelphia, chicago journals,--still voice, in a way, my principal contention in the matter, countess. they deplore the wretched custom among the idle but ambitious rich that made possible this whole lamentable state of affairs. i mean the custom of getting a title into the family at any cost." "my dear mr. smart," she said seriously, "do you really contend that all of the conjugal unhappiness and unrest of the world is confined to the american girls who marry noblemen? has it escaped your notice that there are thousands of unhappy marriages and equally happy divorces in america every year in which noblemen do not figure at all? have you not read of countless cases over there in which conditions are quite similar to those which make the tarnowsy fiasco so notorious? are not american women stealing their children from american husbands? are all american husbands so perfect that count tarnowsy would appear black among them? are there no american men who marry for money, and are there no american girls given in marriage to wealthy suitors of all ages, creeds and habits? why do you maintain that an unfortunate alliance with a foreign nobleman is any worse than an unhappy marriage with an ordinary american brute? are there no bad husbands in america?" "all husbands are bad," i said, "but some are more pre-eminently evil than others. i am not finding fault with tarnowsy as a husband. he did just what was expected of him. he did what he set out to do. he isn't to be blamed for living up to his creed. there are bad husbands in america, and bad wives. but they went into the game blindly, most of them. they didn't find out their mistake until after the marriage. the same statement applies to husbands and wives the world over. i hold a brief only against the marriage wherein the contracting parties, their families, their friends, their enemies, their bankers and their creditors know beforehand that it's a business proposition and not a sacred compact. but we've gone into all this before. why rake it up again." "but there are many happy marriages between american girls and foreign noblemen--dozens of them that i could mention." "i grant you that. i know of a few myself. but i think if you will reflect for a moment you'll find that money had no place in the covenant. they married because they loved one another. the noblemen in such cases are _real_ noblemen, and their american wives are _real_ wives. there are no count tarnowsys among them. my blood curdles when i think of _you_ being married to a man of the tarnowsy type. it is that sort of a marriage that i execrate." "the buy and sell kind?" she said, and her eyes fell. the colour had faded from her cheeks. "yes. the premeditated murder type." she looked up after a moment. there was a bleak expression in her eyes. "will you believe me if i say to you that i went into it blindly?" "god bless my soul, i am sure of it," i cried earnestly. "you had never been in love. you did not know." "i have told you that i believed myself to be in love with maris. doesn't--doesn't that help matters a little bit?" i looked away. the hurt, appealing look was in her eyes. it had come at last, and, upon my soul, i was as little prepared to repel it as when i entered the room hours ago after having lived in fear of it for hours before that. i looked away because i knew that i should do something rash if i were to lose my head for an instant. she was like an unhappy pleading child. i solemnly affirm that it was tender-heartedness that moved me in this crucial instant. what man could have felt otherwise? i assumed a coldly impersonal tone. "not a single editorial in any of these papers holds you responsible for what happened in new york," i said. she began to collect the scattered newspaper clippings and the type-written transcriptions. i gathered up those in the corner and laid them in her lap. her fingers trembled a little. "throw them in the fireplace, please," she said in a low voice. "i kept them only for the purpose of showing them to you. oh, how i hate, how i loathe it all!" when i came back from the fireplace, she was lying back in the big, comfortable chair, a careless, whimsical smile on her lips. she was as serene as if she had never known what it was to have a heart-pang or an instant of regret in all her life. i could not understand that side of her. "and now i have some pleasant news for you," she said. "my mother will be here on thursday. you will not like her, of course, because you are already prejudiced, but i know she will like you." i knew i should hate her mother, but of course it would not do to say so. "next thursday?" i inquired. she nodded her head. "i hope she will like me," i added feeling that it was necessary. "she was a colingraft, you know." "indeed?" the colingraft family was one of the oldest and most exclusive in new york. i had a vague recollection of hearing one of my fastidious friends at home say that it must have been a bitter blow to the colingrafts when, as an expedient, she married the vulgarly rich jasper titus, then of st. paul, minnesota. it had been a clear case of marrying the money, not the man. aline's marriage, therefore, was due to hereditary cold-bloodedness and not to covetousness. "a fine old name, countess." "titus suggests titles, therefore it has come to be our family name," she said, with her satiric smile. "you will like my father. he loves me more than any one else in the world--more than all the world. he is making the great fight for me, mr. smart. he would buy off the count to-morrow if i would permit him to do so. of late i have been thinking very seriously of suggesting it to him. it would be the simplest way out of our troubles, wouldn't it? a million is nothing to my father." "nothing at all, i submit, in view of the fact that it may be the means of saving you from a term in prison for abducting rosemary?" she paled. "do you really think they would put me in prison?" "unquestionably," i pronounced emphatically. "oh, dear!" she murmured. "but they can't lock you up until they've caught you," said i reassuringly. "and i will see to it that they do not catch you." "i--i am depending on you entirely, mr. smart," she said anxiously. "some day i may be in a position to repay you for all the kindness--" "please, please!" "--and all the risk you are taking for me," she completed. "you see, you haven't the excuse any longer that you don't know my name and story. you are liable to be arrested yourself for--" there came a sharp rapping on the door at this instant--a rather imperative, sinister rapping, if one were to judge by the way we started and the way we looked at each other. we laughed nervously. "goodness! you'd thing sherlock holmes himself was at the door," she cried. "see who it is, please." i went to the door. poopendyke was there. he was visibly excited. "can you come down at once, mr. smart?" he said in a voice not meant to reach the ears of the countess. "what's up?" i questioned sharply. "the jig, i'm afraid," he whispered sententiously. poopendyke, being a stenographer, never wasted words. he would have made a fine playwright. "good lord! detectives?" "no. count tarnowsy and a stranger." "impossible!" the countess, alarmed by our manner, quickly crossed the room. "what is it?" she demanded. "the count is downstairs," i said. "don't be alarmed. nothing can happen. you--" she laughed. "oh, is that all? my dear mr. smart, he has come to see you about the frescoes." "but i have insulted him!" "not permanently," she said. "i know him too well. he is like a leech. he has given you time to reflect and therefore regret your action of the other night. go down and see him." poopendyke volunteered further information. "there is also a man down there--a cheap looking person--who says he must see the countess tarnowsy at once." "a middle-aged man with the upper button of his waistcoat off?" she asked sharply. "i--i can't say as to the button." "i am expecting one of my lawyers. it must be he. he was to have a button off." "i'll look him over again," said poopendyke. "do. and be careful not to let the count catch a glimpse of him. that would be fatal." "no danger of that. he went at once to old conrad's room." "good! i had a note from him this morning, mr. smart. he is mr. bangs of london." "may i inquire, countess, how you manage to have letters delivered to you here? isn't it extremely dangerous to have them go through the mails?" "they are all directed to the schmicks," she explained. "they are passed on to me. now go and see the count. don't lend him any money." "i shall probably kick him over the cliff," i said, with a scowl. she laid her hand upon my arm. "be careful," she said very earnestly, "for my sake." poopendyke had already started down the stairs. i raised her hand to my lips. then i rushed away, cursing myself for a fool, an ingrate, a presumptuous bounder. my uncalled-for act had brought a swift flush of anger to her cheek. i saw it quite plainly as she lowered her head and drew back into the shadow of the curtain. bounder! that is what i was for taking advantage of her simple trust in me. strange to say, she came to the head of the stairs and watched me until i was out of sight in the hall below. the count was waiting for me in the loggia. it was quite warm and he fanned himself lazily with his broad straw hat. as i approached, he tossed his cigarette over the wall and hastened to meet me. there was a quaint diffident smile on his lips. "it is good to see you again, old fellow," he said, with an amiability that surprised me. "i was afraid you might hold a grievance against me. you americans are queer chaps, you know. our little tilt of the other evening, you understand. stupid way for two grown-up men to behave, wasn't it? of course, the explanation is simple. we had been drinking. men do silly things in their cups." consummate assurance! i had not touched a drop of anything that night. "i assure you, count tarnowsy, the little tilt, as you are pleased to call it, was of no consequence. i had quite forgotten that it occurred. sorry you reminded me of it." the irony was wasted. he beamed. "my dear fellow, shall we not shake hands?" there _was_ something irresistibly winning about him, as i've said before. something boyish, ingenuous, charming,--what you will,--that went far toward accounting for many things that you who have never seen him may consider incomprehensible. a certain wariness took possession of me. i could well afford to temporise. we shook hands with what seemed to be genuine fervour. "i suppose you are wondering what brings me here," he said, as we started toward the entrance to the loggia, his arm through mine. "i do not forget a promise, mr. smart. you may remember that i agreed to fetch a man from munchen to look over your fine old frescoes and to give you an estimate. well, he is here, the very best man in europe." "i am sure i am greatly indebted to you, count," i said, "but after thinking it over i've--" "don't say that you have already engaged some one to do the work," he cried, in horror. "my dear fellow, don't tell me _that_! you are certain to make a dreadful mistake if you listen to any one but schwartzmuller. he is the last word in restorations. he is the best bet, as you would say in new york. any one else will make a botch of the work. you will curse the day you--" i checked him. "i have virtually decided to let the whole matter go over until next spring. however, i shall be happy to have mr. schwartzmuller's opinion. we may be able to plan ahead." a look of disappointment flitted across his face. the suggestion of hard old age crept into his features for a second and then disappeared. "delays are dangerous," he said. "my judgment is that those gorgeous paintings will disintegrate more during the coming winter than in all the years gone by. they are at the critical stage. if not preserved now,--well, i cannot bear to think of the consequences. ah, here is herr schwartzmuller." just inside the door, we came upon a pompous yet servile german who could not by any means have been mistaken for anything but the last word in restoration. i have never seen any one in my life whose appearance suggested a more complete state of rehabilitation. his frock coat was new, it had the unfailing smell of new wool freshly dyed; his shoes were painfully new; his gloves were new; his silk hat was resplendently new; his fat jowl was shaved to a luminous pink; his gorgeous moustache was twisted up at the ends to such a degree that when he smiled the points wavered in front of his eyes, causing him to blink with astonishment. he was undeniably dressed up for the occasion. my critical eye, however, discovered a pair of well-worn striped trousers badly stained, slightly frayed at the bottom and inclined to bag outward at the knee. perhaps i should have said that he was dressed up from the knee. "this is the great herr schwartzmuller, of the imperial galleries in munchen," said the count introducing us. the stranger bowed very profoundly and at the same time extracted a business card from the tail pocket of his coat. this he delivered to me with a smile which seemed to invite me to participate in a great and serious secret: the secret of irreproachable standing as an art expert and connoisseur. i confess to a mistaken impression concerning him up to the moment he handed me his clumsy business card. my suspicions had set him down as a confederate of count tarnowsy, a spy, a secret agent or whatever you choose to consider one who is employed in furthering a secret purpose. but the business card removed my doubts and misgivings. it stamped him for what he really was: there is no mistaking a german who hands you his business card. he destroys all possible chance for discussion. in three languages the card announced that he was "august schwartzmuller, of the imperial galleries, munchen, zumpe & schwartzmuller, proprietors. restorations a specialty." there was much more, but i did not have time to read all of it. moreover, the card was a trifle soiled, as if it had been used before. there could be no doubt as to his genuineness. he was an art expert. for ten minutes i allowed them to expatiate on the perils of procrastination in the treatment of rare old canvases and pigments, and then, having formulated my plans, blandly inquired what the cost would be. it appears that herr schwartzmuller had examined the frescoes no longer than six months before in the interests of a new york gentleman to whom count hohendahl had tried to sell them for a lump sum. he was unable to recall the gentleman's name. "i should say not more than one hundred and fifty thousand marks, perhaps less," said the expert, rolling his calculative eye upward and running it along the vast dome of the hall as if to figure it out in yards and inches. the count was watching me with an eager light in his eyes. he looked away as i shot a quick glance at his face. the whole matter became as clear as day to me. he was to receive a handsome commission if the contract was awarded. no doubt his share would be at least half of the amount stipulated. i had reason to believe that the work could be performed at a profit for less than half the figure mentioned by the german. "nearly forty thousand dollars, in other words," said i reflectively. "they are worth ten times that amount, sir," said the expert gravely. i smiled skeptically. the count took instant alarm. he realised that i was not such a fool as i looked, perhaps. "hohendahl was once offered two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, mr. smart," he said. "why didn't he accept it?" i asked bluntly. "he sold the whole place to me, contents included, for less than half that amount." "it was years ago, before he was in such dire straits," he explained quickly. a terrible suspicion entered my head. i felt myself turn cold. if the frescoes were genuine they were worth all that schwartzmuller declared; that being the case why should hohendahl have let them come to me for practically nothing when there were dozens of collectors who would have paid him the full price? i swallowed hard, but managed to control my voice. "as a matter of fact, count tarnowsy," i said, resorting to unworthy means, "i have every reason to believe that hohendahl sold the originals sometime ago, and had them replaced on the ceilings by clever imitations. they are not worth the canvas they are painted on." he started. i intercepted the swift look of apprehension that passed from him to the stolid schwartzmuller, whose face turned a shade redder. "impossible!" cried tarnowsy sharply. "by no means impossible," i said calmly, now sure of my ground. "to be perfectly frank with you, i've known from the beginning that they are fakes. your friend, count hohendahl, is nobler than you give him credit for being. he confessed to me at the time our transaction took place that the frescoes were very recent reproductions. the originals, i think, are in london or new york." i saw guilt in the face of herr schwartzmuller. his moustaches drooped with the corners of his mouth; he did not seem to be filling out the frock coat quite so completely as when i first beheld him. a shrewd suspicion impelled me to take chances on a direct accusation. i looked straight into the german's eyes and said: "now that i come to think of it, i am sure he mentioned the name of schwartzmuller in connection with the--" "it is not true! it is not true!" roared the expert, without waiting for me to finish. "he lied to you, we--the great firm of zumpe & schwartzmuller--we could not be tempted with millions to do such a thing." i went a step farther in my deductions. somehow i had grasped the truth: this pair deliberately hoped to swindle me out of forty thousand dollars. they knew the frescoes were imitations and yet they were urging me to spend a huge sum of money in restoring canvases that had been purposely made to look old and flimsy in order to deceive a more cautious purchaser than i. but, as i say, i went a step farther and deliberately accused count tarnowsy. "moreover, count tarnowsy, you are fully aware of all this." "my dear fellow,--" "i'll not waste words. you are a damned scoundrel!" he measured the distance with his eye and then sprang swiftly forward, striking blindly at my face. i knocked him down! schwartzmuller was near the door, looking over his shoulder as he felt for the great brass knob. "mein gott!" he bellowed. "stop!" i shouted. "come back here and take this fellow away with you!" tarnowsy was sitting up, looking about him in a dazed, bewildered manner. at that moment, poopendyke came running down the stairs, attracted by the loud voices. he was followed closely by three or four wide-eyed glaziers who were working on the second floor. "in the name of heaven, sir!" "i've bruised my knuckles horribly," was all that i said. i seemed to be in a sort of a daze myself. i had never knocked a man down before in my life. it was an amazingly easy thing to do. i could hardly believe that i had done it. tarnowsy struggled to his feet and faced me, quivering with rage. i was dumbfounded to see that he was not covered with blood. but he was of a light, yellowish green. i could scarcely believe my eyes. "you shall pay for this!" he cried. the tears rushed to his eyes. "coward! beast! to strike a defenceless man!" his hand went swiftly to his breast pocket, and an instant later a small revolver flashed into view. it was then that i did another strange and incomprehensible thing. with the utmost coolness i stepped forward and wrested it from his hand. i say strange and incomprehensible for the reason that he was pointing it directly at my breast and yet i had not the slightest sensation of fear. he could have shot me like a dog. i never even thought of that. "none of that!" i cried sharply. "now, will you be good enough to get out of this house--and stay out?" "my seconds will call on you--" "and they will receive just what you have received. if you or any of your friends presume to trespass on the privacy of these grounds of mine, i'll kick the whole lot of you into the danube. hawkes! either show or lead count tarnowsy to the gates. as for you, mr. schwartzmuller, i shall expose--" but the last word in restorations had departed. chapter xiv i am forced into being a hero my humblest apologies, dear reader, if i have led you to suspect that i want to be looked upon as a hero. far from patting myself on the back or holding my chin a little higher because of the set-to in my baronial halls, i confess to a feeling of shame. in my study, where the efficient blatchford put arnica and bandages on my swollen knuckles, i solemnly declared in the presence of those who attended the clinic--(my entire establishment was there to see that i had the proper attention and to tell me how happy they were that it wasn't any worse)--i say, i declared to all of them that i was an unmitigated fool and undeserving of the slightest mead of praise. they insisted upon making a hero of me, and might have succeeded, had not the incomparable britton made the discovery that the count's revolver was not loaded! still, they vociferated, i could not have known that at the time of the encounter, nor was it at all likely that the count knew it himself. i confess to an inward and shameless glory, however, in the realisation that i had been able to punch the head of the man who had lived with and abused that lovely creature upstairs. he had struck her on more than one occasion, i had it from her own lips. far worse than that, he had kissed her! but of course i had not knocked him down for that. i did it because it was simpler than being knocked down myself. the worst feature of the whole unhappy business was the effect it was likely to have upon my commonly pacific nature. heretofore i had avoided physical encounters, not because i was afraid of the result, but because i hate brutal, unscientific manifestations of strength. now, to my surprise, i found that it was a ridiculously easy matter to knock a man down and end the squabble in short order, thereby escaping a great deal in the shape of disgusting recriminations, and coming off victorious with nothing more vital in the way of wounds than a couple of bruised knuckles. (no doubt, with practice, one could even avoid having his knuckles barked.) was it not probable, therefore, that my habitual tendency to turn away wrath with a soft answer might suffer a more or less sanguinary shock? now that i had found out how simple it was, would i not be satisfied to let my good right hand settle disputes for me--with uniform certainty and despatch? heaven is my witness that i have no desire to be regarded as a bruiser. i hope that it may never fall to my lot to again knock a man down. but if it should be necessary, i also wish to record the hope that the man may be a husband who has mistreated his wife. in the course of blatchford's ministrations i was regaled with eloquent descriptions of the manner in which my late adversary took his departure from the castle. he went forth vowing vengeance, calling down upon my head all the maledictions he could lay his tongue to, and darkly threatening to have me driven out of the country. i was not to expect a call from his seconds. he would not submit his friends to the indignities they were sure to encounter at the hands of a barbarian of my type. but, just the same, i would hear from him. i would regret the day, etc., etc. i had forgotten mr. bangs, the lawyer. sitting alone in my study, late in the afternoon, smoking a solitary pipe of peace, i remembered him: the man with the top button off. what had become of him? his presence (or, more accurately, his absence) suddenly loomed up before me as the forerunner of an unwelcome invasion of my preserves. he was, no doubt, a sort of advance agent for the titus family and its immediate ramifications. just as i was on the point of starting out to make inquiries concerning him, there came to my ears the sound of tapping on the back of red ludwig's portrait. not until then did it occur to me that i had been waiting for two hours for that simple manifestation of interest and curiosity from the regions above. i rushed over and rapped resoundingly upon ludwig's pudgy knee. the next instant there was a click and then the secret door swung open, revealing the eager, concerned face of my neighbour. "what has happened?" she cried. i lifted her out of the frame. her gaze fell upon the bandaged fist. "mr. bangs spoke of a pistol. don't tell me that he--he shot you!" i held up my swollen hand rather proudly. it smelled vilely of arnica. "this wound was self-inflicted, my dear countess," i said, thrilled by her expression of concern. "i had the exquisite pleasure--and pain--of knocking your former husband down." "oh, splendid!" she cried, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "mr. bangs was rather hazy about it, and he would not let me risk telephoning. you knocked maris down?" "emphatically," said i. she mused. "i think it is the first time it has ever happened to him. how--how did he like it?" "it appeared to prostrate him." she smiled understandingly. "i am glad you did it, mr. smart." "if i remember correctly, you once said that he had struck you, countess." her face flushed. "yes. on three separate occasions he struck me in the face with his open hand. i--i testified to that effect at the trial. every one seemed to look upon it as a joke. he swore that they were--were love pats." "i hope his lack of discrimination will not lead him to believe that i was delivering a love pat," said i, grimly. "now, tell me everything that happened," she said, seating herself in my big armchair. her feet failed to touch the floor. she was wearing the little tan pumps. when i came to that part of the story where i accused tarnowsy of duplicity in connection with the frescoes, she betrayed intense excitement. "of course it was all a bluff on my part," i explained. "but you were nearer the truth than you thought," she said, compressing her lips. after a moment she went on: "count hohendahl sold the originals over three years ago. i was here with maris at the time of the transaction and when the paintings were removed. maris acted as an intermediary in the deal. hohendahl received two hundred thousand dollars for the paintings, but they were worth it. i have reason to believe that maris had a fourth of the amount for his commission. so, you see, you were right in your surmise." "the infernal rascal! where are the originals, countess?" "they are in my father's villa at newport," she said. "i intended speaking of this to you before, but i was afraid your pride would be hurt. of course, i should have spoken if it came to the point where you really considered having those forgeries restored." "your father bought them?" "yes. while we were spending our honeymoon here in schloss rothhoefen, mr. smart," she said. her face was very pale. i could see that the dark associations filled her mind, and abruptly finished my tale without further reference to the paintings. "he will challenge you," she said nervously. "i am so sorry to have placed you in this dreadful position, mr. smart. i shall never forgive myself for--" "you are in no way concerned in what happened to-day," i interrupted. "it was a purely personal affair. moreover, he will not challenge me." "he has fought three duels," she said. "he is not a physical coward." her dark eyes were full of dread. i hesitated. "would you be vitally interested in the outcome of such an affair?" i asked. my voice was strangely husky. "oh, how can you ask?" "i mean, on rosemary's account," i stammered. "he--he is her father, you see. it would mean--" "i was not thinking of the danger to him, mr. smart," she said simply. "but can't you see how dreadful it would be if i were to kill rosemary's father?" i cried, completely forgetting myself. "can't you see?" a slow flush mounted to her brow. "that is precisely what i was thinking, mr. smart. it would be--unspeakably dreadful." i stood over her. my heart was pounding heavily. she must have seen the peril that lay in my eyes, for she suddenly slipped out of the chair and faced me, the flush dying in her cheek, leaving it as pale as ivory. "you must not say anything more, mr. smart," she said gently. a bitter smile came to my lips, and i drew back with a sickening sense of realisation. there _was_ nothing more to be said. but i now thoroughly understood one thing: i was in love with her!... i am something of a philosopher. i submit that my attitude at the time of my defeat at the hands of the jeweller's clerk proves the point conclusively. if i failed at that time to inspire feelings of love in the breast of a giddy stenographer, what right had i to expect anything better from the beautiful countess tarnowsy, whose aspirations left nothing to the imagination? while she was prone to chat without visible restraint at this significantly trying moment, i, being a philosopher, remained silent and thoughtful. quite before i knew it, i was myself again: a steady, self-reliant person who could make the best of a situation, who could take his medicine like a man. luckily, the medicine was not so bitter as it might have been if i had made a vulgar, impassioned display of my emotions. thank heaven, i had _that_ to be thankful for. she was speaking of the buttonless lawyer, mr. bangs. "he is waiting to see you this evening, mr. smart, to discuss ways and means of getting my mother and brothers into the castle without discovery by the spies who are undoubtedly watching their every move." i drew in another long, deep breath. "it seems to me that the thing cannot be done. the risk is tremendous. why not head her off?" "head her off? you do not know my mother, mr. smart. she has made up her mind that her place is here with me, and there isn't anything in the world that can--head her off, as you say." "but surely _you_ see the danger?" "i do. i have tried to stop her. mr. bangs has tried to stop her. so has father. but she is coming. we must arrange something." i was pacing the floor in front of her. she had resumed her place in the chair. "my deepest regret, countess, lies in the fact that our little visits will be--well, at an end. our delightful little suppers and--" "oh, but think of the comfort it will be to you, not having me on your mind all of the time. i shall not be lonesome, i shall not be afraid, i shall not be forever annoying you with selfish demands upon your good nature. you will have time to write without interruption. it will be for the best." "no," said i, positively. "they were jolly parties, and i shall miss them." she looked away quickly. "and, if all goes well, i shall soon be safely on my way to america. then you will be rid of me completely." i was startled. "you mean that there is a plan afoot to--to smuggle you out of the country?" "yes. and i fear i shall have to trouble you again when it comes to that. you must help me, mr. smart." i nodded slowly. help her to get away? i hadn't thought of that lately. the prospect left me rather cold and sick. "i'll do all that i can, countess." she smiled faintly, but i was certain that i detected a challenge,--a rather unkind challenge,--in her eyes. "you will come to see me in new york, of course." i shook my head. "i am afraid we are counting our chickens before they're hatched. one or the other of us may be in jail for the next few years." "heavens!" "but i'll come to see you in new york, if you'll let me," i cried, trying to repair the damage i had done. "i was jesting when i spoke of jail." her brow was puckered in thought. "it has just occurred to me, my dear friend, that even if i do get safely away, you will be left here to face the consequences. when it becomes known that you sheltered me, the authorities may make it extremely uncomfortable for you." "i'm not worrying about that." "just the same, it is something to worry about," she said, seriously. "now, here is what i have had in mind for a long, long time. why don't you come with me when i leave? that will be the safest plan." "you are not in earnest!" "assuredly. the plan is something like this: i am to be taken by slow stages, overland, to a small mediterranean port. one of a half-dozen american yachts now cruising the sea will be ready to pick me up. doesn't it seem simple?" "it seems simple enough," said i. "but there are a lot of 'ifs' between here and the little port you hope to reach. it will not be an easy matter to manage the successful flight of a party as large as yours will be." "oh," she cried, "i shall be quite alone, except for rosemary and blake,--and mr. bangs." "but your mother? you can't leave her here." "you will have to smuggle her out of the castle a day or two in advance. it is all thought out, mr. smart." "by jove!" i exclaimed, with more irascibility than i intended to show. "if i succeed in doing all that is expected of me, i certainly will be entitled to more than an invitation to come and see you in new york." she arose and laid her fingers upon my bandaged hand. the reckless light had died out of her eyes. "i have thought that out, too, mr. smart," she said, quietly. "and now, good-bye. you will come up to see mr. bangs to-night?" considerably mystified by her remark, i said i would come, and then assisted her through the opening in the wall. she smiled back at me as the portrait swung into place. what did she mean? was it possible that she meant to have old man titus reward me in a pecuniary way? the very thought of such a thing caused me to double up my fist--my recently discovered fist!--and to swear softly under my breath. after a few moments i was conscious of a fierce pain in the back of my hand. * * * * * * bangs was a shrewd little englishman. as i shook hands with him--using my left hand with a superfluous apology--i glanced at the top of his waistcoat. there was no button missing. "the countess sewed it on for me," he said drily, reading my thoughts. i stayed late with them, discussing plans. he had strongly advised against any attempt on mrs. titus's part to enter her daughter's hiding-place, but had been overruled. i conceived the notion, too, that he was a very strong-minded man. what then must have been the strength of mrs. titus's resolution to overcome the objections he put in her way? he, too, had thought it all out. everybody seems to have thought everything out with a single exception,--myself. his plan was not a bad one. mrs. titus and her sons were to enter the castle under cover of night, and i was to meet them in an automobile at a town some fifteen kilometers away, where they would leave the train while their watchers were asleep, and bring them overland to schloss rothhoefen. they would be accompanied by a single lady's maid and no luggage. a chartered motor boat would meet us up the river a few miles, and--well, it looked very simple! all that was required of me was a willingness to address her as "mother" and her sons as "brothers" in case there were any questions asked. this was tuesday. they were coming on thursday, and the train reached the station mentioned at half-past twelve at night. so you will see it was a jolly arrangement. i put mr. bangs up in my best guest-chamber, and, be it said to my credit, the countess did not have to suggest it to me. as we said good night to her on the little landing at the top of the stairs, she took my bandaged paw between her two little hands and said: "you will soon be rid of me forever, mr. smart. will you bear with me patiently for a little while longer?" there was a plaintive, appealing note in her voice. she seemed strangely subdued. "i can bear with you much easier than i can bear the thought of being rid of you," i said in a very low voice. she pressed my clumsy hand fiercely, and i felt no pain. "you have been too good to me," she said in a very small voice. "some day, when i am out of all this trouble, i may be able to tell you how much i appreciate all you have done for me." an almost irresistible--i was about to say ungovernable--impulse to seize her in my arms came over me, but i conquered it and rushed after mr. bangs, as blind as a bat and reeling for a dozen steps or more. it was a most extraordinary feeling. i found myself wondering if passion had that effect on all men. if this was an illustration of what a real passionate love could do to a sensible, level-headed person, then what, in heaven's name, was the emotion i had characterised as love during my placid courtship of the faintly remembered typewriter? there had been no such blinding, staggering sensation as this. no thoughts of physical contact with my former inamorata had left me weak and trembling and dazed as i was at this historic moment. bangs was chattering in his glib english fashion as we descended to my study, but i did not hear half that he said. he looked surprised at two or three of the answers i made to his questions, and i am sure there were several of them that i didn't respond to at all. he must have thought me an unmannerly person. one remark of his brought me rather sharply to my senses. i seemed capable of grasping its awful significance when all the others had gone by without notice. "if all goes well," he was saying, "she should be safely away from here on the fourteenth. that leaves less than ten days more, sir, under your hospitable roof." "less than ten days," i repeated. this was the fifth of the month. "if all goes well. less than ten days." again i passed a sleepless night. a feeling of the utmost loneliness and desolation grew up within me. less than ten days! and then she would be "safely away" from me. she and rosemary! there was a single ray of brightness in the gloom that shrouded my thoughts: she had urged me to fly away with her. she did not want to leave me behind to face the perils after she was safely out of them. god bless her for thinking of that! but of course what little common sense and judgment i had left within me told me that such a course was entirely out of the question. i could not go away with her. i could do no more than to see her safely on her way to the queer little port on the east coast of italy. then i should return to my bleak, joyless castle,--to my sepulchre,--and suffer all the torments of the damned for days and weeks until word came that she was actually safe on the other side of the atlantic. what courage, what pluck she had! criminal? no, a thousand times, no! she was claiming her own, her dearest own. the devil must have been in the people who set themselves up as judges to condemn her for fighting so bravely for that which god had given her. curse them all! ... i fear that my thoughts became more and more maudlin as the interminable night went on. always they came back to the sickening realisation that i was to lose her in ten days, and that my castle would be like a tomb. of course the hazzards and the billy smiths were possible panaceas, but what could they bring to ease the pangs of a secret nostalgia? nothing but their own blissful contentment, their own happiness to make my loneliness seem all the more horrible by contrast. would it not be better for me to face it alone? would it not be better to live the life of a hermit? she came to visit me at twelve o'clock the next day. i was alone in the study. poopendyke was showing mr. bangs over the castle. she was dressed in a gown of some soft grey material, and there was a bunch of violets at her girdle. "i came to dress your hand for you," she said as i helped her down from red ludwig's frame. now i have neglected to mention that the back of my hand was swollen to enormous proportions, an unlovely thing. "thank you," i said, shaking my head; "but it is quite all right. britton attended to it this morning. it is good of you to think about it, countess. it isn't--" "i thought about it all night," she said, and i could believe her after the light from the windows had fallen upon her face. there were dark circles under her eyes and she was quite pale. her eyes seemed abnormally large and brilliant. "i am so sorry not to be able to do one little thing for you. will you not let me dress it after this?" i coloured. "really, it--it is a most trifling bruise," i explained, "just a little black and blue, that's all. pray do not think of it again." "you will never let me do anything for you," she said. her eyes were velvety. "it isn't fair. i have exacted so much from you, and--" "and i have been most brutal and unfeeling in many of the things i have said to you," said i, despairingly. "i am ashamed of the nasty wounds i have given you. my state of repentance allows you to exact whatsoever you will of me, and, when all is said and done, i shall still be your debtor. can you--will you pardon the coarse opinions of a conceited ass? i assure you i am not the man i was when you first encountered me." she smiled. "for that matter, i am not the same woman i was, mr. smart. you have taught me three things, one of which i may mention: the subjection of self. that, with the other two, has made a new aline titus of me. i hope you may be pleased with the--transfiguration." "i wish you were aline titus," i said, struck by the idea. "you may at least be sure that i shall not remain the countess tarnowsy long, mr. smart," she said, with a very puzzling expression in her eyes. my heart sank. "but i remember hearing you say not so very long ago that you would never marry again," i railed. she regarded me rather oddly for a moment. "i am very, very glad that you are such a steady, sensible, practical man. a vapid, impressionable youth, during this season of propinquity, might have been so foolish as to fall in love with me, and that would have been too bad." i think i glared at her. "then,--then, you are going to marry some one?" she waited a moment, looking straight into my eyes. "yes," she said, and a delicate pink stole into her cheek, "i am going to marry some one." i muttered something about congratulating a lucky dog, but it was all very hazy to me. "don't congratulate him yet," she cried, the flush deepening. "i may be a very, very great disappointment to him, and a never-ending nuisance." "i'm sure you will--will be all right," i floundered. then i resorted to gaiety. "you see, i've spent a lot of time trying to--to make another woman of you, and so i'm confident he'll find you quite satisfactory." she laughed gaily. "what a goose you are!" she cried. i flushed painfully, for, i give you my word, it hurt to have her laugh at me. she sobered at once. "forgive me," she said very prettily, and i forgave her. "do you know we've never given the buried treasure another thought?" she went on, abruptly changing the subject. "are we not to go searching for it?" "but it isn't there," said i, steeling my heart against the longing that tried to creep into it. "it's all balderdash." she pouted her warm red lips. "have you lost interest in it so soon?" "of course, i'll go any time you say," said i, lifelessly. "it will be a lark, at all events." "then we will go this very afternoon," she said, with enthusiasm. my ridiculous heart gave a great leap. "this very afternoon," i said, managing my voice very well. she arose. "now i must scurry away. it would not do for mr. bangs to find me here with you. he would be shocked." i walked beside her to the chair that stood below the portrait of ludwig the red, and took her hand to assist her in stepping upon it. "i sincerely hope this chap you're going to marry, countess, may be the best fellow in the world," said i, still clasping her hand. she had one foot on the chair as she half-turned to face me. "he is the best fellow in the world," she said. i gulped. "i can't tell you how happy i shall be if you--if you find real happiness. you deserve happiness--and love." she gripped my hand fiercely. "i want to be happy! i want to be loved! oh, i want to be loved!" she cried, so passionately that i turned away, unwilling to be a witness to this outburst of feeling on her part. she slipped her hand out of mine and a second later was through the frame. i had a fleeting glimpse of a slim, adorable ankle. "good-bye," she called back in a voice that seemed strangely choked. the spring in the gold mirror clicked. a draft of air struck me in the face. she was gone. "what an infernal fool you've been," i said to myself as i stood there staring at the black hole in the wall. then, i gently, even caressingly swung old ludwig the red into place. there was another click. the incident was closed. a very few words are sufficient to cover the expedition in quest of the legendary treasures of the long dead barons. mr. bangs accompanied us. britton carried a lantern and the three schmicks went along as guides. we found nothing but cobwebs. "conrad," said i, as we emerged from the last of the underground chambers, "tell me the truth: was there ever such a thing as buried treasure in this abominable hole?" "yes, mein herr," he replied, with an apologetic grin; "but i think it was discovered three years ago by count hohendahl and count tarnowsy." we stared at him. "the deuce you say!" cried i, with a quick glance at the countess. she appeared to be as much surprised as i. "they searched for a month," explained the old man, guiltily. "they found something in the walls of the second tier. i cannot say what it was, but they were very, very happy, my lady." he now addressed her. "it was at the time they went away and did not return for three weeks, if you remember the time." "remember it!" she cried bitterly. "too well, conrad." she turned to me. "we had been married less than two months, mr. smart." i smiled rather grimly. "count tarnowsy appears to have had a great run of luck in those days." it was a mean remark and i regretted it instantly. to my surprise she smiled--perhaps patiently--and immediately afterward invited mr. bangs and me to dine with her that evening. she also asked mr. poopendyke later on. * * * * * * * poopendyke! an amazing, improbable idea entered my head. _poopendyke!_ * * * * * * * the next day i was very busy, preparing for the journey by motor to the small station down the line where i was to meet mrs. titus and her sons. it seemed to me that every one who knew anything whatever about the arrangements went out of his way to fill my already rattle-brained head with advice. i was advised to be careful at least one hundred times; first in regard to the running of the car, then as to road directions, then as to the police, then as to the identity of the party i was to pick up; but more often than anything else, i was urged to be as expeditious as possible and to look out for my tires. in order to avoid suspicion, i rented a big german touring car for a whole month, paying down a lump sum of twelve hundred marks in advance. on thursday morning i took it out for a spin, driving it myself part of the time, giving the wheel to britton the remainder. (the year before i had toured europe pretty extensively in a car of the same make, driving alternately with britton, who besides being an excellent valet was a chauffeur of no mean ability, having served a london actress for two years or more, which naturally meant that he had been required to do a little of everything.) we were to keep the car in a garage across the river, drive it ourselves, and pay for the up-keep. we were therefore quite free to come and go as we pleased, without the remotest chance of being questioned. in fact, i intimated that i might indulge in a good bit of joy-riding if the fine weather kept up. just before leaving the castle for the ferry trip across the river that evening, i was considerably surprised to have at least a dozen brand new trunks delivered at my landing stage. it is needless to say that they turned out to be the property of mrs. titus, expressed by _grande vitesse_ from some vague city in the north of germany. they all bore the name "smart, u. s. a.," painted in large white letters on each end, and i was given to understand that they belonged to my own dear mother, who at that moment, i am convinced, was sitting down to luncheon in the adirondacks, provided her habits were as regular as i remembered them to be. i set forth with britton at nine o'clock, in a drizzling rain. there had been no rain for a month. the farmers, the fruit-raisers, the growers of grapes and all the birds and beasts of the field had been begging for rain for weeks. no doubt they rejoiced in the steady downpour that came at half-past nine, but what must have been their joy at ten when the very floodgates of heaven opened wide and let loose all the dammed waters of july and august (and perhaps some that was being saved up for the approaching september!) i have never known it to rain so hard as it did on that thursday night in august, nor have i ever ceased reviling the fate that instituted, on the very next day, a second season of drought that lasted for nearly six weeks. but we went bravely through that terrible storm, britton and i, and the vehement mercedes, up hill and down, over ruts and rocks, across bridges and under them, sozzling and swishing and splashing in the path of great white lights that rushed ahead of us through the gloom. at half-past eleven o'clock we were skidding over the cobblestones of the darkest streets i have ever known, careening like a drunken sailor but not half as surely, headed for the staatsbahnhof, to which we had been directed by an object in a raincoat who must have been a policeman but who looked more like a hydrant. "britton," said i, wearily, "have you ever seen anything like it?" "once before, sir," said he. "niagara falls, sir." * * * * * * * chapter xv i traverse the night we were drenched to the skin and bespattered with mud, cold and cheerless but full of a grim excitement. across the street from the small, poorly lighted railway station there was an eating-house. leaving the car in the shelter of a freight shed, we sloshed through the shiny rivulet that raced between the curbs and entered the clean, unpretentious little restaurant. there was a rousing smell of roasted coffee pervading the place. a sleepy german waiter first came up and glanced sullenly at the mud-tracks we left upon the floor; then he allowed his insulting gaze to trail our progress to the lunch counter by means of a perfect torrent of rain-water drippings. he went out of the room grumbling, to return a moment later with a huge mop. thereupon he ordered us out of the place, standing ready with the mop to begin the cleansing process the instant we vacated the stools. it was quite clear to both of us that he wanted to begin operations at the exact spot where we were standing. "coffee for two," said i, in german. to me anything uttered in the german language sounds gruff and belligerent, no matter how gentle its meaning. that amiable sentence: "ich liebe dich" is no exception; to me it sounds relentless. i am confident that i asked for coffee in a very mild and ingratiating tone, in direct contrast to his command to get out, and was somewhat ruffled by his stare of speechless rage. "zwei," said britton, pointing to the big coffee urn. the fellow began mopping around my feet--in fact, he went so far as to mop the tops of them and a little way up my left leg in his efforts to make a good, clean job of it. "stop that!" i growled, kicking at the mop. before i could get my foot back on the floor he skilfully swabbed the spot where it had been resting, a feat of celerity that i have never seen surpassed. "damn it, don't!" i roared, backing away. the resolute mop followed me like the spectre of want. fascinated, i found myself retreating to the doorway. britton, resourceful fellow, put an end to his endeavours by jumping upon the mop and pinning it to the floor very much as he would have stamped upon a wounded rat. the fellow called out lustily to some one in the kitchen, at the same time giving the mop handle a mighty jerk. if you are expecting me to say that britton came to woe, you are doomed to disappointment. it was just the other way about. just as the prodigious yank took place, my valet hopped nimbly from the mop, and the waiter sat down with a stunning thud. i do not know what might have ensued had not the proprietress of the place appeared at that instant, coming from the kitchen. she was the cook as well, and she was large enough to occupy the space of at least three brittons. she was huge beyond description. "wass iss?" she demanded, pausing aghast. her voice was a high, belying treble. i shall not attempt to describe in detail all that followed. it is only necessary to state that she removed the mop from the hands of the quaking menial and fairly swabbed him out into the thick of the rainstorm. while we were drinking our hot, steaming coffee and gorging ourselves with frankfurters, the poor wretch stood under the eaves with his face glued to the window, looking in at us with mournful eyes while the drippings from the tiles poured upon his shoulders and ran in rivulets down his neck. i felt so sorry for him that i prevailed upon the muttering, apologetic hostess to take him in again. she called him in as she might have called a dog, and he edged his way past her with the same scared, alert look in his eyes that one always sees in those of an animal that has its tail between its legs. she explained that he was her nephew, just off the farm. her sister's son, she said, and naturally not as intelligent as he ought to be. while we were sitting there at the counter, a train roared past the little station. we rushed to the door in alarm. but it shot through at the rate of fifty miles an hour. i looked at my watch. it still wanted half-an-hour of train time, according to the schedule. "it was the express, mein herr," explained the woman. "it never stops. we are too small yet. some time we may be big enough." i noticed that her eyes were fixed in some perplexity on the old clock above the pie shelves. "ach! but it has never been so far ahead of time as to-night. it is not due for fifteen minutes yet, and here it is gone yet." "perhaps your clock is slow," i said. "my watch says four minutes to twelve." whereupon she heaped a tirade of abuse upon the shrinking hans for letting the clock lose ten minutes of her valuable time. to make sure, hans set it forward nearly half an hour while she was looking the other way. then he began mopping the floor again. at half-past twelve the train from munich drew up at the station, panted awhile in evident disdain, and then moved on. a single passenger alighted: a man with a bass viol. there was no sign of the tituses! we made a careful and extensive search of the station, the platform and even the surrounding neighbourhood, but it was quite evident that they had not left the train. here was a pretty pass! britton, however, had the rather preposterous idea that there might be another train a little later on. it did not seem at all likely, but we made inquiries of the station agent. to my surprise--and to britton's infernal british delight--there was a fast train, with connections from the north, arriving in half an hour. it was, however, an hour late, owing to the storm. "do you mean that it will arrive at two o'clock?" i demanded in dismay. "no, no," said the guard; "it will arrive at one but not until two. it is late, mein herr." we dozed in the little waiting-room for what i consider to be the longest hour i've ever known, and then hunted up the guard once more. he blandly informed me that it was still an hour late. "an hour from _now_?" i asked. "an hour from two," said he, pityingly. what ignorant lummixes we were! just ten minutes before three the obliging guard came in and roused us from a mild sleep. "the train is coming, mein herr." "thank god!" "but i neglected to mention that it is an express and never stops here." my right hand was still in a bandage, but it was so nearly healed that i could have used it without discomfort--(note my ability to drive a motor car)--and it was with the greatest difficulty that i restrained a mad, devilish impulse to strike that guard full upon the nose, from which the raindrops coursed in an interrupted descent from the visor of his cap. the shrill, childish whistle of the locomotive reached us at that instant. a look of wonder sprang into the eyes of the guard. "it--it is going to stop, mein herr," he cried. "gott in himmel! it has never stopped before." he rushed out upon the platform in a great state of agitation, and we trailed along behind him, even more excited than he. it was still raining, but not so hard. the glare of the headlight was upon us for an instant and then, passing, left us in blinding darkness. the brakes creaked, the wheels grated and at last the train came to a standstill. for one horrible moment i thought it was going on through in spite of its promissory signal. britton went one way and i the other, with our umbrellas ready. up and down the line of _wagon lits_ we raced. a conductor stepped down from the last coach but one, and prepared to assist a passenger to alight. i hastened up to him. "permit me," i said, elbowing him aside. a portly lady squeezed through the vestibule and felt her way carefully down the steps. behind her was a smallish, bewhiskered man, trying to raise an umbrella inside the narrow corridor, a perfectly impossible feat. she came down into my arms with the limpness of one who is accustomed to such attentions, and then wheeled instantly upon the futile individual on the steps above. "quick! my hat! heaven preserve us, how it rains!" she cried, in a deep, wheezy voice and--in german! "moth--" i began insinuatingly, but the sacred word died unfinished on my lips. the next instant i was scurrying down the platform to where i saw britton standing. "have you seen them?" i shouted wildly. "no, sir. not a sign, sir. ah! see!" he pointed excitedly down the platform. "no!" i rasped out. "by no possible stretch of the imagination can _that_ be mrs. titus. come! we must ask the conductor. _that_ woman? good lord, britton, she _waddles!_" the large lady and the smallish man passed us on the way to shelter, the latter holding an umbrella over her hat with one hand and lugging a heavy hamper in the other. they were both exclaiming in german. the station guard and the conductor were bowing and scraping in their wake, both carrying boxes and bundles. no one else had descended from the train. i grabbed the conductor by the arm. "any one else getting off here?" i demanded in english and at once repeated it in german. he shook himself loose, dropped the bags in the shelter of the station house, doffed his cap to the imperious backs of his late passengers, and scuttled back to the car. a moment later the train was under way. "can you not see for yourself?" he shouted from the steps as he passed me by. once more i swooped down upon the guard. he was stuffing the large german lady into a small, lopsided carriage, the driver of which was taking off his cap and putting it on again after the manner of a mechanical toy. "go away," hissed the guard angrily. "this is the mayor and the mayoress. stand aside! can't you see?" presently the mayor and the mayoress were snugly stowed away in the creaking hack, and it rattled away over the cobblestones. "when does the next train get in?" i asked for the third time. he was still bowing after the departing hack. "eh? the next? oh, mein herr, is it you?" "yes, it is still i. is there another train soon?" "that was mayor berg and his wife," he said, taking off his cap again in a sort of ecstasy. "the express stops for him, eh? ha! it stops for no one else but our good mayor. when he commands it to stop it stops--" "answer my question," i thundered, "or i shall report you to the mayor!" "ach, gott!" he gasped. collecting his thoughts, he said: "there is no train until nine o'clock in the morning. nine, mein herr." "ach, gott!" groaned i. "are you sure?" "jah! you can go home now and go to bed, sir. there will be no train until nine and i will not be on duty then. good night!" britton led me into the waiting-room, where i sat down and glared at him as if he were to blame for everything connected with our present plight. "i daresay we'd better be starting 'ome, sir," said he timidly. "something 'as gone wrong with the plans, i fear. they did not come, sir." "do you think i am blind?" i roared. "not at all, sir," he said in haste, taking a step or two backward. inquiries at the little eating-house only served to verify the report of the station-guard. there would be no train before nine o'clock, and that was a very slow one; what we would call a "local" in the states. sometimes, according to the proprietress, it was so slow that it didn't get in at all. it had been known to amble in as late as one in the afternoon, but when it happened to be later than that it ceased to have an identity of its own and came in as a part of the two o'clock train. moreover, it carried nothing but third-class carriages and more often than not it had as many as a dozen freight cars attached. there was not the slightest probability that the fastidious mrs. titus would travel by such a train, so we were forced to the conclusion that something had gone wrong with the plans. very dismally we prepared for the long drive home. what could have happened to upset the well-arranged plan? were tarnowsy's spies so hot upon the trail that it was necessary for her to abandon the attempt to enter my castle? in that case, she must have sent some sort of a message to her daughter, apprising her of the unexpected change; a message which, unhappily for me, arrived after my departure. it was not likely that she would have altered her plans without letting us know, and yet i could not shake off an exasperating sense of doubt. if i were to believe all that bangs said about the excellent lady, it would not be unlike her to do quite as she pleased in the premises without pausing to consider the comfort or the convenience of any one else interested in the undertaking. a selfish desire to spend the day in lucerne might have overtaken her _en passant_, and the rest of us could go hang for all that she cared about consequences! i am ashamed to confess that the longer i considered the matter, the more plausible this view of the situation appeared to me. by the time we succeeded in starting the engine, after cranking for nearly half an hour, i was so consumed by wrath over the scurvy trick she had played upon us that i swore she should not enter my castle if i could prevent it; moreover, i would take fiendish delight in dumping her confounded luggage into the danube. i confided my views to britton who was laboriously cranking the machine and telling me between grunts that the "bloody water 'ad got into it," and we both resorted to painful but profound excoriations without in the least departing from our relative positions as master and man: he swore about one abomination and i another, but the gender was undeviatingly the same. we also had trouble with the lamps. at last we were off, britton at the wheel. i shall not describe that diabolical trip home. it is only necessary to say that we first lost our way and went ten or twelve kilometers in the wrong direction; then we had a blow-out and no quick-detachable rim; subsequently something went wrong with the mud-caked machinery and my unfortunate valet had to lie on his back in a puddle for half an hour; eventually we sneaked into the garage with our trembling mercedes, and quarrelled manfully with the men who had to wash her. "great heaven, britton!" i groaned, stopping short in my sloshy progress down the narrow street that led to the ferry. he looked at me in astonishment. i admit that the ejaculation must have sounded weak and effeminate to him after what had gone before. "what is it, sir?" he asked, at once resuming his status as a servant after a splendid hiatus of five hours or more in which he had enjoyed all of the by-products of equality. "poopendyke!" i exclaimed, aghast. "i have just thought of him. the poor devil has been waiting for us three miles up the river since midnight! what do you think of that!" "no such luck, sir," said he, grumpily. "luck! you heartless rascal! what do you mean by that?" "i beg pardon, sir. i mean to say, he could sit in the boat 'ouse and twiddle 'is thumbs at the elements, sir. trust mr. poopendyke to keep out of the rain." "in any event, he is still waiting there for us, wet or dry. he and the two big schmicks." i took a moment for thought. "we must telephone to the castle and have hawkes send conrad out with word to them." i looked at my watch. it was twenty minutes past seven. "i suppose no one in the castle went to bed last night. good lord, what a scene for a farce!" we retraced our steps to the garage, where britton went to the telephone. i stood in the doorway of the building, staring gloomily, hollow-eyed at the--well, at nothing, now that i stop to think of it. the manager of the place, an amiable, jocund descendant of lazarus, approached me. "quite a storm last night, mr. schmarck," he said, rubbing his hands on an oil-rag. i gruffly agreed with him in a monosyllable. "but it is lovely to-day, sir. heavenly, sir." "heavenly?" i gasped. "ah, but look at the glorious sun," he cried, waving the oil-rag in all directions at once. the sun! upon my word, the sun _was_ shining fiercely. i hadn't noticed it before. the tops of the little red-tiled houses down the street glistened in the glare of sunshine that met my gaze as i looked up at them. suddenly i remembered that i had witnessed the sunrise, a most doleful, dreary phenomenon that overtook us ten miles down the valley. i had seen it but it had made no impression on my tortured mind. the great god of day had sprung up out of the earth to smile upon me--or at me--and i had let him go unnoticed, so black and desolate was the memory of the night he destroyed! i had only a vague recollection of the dawn. the thing that caused me the most concern was the discovery that we had run the last half of our journey in broad daylight with our acetylene lamps going full blast. i stared at the tiles, blinking and unbelieving. "well, i'm--dashed," i said, with a silly grin. "the moon will shine to-night, mr. schmarck--" he began insinuatingly. "_smart_, if you please," i snapped. "ah," he sighed, rolling his eyes, "it is fine to be in love." a full minute passed before i grasped the meaning of that soft answer, and then it was too late. he had gone about his business without waiting to see whether my wrath had been turned away. i had been joy-riding! the excitement in britton's usually imperturbable countenance as he came running up to me from the telephone closet prepared me in a way for the startling news that was to come. "has anything serious happened?" i cried, my heart sinking a little lower. "i had mr. poopendyke himself on the wire, sir. what do you think, sir?" a premonition! "she--she has arrived?" i demanded dully. he nodded. "she 'as, sir. mrs.--your mother, sir, is in your midst." the proximity of the inquisitive manager explains this extraordinary remark on the part of my valet. we both glared at the manager and he had the delicacy to move away. "she arrived by a special train at twelve lawst night, sir." i was speechless. the brilliant sunshine seemed to be turning into sombre night before my eyes; everything was going black. "she's asleep, he says, and doesn't want to be disturbed till noon, so he says he can't say anything more just now over the telephone because he's afraid of waking 'er." (britton drops them when excited.) "he doesn't have to shout so loud that he can be heard on the top floor," said i, still a trifle dazed. "she 'appens to be sleeping in your bed, sir, he says." "in _my_ bed? good heavens, britton! what's to become of _me_?" "don't take it so 'ard, sir," he made haste to say. "blatchford 'as fixed a place for you on the couch in your study, sir. it's all very snug, sir." "but, britton," i said in horror, "suppose that i should have come home last night. don't you see?" "i daresay she 'ad the door locked, sir," he said. "by special train," i mumbled. a light broke in upon my reviving intellect. "why, it was the train that went through at a mile a minute while we were in the coffee-house. no wonder we didn't meet her!" "i shudder to think of wot would 'ave 'appened if we had, sir," said he, meaning no doubt to placate me. "mr. poopendyke says the countess 'as been up all night worrying about you, sir. she has been distracted. she wanted 'im to go out and search for you at four o'clock this morning, but he says he assured 'er you'd turn up all right. he says mrs.--the elderly lady, begging your pardon, sir,--thought she was doing for the best when she took a special. she wanted to save us all the trouble she could. he says she was very much distressed by our failure to 'ave some one meet her with a launch when she got here last night, sir. as it was, she didn't reach the castle until nearly one, and she looked like a drowned rat when she got there, being hex--exposed to a beastly rainstorm. see wot i mean? she went to bed in a _dreadful_ state, he says, but he thinks she'll be more pleasant before the day is over." i burst into a fit of laughter. "hurray!" i shouted, exultantly. "so she was out in it too, eh? well, by jove, i don't feel half as badly as i did five minutes ago. come! let us be off." we started briskly down the street. my spirits were beginning to rebound. poopendyke had said that she worried all night about me! she had been distracted! poor little woman! still i was glad to know that she had the grace to sit up and worry instead of going to sleep as she might have done. i was just mean enough to be happy over it. poopendyke met us on the town side of the river. he seemed a trifle haggard, i thought. he was not slow, on the other hand, to announce in horror-struck tones that i looked like a ghost. "you must get those wet clothes off at once, mr. smart, and go to bed with a hot water bottle and ten grains of quinine. you'll be very ill if you don't. put a lot more elbow grease into those oars, max. get a move on you. do you want mr. smart to die of pneumonia?" while we were crossing the muddy river, my secretary, his teeth chattering with cold and excitement combined, related the story of the night. "we were just starting off for the boat-house up the river, according to plans, max and rudolph and i with the two boats, when the countess came down in a mackintosh and a pair of gum boots and insisted upon going along with us. she said it wasn't fair to make you do all the work, and all that sort of thing, and i was having the devil's own time to induce her to go back to the castle with mr. bangs. while we were arguing with her,--and it was getting so late that i feared we wouldn't be in time to meet you,--we heard some one shouting on the opposite side of the river. the voice sounded something like britton's, and the countess insisted that there had been an accident and that you were hurt, mr. smart, and nothing would do but we must send max and rudolph over to see what the trouble was. it was raining cats and dogs, and i realised that it would be impossible for you to get a boatman on that side at that hour of the night,--it was nearly one,--so i sent the two schmicks across. i've never seen a night as dark as it was. the two little lanterns bobbing in the boat could hardly be seen through the torrents of rain, and it was next to impossible to see the lights on the opposite landing stage--just a dull, misty glow. "to make the story short, mrs. titus and her sons were over there, with absolutely no means of crossing the river. there were no boatmen, the ferry had stopped, and they were huddled under the eaves of the wharf building. everything was closed and locked up for the night. the night-watchman and a policeman lit the pier lamps for them, but that's as far as they'd go. it took two trips over to fetch the whole party across. raining pitchforks all the time, you understand. mrs. titus was foaming at the mouth because you don't own a yacht or at least a launch with a canopy top, or a limousine body, or something of the sort. "i didn't have much of a chance to converse with her. the countess tried to get her upstairs in the east wing but she wouldn't climb another step. i forgot to mention that the windlass was out of order and she had to climb the hill in mud six inches deep. the schmicks carried her the last half of the distance. she insisted on sleeping in the hall or the study,--anywhere but upstairs. i assumed the responsibility of putting her in your bed, sir. it was either that or--" i broke in sarcastically "you couldn't have put her into your bed, i suppose." "not very handily, mr. smart," he said in an injured voice. "one of her sons occupied my bed. of course, it was all right, because i didn't intend to go to bed, as it happened. the older son went upstairs with the countess. she gave up her bed to him, and then she and i sat up all night in the study waiting for a telephone message from you. the younger son explained a good many things to us that his mother absolutely refused to discuss, she was so mad when she got here. it seems she took it into her head at the last minute to charter a special train, but forgot to notify us of the switch in the plans. she travelled by the regular train from paris to some place along the line, where she got out and waited for the special which was following along behind, straight through from paris, too. a woeful waste of money, it seemed to me. her idea was to throw a couple of plain-clothes men off the track, and, by george, sir, she succeeded. they thought she was changing from a train to some place in switzerland, and went off to watch the other station. then she sneaked aboard the special, which was chartered clear through to vienna. see how clever she is? if they followed on the next train, or telegraphed, it would naturally be to vienna. she got off at this place and--well, we have her with us, sir, as snug as a bug in a rug." "what is she like, fred?" i inquired. i confess that i hung on his reply. "i have never seen a wet hen, but i should say, on a guess, that she's a good bit like one. perhaps when she's thoroughly dried out she may not be so bad, but--" he drew a long, deep breath. "but, upon my word of honour, she was the limit last night. of course one couldn't expect her to be exactly gracious, with her hair plastered over her face and her hat spoiled and her clothes soaked, but there was really no excuse for some of the things she said to me. i shall overlook them for your sake and for the countess's." he was painfully red in the face. "the conditions, fred," i said, "were scarcely conducive to polite persiflage." "but, hang it all, i was as wet as she was," he exploded, so violently that i knew his soul must have been tried to the utmost. "we must try to make the best of it," i said. "it will not be for long." the thought of it somehow sent my heart back to its lowest level. he was glum and silent for a few minutes. then he said, as if the thought had been on his mind for some hours: "she isn't a day over forty-five. it doesn't seem possible, with a six-foot son twenty-six years old." grimly i explained. "they marry quite young when it's for money, fred." "i suppose that's it," he sighed. "i fancy she's handsome, too, when she hasn't been rained upon." we were half way up the slope when he announced nervously that all of my dry clothing was in the closet off my bedroom and could not be got at under any circumstance. "but," he said, "i have laid out my best frock coat and trousers for you, and a complete change of linen. you are quite welcome to anything i possess, mr. smart. i think if you take a couple of rolls at the bottom of the trousers, they'll be presentable. the coat may be a little long for you, but--" my loud laughter cut him short. "it's the best i could do," he said in an aggrieved voice. i had a secret hope that the countess would be in the courtyard to welcome me, but i was disappointed. old gretel met me and wept over me, as if i was not already sufficiently moist. the chef came running out to say that breakfast would be ready for me when i desired it; blatchford felt of my coat sleeve and told me that i was quite wet; hawkes had two large, steaming toddies waiting for us in the vestibule, apparently fearing that we could get no farther without the aid of a stimulant. but there was no sign of a single titus. later i ventured forth in poopendyke's best suit of clothes--the one he uses when he passes the plate on sundays in far-away yonkers. it smelled of moth-balls, but it was gloriously dry, so why carp! we sneaked down the corridor past my own bedroom door and stole into the study. just inside the door, i stopped in amazement. the countess was sound asleep in my big armchair, a forlorn but lovely thing in a pink peignoir. her rumpled brown hair nestled in the angle of the chair; her hands drooped listlessly at her sides; dark lashes lay upon the soft white cheeks; her lips were parted ever so slightly, and her bosom rose and fell in the long swell of perfect repose. poopendyke clutched me by the arm and drew me toward the door, or i might have stood there transfixed for heaven knows how long. "she's asleep," he whispered. it was the second time in twelve hours that some one had intimated that i was blind. * * * * * chapter xvi i indulge in plain language the door creaked villainously. the gaunt, ecclesiastical tails of my borrowed frock coat were on the verge of being safely outside with me when she cried out. whereupon i swiftly transposed myself, and stuck my head through the half-open door. "oh, it's you!" she cried, in a quavery voice. she was leaning forward in the chair, her eyes wide open and eager. i advanced into the room. a look of doubt sprang into her face. she stared for a moment and then rather piteously rubbed her eyes. "yes, it is i," said i, spreading my arms in such a way that my hands emerged from the confines of poopendyke's sleeves. (upon my word, i had no idea that he was so much longer than i!) "it is still i, countess, despite the shrinkage." "the shrinkage?" she murmured, slowly sliding out of the chair. as she unbent her cramped leg, she made a little grimace of pain, but smiled as she limped toward me, her hand extended. "yes, i always shrink when i get wet," i explained, resorting to facetiousness. then i bent over her hand and kissed it. as i neglected to release it at once, the cuff of poopendyke's best coat slid down over our two hands, completely enveloping them. it was too much for me to stand. i squeezed her hand with painful fervour, and then released it in trepidation. "poopendyke goes to church in it," i said vaguely, leaving her to guess what it was that poopendyke went to church in, or, perhaps, knowing what i meant, how i happened to be in it for the time being. "you've been crying!" her eyes were red and suspiciously moist. as she met my concerned gaze, a wavering, whimsical smile crept into her face. "it has been a disgustingly wet night," she said. "oh, you don't know how happy i am to see you standing here once more, safe and sound, and--and amiable. i expected you to glower and growl and--" "on a bright, glorious, sunshiny morning like this?" i cried. "never! i prefer to be graciously refulgent. our troubles are behind us." "how good you are." after a moment's careful, scrutiny of my face: "i can see the traces of very black thoughts, mr. smart,--and recent ones." "they were black until i came into this room," i confessed. "now they are rose-tinted." she bent her slender body a little toward me and the red seemed to leap back into her lips as if propelled by magic. resolutely i put my awkward, ungainly arms behind my back, and straightened my figure. i was curiously impressed by the discovery that i was very, very tall and she very much smaller than my memory recorded. of course, i had no means of knowing that she was in bedroom slippers and not in the customary high-heeled boots that gave her an inch and a half of false stature. "your mother is here," i remarked hurriedly. she glanced toward my bedroom door. "oh, what a night!" she sighed. "i did all that i could to keep her out of your bed. it was useless. i _did_ cry, mr. smart. i know you must hate all of us." i laughed. "'love thy neighbour as thyself,'" i quoted. "you are my neighbour, countess; don't forget that. and it so happens that your mother is also my neighbour at present, and your brothers too. have you any cousins and aunts?" "i can't understand how any one can be so good-natured as you," she sighed. the crown of her head was on a level with my shoulder. her eyes were lowered; a faint line of distress grew between them. for a minute i stared down at the brown crest of her head, an almost ungovernable impulse pounding away at my sense of discretion. i do take credit unto myself for being strong enough to resist that opportunity to make an everlasting idiot of myself. i knew, even then, that if a similar attack ever came upon me again i should not be able to withstand it. it was too much to expect of mortal man. angels might survive the test, but not wingless man. all this time she was staring rather pensively at the second button from the top of poopendyke's coat, and so prolonged and earnest was her gaze that i looked down in some concern, at the same time permitting myself to make a nervous, jerky and quite involuntary digital examination of the aforesaid button. she looked up with a nervous little laugh. "i shall have to sew one on right there for poor mr. poopendyke," she said, poking her finger into the empty buttonhole. "you dear bachelors!" then she turned swiftly away from me, and glided over to the big armchair, from the depths of which she fished a small velvet bag. looking over her shoulder, she smiled at me. "please look the other way," she said. without waiting for me to do so, she took out a little gold box, a powder puff, and a stick of lip rouge. crossing to the small florentine mirror that hung near my desk, she proceeded, before my startled eyes, to repair the slight--and to me unnoticeable--damage that had been done to her complexion before the sun came up. "woman works in a mysterious way, my friend, her wonders to perform," she paraphrased calmly. "no matter how transcendently beautiful woman may be, she always does that sort of thing to herself, i take it," said i. "she does," said the countess with conviction. she surveyed herself critically. "there! and now i am ready to accept an invitation to breakfast. i am disgustingly hungry." "and so am i!" i cried with enthusiasm. "hurray! you shall eat poopendyke's breakfast, just to penalise him for failing in his duties as host during my unavoidable--" "quite impossible," she said. "he has already eaten it." "he has?" "at half-past six, i believe. he announced at that ungodly hour that if he couldn't have his coffee the first thing in the morning he would be in for a headache all day. he suggested that i take a little nap and have breakfast with you--if you succeeded in surviving the night." "oh, i see," said i slowly. "he knew all the time that you were napping in that chair, eh?" "you shall not scold him!" "i shall do even worse than that. i shall pension him for life." she appeared thoughtful. a little frown' of annoyance clouded her brow. "he promised faithfully to arouse me the instant you were sighted on the opposite side of the river. i made him stand in the window with a field glass. no, on second thought, _i_ shall scold him. if he had come to the door and shouted, you wouldn't have caught me in this odious dressing-gown. helene--" "it is most fascinating," i cried. "adorable! i love flimsy, pink things. they're so intimate. and poopendyke knows it, bless his ingenuous old soul." i surprised a queer little gleam of inquiry in her eyes. it flickered for a second and died out. "do you really consider him an ingenuous old soul?" she asked. and i thought there was something rather metallic in her voice. i might have replied with intelligence if she had given me a chance, but for some reason she chose to drop the subject. "you _must_ be famished, and i am dying to hear about your experiences. you must not omit a single detail. i--" there came a gentle, discreet knocking on the half-open door. i started, somewhat guiltily. "come!" blatchford poked his irreproachable visage through the aperture and then gravely swung the door wide open. "breakfast is served, sir,--your ladyship. i beg pardon." i have never seen him stand so faultlessly rigid. as we passed him on the way out a mean desire came over me to tread on his toes, just as an experiment. i wondered if he would change expression. but somehow i felt that he would say "thank you, sir," and there would be no satisfaction in knowing that he had had all his pains for nothing. i shall never forget that enchanted breakfast--never! not that i can recall even vaguely what we had to eat, or who served it, or how much of the naked truth i related to her in describing the events of the night; i can only declare that it was a singularly light-hearted affair. at half-past one o'clock i was received by mrs. titus in my own study. the countess came down from her eerie abode to officiate at the ceremonious function--if it may be so styled--and i was agreeably surprised to find my new guest in a most amiable frame of mind. true, she looked me over with what seemed to me an unnecessarily and perfectly frank stare of curiosity, but, on sober reflection, i did not hold it against her. i was still draped in poopendyke's garments. at first sight i suppose she couldn't quite help putting me down as one of those literary freaks who typify intellect without intelligence. as for her two sons, they made no effort to disguise their amazement. (i have a shocking notion that the vowel u might be substituted for the a in that word without loss of integrity!) the elder of the two young men, colingraft titus, who being in the business with his father in new york was permitted to travel most of the time so that he couldn't interfere with it, was taller than i, and an extremely handsome chap to boot. he was twenty-six. the younger, jasper, jr., was nineteen, short and slight of build, with the merriest eyes i've ever seen. i didn't in the least mind the grin he bestowed upon me--and preserved with staunch fidelity throughout the whole interview,--but i resented the supercilious, lordly scorn of his elder brother. jasper, i learned, was enduring a protracted leave of absence from yale; the hiatus between his freshman and sophomore years already covered a period of sixteen months, and he had a tutor who appreciated the buttery side of his crust. mrs. titus, after thanking me warmly--and i think sincerely--for all that i had done for aline, apologised in a perfunctory sort of way for having kept me out of my bed all night, and hoped that i wouldn't catch cold or have an attack of rheumatism. i soon awoke to the fact that she was in the habit of centralising attention. the usually volatile countess became subdued and repressed in her presence; the big son and the little one were respectfully quiescent; i confess to a certain embarrassment myself. she was a handsome woman with a young figure, a good complexion, clear eyes, wavy brown hair, and a rich, low voice perfectly modulated. no doubt she was nearing fifty but thirty-five would have been your guess, provided you were a bachelor. a bachelor learns something about women every day of his life, but not so much that he cannot be surprised the day after. i endeavoured to set her mind at rest by politely reminding her that i couldn't have slept in the bed any way, having been out all night, and she smilingly assured me that it was a relief to find a literary man who wasn't forever saying flat stupid things. i took them over the castle--that is, a _part_ of the castle. mrs. titus wouldn't climb stairs. she confessed to banting, but drew the line at anything more exhausting. i fear i was too palpably relieved when she declined to go higher than the second story. "it isn't necessary, mr. smart," she said sweetly, "to go into the history of the wretched rothhoefens, as a cook's interpreter might do. you see, i know the castle quite well--and i have had all the _late_ news from my daughter." "of course!" i agreed. "stupid of me not to remember that you are descended from--" "mother isn't half as stuck up about it as you might think, mr. smart," interrupted jasper, jr., glibly. "she prefers to let people think her ancestors were dutch instead of merely german. dutch ancestors are the proper thing in jew york." "jappie," said his mother severely, "how often must i caution you not to speak of new york as jew york? some day you will say it to a jew. one can't be too careful. heaven alone knows when one is in the presence of a jew in these days." "oh, i'm not hebraic," said i quickly. "my ancestors _were_ dutch. they came over with the original skin grafters." she looked puzzled for a moment. the countess laughed. then jasper saw the point. colingraft was the last to see it, and then it was too late for him to smile. we had tea in the loggia and i dined with the family in the countess's apartment at eight that night. i think mrs. titus was rather favourably impressed when she beheld me in my own raiment. britton had smoothed out my evening clothes until they almost shone, and i managed to carry myself with unusual buoyancy. everything went very well that evening. we were all in fine humour and the dinner was an excellent one. i perpetrated but one unhappy blunder. i asked mrs. titus if she knew the riley-werkheimers and the rocks-worths in new york. "visually," she said succinctly, and i made haste to change the subject. the countess looked amused, and colingraft said something about it being more than likely that we did not have any mutual acquaintances in new york. his sister came to my rescue with a very amusing and exaggerated account of my experience with the riley-werkheimers and rocksworths. jasper was enthusiastic. something told me that i was going to like him. my real troubles began the next day--and at the rather unseemly hour of eight o'clock in the morning. colingraft came down the hall in a bath-gown and slippers, banged on my bedroom door, and wanted to know why the devil he couldn't have hot water for his bath. he was too full-blooded, and all that sort of thing, he said, to take a cold plunge. moreover, he wasn't used to taking his tub in a tin-cup. (that was his sarcastic way of referring to my portable, handy bath-tub.) i asked him why he didn't ring for britton, and he said he did but that britton was assisting jasper in a wild chase for a bat which had got into the lad's room during the night. "thank your lucky stars it didn't get into mother's room," he said surlily. i silently thanked them. he made such a row about his tub that i had to give him the pail of hot water britton had placed in my bedroom, preparatory to my own bath. at breakfast jasper complained about the bats. he couldn't for the life of him see why i didn't have screens in the windows. later on mrs. titus, who had coffee and toast in her room, joined us in the loggia and announced that the coffee was stone cold. moreover, she did not like the guest-chamber into which she had been moved by order of the countess. it was too huge for a bed-chamber, and the iron window shutters creaked all night long. "but don't you love the view you have of the danube?" i queried, rather mournfully. "i don't sit in the window all night, mr. smart," she said tartly. i at once insisted on her resuming possession of my bedroom, and promptly had all of my things moved into the one she had occupied during the night. when the countess heard of this arrangement she was most indignant. she got me off in a corner and cruelly informed me that i hadn't the vestige of a backbone. she must have said something to her mother, too, for when evening came around i had to move back into my own room, mrs. titus sweetly assuring me that under no consideration would she consent to impose upon my good nature and hospitality to such an extent, etc., etc. during the day, at odd times, colingraft made lofty suggestions in regard to what could be done with the place to make it more or less inhabitable, and jasper,--who, by the way, i was beginning to fear i should not like after all,--said he'd just like to have a whack at the thing himself. first thing he'd do would be to turn some of those old, unused rooms into squash and racquet courts, and he'd also put in a swimming-pool and a hot-water plant. late in the afternoon, i stole far up into the eastern tower to visit my adorable friend rosemary. we played house together on the nursery floor and i soon got over my feeling of depression. but even in play i was made to realise that i was not the master of the house. she ruled me with the utmost despotism, but i didn't mind. she permitted me to sip honey from that cunning place in her little neck and managed to call me unko. my heart grew warm and soft again under the spell of her. the countess watched us at play from her seat by the window. she was strangely still and pensive. i had the feeling that she was watching me all the time, and that there was a shadow of anxiety in her lovely eyes. she smiled at our pranks, and yet there was something sad in the smile. i was young again with rosemary, and full of glee. she took me out of myself. i forgot the three tituses and with them many of my woes. here was a cure for the blues: this gay little kiddie of the unspeakable tarnowsy! i lay awake for hours that night, but when i finally went to sleep and heaven knows i needed it!--it was with the soporific resolution to put my house rigidly in order the very next day. i would be polite about it, but very firm. the titus family (omitting the countess and rosemary) was to be favoured with an ultimatum from which there could be no appeal. john bellamy smart had decided--with morpheus smoothing out the wrinkles of perplexity--that he would be master in his own house. my high resolve flattened itself out a little after the sound sleep i had, and i make no doubt i should have wavered sadly in my purpose had not a crisis arisen to shape my courage for me in a rather emphatic way. shortly after breakfast mrs. titus came downstairs very smartly gowned for the street. she announced that she was going into the town for an hour or two and asked me to have one of the schmicks ferry her across the river. there was a famous antique shop there--memory of other days--and she wanted to browse a while in search of brasses and bronzes. i looked at her, aghast. i recognised the crisis, but for a moment was unable to marshal my powers of resistance. noting my consternation, she calmly assured me that there wouldn't be the least danger of detection, as she was going to be heavily veiled and _very_ cautious. "my dear mrs. titus," i murmured in my dismay, "it isn't to be considered. i am sure you won't persist in this when i tell you that tarnowsy's agents are sure to see you and--" she laughed. "tarnowsy's agents! why should they be here?" "they seem to be everywhere." "i can assure you there is none within fifty miles of schloss rothhoefen. our men are in the city. four of them preceded me. this morning i had mr. bangs telephone to the hotel where the chief operative is staying--in the guise of an american tourist, and he does it very cleverly for an englishman, too,--and he assures me that there is absolutely no danger. even mr. bangs is satisfied." "i am forced to say that i am by no means satisfied that it is a safe or wise thing to do, mrs. titus," i said, with more firmness than i thought i possessed. she raised her delicate eyebrows in a most exasperating well-bred, admonitory way. "i am quite sure, mr. smart, that dillingham is a perfectly trustworthy detective, and--" "but why take the slightest risk?" "it is necessary for me to see dillingham, that is the long and short of it," she said coldly. "one can't discuss things over a telephone, you know. mr. bangs understands. and, by the way, mr. smart, i have taken the liberty of calling up the central office of the telephone company to ask if they can run an extension wire to my dressing-room. i hope you do not mind." "not in the least. i should have thought of it myself." "you have so much to think of, poor man. and now will you be good enough to have hawkes order the man to row me across the--" "i am very sorry, mrs. titus," said i firmly, "but i fear i must declare myself. i cannot permit you to go into the town to-day." she was thunderstruck. "are you in earnest?" she cried, after searching my face rather intently for a moment. "unhappily, yes. will you let me explain--" "the _idea!_" she exclaimed as she drew herself to her full height and withered me with a look of surpassing scorn. "am i to regard myself as a prisoner, mr. smart?" "oh, i beg of you, mrs. titus--" i began miserably. "please answer my question." her tone cut me like the lash of a whip. my choler rose. "i do not choose to regard myself as a jailer. my only object in opposing this--" "i have never known anything so absurd." two bright red spots appeared in her cheeks. "your attitude is most extraordinary. however, i shall go to the city this morning, mr. smart. pray give me the credit of having sense enough to--ah, colingraft." the two sons approached from the breakfast-room, where they had been enjoying a ten o'clock chop. colingraft, noting his mother's attire, accelerated his speed and was soon beside us. "going out, mother?" he enquired, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "if mr. smart will be good enough to withdraw his opposition," she said icily. he gave me a sharp look. "what's up?" "mrs. titus doesn't seem to realise the risk she runs in--" "risk? do you suppose, mr. smart, i would jeopardise my daughter's--" "what's up?" repeated colingraft insistently. "mr. smart calmly informs me that i am not to go into the city." "i don't see that mr. smart has anything to say about it," said her son coolly. "if he--" he paused, glaring. i looked him squarely in the eye. if he had possessed the acumen of a pollywog he would have seen that my dutch was up. "one moment, mr. titus," i said, setting my jaw. "i have this to say about it. you are guests in my house. we are jointly interested in the effort to protect the countess tarnowsy. i consider it to be the height of imprudence for any member of your family to venture into the city, now or at any time during her stay in this castle. i happen to know that tarnowsy is having me watched for some purpose or other. i don't think he suspects that the countess is here, but i greatly fear that he believes i am interested in her cause. he suspects _me_. you have heard of our recent encounter. he knows my position pretty well by this time. mrs. titus says that the man dillingham assures her there is no danger. well, i can only say that dillingham is a fool, and i don't purpose having my own safety threatened by--" "your safety?" exclaimed he. "i like that! what have you got to be afraid of?" "you seem to forget that i am harbouring a fugitive from justice," i said flatly. mrs. titus gasped. "how dare you--" "the countess tarnowsy is wanted by the authorities for kidnapping, and i think you know the facts quite as well as i do," i went on harshly. "god knows i am doing my best to protect her. i am risking more than you seem to appreciate. if she is found here, my position isn't likely to be an enviable one. i am not thinking solely of myself, believe me, but after all i contend that i have a right to assert myself in a crisis that may affect me vitally. i trust you will see my position and act accordingly,--with consideration, if nothing else." mrs. titus did not take her eyes off mine while i was speaking. there was an expression of utter amazement in them. no one had ever opposed her before in just this way, i gathered. she didn't know what to make of it. "i fear you exaggerate the extent of your peril, mr. smart," she said drily. "of course, i have no desire to put you in jeopardy, but it seems to me--" "leaving me out of the case altogether, don't you think it is a bit unfair to the countess?" i asked in some heat. "she doesn't want to go to jail." "jail?" she cried angrily. "that's no way to speak about--" began colingraft furiously. i broke in rashly. "if you please, mr. titus, be good enough to keep your temper. i have no desire to appear harsh and arbitrary, but i can see that it is necessary to speak plainly. there isn't anything in the world i will not do to help you and the countess in this unfortunate business, mrs. titus. i hope you believe me when i say as much. i am her friend; i want to be yours if you will let me. but i reserve the right to say what shall be and what shall not be done as long as you are under my roof. just a moment, mr. titus! i think we are quite agreed that your sister is to depart from here on the fourteenth of the month. i am to be her escort, so to speak, for a considerable distance, in company with mr. bangs. well, it must be clearly understood that not one of you is to show his or her face outside these walls until after that journey is over. that's plain-speaking, isn't it?" "i shall go where i please, and i'll go to the town to-day--" roared colingraft, getting no farther for the reason that his mother, seeing that i was desperately in earnest, gave vent to a little cry of alarm and clutched her big son by the shoulder. she begged him to listen to reason! "reason!" he gasped. "if you--or any of you--put a foot outside these walls," i declared, "you will not be allowed to re-enter. that's flat!" "by cricky!" fell in fervent admiration from the lips of jasper, jr. i glanced at his beaming, astonished face. he positively was grinning! "good for you! you're a wonder, mr. smart! by cricky! and you're _dead right_. we're darn fools!" "jasper!" gasped mrs. titus. "good for you, jasper!" i cried warmly, and took the hand he proffered. "colingraft, please take me to my room," murmured the mother. "i--i feel faint. send for aline. ask mr. bangs to come to me at once." i bowed stiffly. "i am sorry, mrs. titus, to have been so harsh, so assertive--" she held up both hands. "i never was so spoken to in all my life, mr. smart. i shall not forget it to my dying day." she walked away from me, her pretty head held high and her chin suspiciously aquiver. colingraft hastened after her, but not without giving me a stare in which rage and wonder struggled for the mastery. i ran my hand over my moist brow. "gee!" said jasper, jr. "you've corked her all right, all right." he followed me into the study and i couldn't get rid of him for hours. later in the forenoon the countess, with a queer little smile on her lips, told me that her mother considered me the most wonderful, the most forceful character she had ever encountered. i brightened up at that. but colingraft was not yet through with me. chapter xvii i see to the bottom of things he sought me out just before luncheon. i was in the courtyard, listening patiently to jasper jr.'s theories and suggestions concerning the restoration of the entire facade of the castle, and what he'd do if he were in my place. strange to say, i was considerably entertained; he was not at all offensive; on the contrary, he offered his ideas in a pleasantly ingenuous way, always supplementing them with some such salve as: "don't you think so, mr. smart?" or "i'm sure you have thought of it yourself," or "isn't that your idea, too?" or "you've done wonders with the joint, old man." colingraft came directly up to where we were standing. there was trouble in his eye. "see here, mr. smart," he began austerely. "i've got something to say to you, and i'm not the sort to put it off. i appreciate what you've done for aline and all that sort of thing, but your manner to-day has been intolerable, and we've got to come to an understanding." i eyed him closely. "i suppose you're about to suggest that one or the other of us must--evacuate--get out, so to speak," said i. "don't talk rubbish. you've got my mother bawling her eyes out upstairs, and wishing she were dead. you've got to come off this high horse of yours. you've got to apologise to her, and damned quick, at that. understand?" "nothing will give me greater joy than to offer her my most abject apology, mr. titus, unless it would be her unqualified forgiveness." "you'll have to withdraw everything you said." "i'll withdraw everything except my ultimatum in respect to her putting a foot outside these walls. that still stands." "i beg to differ with you." "you may beg till you're black in the face," said i coolly. he swallowed hard. his face twitched, and his hands were clenched. "you are pretty much of a mucker, mr. smart," he said, between his teeth. "i'm sorry my sister has fallen into your hands. the worst of it is, she seems satisfied with everything you do. good lord! what she can see in you is beyond my comprehension. protection! why you couldn't protect her from the assault of a chicken." "are you trying to insult me, mr. titus?" "you couldn't resent it if i were. there never was an author with enough moral backbone to--" "wait! you are her brother. i don't want to have trouble with you. but if you keep on in this strain, mr. titus, i shall be compelled to thresh you soundly." he fairly gasped. "th--thresh me!" he choked out. then he advanced. much to his surprise--and, strangely enough, not to my own--i failed to retreat. instead, i extended my left fist with considerable abruptness and precision and he landed on his back. i experienced a sensation of unholy joy. up to that moment i had wondered whether i could do it with my left hand. i looked at jasper, jr. he was staring at me in utter bewilderment. "good lord! you--you've knocked him down!" "i didn't think i could do it," said i hazily. he sprang to his brother's side, and assisted him to a sitting posture. "right to the jaw," shouted jasper, with a strange enthusiasm. "left," i corrected him. colingraft gazed about him in a stupid, vacant fashion for a moment, and then allowed his glazed eyes to rest upon me. he sat rather limply, i thought. "are you hurt, colly?" cried jasper, jr. a sickly grin, more of surprise than shame, stole over colingraft's face. he put his hand to his jaw; then to the back of his head. "by jove!" he murmured. "i--i didn't think he had it in him. let me get up!" jasper, jr. was discreet. "better let well enough alone, old--" "i intend to," said colingraft, as he struggled to his feet. for a moment he faced me, uncertainly. "i'm sorry, mr. titus," said i calmly. "you--you are a wonder!" fell from his lips. "i'm not a coward, mr. smart. i've boxed a good deal in my time, but--by jove, i never had a jolt like that." he turned abruptly and left us. we followed him slowly toward the steps. at the bottom he stopped and faced me again. "you're a better man than i thought," he said. "if you'll bury the hatchet, so will i. i take back what i said to you, not because i'm afraid of you, but because i respect you. what say? will you shake hands?" [illustration: up to that moment i had wondered whether i could do it with my left hand.] the surly, arrogant expression was gone from his face. in its place was a puzzled, somewhat inquiring look. "no hard feeling on my part," i cried gladly. we shook hands. jasper, jr. slapped me on the back. "it's a most distressing, atavistic habit i'm getting into, knocking people down without rhyme or reason." "i daresay you had reason," muttered colingraft. "i got what was coming to me." an eager light crept into his handsome eyes. "by jove, we can get in some corking work with the gloves while i'm here. i box quite a bit at home, and i miss it travelling about like this. what say to a half-hour or so every day? i have the gloves in one of my trunks. i'm getting horribly seedy. i need stirring up." "charmed, i'm sure," i said, assuming an enthusiasm i did not feel. put on the gloves with this strapping, skillful boxer? not i! i was firmly resolved to stop while my record was good. in a scientific clash with the gloves he would soon find out what a miserable duffer i was. "and jappy, here, is no slouch. he's as shifty as the dickens." "the shiftier the better," said i, with great aplomb. jasper, jr., stuck out his chest modestly, and said: "oh, piffle, colly." but just the same i hadn't the least doubt in my mind that jasper could "put it all over me." it was a rather sickening admission, though strictly private. we made our way to my study, where i mildly suggested that we refrain from mentioning our little encounter to mrs. titus or the countess. i thought colingraft was especially pleased with the idea. we swore secrecy. "i've always been regarded as a peaceful, harmless grub," i explained, still somewhat bewildered by the feat i had performed, and considerably shaken by the fear that i was degenerating into a positive ruffian. "you will believe me, i hope, when i declare that i was merely acting in self-defence when i--" he actually laughed. "don't apologise." he could not resist the impulse to blurt out once more: "by jove, i didn't think you could do it." "with my left hand, too," i said wonderingly. catching myself up, i hastily changed the subject. a little later on, as colingraft left the room, slyly feeling of his jaw, jasper, jr. whispered to me excitedly: "you've got him eating out of your hand, old top." things were coming to a pretty pass, said i to myself when i was all alone. it certainly is a pretty pass when one knocks down the ex-husband and the brother of the woman he loves, and quite without the least suspicion of an inherited pugnacity. i had a little note from the countess that afternoon, ceremoniously delivered by helene marie louise antoinette. it read as follows: "you did colingraft a very good turn when you laid him low this morning. he is tiresomely interested in his prowess as a box-maker, or a boxster, or whatever it is in athletic parlance. he has been like a lamb all afternoon and he really can't get over the way you whacked him. (is whack the word?) at first he was as mum as could be about it, but i think he really felt relieved when i told him i had seen the whole affair from a window in my hall. you see it gave him a chance to explain how you got in the whack, and i have been obliged to listen to intermittent lectures on the manly art of self-defence all afternoon, first from him, then from jappy. i have a headache, and no means of defence. he admits that he deserved it, but i am not surprised. colly is a sporting chap. he hasn't a mean drop of blood in his body. you have made a friend of him. so please don't feel that i hold a grudge against you for what you did. the funny part of it all is that mamma quite agrees with him. she says he deserved it! mamma is wonderful, really, when it comes to a pinch. she has given up all thought of 'putting a foot outside the castle.' can you have luncheon with us to-morrow? would it be too much trouble if we were to have it in the loggia? i am just mad to get out-of-doors if only for an hour or two in that walled-in spot. mr. poopendyke has been perfectly lovely. he came up this morning to tell me that you haven't sneezed at all and there isn't the remotest chance now that you will have a cold. it seems he was afraid you might. you must have a very rugged constitution. britton told blake that most men would have died from exposure if they had been put in your place. how good you are to me. "aline t." "p. s.--i may come down to see you this evening." * * * * * * * i shall skip over the rather uninteresting events of the next two or three days. nothing of consequence happened, unless you are willing to consider important two perfectly blissful nights of sleep on my part. also, i had the pleasure of taking the countess "out walking" in my courtyard, to use a colloquialism: once in the warm, sweet sunshine, again 'neath the glow of a radiant moon. she had not been outside the castle walls, literally, in more than five weeks, and the colour leaped back into her cheeks with a rush that delighted me. i may mention in passing that i paid particular attention to her suggestion concerning my dilapidated, gone-to-seed garden, although i had been bored to extinction by jasper, jr. when he undertook to enlighten me horticulturally. she agreed to come forth every day and assist me in building the poor thing up; propping it, so to speak. as for mrs. titus, that really engaging lady made life so easy for me that i wondered why i had ever been apprehensive. she was quite wonderful when "it came to a pinch." i began to understand a good many things about her, chief among them being her unvoiced theories on matrimony. while she did not actually commit herself, i had no difficulty in ascertaining that, from her point of view, marriages are not made in heaven, and that a properly arranged divorce is a great deal less terrestrial than it is commonly supposed to be. she believed in matrimony as a trial and divorce as a reward, or something to that effect. my opinion seemed to carry considerable weight with her. for a day or two after our somewhat sanguinary encounter, she was prone to start--even to jump slightly--when i addressed myself to her with unintentional directness. she soon got over that, however. we were discussing aline's unfortunate venture into the state of matrimony and i, feeling temporarily august and superior, managed to say the wrong thing and in doing so put myself in a position from which i could not recede without loss of dignity. if my memory serves me correctly i remarked, with some asperity, that marriages of that kind never turned out well for any one except the bridegroom. she looked at me coldly. "i am afraid, mr. smart, that you have been putting some very bad notions into my daughter's head," she said. "bad notions?" i murmured. "she has developed certain pronounced and rather extraordinary views concerning the nobility as the result of your--ah--argument, i may say." "i'm very sorry. i know one or two exceedingly nice noblemen, and i've no doubt there are a great many more. she must have misunderstood me. i wasn't running down the nobility, mrs. titus. i was merely questioning the advisability of elevating it in the way we americans sometimes do." "you did not put it so adroitly in discussing the practice with aline," she said quickly. "granted that her own marriage was a mistake,--a dreadful mistake,--it does not follow that all international matches are failures. i would just as soon be unhappily married to a duke as to a dry-goods merchant, mr. smart." "but not at the same price, mrs. titus," i remarked. she smiled. "a husband is dear at any price." "i shouldn't put it just that way," i protested. "a good american husband is a necessity, not a luxury." "well, to go back to what i started to say, aline is very bitter about matrimony as viewed from my point of view. i am sorry to say i attribute her attitude to your excellent counselling." "you flatter me. i was under the impression she took her lessons of tarnowsy." "granted. but tarnowsy was unfit. why tar all of them with the same stick? there are good noblemen, you'll admit." "but they don't need rehabilitation." "aline, i fear, will never risk another experiment. it's rather calamitous, isn't it? when one stops to consider her youth, beauty and all the happiness there may be--" "i beg your pardon, mrs. titus, but i think your fears are groundless." "what do you mean?" "the countess will marry again. i am not betraying a secret, because she has intimated as much to my secretary as well as to me. i take it that as soon as this unhappy affair is settled, she will be free to reveal the true state of her feelings toward--" i stopped, somewhat dismayed by my garrulous turn. "toward whom?" she fairly snapped. "i don't know," i replied truthfully--and, i fear, lugubriously. "good heaven!" she cried, starting up from the bench on which we were sitting in the loggia. there was a queer expression in her eyes. "hasn't--hasn't she ever hinted at--hasn't she mentioned any one at all?" "not to me." mrs. titus was agitated, i could see that very plainly. a thoughtful frown appeared on her smooth brow, and a gleam of anxiety sprang into her eyes. "i am sure that she has had no opportunity to--" she did not complete the sentence, in which there was a primary note of perplexity and wonder. it grilled me to discover that she did not even so much as take me into consideration. "you mean since the--er--divorce?" i inquired. "she has been in seclusion all of the time. she has seen no man,--that is to say, no man for whom she could possibly entertain a--but, of course, you are mistaken in your impression, mr. smart. there is absolutely nothing in what you say." "a former sweetheart, antedating her marriage," i suggested hopelessly. "she has no sweetheart. of that i am positive," said she with conviction. "she must have had an army of admirers. they were legion after her marriage, i may be pardoned for reminding you." she started. "has she never mentioned lord amberdale to you?" she asked. "amberdale?" i repeated, with a queer sinking of the heart. "no, mrs. titus. an englishman?" she was mistress of herself once more. in a very degage manner she informed me that his lordship, a most attractive and honourable young englishman, had been one of aline's warmest friends at the time of the divorce proceedings. but, of course, there was nothing in that! they had been good friends for years, nothing more, and he was a perfect dear. but she couldn't fool me. i could see that there was something working at the back of her mind, but whether she was distressed or gratified i was not by way of knowing. "i've never heard her mention lord amberdale," said i. her eyes narrowed slightly. had i but known, the mere fact that the countess had not spoken of his lordship provided her experienced mother with an excellent reason for believing that there was something between them. she abruptly brought the conversation to a close and left me, saying that she was off for her beauty nap. alone, i soon became a prey to certain disquieting thoughts. summed up, they resolved themselves into a condition of certainty which admitted of but one aspect: the charming countess was in love with amberdale. and the shocking part of it all was that she was in love with him prior to her separation from tarnowsy! i felt a cold perspiration start out all over my body as this condition forced itself upon me. _he_ was the man; _he_ had been the man from the beginning. my heart was like lead for the rest of the day, and, very curiously, for a leaden thing it was subject to pain. just before dinner, britton, after inspecting me out of the corner of his eye for some time, advised me to try a little brandy. "you look seedy, sir," he said with concern in his voice. "a cold setting in perhaps, sir." i tried the brandy, but not because i thought i was taking a cold. somehow it warmed me up. there is virtue in good spirits. the countess was abroad very early the next morning. i discovered her in the courtyard, giving directions to max and rudolph who were doing some spading in the garden. she looked very bright and fresh and enticing in the light of an early moon, and i was not only pleased but astonished, having been led to believe all my life that a woman, no matter how pretty she may be, appears at her worst when the day is young. i joined her at once. she gave me a gay, accusing smile. "what have you been saying to mother?" she demanded, as she shook hands with me. "i thought you were to be trusted." i flushed uncomfortably. "i'm sorry, countess. i--i didn't know it was a secret." she looked at me somewhat quizzically for a moment. then she laughed softly. "it is a secret." "i hope i haven't got you into bad odour with your--" "oh, dear me, no! i'm not in the least worried over what mother may think. i shall do as i please, so there's the end of it." i swallowed something that seemed to be sticking in my throat. "then it is true that you are going to marry?" "quite," she said succinctly. i was silent for a moment. "well, i'm--i'm glad to know it in time," i said, rather more gruffly than was necessary. she smiled too merrily, i thought. "you must not tell any one else about it, however." "i can promise that," i said, a sullen rage in my soul. "devils could not drag it out of me. rest easy." it occurred to me afterwards that she laughed rather jerkily, you might say uneasily. at any rate, she turned away and began speaking to max. "have you had your breakfast?" i asked stupidly. "no." "neither have i. will you join me?" "isn't it getting to be a habit?" "breakfast or--you?" "breakfast _and_ me." "i confess, my dear countess, that i like you for breakfast," i said gallantly. "that is a real tribute," she said demurely, and took her place beside me. together we crossed the courtyard. on the steps colingraft titus was standing. i uttered an audible groan and winced as if in dire pain. "what is it?" she cried quickly. "rheumatism," i announced, carefully raising my right arm and affecting an expression of torture. i am not a physical coward, kind reader. the fact that young mr. titus carried in his hands a set of formidable looking boxing-gloves did not frighten me. heaven knows, if it would give him any pleasure to slam me about with a pair of gloves, i am not without manliness and pluck enough to endure physical pain and mental humiliation. it was diplomacy, cunning, astuteness,--whatever you may choose to call it,--that stood between me and a friendly encounter with him. two minutes' time would serve to convince him that he was my master, and then where would i be? where would be the prestige i had gained? where my record as a conqueror? "i must have caught cold in my arms and shoulders," i went on, making worse faces than before as i moved the afflicted parts experimentally. "there!" she exclaimed ruefully. "i _knew_ you would catch cold. men always do. i'm so sorry." "it's nothing," i made haste to explain:--"that is, nothing serious. i'll get rid of it in no time at all." i calculated for a minute. "a week or ten days at the most. good morning, colingraft." "morning. hello, sis. well?" he dangled the gloves before my eyes. my disappointment was quite pathetic. "tell him," i said to the countess. "he's all crippled up with rheumatism, colly," she said. "put those ugly things away. we're going in to breakfast." he tossed the gloves into a corner of the vestibule. i felt a little ashamed of my subterfuge in the face of his earnest expression of concern. "tell you what i'll do," he said warmly. "i know how to rub a fellow's muscles--" "oh, i have a treasure in britten," said i, hastily. "thanks, old man. he will work it out of me. sorry we can't have a go this morning." the worst of it all was that he insisted, as a matter of personal education, on coming to my room after breakfast to watch the expert manoeuvres of britton in kneading the stiffness out of my muscles. he was looking for new ideas, he explained. i first consulted britton and then resignedly consented to the demonstration. to my surprise, britton was something of an expert. i confess that he almost killed me with those strong, iron-like hands of his; if i was not sore when he began with me, i certainly was when he finished. colingraft was most enthusiastic. he said he'd never seen any one manipulate the muscles so scientifically as britton, and ventured the opinion that he would not have to repeat the operation often. to myself i said that he wouldn't have to repeat it at all. we began laying our plans for the fourteenth. communications arrived from italy, addressed to me but intended for either the countess or the rather remote mr. bangs, who seemed better qualified to efface himself than any human being i've ever seen. these letters informed us that a yacht--one of three now cruising in the-mediterranean--would call at an appointed port on such and such a day to take her out to sea. everything was being arranged on the outside for her escape from the continent, and precision seamed to be the watchword. of course i couldn't do a stroke of work on my novel. how could i be expected to devote myself to fiction when fact was staring me in the face so engagingly? we led an idle, _dolce far niente_ life in these days, with an underlying touch of anxiety and excitement that increased as the day for her departure drew near. i confess to a sickening sense of depression that could not be shaken off. half of my time was spent in playing with rosemary. she became dearer to me with each succeeding day. i knew i should miss her tremendously. i should even miss jinko, who didn't like me but who no longer growled at me. the castle would be a very gloomy, drear place after they were out of it. i found myself wondering how long i would be able to endure the loneliness. secretly i cherished the idea of selling the place if i could find a lunatic in the market. an unexpected diversion came one day when, without warning and figuratively out of a clear sky, the hazzards and the billy smiths swooped down upon me. they had come up the river in the power boat for a final september run, and planned to stop over night with me! they were the last people in the world whom i could turn away from my door. there might have been a chance to put them up for the night and still avoid disclosures, had not circumstance ordered that the countess and i should be working in the garden at the very moment that brought them pounding at the postern gates. old conrad opened the gate in complete ignorance of our presence in the garden. (we happened to be in a somewhat obscure nook and seated upon a stone bench--so he must be held blameless.) the quartette brushed past the old man and i, hearing their chatter, foolishly exposed myself. i shall not attempt to describe the scene that followed their discovery of the countess tarnowsy. be it said, however, to the credit of elsie and betty billy, the startled refugee was fairly smothered in kisses and tears and almost deafened by the shrill, delighted exclamations that fell from their eager lips. i doubt if there ever was such a sensation before! * * * * * * * they brought rather interesting news concerning the count. it appears that he and the baron had quarrelled and at the time of my friends' departure from vienna it was pretty generally understood that there would be a duel. "i never liked the baron," i said, with a grim smile that could not have been misinterpreted, "but i hope to heavens _he_ isn't killed." mrs. titus sighed. "tarnowsy is regarded as a wonderful marksman." "worse luck!" growled colingraft, gloomily twiddling his thumbs. "what kind of a shot is the baron?" asked jasper jr., hopefully. no one was able to enlighten him, but billy smith shook his head dolefully. "maris tarnowsy is a dead shot. he'll pot the baron sure." "hang it all," said i, and then lapsed into a horrified silence. when the hazzards and smiths departed the next morning they were in full possession of all of our plans, hopes and secrets, but they were bound by promises that would have haunted them throughout all eternity if they allowed them to be violated. i do not recall having seen two more intensely excited, radiant women in my life than elsie and betty billy. they were in an ecstatic state of mind. their husbands, but little less excited, offered to help us in every way possible, and, to prove their earnest, turned the prow of the motor-boat down-stream, abandoning the trip up the river in order to be in vienna in case i should need them for any purpose whatsoever. "you may rest easy so far as i am concerned, mrs. titus," said the young diplomat. "as a representative of the united states government i can't become publicly involved in this international muddle. i've just _got_ to keep my lips sealed. if it were discovered that i knew of all this, my head would be under the snickersnee in no time at all. swish! officially suicided!" at ten o'clock the next morning i was called to the telephone. smith had startling news to impart. count tarnowsy and baron umovitch had engaged in a duel with pistols at sunrise and the latter had gone down with a bullet through his lungs! he died an hour later. tarnowsy, according to the rumours flying about official vienna, was already on his way to berlin, where he would probably remain in seclusion until the affair blew over or imperial forgiveness was extended to him. there was cause for satisfaction among us, even though the baron had fallen instead of the count. the sensational affair would serve to keep tarnowsy under cover for some weeks at least and minimise the dangers attending the countess's flight from the castle. still, i could not help feeling disappointed over the outcome of the meeting. why couldn't count tarnowsy have been the one to fall? the countess, very pale and distrait, gave utterance to her feelings in a most remarkable speech. she said: "this is one of the few fine things that maris has ever done. i am glad that he killed that man. he should have done so long ago,--the beast! he was--ugh!--the most despicable creature i've ever known." she said no more than this, but one could readily grasp all that she left unuttered. colingraft rather sententiously remarked to little rosemary, who could not have comprehended the words, of course: "well, little rosebud, your papa may be a spendthrift but he never wastes bullets." which was entirely uncalled for, i contend. i was struck by the swift look of dread that leaped into aline's eyes and her pallor. on top of all this came the astonishing news, by cipher despatch from old jasper titus's principal adviser in london, that his offer of one million dollars had been declined by tarnowsy two days before, the count having replied through his lawyers that nothing short of two millions would induce him to relinquish all claims to his child. i had been ignorant of this move in the case, and expressed my surprise. "i asked father to do it, mr. smart," said the countess dejectedly. "it seemed the easiest way out of our difficulties--and the cheapest. he will never give in to this new demand, though. we must make the best of it." "but why did you suggest such a thing to him?" i demanded with heat. she looked hurt. "because _you_ seemed to think it was the right and honourable thing to do," she said patiently. "i do not forget what you said to me, days and days ago, even though it may have slipped your mind. you said that a bargain is a bargain and--well, i had mr. bangs write father just what you thought about it." there was a suspicion of tears in her voice as she turned away and left me without another word. she was quite out of sight around the bend in the staircase, and her little boots were clattering swiftly upwards, before i fully grasped the significance of her explanation--or, i might better say, her reproach. it slowly dawned upon me that i had said a great many things to her that it would pay me to remember before questioning her motives in any particular. as the day for her departure drew nearer,--it was now but forty-eight hours away,--her manner seemed to undergo a complete change. she became moody, nervous, depressed. of course, all this was attributable to the dread of discovery and capture when she was once outside the great walls of schloss rothhoefen. i could understand her feelings, and rather lamely attempted to bolster up her courage by making light of the supposed perils. she looked at me with a certain pathetic sombreness in her eyes that caused my heart to ache. all of her joyous raillery was gone, all of her gentle arrogance. her sole interest in life in these last days seemed to be of a sacrificial nature. she was sweet and gentle with every one,--with me in particular, i may say,--and there was something positively humble in her attitude of self-abnegation. where she had once been wilful and ironic, she was now gentle and considerate. nor was i the only one to note these subtle changes in her. i doubt, however, if the others were less puzzled than i. in fact, mrs. titus was palpably perplexed, and there were times when i caught her eyeing me with distinct disapproval, as if she were seeking in me the cause of her daughter's weaknesses; as much as to say: "what other nonsense have you been putting into the poor child's head, you wretch?" i went up to have a parting romp with rosemary on the last night of her stay with me, to have my last sip of honey from her delectable neck. the countess paid but little attention to us. she sat over in the window and stared out into the dusky shadows of the falling night. my heart was sore. i was miserable. the last romp! blake finally snatched rosemary off to bed. it was then that the countess aroused herself and came over to me with a sad little smile on her lips. "good night," she said, rather wistfully, holding out her hand to me. i deliberately glanced at my watch. "it's only ten minutes past eight," i said, reproachfully. "i know," she said, quietly. "good night." chapter xviii i speed the parting guest four o'clock in the morning is a graceless hour. graveyards may yawn at twelve but even they are content to slumber at four. i don't believe there is anything so desolate in this world as the mental perspective one obtains at four o'clock. tombstones are bright beacons of cheer as compared to the monumental regret one experiences on getting up to greet the alleged and vastly over-rated glories of a budding day. the sunrise is a pall! it is a deadly, dour thing. it may be pink and red and golden and full of all the splendours of the east, but it is a resurrection and you can't make anything else out of it. staying up till four and then going to bed gives one an idea of the sunrise that is not supported by the facts; there is but one way to appreciate the real nature of the hateful thing called dawn, and that is to get up with it instead of taking it to bed with you. still, i suppose the sun _has_ to come up and perhaps it is just as well that it does so at an hour when people are least likely to suspect it of anything so shabby. four o'clock is more than a graceless, sodden hour when it ushers in a day that you know is to be the unhappiest in your life; when you know that you are to say farewell forever to the hopes begot and nurtured in other days; when the one you love smiles and goes away to smile again but not for you. and that is just what four o'clock on the morning of the fourteenth of september meant to me. britton and i set forth in the automobile just at the break of dawn, crossing the river a few miles below the castle, and running back to a point on the right hand bank where we were to await the arrival of the boat conveying the countess and her escort. her luggage, carefully disguised as crated merchandise, had gone to trieste by fast express a couple of days before, sent in my name and consigned to a gentleman whose name i do not now recall, but who in reality served as a sort of middleman in transferring the shipment to the custody of a certain yacht's commander. it was required of me--and of my machine, which is more to the point--that the distance of one hundred and twenty miles through the foothills of the austrian alps should be covered and the passengers delivered at a certain railway station fifty miles or more south of vienna before ten o'clock that night. there they were to catch a train for the little seaport on the upper adriatic, the name of which i was sworn never to reveal, and, as i have not considered it worth while to be released from that oath, i am of necessity compelled to omit the mention of it here. mr. bangs went on to vienna the night before our departure, taking with him helene marie louise antoinette, a rather shocking arrangement you would say unless you had come to know the british lawyer as well as we knew him. they were to proceed by the early morning train to this obscure seaport. colingraft titus elected to accompany his sister the entire length of the journey, with the faithful blake and rosemary. billy smith was to meet us a few miles outside the town for which we were bound, with a word of warning if there was anything sinister in the wind. i heard afterwards from poopendyke that the departure of the countess and rosemary from the castle in the grey; forlorn dawn of that historic fourteenth was attended by a demonstration of grief on the part of the four schmicks that was far beyond his powers of description, and he possesses a wonderful ability to describe lachrymose situations, rather running to that style of incident, i may say. the elder schmicks wailed and boo-hooed and proclaimed to the topmost turrets that the sun would never shine again for either of them, and, to prove that she was quite in earnest about the matter, gretel fell off the dock into the river and was nearly drowned before jasper, jr., could dive in and get her. their sons, both of whom cherished amorous feelings for blake, sighed so prodigiously all the way down the river that the boat rocked. incidentally, during the excitement, jinko, who was to remain behind and journey westward later on with mrs. titus and jasper, jr., succeeded after weeks of vain endeavour in smartly nipping the calf of hawkes' left leg, a feat of which he no doubt was proud but which sentenced my impressive butler to an everlasting dread of hydrophobia and a temporary limp. it was nearing five o'clock when the boat slipped into view around the tree-covered point of land and headed straight for our hiding place on the bank. i shall not stop here to describe the first stage of our journey through the narrow, rocky by-roads that ended eventually in the broad, alpine highway south and west of vienna. let it be sufficient to say that we jostled along for twelve or fifteen miles without special incident, although we were nervously anxious and apprehensive. our guide book pointed, or rather twiddled, a route from the river flats into the hills, where we came up with the main road about eight o'clock. we were wrapped and goggled to the verge of ludicrousness. it would have been quite impossible to penetrate our motor-masks and armour, even for one possessed of a keen and practiced eye. the countess was heavily veiled; great goggles bulged beneath the green, gauzy thing that protected her lovely face from sun, wind and man. a motor coat, two or three sizes too large, enveloped her slender, graceful figure, and gauntlets covered her hands. even rosemary's tiny face was wrapped in a silken veil of white. as for the rest of us, we could not have been mistaken for anything on earth but american automobilists, ruthlessly inspired to see europe with the sole view to comparing her roads with our own at home. you would have said, on seeing us, that we knew a great deal about roads and very little about home. colingraft and britton,--the latter at the wheel,--sat in the front seat, while i shared the broad cushions of the tonneau with the countess, part of the time holding rosemary, who was clamouring for food, and the rest of the time holding my breath in the fear that we might slip over a precipice. i am always nervous when not driving the car myself. we stopped for breakfast at a small mountain inn, fifteen miles from our starting place. the countess, a faint red spot in each cheek and a curiously bright, feverish glow in her dark eyes, revealed a tendency to monopolise the conversation, a condition properly attributed to nervous excitement. i could see that she was vastly thrilled by the experiences of the hour; her quick, alert brain was keeping pace with the rush of blood that stimulated every fibre in her body to new activities. she talked almost incessantly, and chiefly about matters entirely foreign to the enterprise in hand. the more i see of women, the less i know about them. why she should have spent the whole half hour devoted to breakfast to a surprisingly innocuous dissertation on schopenhauer and nietzsche is--or was--beyond me. how was i to know that tears lay close to the surface of those shimmering, vivacious eyes? how was i to know that sobs took refuge behind a simulated interest in philosophy? we had luncheon picnic fashion half-way to our journey's end, diverging from the main road to find a secluded spot where we could spread our cloth and open our hampers without fear of interruption or, to use a more sinister word, detection. it was rather a jolly affair, that first and last al fresco banquet of ours under the spreading branches of mighty trees and beside the trickling waters of a gay little mountain brook that hurried like mad down to the broad channel of the danube, now many miles away. the strain of the first few hours had slackened. success seemed assured. we had encountered no difficulties, no dangers in town or country. no one appeared to be interested in us except through idle curiosity; villagers and peasants stared at us and grinned; policemen and soldiers stood aside to let us pass, or gave directions politely when requested to do so. there were no signs of pursuit, no indications of trouble ahead. and so we could afford to be gay and confident at our midday meal in the hills bordering the broad highway. we even went so far as to arrange for a jolly reunion in new york city at no distant day! i remember distinctly that we were to dine at sherry's. to me, the day seemed a long way off. i suppose, being a writer of fiction, i should be able to supply at this point in the narrative, a series of thrilling, perhaps hair-raising encounters with the enemy, in the form of spies, cut-throats, imperial mercenaries or whatever came handiest to the imagination. it would be a very simple matter to transform this veracious history into the most lurid of melodramas by the introduction of the false and bizarre, but it is not my purpose to do so. i mean to adhere strictly to the truth and stand by the consequences. were i inclined to sensationalism it would be no trouble at all for me to have tarnowsy's agents shooting at our tires or gasoline tank from every crag and cranny; or to have rosemary kidnapped by aeroplanists supplied with drag-hooks; or to have the countess lodged in a village prison from which i should be obliged to liberate her with battle-axe and six-shooter, my compensation being a joyous rest in a hospital with the fair aline nursing me back to health and strength and cooing fond words in my rapacious ear the while i reflected on the noble endowments of a nature that heretofore had been commonplace and meek. but, no! none of these things happened and i decline to perjure myself for the privilege of getting into the list of "six best sellers." so far as i am able to judge, there was absolutely no heroism displayed during our flight through the hills and valleys, unless you are willing to accept as such a single dash of sixty miles an hour which britton made in order to avoid a rain-shower that threatened to flank us if we observed the speed laws. but wait! there was an example of bravado on my part that shall not go unrecorded. i hesitated at first to put it down in writing, but my sense of honour urges me to confess everything. it happened just after that memorable picnic luncheon in the shady dell. the countess, i maintain, was somewhat to blame for the incident. she suggested that we,--that is to say, the two of us,--explore the upper recesses of this picturesque spot while the others were making ready for the resumption of our journey. shame, contrition, humiliation or whatever you may elect to call it, forbids a lengthy or even apologetic explanation of what followed her unfortunate suggestion. i shall get over with it in as few words as possible. in the most obscure spot in all those ancient hills, i succumbed to an execrable impulse to take her forcibly in my arms and kiss her! i don't know why i did it, or how, but that is just what happened. my shame, my horror over the transcendental folly was made almost unbearable by the way in which she took it. at first i thought she had swooned, she lay so limp and unresisting in my arms. my only excuse, whispered penitently in her ear, was that i couldn't help doing what i had done, and that i deserved to be drawn and quartered for taking advantage of my superior strength and her gentle forbearance. strange to say, she merely looked at me in a sort of dumb wonder and quietly released herself, still staring at me as if i were the most inexplicable puzzle in the world. her cheeks, her throat, her brow grew warm and pink with a just indignation; her lips parted but she uttered no word. then i followed her dejectedly, cravenly back to the roadside and executed an inward curse that would hang over my miserable head so long as it was on my shoulders. her vivacity was gone. she shrank down into the corner of the seat, and, with her back half turned toward me, gazed steadfastly at the panoramic valley which we were skirting. from time to time i glanced, at her out of the corners of my eyes, and eventually was somewhat relieved to see that she had closed her own and was dozing. my soul was in despair. she loathed, despised me. i could not blame her. i despised myself. and yet my heart quickened every time i allowed myself to think of the crime i had committed. the day was a glorious one and the road more than passably good. we bowled along at a steady rate of speed and sundown found us about twenty-five miles from our destination. not caring to run the risk of a prolonged stay in the town, we drew up at a roadside inn and had our dinner in the quaint little garden, afterwards proceeding leisurely by moonlight down the sloping highway. billy smith met us six or eight miles out and we stopped to parley. he examined the countess's skilfully prepared passports, pronounced them genuine (!), and then gave us the cheerful news that "everything was lovely and the goose hung high." the train for the coast was due to leave the staats-bahn-hof at . , and we had an hour to spare. he proposed that we spend it quite comfortably at the roadside while britton went through the pretence of repairing our tires. this seemed an agreeable arrangement for every one but britton, who looked so glum that i, glad of the excuse, offered to help him. no sooner was i out of the car and billy smith in my place beside the countess than she became quite gay and vivacious once more. she laughed and chatted with him in a manner that promptly convinced me that propinquity so far as i was concerned had had a most depressing effect upon her, and that she revelled in the change of companions. i was so disturbed by the discovery that britton had to caution me several times to handle the inner tubes less roughly or i _would_ damage them and we might suffer a blow-out after all. every one appeared to be gay and frivolous, even blake, who chattered _sotto voce_ with britton, that excellent rascal spending most of his time leaning against the spare tires in order to catch what she was saying for his benefit. all efforts to draw me into the general conversation were unavailing. i was as morose and unresponsive as an egyptian mummy, and for a very excellent reason, i submit. the countess deliberately refused to address a single remark to me. indeed, when i seemed perilously near to being drawn into the conversation she relapsed into a silence that was most forbidding. my cup of misery was overflowing. i wondered if she would feel called upon, at some distant confessional, to tell the fortunate lord amberdale that i had brutally kissed her. and lord amberdale would grin in his beastly supercilious english way and say: "what else could you have expected from a bally american bounder?" she would no doubt smile indulgently. heigh-ho! all things come to an end, however. we found ourselves at last uttering our good-byes in the railway station, surrounded by hurrying travellers and attended by eager porters. the countess did not lift her veil. i deliberately drew her aside. my hot hand clasped hers, and found it as cold as ice and trembling. "for god's sake," i whispered hoarsely in my humbleness, "say that you forgive me?" she did not speak for many seconds. then her voice was very low and tremulous. i felt that her sombre eyes were accusing me even as they tried to meet my own with a steadiness that was meant to be reassuring. "of course i forgive you," she said. "you have been so good to me." "good!" i cried bitterly. "i've been harsh, unreasoning, super-critical from the day i met--" "hush!" she said, laying her free hand upon my arm. "i shall never forget all that you have done for me. i--i can say no more." i gulped. "i pray to heaven that you may be happy, aline,--happier than any one else in the world." she lowered her head suddenly, and i was made more miserable than before by hearing a quick, half-suppressed sob. then she withdrew her cold little hand and turned away to follow colingraft who had called out to her. i saw them board the train. in my heart there was the memory of a dozen kisses i had bestowed in repentant horror upon the half-asleep rosemary, who, god bless her little soul, cried bitterly on being torn away from my embrace. "well," said billy smith, taking me by the arm a few minutes later, "let's have a bite to eat and a cold bottle before we go to bed, old chap. i hope to heaven she gets through all right. damme, i am strong for her, aren't you?" "i am," said i, with conviction, coming out of a daze. he led me off to a cafe where he seemed to be more or less at home, and where it was bright and gay for him but gloomier than the grave to me. * * * * * * * i drove the car home the next day. when we got down at the garage, britton shivered and drew a prodigious breath. it was as if he had not breathed for hours. we had gone the distance in little more than half the time taken on the trip down. "my word, sir," was all he said, but there was a significant tremor in his voice. it smacked of pride. mrs. titus placidly inquired how we had got along, and appeared quite relieved when i told her we had caught the train at k---. jasper, jr., revealed a genuine interest in the enterprise, but spoiled it all by saying that aline, now prematurely safe, was most likely to leap out of the frying-pan into the fire by marrying some blithering foreigner and having the whole beastly business to do over again. "how soon do they go?" asked poopendyke late that afternoon, after listening to mrs. titus's amiable prophecies concerning aline's future activities, and getting my harassed ear in a moment of least resistance. "i don't know," said i, hopelessly. i had heard about all i could endure concerning his lordship's magnificent estates in england, and the sort of a lord he was besides. "there's nothing to do but wait, fred." "she is a remarkably fine woman but--" he completed the estimate by shaking his head, trusting to my intelligence, i suppose. we waited two days for word from the fugitives. late in the afternoon of the second day, britton returned from town with a telegram for me. it said: "cargo safely aboard _pendennis_, captain pardee commanding. clear at two to-day. everything satisfactory. (signed) c. g. raft." no sooner was this reassuring news received than mrs. titus complacently set about having her trunks packed. the entire household was in a stew of activity, for she had suddenly decided to catch the eight o'clock train for paris. i telephoned to reserve accommodation on the orient express from vienna, and also to have it stopped at the town across the river, a concession secured at a no inconsiderable cost. she was to travel once more as my mother. "you will not fail to look us up when you come to new york, will you, mr. smart? mr. titus will not be happy until he has expressed to you in person his endless gratitude. you have been splendid. we shall never forget your kindness, your thoughtfulness, your--your forbearance. i--i--" upon my word, there were real tears in the dear lady's eyes! i forgot and forgave much in recognition of this instant of genuine feeling on her part. it was not necessary for her to complete the sentence so humbly begun. their departure was made with some degree of caution, mrs. titus rather considerately reminding herself that my interests were at stake. i saw them aboard the train; she played her part admirably, i will say that for her. she lifted her veil so that i could bestow a farewell filial kiss upon her cheek. jasper, jr.'s, eyes popped very wide open at this, and, as he shook my hand warmly at parting, he said: "you are a wonder, john,--a sure enough wonder. why, hang it all, she doesn't even let dad do that." but jasper, jr., was very young and he couldn't understand. at last we were to ourselves, my extensive household and i. late that night i sat in my study considering the best means of reducing my staff of servants and in computing, with dismay, the cost of being a princely host to people who had not the least notion what it meant to do sums in economic subtraction. it was soon apparent to me that retrenchment, stern and relentless, would have to follow upon my wild though brief season of profligacy. i decided to dismiss the scullery-maid. i was indescribably lonely. poopendyke was worried about my pallor, my lassitude. at the end of a week, he took it upon himself to drop a line to the hazzards, urging them to run out for a visit in the hope that company might take me out of myself. all attempts to renew my work on the ill-fated novel met with utter failure. the power of mental concentration was gone. i spent most of my time in the garden. the hazzards came and with them the joyously beautiful betty billy. poopendyke must have prepared them for the task in hand, for they proceeded at once to transform the bleak, dreary old castle into a sort of hilarious merry-go-round, with me in the very vortex of it all. they succeeded in taking me "out of myself," i will say that for them. my spirits took an upward bound and, wonderful to relate, retained their altitude in spite of all i could do to lower them. i did not want to be happy; i figured that i owed it to my recently aroused temperament to be permanently unhappy. but the wind blew another way and i drifted amiably with it, as a derelict drifts with the currents of the ocean but preferably with the warm gulf stream. we had word from mrs. titus, in london, that negotiations had been reopened with the count, and that a compromise might be expected. the obdurate nobleman had agreed, it seemed, to meet jasper titus's lawyers in paris at no distant date. my chief concern however was for the countess herself. that she had successfully reached the high seas was apparent; if not, the newspapers, which i read with eagerness, would have been filled with accounts of her seizure. we eagerly awaited the promised cablegram from new york, announcing her safe arrival there. smith joined us at the end of the week. i nerved myself to question him about the englishman. "splendid fellow," said he, with discouraging fervour. "one of the finest chaps i know, eh, george?" "for an englishman," admitted hazzard. "he's a gentleman, and that's more than you can say for the rag-tag of nobility that paid court to aline tarnowsy. he was in love with her, but he was a gentleman about it. a thoroughbred, i say." "good looking?" i enquired. "well, rather! the sort of chap women rave about. ask betty. she was mad about him. but he couldn't see anything in her. i think she hates him now. he had eyes for no one but the fair countess. an awful grind on betty. she's used to something different." hazzard studied the clouds that drifted over our heads. "i wonder if aline cared anything for him." "i've always believed that she liked him better than she cared to admit, even to herself." "i fancy he'll not let any grass grow under his feet, now that she's free," said dr. hazzard. "think she'll have him?" "why not? he has a much better position in england than tarnowsy has here, and he's not after her money. i hate to say it, but aline is a seeker after titles. she wouldn't be averse to adding 'your ladyship' to her collection." "oh, come!" i protested. "that is a nasty thing to say, george." "she may have been regenerated," he said obligingly. "you know her better than i do, old chap. what say?" "i didn't say anything," i muttered. "i thought you did." i hesitated a moment and then purged myself of the truth. "as a matter of fact, i have reason to believe she's in love with amberdale and has been for a long time. i'm not saying it in disparagement, believe me. god knows she's entitled to something decent and fine in the shape of love. i hope he's good enough for her." they looked at me with interest, and smith broke the momentary silence. "oh, he's good enough for her," he said, with a queer smile. "i'm glad of that," i said gruffly. "the old la--i mean mrs. titus will be tickled to death if the match is pulled off," said hazzard. "she was tickled the first time," said i sententiously, and changed the subject. there was no sense in prolonging the agony. toward the close of their visit, a message arrived from the countess herself, signed with the fictitious name we had agreed upon. the news she gave caused us to celebrate that night. we had a bonfire in the courtyard and drank to the god of good luck. "cargo safely landed in new york and forwarded to the adirondacks for storage and to await the appearance of a claimant. former owner has agreed to accept million and a half and release all claims. when are you coming over? (signed) alrose." by the most extraordinary coincidence, a curt, business-like letter arrived in the evening post from maris tarnowsy, post-marked paris. its contents staggered me. "_john bellamy smart, esquire._ "dear mr. smart: will you put a price on schloss rothhoefen? i am desirous of purchasing the castle if you care to sell and we can agree upon a fair price for the property. sentiment moves me in this matter and i earnestly hope that you may be induced to part with your white elephant. if you will be so kind as to wire your decision, you will find me deeply grateful, and at the ritz for the ensuing fortnight. "faithfully yours, "maris tarnowsy." my "white elephant!" i was so eager to get rid of it that i would have wired at once, naming a figure proportionately low had it not been for the united protests of my four friends and the canny advice of mr. poopendyke. "soak him," said he, and i arose to the occasion. i waited for three days and then telegraphed him that i would not take a heller less than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, more than doubling the price i had paid for the property. i was prepared, however, to come down a paltry hundred thousand or so if he revealed signs of reluctance. we built another bonfire that night and danced around it like so many savages. "terms acceptable. will come to schloss rothhoefen at once to complete the transfer. "tarnowsy." chapter xix i burn a few bridges accompanied by hazzard and smith, i went over the castle from top to bottom, in quest of the reason for tarnowsy's prompt acceptance of my demand. we made no doubt that he had a good and sufficient reason for wanting the place, and but one thing suggested itself to our imagination: his absolute certainty that treasure was hidden somewhere about the venerable pile, treasure of considerable magnitude, you may be sure, or he would not have revealed such alacrity in accepting my terms. sentiment had nothing to do with this surprising move on his part. that was all bosh. he had an ulterior motive, and it was for me to get the better of him at his own game if i could. while i was eager to get rid of the castle at any price, i did not relish the thought of being laughed at for a fool by maris tarnowsy after he had laid his greedy hands upon treasure that had been mine without my knowledge. he was no fool. the castle meant nothing to him as a home or as an investment. no doubt he would blow it to pieces in order to unearth the thing he knew its walls secreted. we spent two unprofitable days in going over the place, and in the end sank down tired, defeated and without the slightest evidence in our possession that so much as a half crown lay hidden there as treasure-trove. i gave in and announced that if tarnowsy could find anything worth having he was entitled to it so far as i was concerned, and i wouldn't begrudge him a farthing's worth. he telegraphed that he would arrive on the morning of the third day, accompanied by his lawyer, a notary and an architect. my four guests departed in haste by the late night train, after extracting a promise from me to join them in vienna when i was no longer the master of schloss rothhoefen. i rather relished the thought of a brief vacation! then, like the spider, i crept back into my web and waited for the foolish fly, knowing all the time that he would have the better of me in the long run. i confess to a feeling of sadness in parting with the place, after all, elephantine though it was in every sense of the word. within its grey and ancient walls that beautiful thing called love had come to me, to live with me forever. it had come unbidden, against my will, against my better judgment, and in spite of my prejudices, but still it was a thing to cherish and to hold in its virgin youth all through the long years to come. it would always be young and sweet and rose-coloured, this unrequited love of mine. walking through the empty, dismantled rooms that had once been hers, i grew sick with longing, and, in something like fear, fled downward, absurd tears blinding my eyes. verily, i was a fool,--a monstrous, silly fool! tarnowsy was as bland and smiling as a may morning as he came jauntily down the great hall to where i awaited him. "i am here incognito, my dear smart," he said, extending his gloved hand, which i took perforce. "sub rosa, you might say," he went on with a wry smile. "a stupid, unchivalric empire has designs upon me, perfunctorily perhaps, but it's just as well not to stir up the monkeys, as you americans would put it." "our late friend, the baron, was not totally without friends, i take it," said i drily. he made a grimace. "nor enemies," he declared. "brave men usually have more enemies than friends, and he was a brave man, a truly brave man. because he was a brave man i have no feeling of regret over the outcome of our--er--meeting. it is no honour to kill a coward, mr. smart." he introduced his three companions. i was surprised to see that the lawyer was not the fawning schymansky, and later on inquired for him. tarnowsy laughed. "poor old schymansky! he is in prison." "aha! i am not surprised," said i. "he was my second, poor chap. it did not occur to him to run away after the--er--duel. they had to make an example of some one. his trial comes up next week. i am afraid he may be dealt with rather harshly. i miss him dreadfully. but let us come to the matter in hand, mr. smart. i daresay your time is valuable. you have no objection to my going over the place with mr. saks, i am sure. he is the architect who is to rebuild the castle for me. my attorney and mr. pooly,--the notary,--will, with your assistance, draw up the proper contracts preliminary to the formal transfer, and i will sign them with you upon my return." "would it not be better to discuss the question of payments before we go any further, count tarnowsy?" "you will be paid in cash, mr. smart, the instant the deed is transferred," he said coldly. i followed him to the top of the stairs which descended to the basement of the castle. it was rather significant that he elected to explore the lower regions first of all. "i shall accompany you," said i deliberately. a faint scowl came into his face. he eyed me fixedly for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and said that his only desire was to avoid putting me to any unnecessary trouble. if i cared to come, he would be more than grateful. "it isn't necessary to visit the cellars, saks," he said to the architect. "ample time for that sort of rummaging. i particularly want your opinion on the condition of the intersecting walls on this floor and above. my scheme of improvements, mr. smart, contemplates the enlargement of these halls by throwing them into one." "a very simple process," said i, "if the whole structure doesn't topple down upon your heads while you're about it." "i shall contrive to save my scalp, mr. smart, no matter what happens. it is very precious to me." we went over the castle rather hurriedly, i thought, but he explained that saks merely wanted a general idea of the structure; he would return another day to make a careful inspection. "i daresay you are surprised that i should be willing to pay double your original price for schloss rothhoefen," he ventured, pausing in the corridor to light a cigarette. we were on our way to the top of the east wing. "oh, no," i said calmly. "i am aware that treasure is buried here. as a matter of fact, i've tried to unearth it myself, but without success. i wish you better luck." "thanks," said he laconically, after the first swift glance of inquiry. "it is doubtless a fairy tale, handed down by tradition. i take no stock in it. my principal object in acquiring rothhoefen is to satisfy a certain vanity which besets me. i have it on excellent authority that my ex-father-in-law,--the man titus, you know,--talks of buying the property and performing the stupendous, characteristic american feat of removing it, stone and timber, just as it is, to his estate north of new york city. no one but a vulgar, purse-proud american would think of doing such a thing." the news staggered me. could there be anything in what he said? if it was true that jasper titus contemplated such a quixotic move, there could be but one compelling force behind the whim: sentiment. but not sentiment on the part of jasper titus. "i cannot believe that he considers doing such a thing," i said rather blankly. "you see, if any one should know, i am that one. he has not approached me, of that you may be sure." he did not appear to be interested. "my information is not authoritative, mr. smart," said he. "it came to me through my representatives who conferred with his lawyers a fortnight ago in regard to certain difficulties that had existed between us. from what they were able to gather, the idea has taken root in the old man's head. now, i want to buy this place for no other reason than to tell him that he hasn't enough money in his possession to purchase it from me. d'you see? vanity, you may call it, as i do, but it pleases me to coddle it." very thoughtfully i strode along beside him. would i be serving the countess ill or well by selling the place to tarnowsy? it was _her_ whim, of course, and it was a foolish one. "suppose that he offered you twice what you are to pay me for the place," said i, struck by a sudden thought. he laughed easily. "you will not, it seems, acquit me of cupidity, mr. smart. i should not sell to him under any consideration. that is final. take it or leave it." by this time we were in the rooms once occupied by the countess. he glanced about the apartment carelessly. "deserted, i observe," he remarked with a queer smile. my heart almost stood still. "eh? what do you mean?" "if i am not mistaken, these are the rooms once occupied by your valet's wife. am i right?" i steadied myself. "she has gone away," i said. "couldn't stand the climate." "i see," said he, but he was still smiling. "how does your valet stand it?" "nicely," said i, with a conscious blush. "i mean the separation, of course." "certainly. he is used to it." "isn't it rather odd that he should still think she is here, in the castle?" "does he?" i murmured. "i inquired for her when i encountered him downstairs. he said she was quite well this morning, except for a headache." "she is subject to headaches, i believe," said i, with the utmost nonchalance. he lifted his right eyebrow slightly, but said no more on the subject. a pile of rubbish lay heaped in one corner of the room, swept up and left there by the big schmicks to await the spring house cleaning season i presume. tarnowsy at first eyed the heap curiously, then rather intently. suddenly he strode across the room and gingerly rooted among the odds and ends with the toe of his highly polished boot. to my horror a dilapidated doll detached itself and rolled out upon the floor,--a well-remembered treasure of rosemary's and so unique in appearance that i doubt if there was another in the world like it. indeed, i have a distinct recollection of being told that the child's father had painted in the extraordinary features and had himself decorated the original flaxen locks with singular stripes of red and white and blue, a sardonic tribute to the home land of her mother. i turned away as he stooped and picked up the soiled, discarded effigy. when next i looked at him, out of the corner of my eye, he was holding the doll at arm's length and staring at it with a fixed gaze. i knew that he recognised it. there could be no doubt in his mind as to the identity of that tell-tale object. my heart was thumping fiercely. an instant later he rejoined me, but not a word did he utter concerning the strange discovery he had made. his face was set and pallid, and his eyes were misty. involuntarily i looked to see if he had the doll in his hand, and in that glance observed the bulging surface of his coat pocket. in silence we stood there awaiting the reappearance of saks, who had gone into one of the adjoining rooms. i confess that my hand trembled as i lighted a fresh cigarette. he was staring moodily at the floor, his hands clasped behind his back. something smacking of real intelligence ordered me to hold my tongue. i smoked placidly, yet waited for the outburst. it did not come. it never came. he kept his thoughts, his emotions to himself, and for that single display of restraint on his part i shall always remember him as a true descendant of the nobility. we tramped down the long flights of stairs side by side, followed by the superfluous mr. saks, who did all of the talking. he was, i think, discoursing on the extraordinary ability of ancient builders, but i am not absolutely certain. i am confident tarnowsy did not hear a word the fellow said. in my study we found poopendyke and the two strangers. "have you made out the papers?" demanded the count harshly. an ugly gleam had come to his eyes, but he did not direct it toward me. indeed, he seemed to avoid looking at me at all. "yes, count tarnowsy," said the lawyer. "they are ready for the signatures." "perhaps mr. smart may have reconsidered his offer to sell," said tarnowsy. "let him see the contracts." "i have not reconsidered," i said quietly. "you may sign here, mr. smart," said the notary, as he gave me the document, a simple contract, i found. "jasper titus will offer more than i can afford to pay," said the count. "please do not feel that i am taking an unfair advantage of you. i am absolutely certain that he wants to buy this place for--his granddaughter, a descendant of barons." the significance of this remark was obvious, and it was the nearest he ever came to uttering the conviction that had been formed in that illuminating five minutes upstairs. if he suspected,--and i think he did,--he preferred not to ask the questions that must have been searing his curious brain. it was a truly wonderful demonstration of self-restraint. i would have given much to have been able to read his innermost thoughts, to watch the perplexed movements of his mind. "schloss rothhoefen is yours, count tarnowsy," said i. "it is for you to say whether his whim shall be gratified." his lips twitched. i saw his hand touch the bulging coat-pocket with a swift, passing movement. "will you be good enough to sign, mr. smart?" he said coldly. he glanced at his watch. "my time is valuable. when can you give possession?" "the day the deed is transferred." "that will be in less than three days. i have satisfied myself that the title is clear. there need be no delay." we signed the contract after i had requested poopendyke to read it aloud to me. it called for the payment of fifty thousand kronen, or a little over two thousand pounds sterling, at the time of signing. his lawyer handed me a package of crisp banknotes and asked me to count them. i did so deliberately, the purchaser looking on with a sardonic smile. "correct," said i, laying the package on the table. he bowed very deeply. "are you satisfied, mr. smart, that there are no counterfeits among them?" he inquired with polite irony. then to his lawyer: "take the gentleman's receipt for the amount in the presence of witnesses. this is a business transaction, not a game of chance." it was the insult perfect. as he prepared to take his departure, he assumed an insinuating air of apology, and remarked to me: "i owe you an apology, mr. smart. there was a time when i did you an injustice. i suspected you of keeping your mistress here. pray forgive my error." five days later i was snugly ensconced in the ducal suite at the bristol, overlooking the kartnerring-strasse, bereft of my baronial possessions but not at all sorry. my romance had been short-lived. it is one thing to write novels about mediaeval castles and quite another thing to try to write a novel in one of them. i trust i may never again be guilty of such arrant stupidity as to think that an american-born citizen can become a feudal baron by virtue of his dollars and cents, any more than an american-born girl can hope to be a real, dyed-in-the-wool countess or duchess because some one needs the money more than she does. it would be quite as impossible, contrariwise, to transform a noble duke into a plain american citizen, so there you are, even up. my plans were made. after a fortnight in vienna, i expected to go west to london for the autumn, and then back to new york. strange to relate, i was homesick. never before had my thoughts turned so restlessly, so wistfully to the haunts of my boyhood days. i began to long for the lights of broadway (which i had scornfully despised in other days), and the gay peacockery of fifth avenue at four in the afternoon. it seemed to me that nowhere in all the world was life so joyous and blithe and worth while as in "old new york"; nowhere were the theatres so attractive, nowhere such restaurants. even, in retrospect, the subway looked alluring, and as for the fifth avenue stages they were too beautiful for words. ah, what a builder of unreal things a spell of homesickness may become if one gives it half a chance! as for schloss rothhoefen, i had it on excellent authority (no less a person than conrad schmick himself) that barely had i shaken the dust of the place from myself before the new master put into execution a most extraordinary and incomprehensible plan of reconstruction. in the first place, he gave all the servants two weeks' notice, and then began to raze the castle from the bottom upward instead of the other way round, as a sensible person might have been expected to do. he was knocking out the walls in the cellars and digging up the stone floors with splendid disregard for that ominous thing known as a cataclysm. the grave question in the minds of the servants was whether the usual and somewhat mandatory two weeks' notice wouldn't prove a trifle too long after all. in fact, hawkes, with an inspiration worthy of an office boy, managed to produce a sick grand-mother and got away from the place at the end of one week, although having been paid in full for two. the day on which i left for paris still saw tarnowsy at work with his masons, heroically battering down the walls of the grim old stronghold, and i chuckled to myself. it was quite evident that he hadn't found the hiding place up to that time. after several days in paris, i took myself off to london. i was expecting letters at claridge's, where i always take rooms, not because i think it is the best hotel in london but because i am, to some extent, a creature of habit. my mother took me to claridge's when i was a boy and i saw a wonderful personage at the door whom i was pleased to call the king. ever since then i have been going to claridge's and while my first king is dead there is one in his place who bids fair to live long, albeit no one shouts encouragement to him. he wears the most gorgeous buttons i've ever seen, and i doubt if king solomon himself could have been more regal. certainly not nebuchadnezzar. he works from seven in the morning until seven at night, and he has an imperial scorn for anything smaller than half a sovereign. there were many letters waiting there for me, but not one from the countess aline. i had encouraged the hope that she might write to me; it was the least she could do in return for all that i had done for her, notwithstanding my wretched behaviour on the last day of our association. while i had undoubtedly offended in the most flagrant manner, still my act was not unpardonable. there was tribute, not outrage in my behaviour. poopendyke fidgeted a good deal with the scanty results of my literary labours, rattling the typed pages in a most insinuating way. he oiled his machine with accusative frequency, but i failed to respond. i was in no mood for writing. he said to me one day: "i don't see why you keep a secretary, mr. smart. i don't begin to earn my salt." "salt, mr. poopendyke," said i, "is the cheapest thing i know of. now if you had said pepper i might pause to reflect. but i am absolutely, inexorably opposed to rating anything on a salt basis. if you--" "you know what i mean," he said stiffly. "i am of no use to you." "ah," said i triumphantly, "but you forget! who is it that draws the salary checks for yourself and britton, and who keeps the accounts straight? who, i repeat? why, you, mr. poopendyke. you draw the checks. isn't that something?" "if--if i didn't know you so well, i wouldn't hesitate to call you a blooming fool, mr. smart," said he, but he grinned as he said it. "but he who hesitates is lost," said i. "this is your chance, don't let it slip." he looked at me so steadily for a moment that i was in some fear he would not let it slip. before i had been in london a week it became perfectly clear to me that i could not stretch my stay out to anything like a period of two months. indeed, i began to think about booking my passage home inside of two weeks. i was restless, dissatisfied, homesick. on the ninth day i sent poopendyke to the booking office of the steamship company with instructions to secure passage for the next sailing of the _mauretania_, and then lived in a state of positive dread for fear the confounded american tourists might have gobbled up all of the cabins. they are always going home it seems to me, and they are always trying to get on a single unfortunate ship. in all my experience abroad, i've never known a time when americans were not tumbling over each other trying to get back to new york in time to catch a certain train for home, wherever that may be. but poopendyke managed it somehow. he must have resorted to bribery. i awoke one morning to find a long and--i was about to say interesting--letter from the countess! it was a very commonplace communication i found on the third or fourth reading. the sum and substance of its contents was the information that she was going to virginia hot springs with the family for a month or two and that lord amberdale was to join them there. it appeared that her father, being greatly overworked, was in need of a rest, and as the golf links at hot springs are especially designed to make it easy for rich men, his doctor had ordered him to that delightful resort. she hoped the rest would put him on his feet again. there was a page or so of drivel about amberdale and what he expected to do at the new york horse show, a few lines concerning rosemary; and a brief, almost curt intimation that a glimpse or two of me would not be altogether displeasing to her if i happened to be coming that way. it may be regarded as a strange coincidence that i instructed britton that very evening to see that my golf clubs were cleaned up and put into good shape for a little practice on a course near london, where i had been put up by an english author, and who was forever ding-donging at me to come out and let him "put it all over me." i went out and bought a new brassie to replace the one destroyed by the experimenting rocksworth youth, and before i got through with it had a new putter, a niblick and a spoon, neither of which i needed for the excellent reason that i already possessed a half dozen of each. keyed up to a high pitch of enthusiasm, i played golf for ten days, and found my friend to be a fine sportsman. like all englishmen, he took a beating gracefully, but gave me to understand that he had been having a good deal of trouble with rheumatism or neuritis in his right elbow. on the last day we played he succeeded in bringing me in two down and i've never seen neuritis dispersed so quickly as it was in his case. i remember distinctly that he complained bitterly of the pain in his elbow when we started out, and that he was as fit as a fiddle at the eighteenth hole. he even went so far as to implore me to stay over till the next sailing of the mauretania. but i took to the high seas. mr. poopendyke cabled to the homestead at hot springs for suitable accommodations. i cannot remember when i had been so forehanded as all that, and i wonder what my secretary thought of me. my habit is to procrastinate. i almost forgot to mention a trifling bit of news that came to me the day before sailing. elsie hazzard wrote in great perturbation and at almost unfeeling length to tell me that count tarnowsy had unearthed the supposedly mythical rothhoefen treasure chests and was reputed to have found gold and precious jewels worth at least a million dollars. the accumulated products of a century's thievery! the hoard of all the robber barons! tarnowsy's! strange to say i did not writhe nor snarl with disappointment and rage. i took the news with a _sang froid_ that almost killed poor poopendyke. he never quite got over it. nor was i especially disturbed or irritated by the telegram of condolence i received on board ship from tarnowsy himself. he could not resist the temptation to gloat. i shall not repeat the message for the simple reason that i do not wish to dignify it by putting it into permanent form. we were two days out when i succeeded in setting my mind at rest in respect to aline, countess tarnowsy. i had not thought of it before, but i remembered all of a sudden that i held decided scruples against marrying a divorced woman. of course, that simplified matters. when one has preconceived notions about such matters they afford excellent material to fall back upon, even though he may have disregarded them after a fashion while unselfishly thinking of some one else. as i say, the recollection of this well-defined though somewhat remorseless principle of mine had the effect of putting my mind at rest in regard to the countess. feeling as strongly as i did about marriage with divorcees, she became an absolutely undesirable person so far as matrimony was concerned. i experienced a rather doubtful feeling of relief. it was not so hard to say to myself that lord amberdale was welcome to her, but it was very, very difficult to refrain from adding the unamiable words: "damn him." this rigid, puritanical principle of mine, however, did not declare against the unrighteousness of falling in love with a divorcee. chapter xx i change garden spots if i have, by any chance, announced earlier in this narrative that the valley of the donau is the garden spot of the world, i must now ask you to excuse the ebullience of spirit that prompted the declaration. the warm springs valley of virginia is infinitely more attractive to me, and i make haste to rectify any erroneous impression i may have given, while under the spell of something my natural modesty forbids me to describe. if you happen not to know the warm springs valley, permit me to say that you are missing a great deal. it is a garden spot and--but why discourse upon a subject that is so aptly handled by the gentlemen who supply railway folders with descriptive material and who will tell you in so many words that god's noblest work was done in the green hills and vales of fair virginia? any railway folder will acquaint you with all this and save me a great deal of time and trouble, besides giving you a sensible and adequate idea of how to get there and where to stop when you reach your journey's end, together with the price of pullman tickets and the nature of the ailments you are supposed to have if you take the waters. it is only necessary for me to say that it is a garden spot and that you don't have to change cars if you take the right train out of new york city, a condition which does not obtain if you happen to approach from the opposite direction. i arrived there early one bright november morning, three days after landing in new york. you will be rendered unhappy, i fear, by the announcement that i left mr. poopendyke behind. he preferred to visit an aunt at new rochelle and i felt that he deserved a vacation. britton, of course, accompanied me. he is indispensable, and, so far as i know, hasn't the faintest notion of what a vacation means unless he considers employment with me in some such light. at any rate he has never mentioned a relation in need of a visit from him. before leaving new york i had a rather unpleasant encounter with my publishers. it was in the nature of a luncheon at which i was led to believe that they still expected me to supply them with the manuscript of a novel at a very early date. they seemed considerably put out when i blandly informed them that i had got no farther along than the second chapter. "we have been counting on this book of yours for january publication," said they. i tried to explain that the muse had abandoned me in a most heartless fashion. "but the public demands a story from you," said they. "what have you been doing all summer?" "romancing," said i. i don't know just how it came about, but the suggestion was made that i put into narrative form the lively history of my sojourn on the banks of the danube, trusting implicitly to the imagination yet leaving nothing to it. "but it's all such blithering rot," said i. "so much the better," said they triumphantly--even eagerly. "i do not suppose that you, as publishers, can appreciate the fact that an author may have a soul above skittles," said i indignantly. "i cannot, i will not write a line about myself, gentlemen. not that i consider the subject sacred but--" "wait!" cried the junior member, his face aglow. "we appreciate the delicacy of--er--your feelings, mr. smart, but i have an idea,--a splendid idea. it solves the whole question. your secretary is a most competent, capable young man and a genius after a fashion. i propose that he write the story. we'll pay him a lump sum for the work, put your name on the cover, and there you are. all you will have to do is to edit his material. how's that?" and so it came to pass that i took myself off that evening for hot springs, secure in the thought that poopendyke would attend to my literary estate far more capably than i could do it myself, and that my labours later on would be pleasantly devoted to the lazy task of editing, revising and deleting a tale already told.... if you are lucky enough to obtain rooms in the homestead, looking out over the golf course, with the wonderful november colourings in the hills and gaps beyond; over the casino, the tennis courts and the lower levels of the fashionable playground, you may well say to yourself that all the world is bright and sweet and full of hope. from my windows i could see far down the historic valley in the direction of warm springs, a hazy blue panorama wrapped in the air of an indian summer and redolent with the incense of autumn. britton reminded me that it was a grand morning for golf, and i was at once reminded that britton is an excellent chap whose opinions are always worth considering. so i started for the links, stopping first at the office on my way out, ostensibly to complain about the absence of window-screens but in reality to glance over the register in quest of certain signatures. a brisk, oldish little man came up beside me and rather testily inquired why the deuce there were no matches in his room; also why the hot water was cold so much longer than usual that morning. he was not much of a man to look at, but i could not fail to note the obsequious manner in which the two clerks behind the desk looked at him. you couldn't possibly have discovered anything in their manner to remind you of hotel clerks you may have come to know in your travels. a half dozen boxes of matches were passed out to him in the twinkling of an eye, and i shudder to think what might have happened if there had been a hot water faucet handy, they were so eager to please. "mr. brewster gone out yet?" demanded this important guest, pocketing all of the matches. (i could see at once that he was a very rich man.) "did he leave any message for me? he didn't? he was to let me know whether he could play golf with--eh? playing with logan, eh? well, of all the--he knows i will _not_ play with logan. see if mr. scott is in his room. tell him i'd like to take him on for eighteen holes this morning." he crossed to the news-counter and glanced over the papers while a dusky bell-boy shot off in quest of mr. scott. "they all hate to play with the old geezer," said one of the clerks,--a young one, you may be sure,--lowering his voice and his eyebrows at the same time. "he's the rottenest player in the world." "who is he?" i inquired, mildly interested. "jasper titus," was the reply. "the real old jasper himself." before i could recover from my surprise, the object of my curiosity approached the desk, his watch in his hand. "well, what does he say?" he demanded. "the--the boy isn't back yet, mr. titus," said one of the clerks, involuntarily pounding the call-bell in his nervousness. "lazy, shiftless niggers, the whole tribe of them," was mr. titus's caustic comment. at that instant the boy, quite out of breath, came thumping down the stairs. "mr. scott's got rheumatiz, mr. titus. he begs to be excused--" "buncombe!" snapped mr. titus. "he's afraid to play me. well, this means no game for me. a beautiful day like this and--" "i beg your pardon, mr. titus," said i, stepping forward. "if you don't mind taking on a stranger, i will be happy to go around with you. my name is smart. i think you must have heard of me through the countess and your--" "great scott! smart? are--are you the author, james byron smart? the--the man who--" he checked himself suddenly, but seized me by the hand and, as he wrung it vigorously, dragged me out of hearing of the men behind the desk. "i am john bellamy smart," said i, a little miffed. his shrewd, hard old face underwent a marvellous change. the crustiness left it as if by magic. his countenance radiated joy. "i owe you a debt of gratitude, mr. smart, that can never be lifted. my daughter has told me everything. you must have put up with a fearful lot of nonsense during the weeks she was with you. i know her well. she's spoiled and she's got a temper, although, upon my soul, she seems different nowadays. there _is_ a change in her, by george." "she's had her lesson," said i. "besides i didn't find she had a bad temper." "and say, i want to tell you something else before i forget it: i fully appreciate your views on international marriage. allie told me everything you had to say about it. you must have rubbed it in! but i think it did her good. she'll never marry another foreigner if i can help it, if she never marries. well, well, i am glad to see you, and to shake your hand. i--i wish i could really tell you how i feel toward you, my boy, but i--i don't seem to have the power to express myself. if i--" i tried to convince him that the pleasure had been all mine, and then inquired for mrs. titus and the countess. "they're both here, but the good lord only knows where. mrs. titus goes driving every morning. roads are fine if you can stick to them. aline said something last night about riding over to fassifern this forenoon with amberdale and young skelly. let's see, it's half-past ten. yes, they've gone by this time. why didn't you write or telegraph aline? she'll be as mad as a wet hen when she finds you've come without letting her know." "i thought i should like to take her by surprise," i mumbled uncomfortably. "and my son jasper--why, he will explode when he hears you're here. he's gone over to covington to see a girl off on the train for louisville. you've never seen such a boy. he is always going to covington with some girl to see that she gets the right train home, but why are we wasting time here when we might be doing a few holes before lunch? i'll take you on. of course, you understand i'm a wretched player, but i've got one virtue: i never talk about my game and i never tell funny stories while my opponent is addressing the ball. i'm an old duffer at the game, but i've got more sense than most duffers." we sauntered down to the club house where he insisted on buying me a dozen golf balls and engaging a caddy for me by the week. up to the moment we stepped up to the first tee he talked incessantly of aline and rosemary, but the instant the game was on he settled into the grim reserve that characterises the man who takes any enterprise seriously, be it work or play. i shall not discuss our game, further than to say that he played in atrociously bad form but with a purpose that let me, to some degree, into the secret of his success in life. if i do say it myself, i am a fairly good player. my driving is consistently long. it may not be difficult for even you who do not go in for golf to appreciate the superior patience of a man whose tee shots are rarely short of two hundred and twenty yards when he is obliged to amble along doing nothing while his opponent is striving to cover the same distance in three or four shots, not counting the misses. but i was patient, agreeably patient, not to say tolerant. i don't believe i was ever in a better humour than on this gay november morn. i even apologised for mr. titus's execrable foozles; i amiably suggested that he was a little off his game and that he'd soon strike his gait and give me a sound beating after the turn. his smile was polite but ironic, and it was not long before i realised that he knew his own game too well to be affected by cajolery. he just pegged away, always playing the odd or worse, uncomplaining, unresentful, as even-tempered as the may wind, and never by any chance winning a hole from me. he was the rarest "duffer" it has ever been my good fortune to meet. as a rule, the poorer the player the loader his execrations. jasper titus was one of the worst players i've ever seen, but he was the personification of gentility, even under the most provoking circumstances. for instance, at the famous "crater," it was my good fortune to pitch a ball fairly on the green from the tee. his mashie shot landed his ball about twenty feet up the steep hill which guards the green. it rolled halfway back. without a word of disgust, or so much as a scowl, he climbed up and blazed away at it again, not once but fourteen times by actual count. on the seventeenth stroke he triumphantly laid his ball on the green. most men would have lifted and conceded the hole to me. he played it out. "a man never gets anywhere, mr. smart," said he, unruffled by his miserable exhibition, "unless he keeps plugging away at a thing. that's my principle in life. keep at it. there is satisfaction in putting the damned ball in the hole, even if it does require twenty strokes. you did it in three, but you'll soon forget the feat. i'm not likely to forget the troubles i had going down in twenty, and there lies the secret of success. if success comes easy, we pass it off with a laugh, if it comes hard we grit our teeth and remember the ways and means. you may not believe it, but i took thirty-three strokes for that hole one day last week. day before yesterday i did it in four. perhaps it wouldn't occur to you to think that it's a darned sight easier to do it in four than it is in thirty-three. get the idea?" "i think i do, mr. titus," said i. "the things that 'come easy' are never appreciated." "right, my boy. it's what we have to work for like nailers that we lie awake thinking about." we came out upon the eminence overlooking the next hole, which lay far below us. as i stooped to tee-up my ball, a gleeful shout came up the hillside. "hello, john bellamy!" glancing down, i saw jasper, jr., at the edge of the wagon road. he was waving his cap and, even at that distance, i could see the radiance in his good-looking young face. a young and attractively dressed woman stood beside him. i waved my hand and shouted a greeting. "i thought you said he'd gone to covington to see her off," i said, turning to the young man's father with a grin. "not the same girl," said he succinctly, squinting his eyes. "that's the little parsons girl from richmond. he was to _meet_ her at covington. jasper is a scientific butterfly. he makes both ends meet,--nearly always. now no one but a genius could have fixed it up to see one girl off and meet another on the same train." later on, jasper, jr., and i strolled over to the casino verandah, the chatty miss parsons between us, but leaning a shade nearer to young titus than to me, although she appeared to be somewhat overwhelmed at meeting a real live author. mr. titus, as was his habit, hurried on ahead of us. i afterwards discovered he had a dread of pneumonia. "aline never said a word about your coming, john," said jasper, jr. he called me john with considerable gusto. "she's learning how to hold her tongue." "it happens that she didn't know i was coming," said i drily. he whistled. "she's off somewhere with amberdale. ever meet him? he's one of the finest chaps i know. you'll like him, miss parsons. he's not at all like a britisher." "but i like the british," said she. "then i'll tell him to spread it on a bit," said jappy obligingly. "great horseman, he is. got some ripping nags in the new york show next week, and he rides like a dream. watch him pull down a few ribbons and rosettes. sure thing." "your father told me that the countess was off riding with him and another chap,--off to fassifern, i believe." "for luncheon. they do it three or four times a week. not for me. i like waiters with shirt fronts and nickle tags." alone with me in the casino half an hour later, he announced that it really looked serious, this affair between aline and his lordship. i tried to appear indifferent,--a rather pale effort, i fear. "i think i am in on the secret, jappy," said i soberly. he stared. "has she ever said anything to you, old chap, that would lead you to believe she's keen about him?" i temporised. "she's keen about somebody, my son; that's as far as i will go." "then it must be amberdale. i'm on to her all right, all right. i know women. she's in love, hang it all. if you know a thing about 'em, you can spot the symptoms without the x-rays. i've been hoping against hope, old man. i don't want her to marry again. she's had all the hell she's entitled to. what's the matter with women, anyhow? they no sooner get out of one muddle than they begin looking around for another. can't be satisfied with good luck." "but every one speaks very highly of lord amberdale. i'm sure she can't be making a mistake in marrying him." "i wish she'd pick out a good, steady, simplified american, just as an experiment. we're not so darned bad, you know. women can do worse than to marry americans." "it is a matter of opinion, i fancy. at any rate we can't go about picking out husbands for people who have minds of their own." "well, some one in our family picked out a lemon for aline the first time, let me tell you that," said he, scowling. "and she's doing the picking for herself this time, i gather." "i suppose so," said he gloomily. i have visited the popular and almost historic fassifern farm a great many times in my short career, but for the life of me i cannot understand what attraction it possesses that could induce people to go there for luncheon and then spend a whole afternoon lolling about the place. but that seems to have been precisely what the countess and his lordship did on the day of my arrival at the homestead. the "other chap," skerry, came riding home alone at three o'clock. she did not return until nearly six. by that time i was in a state of suppressed fury that almost drove me to the railway station with a single and you might say childish object in view. i had a pleasant visit with mrs. titus, who seemed overjoyed to see me. in fact, i had luncheon with her. mr. titus, it appeared, never ate luncheon. he had a dread of typhoid, i believe, and as he already possessed gout and insomnia and an intermittent tendency to pain in his abdomen, and couldn't drink anything alcoholic or eat anything starchy, i found myself wondering what he really did for a living. mrs. titus talked a great deal about lord amberdale. she was most tiresome after the first half hour, but i must say that the luncheon was admirable. i happened to be hungry. having quite made up my mind that aline was going to marry amberdale, i proceeded to upset the theory that a man in love is a creature without gastronomical aspirations by vulgarly stuffing myself with half a lamb chop, a slice of buttered bread and nine pickles. "aline will be glad to see you again, mr. smart," said she amiably. "she was speaking of you only a day or two ago." "was she?" i inquired, with sudden interest which i contrived to conceal. "yes. she was wondering why you have never thought of marrying." i closed my eyes for a second, and the piece of bread finally found the right channel. "and what did you say to that?" i asked quietly. she was disconcerted. "i? oh, i think i said you didn't approve of marrying except for love, mr. smart." "um!" said i. "love on both sides is the better way to put it." "am i to infer that you may have experienced a one-sided leaning toward matrimony?" "so far as i know, i have been singularly unsupported, mrs. titus." "you really ought to marry." "perhaps i may. who knows?" "aline said you would make an excellent husband." "by that she means a stupid one, i suppose. excellent husbands are invariably stupid. they always want to stay at home." she appeared thoughtful. "and expect their wives to stay at home too." "on the contrary, an excellent husband lets his wife go where she likes--without him." "i am afraid you do not understand matrimony, mr. smart," she said, and changed the subject. i am afraid that my mind wandered a little at this juncture, for i missed fire on one or two direct questions. mrs. titus was annoyed; it would not be just to her to say that she was offended. if she could but have known that my thoughts were of the day and minute when i so brutally caressed the countess tarnowsy, i fancy she would have changed her good opinion of me. to tell the truth, i was wondering just how the countess would behave toward me, with the memory of that unforgettable incident standing between us. i had been trying to convince myself for a very long time that my fault was not as great in her eyes as it was in mine. along about five o'clock, i went to my room. i daresay i was sulking. a polite bell-boy tapped on my door at half-past six. he presented a small envelope to me, thanked me three or four times, and, as an afterthought, announced that there was to be an answer. whereupon i read the countess's note with a magnificently unreadable face. i cleared my throat, and (i think) squared my shoulders somewhat as a soldier does when he is being commended for valour, and said: "present my compliments to the countess, and say that mr. smart will be down in five minutes." the boy stared. "the--the what, sir?" "the _what_?" i demanded. "i mean the _who_, sir." "the countess. the lady who sent you up with this note." "wasn't no countess sent me up hyer, boss. it was miss tarsney." somehow staggered, i managed to wave my hand comprehensively. "never mind. just say that i'll be down in two minutes." he grinned. "i reckon i'd better hustle, or you'll beat me down, boss." * * * * * chapter xxi she proposes she was still in her riding habit when i found her alone in the parlour of the titus suite. i give you my word my heart almost stopped beating. i've never seen any one so lovely as she was at that moment. _never_, i repeat. her hair, blown by the kind november winds, strayed--but no! i cannot begin to define the loveliness of her. there was a warm, rich glow in her cheeks and a light in her eyes that actually bewildered me, and more than that i am not competent to utter. "you have come at last," she said, and her voice sounded very far off; although i was lifting her ungloved hand to my lips. she clenched my fingers tightly, i remember that; and also that my hand shook violently and that my face _felt_ pale. i think i said that i had come at last. she took my other hand in hers and drawing dangerously close to me said: "i do not expect to be married for at least a year, john." "i--i congratulate you," i stammered foolishly. "i have a feeling that it isn't decent for one to marry inside of two years after one has been divorced." "how is rosemary?" i murmured. "you _are_ in love with me, aren't you, john, dear?" "goo--good heaven!" i gasped. "i _know_ you are. that's why i am so sure of myself. is it asking too much of you to marry me in a year from--" i haven't the faintest notion how long afterward it was that i asked her what was to become of that poor, unlucky devil, lord amberdale. "he isn't a devil. he's a dear, and he is going to marry a bred-in-the-bone countess next january. you will like him, because he is every bit as much in love with his real countess are you are with a sham one. he is a bird of your feather. and now don't you want to come with me to see rosemary?" "rosemary," i murmured, as in a dream--a luxurious lotus-born dream. she took my arm and advanced with me into a room adjoining the parlour. as we passed through the door, she suddenly squeezed my arm very tightly and laid her head against my shoulder. we were in a small sitting-room, confronting jasper titus, his wife and his tiny grand-daughter, who was ready for bed. "you won't have to worry about me any longer, daddy dear," said aline, her voice suddenly breaking. "well, i'll be--well, well, well!" cried my late victim of the links. "is _this_ the way the wind blows?" i was perfectly dumb. my face was scarlet. my dazzled eyes saw nothing but the fine, aristocratic features of aline's mother. she was leaning slightly forward in her chair, and a slow but unmistakable joyous smile was creeping into her face. "aline!" she cried, and aline went to her. jasper titus led rosemary up to me. "kiss the gentleman, kiddie," said he huskily, lifting the little one up to me. she gave a sudden shriek of recognition, and i took her in my arms. "ha! ha! ha!" laughed i, without the slightest idea of what i was doing or why i did it. sometimes i wonder if there has ever been any insanity in our family. i know there have been fools, for i have my uncle rilas's word for it. mr. titus picked up the newspaper he had been reading. "listen to this, allie. it will interest you. it says here that our friend tarnowsy is going to marry that fool of a cincinnati girl we were talking about the other day. i know her father, but i've never met her mother. old bob thackery has got millions but he's only got one daughter. what a blamed shame!" * * * * * it must be perfectly obvious to you, kind reader, that i am going to marry aline tarnowsy, in spite of all my professed opposition to marrying a divorcee. i argued the whole matter out with myself, but not until after i was irrevocably committed. she says she needs me. well, isn't that enough? in fact, i am now trying my best to get her to shorten the probationary period. she has taken off three months, god bless her, but i still hope for a further and more generous reduction--for good behaviour! the end british castles [illustration: bodiam castle, sussex.] british castles by charles h. ashdown containing full-page illustrations in colour and a number of plans and diagrams in the text [illustration: a trebuchet] london adam and charles black agents america the macmillan company & fifth avenue, new york australasia the oxford university press flinders lane, melbourne canada the macmillan company of canada, ltd. st. martin's house, bond street, toronto india macmillan & company, ltd. macmillan building, bombay bow bazaar street, calcutta germany, austria-hungary,} russia, } brockhaus and pehrsson scandinavia, and } querstrasse, leipzig german switzerland } preface considering the richness and variety of both technical and popular literature upon castles generally, it may appear superfluous to send forth another book upon the same subject, and, if investigation had been at a standstill or barren in results during the past decade, criticism would be justified. but much has come to light upon this interesting subject which undoubtedly revolutionises pre-existing ideas, both as to primitive forms of castellation and of those in historic periods. the allocation of the former to approximately definite epochs, and also of two great and important phases of the latter to well-defined periods, are the salient features of late investigations. unfortunately the ordinary reader is debarred from becoming intimate with these changes of thought, inasmuch as newly acquired discoveries are generally to be found only in the transactions of learned societies or in disconnected brochures not readily available. to bring these ideas to a focus and present them in such a form that the man in the street--undoubtedly a member of the preponderating majority--may readily comprehend them is one of the aims of the writer, while another is to suggest to the ordinary observer that the earthworks in our islands entitle primitive man to be considered with much more respect and consideration than has hitherto been afforded him. the monumental work of mr. t. g. clark, _mediæval military architecture_, has had no formidable rival since its appearance, but unfortunately it must now be read with care since much of the matter is obsolete. the distinction between the saxon _burh_ and the primitive type of castle thrown up by the early norman invaders was not apparent at the time the work appeared, and consequently many scores of castellated works are assigned to incorrect periods. this had the effect of making the chronology of the rectangular keep incorrect. unhappily _the history of the art of war_ by oman followed clark's lead and with, of course, the same result. mr. j. h. round in his _geoffrey de mandeville_ appears to have been one of the first, if not the first, to differentiate between the _turris_ and the _castellum_ (_i.e._ the keep and the ward) of medieval writers, who were proverbially loose with respect to their employment of technical terms. excellent work also in this respect has been carried out by mrs. e. armitage, who, by the process of practically investigating in detail some of the defences mentioned in domesday book, has been able to definitely assign the motte and bailey type to the early norman period. in the recently issued _victoria history of the counties of england_ the effect of these discoveries is discernible in those parts relating to castellation, which very carefully correct the errors prevailing in former standard and in local topographical works. with regard to earthworks, the invaluable investigations carried out by "the committee upon ancient earthworks and fortified enclosures," acting in co-operation with the society of antiquaries, has resulted in a flood of light being thrown upon these interesting remains, so that the old allocation to british, roman, and danish influence, so arbitrarily insisted upon in former times according to the contour of the earthwork in question, no longer subsists, or only as far as circumstances justify the nomenclature. no generally available work is to hand dealing with these subjects in a non-technical manner, and it may be hoped that this endeavour will help to fill the interregnum between the work of clark and a future equally monumental tome. the thanks of the author are herewith gratefully tendered to the congress of archæological societies of for permission to make use of the plans of earthworks issued in their "scheme for recording ancient defensive earthworks and fortified enclosures," and also to mr. cecil c. brewer for the plans of various floors in hedingham keep. charles h. ashdown. st. albans. contents chapter i page natural fortresses strengthened chapter ii fortified hill-tops chapter iii simple artificial enclosures chapter iv the motte and bailey castle chapter v the shell keep chapter vi the rectangular keep chapter vii the cylindrical keep chapter viii the concentric castle chapter ix the castellated mansion chapter x the castles of scotland chapter xi the siege and defence of a medieval castle index list of illustrations full page in colour . bodiam castle, sussex _frontispiece_ one of the most picturesque ruins in sussex and the most interesting of its class in the kingdom. it was erected by a veteran of agincourt and is based upon the plan of those existing in gascony at that time. only the encircling walls and towers now remain, the interior having been despoiled. the view shows the gateway and a portion of the defences of the causeway across the moat. facing page . maiden castle, dorsetshire this gigantic earthwork looms darkly in the distance, with indications upon its broken outline of the enormous mounds and fosses which render it one of the most impressive examples of its class. as a work of neolithic man it commands attention, both by reason of the vastness of its plan and the skill shown in the design. . pevensey castle, sussex within the roman walls encircling this ancient site a concentric castle was erected during the time of edward i., a short portion of the existing wall being used for the new building. it was partly surrounded by a moat, a part of which appears in the view, while the drum tower occupying the centre is one of those designed to protect the approach to the castle. . the beauchamp tower, tower of london this building affords an interesting example of the ground floor of a tower of the thirteenth century with massive walls and deep embrasures. it became famous as a prison in tudor times and later when numerous notable persons were incarcerated; the carvings on the walls reveal many notable names. . corfe castle, dorsetshire the scattered ruins of the great castle of corfe owe their present appearance to the "slighting" by gunpowder in , after its capture by the parliamentarians. amid the desolation produced the great keep still rears a massive front towards the sky, as if protesting against the indignity. the gateway to the inner bailey is nearly perfect, and the smooth ashlar of many of the circular towers remains wonderfully preserved. . the tower of london the three lines of defence which render the tower one of the most effective concentric castles in this country are well seen in the illustration. the outer encircling walls, the higher curtain wall of the second defence, with one of the many towers which bestride it, and the innermost of all, the white tower, the finest example of a norman keep in england, may be distinctly located. . kenilworth castle, warwickshire although deprived of the charm of the great moat which once surrounded the castle, kenilworth still forms a beautiful object, magnificent in its decay. the halo of romance hangs over these ruins, and speaks eloquently of the barons' war, and of the 'spacious days' of queen elizabeth. . arundel castle, sussex this massive pile, overlooking the little river arun at its base, stands upon a spur of chalk which once bore a motte and bailey castle. the motte is now crowned by a shell keep, seen towards the right of the picture, while some of the other buildings erected upon the enceinte form an effective group in the centre. . dover castle, kent the great keep dominates the view, with the buildings of its fore-court at the base, while below are seen the towers and massive defences of the formidable entrance to the castle. it is one of the most impressive piles to be seen in the british isles, and never fails to impress the foreigner when approaching it from the coast of france. . rochester castle, kent of rochester castle nothing of importance remains except the great keep and fragments of walls. the norman keep was erected in the reign of henry i. ( - ) and is one of the finest now in existence. it has seen many troublous times in its varied history, chiefly at the hands of king john and simon de montfort. the combination of keep, cathedral, and river presented in the view is particularly pleasing. . richmond castle, yorkshire this lordly castle occupies a commanding position in the romantically beautiful valley of the swale and dates back to the norman period. the keep is a salient feature and exemplifies in a remarkable degree nearly all the characteristics inherent in buildings of this class. the norman hall is one of the best preserved of its type to be found in this country. . carnarvon castle, carnarvonshire one of the most impressive features of this great castle, termed the finest in europe, is the eagle tower with its many historical associations. the bands and dressings of dark sandstone are well shown in the illustration, while upon the merlons crowning the turrets may be perceived as little dots the statuettes of men and animals which usually occur upon the edwardian castles in wales. . castle rushen, isle of man castle rushen, in castletown, is the ancient residence of the kings of man; it probably dates from the thirteenth century and is still quite entire. the keep-like structure upon the right are the curtain walls and towers surrounding the inner bailey. . leeds castle, kent leeds castle is of the concentric type and stands upon two islands in the middle of a lake which contains about fifteen acres of water. it has a rich history and the remains are of considerable interest, although the earliest work now to be seen is not older than the twelfth century. the gloriette or keep is that portion lying to the right in the picture. . tower of london, the middle tower this building might more aptly be termed 'the barbican,' as it lies upon the farther side of the moat from the fortress. it now forms the entrance to the tower from tower hill and affords access to the outer bailey through the byward tower, whose entrance may be perceived through the archway. in earlier times this gate, which is one of those built by henry iii., was separated from a former outer barbican by the waters of the moat, hence its name, the middle tower. . chepstow castle, monmouthshire chepstow castle is an example of an early norman fortress of the rectangular keep type, which was rendered concentric by the addition of baileys and a wall of enceinte. a steep side towards the river is visible in the picture upon which the domestic buildings were built. among the many beautiful spots to be found upon the banks of the wye, chepstow castle holds a worthy place. perhaps the 'beauty of decay' is in no case better exemplified in any part of england than here. . leeds castle, kent the gateway of the castle is one of the most picturesque portions of the building. a range of machicoulis is placed over the entrance, while a small portion of an original bretasche, a very rare survival of the medieval period, is also preserved in the castle. . windsor castle windsor castle was originally of the motte and bailey type, but the motte was subsequently crowned with a massive shell keep, one of the largest of its kind. it appears in the illustration surmounted by the royal standard. by later additions the castle was rendered concentric. in the centre is the upper portion of st. george's chapel, and on the right the curfew tower built by henry iii. and restored by salvin, while in the front nestles a portion of the old town. . skipton castle, yorkshire skipton castle possesses a history reaching back to the norman conquest, and has been in the possession of the great clifford family since the reign of edward ii. the portion here shown is the tudor courtyard, erected by the first earl of cumberland in the reign of henry viii. . ightham mote, kent ightham mote boasts of a hall erected early in the fourteenth century and one of the best of its kind. the tower is of perpendicular architecture, and most of the other portions elizabethan. the half-timber work exhibited in this building is a beautiful example, and the whole structure harmonizes in the happiest manner with the uncommon beauty of the surroundings. . wressle castle, yorkshire wressle castle has a history which is indissolubly linked up with the great house of the percies, who periodically maintained their court in it for centuries. only the south façade is now standing, as the parliamentarians destroyed the remaining three sides about . it was surrounded by a moat and a deep dry ditch. the famous household book of henry percy, written soon after the country settled down after the wars of the roses, reveals elaborate details of the life in this castle. the illustration shows how a castle built on level ground is able to look over a very extended area from its battlements. . hever castle, kent hever castle dates from the time of edward iii., and a romantic interest is attached to it in connection with the ill-fated anne boleyn, whose family resided there. the gatehouse, not shown in the illustration, is undoubtedly one of the most effective portions of the building. . maxstoke castle, warwickshire this castle is practically entire, having escaped the destructive hands of the parliamentarians. it was raised in the early part of the reign of edward iii. and the gatehouse forms an excellent example of castellation of that period. strange to say, some of the original domestic apartments are still in a good state of preservation. . herstmonceaux castle, sussex this castle is one of the later type, and erected in brick. it is contemporary with tattershall in lincolnshire, also built of brick, and undoubtedly forms one of the finest examples of the castellated mansion to be found in england. . penshurst place, kent the manor-house of the sydneys first came into existence in the reign of edward ii., and gradually expanded into a happy mixture of the manorial mansion and the castle. the hall, seen in the centre of the picture, dates from the middle of the fourteenth century and is one of the earliest parts of the building. . bothwell castle, lanarkshire bothwell castle stands in all the majesty of ruin upon the banks of the clyde, and is without doubt the grandest example in scotland of the simple enclosure castle of the thirteenth century. a deep and wide moat protects it upon the land side, and its donjon is also strengthened by its own ditch. . neidpath castle, peeblesshire is a typical lowland keep or peel overlooking the tweed, and although it probably does not date back earlier than the fourteenth century in its present form, an older structure existed in the time of david i. ( - ), who dated charters there. the castle was held by the frasers until the fourteenth century, and john, lord yester, afterwards the earl of tweeddale, defended the place against cromwell in but was obliged to surrender. . edinburgh castle from the terrace of heriot's hospital edinburgh castle is the centre of the national history of scotland. it stands upon the ancient burgh of edwin, king of northumbria, and although sadly altered and disfigured in comparatively modern times by the addition of many unpicturesque buildings, it still possesses interesting features of the past, and an imposing aspect when viewed from the city. . dunnottar castle, kincardineshire dunnottar castle is undoubtedly one of the most majestic ruins of the fourteenth century in scotland, with a rich store of interesting history casting a halo of romance around the massive pile. the sea surrounds it on three sides, while a deep ravine upon the fourth severs it from the mainland. the tide of war has often ebbed and flowed before its hoary walls. the keep was built by sir william keith in , and in the great civil war the regalia of scotland, which had been sent here for safety, was sent out of the castle before its surrender to the english. . tantallon castle, haddingtonshire tantallon castle stands upon a bold spur of rock south of the firth of forth. it is a magnificent example of a quadrangular castle, surrounded upon three sides by the waters of the north sea, and defended upon the remaining side by gigantic walls flanked by the keep, and also a deep ditch. . stirling castle, stirlingshire stirling castle occupies a precipitous site upon the river forth and is connected with the history of scotland from a very early period. of sieges and battles it has seen its full share, and although modern fortifications and barracks somewhat detract from its appearance, it still possesses a number of medieval structures of great beauty and interest. . raising the portcullis the method for raising and lowering the portcullis of a medieval castle is shown here, the example being taken from the tower of london. this effective defence could be entirely detached if required and dropped at a critical moment when, perhaps, a few assailants had gained admission, and were in that manner cut off from their comrades. line drawings in the text page . a trebuchet title-page . comb moss, derbyshire . maiden castle, west entrance . maiden castle, east entrance . stockade of stone and rubble, with palisade of wood . simple stockade of stone and earth, retained by wooden stakes . stone stockade, with inner core of masonry . wooden palisade of tree-trunks, strengthened with earth . badbury rings, dorset . the berm of cadbury castle . ravensburgh castle, hexton, herts . mam tor, derbyshire . hunsbury, northamptonshire . yarnbury, wilts . melandra, derbyshire . section of the city defences of verulamium (near st. albans) . battlemented parapet shown in caedmon's paraphrase . battlements shown in harl. ms. . the danish burh at gannock's castle, near tempsford . pevensey castle . clifford's castle, northants . forebuilding of the keep, berkeley . dover castle . clun castle, salop . bamborough castle . plans of the keep of hedingham castle . ground plan of conisborough keep . conisborough . the ideal concentric castle . machicoulis supporting an alur . merlon pierced with oillet . caerphilly castle . kidwelly castle, carmarthenshire . chepstow castle . leeds castle, kent . bartizan . diagram illustrating the principle of construction in classical engines british castles chapter i natural fortresses strengthened man is essentially a pugilistic animal and experiences a keen sense of delight in hunting all objects of the chase, ferocious or otherwise, but the keenest undoubtedly when upon the track of the grandest of all game--man. but at the same time though willing to inflict injury he invariably does so at the minimum of risk to himself, deeming the preservation of his own life, the greatest of the gifts that nature has bestowed upon him, of the first importance. thus it is conceivable that after the selection of a stone or the fabrication of a club by primitive man he naturally proceeded to make a protection for himself to counteract the effect of those weapons when wielded by others, and the shield would follow as a logical sequence. the shield was to all intents and purposes a movable castle, since it afforded him the means of causing the greatest amount of annoyance to his enemy, while at the same time furnishing the maximum means of protection to himself; a definition which is appropriate to the first and latest type of feudal castle. as a non-movable protection he would soon recognise the advantages afforded by a tree, a rock, a fold in the ground; and the efficacy of these natural defences would suggest artificial examples where they were non-existent. hence the earthwork and the parapet of rock, singly or combined, may be regarded as the first of all castellation, with an origin so remote as to be practically coeval with man's first appearance upon earth. these simple means of defence are found in every country occupied by primitive races; in america they are numerous and undoubtedly point to a high antiquity, and the same holds good in many parts of asia and europe. in the british isles we have a richer collection probably than can be found in any other portion of the globe, for in the habitable districts hardly a square mile exists without some indication of disturbance of the soil due in the majority of cases to some work of a defensive character. earthworks are of such a varied nature, with so many differences of contrast alike as regards shape, elevation and area, that to the ordinary observer any classification seems impossible, and practically it is only when descriptions and plans of the whole are aggregated for selection that they fall under different headings by presenting essential features common to a class. hence in late years a system of differentiation has been evolved, and the allocation of an earthwork to a definite class is now possible. to the antiquary this is a source of keen satisfaction, and it is hoped that to the ordinary observer it may prove one of equal interest. it should be borne in mind that earthworks of great antiquity are found only in those districts and localities where man could delve with his primitive appliances, and thus a classification presents itself at once in a contradistinction between the western and central parts of england compared with the southern and eastern. it is obvious that no primitive race, with their crude appliances, could dig into cambrian, silurian, or carboniferous rock in order to entrench themselves, and that in those localities the breastwork would necessarily be paramount; and that entrenching would only be possible where an accumulation of detritus or alluvium existed, that is to say, in the valleys. so that, broadly speaking, the parapet prevails in wales and the midland counties and the ditch in the remaining portions. those districts, reaching approximately from dorsetshire to yorkshire and belonging to the cretaceous formation, would therefore roughly divide the country into two portions--the fosse prevailing to the east of it, and the breastwork to the west. another fact is apparent when dealing with this subject: the earthwork is much more durable than any other form of castrametation, in fact it is almost indestructible so far as meteoric agencies are concerned, whereas the parapet suffers not only from disintegration by the weathering influences of rain, frost, wind, and heat, but also from the tendency to lose its original shape through having no natural or artificial coherence between the separate parts. thus undoubted examples of prehistoric ramparts are comparatively rare when compared with the wealth of existent earthworks. it must be borne in mind that the study of the earthwork is the alphabet to that of castellation, and that the evolution of the latter cannot be efficiently comprehended without an intelligent appreciation of the former. so far as classification of earthworks has been made to the present time, the following table represents the general mode of procedure, and under one or other of its separate headings the whole of the earthworks, so far as our knowledge extends at the time of writing, may be allocated. classification of earthworks . _natural fortresses strengthened._ this refers to fortresses partly inaccessible by reason of precipices, cliffs, or water, additionally defended by artificial banks or walls. . _fortified hill-tops strengthened._ this includes fortresses situated on hill-tops, with artificial defences adapted to the natural configuration of the ground, or to those which are less dependent on the natural slopes. . _simple artificial enclosures_, including rectangular or other forms, and all the fortifications and towns of the romano-british period. . _the mount and fosse._ . _the mount and bailey_, consisting of natural or artificial mounds with one or more courts attached. . _homestead moats._ . _homestead moats developed_, referring to enclosures similar to no. but augmented by supplementary defences. . _protected village sites._ _class i.--natural fortresses strengthened._ this division may very readily be subdivided into three parts dealing with natural fortresses according to the topographical characteristics as follows: (_a_) promontory forts, or cliff castles both upon the coasts and inland. (_b_) those depending upon rivers, woods, marshes, etc. for efficiency. (_c_) plateau forts. (_a_) _promontory forts._--this type of fort is prehistoric as a rule and not characterised by an excess of variation. no distinctive uniformity can be traced, it is true, but special features may be discovered in almost every example of the class. it is only natural that primitive man should seize upon any spot which promised the minimum of labour to adapt it for his purpose of protection, hence distinguishing features may be discerned in almost every case, depending upon the presence of a precipice, slope, bog, wood, chasm, marsh, etc. the description of a few of these fortresses will sufficiently illustrate the point. _trevalgue head_, one mile north-east of new quay, is practically an island, being cut off from the mainland by a chasm through which the tide flows, thus presenting a formidable obstacle feet wide in places. in order to strengthen this natural obstruction many lines of entrenchments have been thrown up, both upon the island and the mainland. the presence of quantities of flint chippings sufficiently proves that this fort was the residence of neolithic man, probably the descendant of local palæolithic ancestors. as the terms "stone age," "bronze age," "iron age" do not convey any idea of date to the great majority of people, it may be advisable to mention that the stone age approximately terminated about b.c. upon the continent, and b.c. in the british isles, when the bronze age is supposed to have commenced. these dates are of course entirely conjectural. the iron age commenced in britain about b.c. the general idea of a cliff castle may be gathered from the foregoing description of trevalgue; there are many examples to be found in our islands, and similar ones occur in brittany. that they are of ancient british origin is suggested by the fact that they invariably occur in a district where cromlechs, stone circles, menhirs, and other celtic remains are to be found. _treryn castle_, about three miles from st. buryan, contains the famous logan stone. the fort is a gigantic mass of granite, nearly feet in height, separated from the mainland by a triple row of formidable entrenchments, still or yards in height. this fort is probably the finest to be found in cornwall. at _st. david's head_ is a cliff castle called _clawll y milwyr_, where a small peninsula has been converted into a formidable fortress by the erection of a great stone wall about feet in thickness and still some or more feet in height. the only method of approaching the enclosed space is by a narrow entrance at the end of the wall. a fosse is associated with the defence in question, and several other subsidiary walls and fosses are found. excavation has proved that the formation of the castle occurred in the early iron age. [illustration: maiden castle, dorsetshire.] _old castle head_, manorbier, in pembrokeshire, may be cited as a good example of a cliff castle, and _dinas_, four miles from fishguard, affords another, where a natural crevasse has been carefully scarped in order to separate a headland from the mainland. the examples given have been taken from south wales and the cornish peninsula, where for obvious reasons less probability of disturbance during later periods has occurred. ideal spots like portland are to be found in the british isles, but the operations of man in quarrying, building, etc. have probably destroyed all traces of defences erected by the primitive inhabitants. _clifton camps_, three in number, lying on either side of the avon, afford us examples of cliff castles remote from the sea. the projecting land jutting out into the loops of the winding river has in each case been protected by lines of trenches. it can hardly be supposed that cliff castles generally were continuously occupied, because as a rule the area is limited, and could not afford sustenance for flocks and herds. neither do they boast the possession of the indispensable well or spring in the majority of cases. simplicity in plan is their chief feature, and generally the fosse defending them is single, rarely double, and practically never treble. they probably afforded the last resort when hard pressed by the enemy; abandoning flocks and herds and thinking only of life and limb, the refugees could make a last stand within them, and, if fortune still proved adverse, could lower themselves down the steep faces of the cliffs, and trust to the mercy of the waters. (_b_) another class of fortresses falling under the same heading are those which depended upon woods, marshes, rivers, and similar natural defences for their efficiency. the _dyke hills_ at dorchester, in oxfordshire, undoubtedly formed at one time a safe haven of refuge, being almost surrounded by swamps forming a most effective defence. at the present time, however, these have disappeared owing to the general lowering of the water-level throughout england, by drainage, locks, weirs, etc., and they consequently give no indication of former efficiency. two great fosses may be traced reaching from the thame to the thames, thus cutting off a piece of land and entirely defending it by means of water. the _isle of avalon_, near glastonbury, is essentially a peninsula, rising from the midst of a marsh with a series of aggers and accompanying dykes carried across the isthmus. [illustration: comb moss, derbyshire.] (_c_) _plateau forts._--_comb moss._ one of the finest examples of this division is comb moss, which is situated near chapel-en-le-frith in the vicinity of derby, and at about feet above the level of the sea. its mission is so obvious that the name of "the castle" is applied to it locally. it is roughly triangular in shape, and upon two sides precipitous slopes occur, which descend for nearly feet and offer magnificent protection. the third side leads out upon a fairly level plateau, and here a double rampart and fosse has been made, completely closing the entrance with the exception of a narrow portion at the north-east side upon the very edge of the precipice, forming a most dangerous entry and consequently could be easily defended by a small number. there is an opening in the centre of the ramparts which is probably of later date, conjecturally roman. an ancient plan shows a spring in the open space, but it does not appear at the present time. a rough wall was constructed round the edges of the precipices to confine sheep, but the original fortress was doubtless defended by a thick and massive rampart, there being no lack of material for such a protection, while the usual timber and stone breastwork would crown it. chapter ii fortified hill-tops this class of fortress is illustrated by numerous examples in the british isles, many of which possess a very high order of merit. class i. is generally found associated with coast line or rivers with precipitous banks; class ii. deals almost entirely with inland elevations which, while having some natural advantages in the way of steep ground or other defences of an inaccessible character, rely chiefly upon the artificial additions which have been made to the natural ones. with such a wealth of illustration it is somewhat difficult to select examples, but those described may perhaps be typical of every variety to be found in the kingdom. these camps of the plateau type were the commonest prevailing before the norman conquest, and for every great fortress like cissbury, maiden castle, dolebury, or bradbury there were hundreds of smaller examples. these latter were, as a rule, much more liable to destruction by the plough, being slightly constructed and generally at no great elevation above the mean level of the land; the farmer, ever in search of good rich earth, turned with avidity to the great banks of loose soil placed ready to hand, and hence the destruction of small camps has been excessive. the great fortresses, with their steep scarps, have defied the ploughman, and to this we may ascribe the excellent preservation they generally present. these contour forts are undoubtedly an advance upon the earlier promontory type and show an adaptation to the requirements of advancing civilisation, pointing to coalescence and centralisation of hitherto-divided communities, the protection of a settled area, and the guarding of trade-routes. hence they indicate the presence of larger numbers and the possession of greater wealth. _hembury fort, honiton._--this is by far the most wonderful example of the class to be found in devonshire. it stands at a height of nearly feet above sea-level and encloses a space of approximately acres in extent. double valla, and their accompanying fosses, surround the whole camp, the crest of the inner vallum averaging from to feet above the bed of its fosse. to these formidable defences a third vallum has been added, surrounding it upon every side except the east where it was deemed unnecessary. it is prehistoric and probably british, but up to the present time has not been excavated. _ham hill_ in the south-east part of somersetshire is a high mass of rock standing detached from the neighbouring hills. the wonderful trenches, too numerous to mention in detail, show a very high order of military skill in fortification, and this is the more remarkable when we discover that neolithic man was probably answerable for their construction, although the fort has been subsequently occupied by men of the bronze age, and also by the romans. _south cadbury_ lies five miles north of sherborne. it is a huge and extremely formidable fortress standing at a height of over feet above sea-level, and possessing no less than four lines of massive ramparts, steeply scarped, some of them even penetrating into the hard oolitic rock. there are two entrances into the large space enclosed by the ramparts, and in each case protective mounds have been erected defending them. [illustration: maiden castle, west entrance.] _maiden castle_, about two miles from dorchester (dorset), easily holds the premier place among the fortified camps of great britain, not only on account of its vast extent and the cyclopean character of its works, but also by reason of the marvellous military ingenuity displayed in its construction. our general conception of the intellectual calibre of primitive man forcibly undergoes an alteration when contemplating the colossal schemes which his brain was capable of producing and his hand had the power of carrying into effect. [illustration: pevensey castle, sussex.] [illustration: maiden castle, east entrance.] the area enclosed is no less than acres, while the whole fort occupies a space of acres. the circumference of this vast work measures one and a half miles, and three enormous valla and fosses stretch this distance; in many places the crest of a vallum above the fosse beneath it amounts to feet. but perhaps our chief admiration is evoked by the complex arrangement, by means of which the two entrances into the fort are protected. a glance at the plans illustrating these will at once show that fortified mounds and bastions of the most complicated forms are placed so as to impede the progress of stormers, and there can be no doubt that every means of protection known at the time were interposed between them and the besieged. [illustration: fig. . stockade of stone and rubble, with palisade of wood.] and here perhaps we may mention that the defences of an ancient earthwork can hardly be judged adequately at the present time without imagining the subsidiary structures which once crowned the works. these auxiliary aids cannot with certainty be described, because of the perishable character which generally signalised them, and the very meagre references which occur in the most ancient of our writers. it is generally accepted by authorities upon the subject that some stockade or other defence was invariably added to the summit of a rampart, and that this depended in character upon the nature of the country. in districts where stone was abundant, uncemented walls of large blocks were erected, generally with battering surfaces, the hollow portion between the two faces being filled up with earth or rubble as in fig. . more primitive still would be the single wall with a bank of retaining earth behind it for support (fig. ), while more complicated would be one strengthened by a central core of masonry (fig. ). remains of these walls have been found in various places still _in situ_. it is quite possible that a palisade of sharpened stakes or of wattle surmounted these stone walls, thus still further adding to their efficiency. in a "soft" country, where only earth or chalk is available, timber would naturally take the place of stone. the gallic defences of this nature, which gave so much trouble to caesar's legions, appear to have been made of tree-trunks lying side by side upon the ground with the second course of trunks superposed at right angles, the whole of the interstices being filled with stones and earth tightly rammed (fig. ). it will readily be perceived that a rampart constructed of alternate courses similar to this, and approximately feet in thickness and of considerable height, would be quite impervious to the missile weapons of the period, and indestructible by fire, even if the assailants succeeded in filling up the deep vallum below the base of the wall with combustible materials. whether this method of the utilisation of timber for barricades was ever introduced into the british isles for strengthening valla we have no means of ascertaining, owing to the perishable nature of the defence, but considering that the ancient britons were of undoubted celtic origin, we are perhaps justified in assuming it. on the other hand, a row of thick vertical planks driven deeply into the soil and placed closely together upon the summit of a rampart would prove a very formidable obstacle after surmounting feet of steep escarpment under a hail of missiles. the small mounds so often placed as defences near the entrances of fortified hill-tops were clearly intended for a ring of palisades upon their summits, and isolated bastions similarly placed were doubtless treated in the same manner. [illustration: fig. . simple stockade of stone and earth, retained by wooden stakes.] [illustration: fig. . stone stockade, with inner core of masonry.] [illustration: fig. . wooden palisade of tree-trunks, strengthened with earth.] there are no less than five lines of defence upon the south and south-east of maiden castle, and a feature of the work is the large amount of room provided upon the summits of the valla to afford accommodation for great bodies of defenders to stand and use their weapons. _badbury rings_, four miles n.w. of wimborne.--this may be classed among the greater hill fortresses inasmuch as it encloses a space of acres and is furnished with three valla and their accompanying ditches. the scarps are in places very steep and feet above the fosses. the eastern entrance is reminiscent of maiden castle, a bastion-like obstruction being thrown forward to obstruct ingress, while the great area of standing-room provided for the defenders may be looked upon as characteristic of west country forts as it is repeated in a number of others--cadbury castle, near tiverton, and shoulsbury on exmoor, for examples. in the outer area a mound occurs, and ponds also have been formed within the fort. investigations have brought celtic antiquities to light and also proved its occupation by the romans. it affords a magnificent prospect from the summit. in historic times it has been utilised, as in a.d. Æthelwald the Ætheling mustered his men there after alfred's death, upon the occasion of a popular rising. [illustration: badbury rings, dorset.] _cadbury castle._--this is a good example of a contour fort crowning an isolated hill feet in height. upon three sides are formidable natural precipices, and the ramparts enclose an oval inner space, which is approximately level. the valla are continuous except upon the south, where a scarped drop occurs of about feet to the level of a wide berm, on the outside of which a gigantic rampart rises to the height of more than feet above the berm. [illustration: the berm of cadbury castle.] _cissbury_, north of worthing.--this great fortress was constructed by men of the flint age, and indubitable proofs of its occupancy by a permanent population engaged in a staple trade are afforded by the immense remains of flint chippings within its area, the product of many generations of flint-knappers. the deep and wide pits within it were dug for the purpose of obtaining flints, the raw material of their industry, and these excavations were subsequently utilised for dwelling-places. the fort is advantageously situated upon the trading route between the inhabitants of the great forest of anderida, covering the weald of sussex, and the maritime population of the southern littoral; and this fact appealed not only to neolithic man but also the men of the bronze and iron ages, who occupied it in succession. it is a camp of the plateau type with an inner vallum rising nearly feet above the fosse and above the inner area. general pitt rivers estimated that men would be required to man the ramparts effectually. [illustration: the beauchamp tower, tower of london.] _ravensburgh castle, hexton, herts._--the northern escarpment of the chiltern hills is marked by numerous deep ravines leading down with winding courses to the lowlands. this has the effect of leaving bold bluffs of chalk standing up between them, and upon one of these this remarkably fine hill fortress is placed. in addition to the two ravines lying at the sides it is still further isolated by a third running at right angles between the others. the castle occupies acres of the western half of this plateau, and possesses double ramparts on three sides and triple on the north. the section ab shows the steep descent into the ravine upon the south side, and de indicates the same, while clearly showing the three lines of defence formed by the two ditches. the scarps are remarkable for their clean and smooth surfaces, the chalk presenting the appearance of having been cut with a huge knife. the entrances into the defence lie at nearly feet above the sea-level. [illustration: ravensburgh castle, hexton, herts.] one of the most prominent examples of the class is _mam tor_, a great hill rising to a height of feet above sea-level, and dominating castleton and edale, derbyshire. upon the summit of this eminence is a remarkable earthwork enclosing about acres of land, round which the original rampart must have been nearly three-quarters of a mile in length. natural defences of a very marked character are upon two sides of the triangular enclosure, consisting of steep slopes which descend for a considerable distance. upon the summit of these slopes two formidable ramparts with an accompanying fosse have been constructed, thus adding still further to an almost unassailable position. the agricultural inhabitants of the district often term it "the shivering mountain" from the many little avalanches of shale which are dislodged from its sides. upon the northern part the natural defences are not so apparent, as the ridge of an adjoining hill approaches at that point. an entrance to the fort occurs there at the present time, as shown in the plan, but not in its primitive condition. the only method of entering was by means of the narrow passage shown at the s.w., defended by a fortified mound at its inner mouth, which in turn was defended by a larger mound lying to the n.w. a small spring of water still rises within the enclosure and escapes through the n.w. break. the interior has not been levelled, and a central spine of rock traverses it from north to south. undoubtedly mam tor furnishes us with one of the finest examples of a fortified hilltop to be found in england. [illustration: mam tor, derbyshire.] the following are a few instances of artificial defences which, although they stand upon higher ground than the surrounding land, are less dependent upon their elevated position. _ambresbury banks, essex._--these banks are situated in epping forest, at the side of the road between epping and london. they are of british origin, as has been definitely proved by excavations carried out by general pitt rivers and the essex field club, thus definitely disproving the assertion previously prevailing of their supposed roman origin. the outline approaches a square form, and this probably gave rise to the supposition. only a few pieces of crude pottery and some flint chippings came to light during the excavations. a feature, however, was disclosed in the fosse, the lower part of which was originally of an angular section; in it a depth of silt approximating to feet had accumulated. the scarp was inclined at an angle of °, and the counterscarp probably rose at almost the same angle; the width of the fosse was over feet, and the depth above half that measurement. [illustration: hunsbury, northamptonshire.] _hunsbury, northamptonshire._--this earthwork is about one and a half miles from northampton, and may be cited as an example which falls naturally into this subdivision, inasmuch as the hill upon which it stands possesses such an easy slope that it does not tend to help to any marked extent the formidable defences upon the summit. these lie nearly feet above the river nen, and feet above sea-level. it is a small enclosure, the single fosse of which is well preserved with the exception of a portion upon the north, which has been quarried for iron-stone, much in demand in that district. the defences were undoubtedly of great power originally, but have been much degraded; the interior of the camp has been ploughed, and the earthworks planted with trees. the original opening is that lying to the s.e. the name upon the ordnance survey is "danes camp," though upon what authority is not apparent. camps of a very similar nature may be found at ring hill in essex, and badbury in berks, while whelpley hill in buckinghamshire is almost an exact replica. [illustration: yarnbury, wilts.] _yarnbury_ lies about three miles to the west of winterbourne stoke in wiltshire and is allocated to this division, being one of the largest and best of its kind. the area enclosed is about acres, encircled by three valla and two or three ditches. the inner rampart rises at times to over feet above the fosse. there are a number of entrances, but only those to the east and west are original, each being defended with outworks, the eastern gate by bastions similar to those at maiden castle and badbury rings. [illustration: corfe castle, dorsetshire.] chapter iii simple artificial enclosures (_a_) _the romano-british period, b.c.-a.d. _ the earthworks under consideration are those which, rectangular or otherwise, were constructed during the historic period commencing with the roman subjugation of great britain, and ending a few years before the norman conquest. it may be termed the romano-british-saxon period. it was the incipient era of castellation proper in the british isles, distinct from pure earthworks, inasmuch as during the roman period massive defences of masonry supplanted the earlier uncemented walls and wooden palisading. at the first invasion of caesar, b.c., we read of no towns being assaulted, but in the next, b.c., the great _oppidum_ of cassivelaunus was taken by storm after the passage of the thames. this capital, verulamium (adjacent to the modern st. albans), was a large oval enclosure defended upon three sides by a deep fosse and vallum, in one place doubled, and upon the other by an impassable marsh. the city was attacked in two places and captured. in a.d. the final subjugation of england took place, and the vallum at verulamium was crowned by the romans with a massive wall of masonry, great portions of which still remain, supplanting the former wooden obstructions. that which occurred at verulamium happened also in numerous other places, silchester for example, the romans thus adapting an efficient earthwork to suit their own requirements. where, however, pre-existing works did not occur, the walls, ramparts, and fosses were invariably constructed round a rectangular area such as may be seen at chester. the enclosed streets crossed each other at right angles, and this feature is a marked one in verulamium, although, as stated, the defences do not conform to the rectangular shape. isolated earthworks constructed during the roman period are always more or less square. [illustration: melandra, derbyshire.] _melandra_ is a roman earthwork in a good state of preservation near glossop in derbyshire. it is almost square, and consists of a simple vallum and external fosse. there are four openings caused by two main roads which intersected at the centre of the earthwork. it affords an example of the prevailing structure of roman camps, which are numerous in those parts of the british isles which owned the sway of the conquerors. the many camps, for example, upon the watling street all exhibit the same general plan, based upon the formation of the roman legion. _richborough castle_, near sandwich in kent, may be cited as a veritable example of a roman castle built in britain, and is almost the only one remaining at the present day that preserves in any marked degree its original salient points. it is conjectured to have been erected in the time of the emperor severus, its mission being to protect the southern mouth of the great waterway which then separated the island of thanet from the mainland, a similar office being performed by reculvers at the northern entry. three sides of the rectangle are still protected by the massive masonry walls which the romans knew so well how to build; the fourth, or eastern side, where flowed the river stour, possesses no visible defence, as it has been undermined and overthrown by the river-current. the northern boundary is feet long, and the western . the walls, which vary in height from to feet, are about feet thick and batter towards the top; they are beautifully faced with squared stone in horizontal courses similar to those seen at segontium, the roman station at carnarvon; the core is composed of boulders from the neighbouring beach, embedded in mortar with courses of the usual roman bonding tiles. in the centre of the area stood a temple and other buildings; the foundations of some of these are still in evidence. whether the external walls were strengthened by the addition of square or circular towers of masonry, as at porchester and silchester, has not as yet been definitely determined. [illustration: section of the city defences of verulamium (near st. albans).] a common device in roman castrametation was the berm or platform outside the surrounding wall, but immediately beneath it; in an attack upon the fortifications the assailants would be exposed to a plunging fire of missiles from the ramparts while descending the steep counterscarp of the ditch, to a raking discharge when ascending the slope of the scarp, and be entirely devoid of cover when crossing the berm, which was generally about feet wide. another advantage of the berm was that it placed the engines of the besiegers on the remote side of the ditch at a greater distance from the walls, and thereby lessened the effect of the missiles discharged from them. to still further modify the results of the latter upon the wall it was customary to bank up the earth upon the inner face to form a ramp, and this also lessened the effects of the rams of the besiegers. these features are shown in the foregoing diagrammatic section of the walls of verulamium. (_b_) _the saxon period, c. - _ concerning the defensive works erected in the british isles during the saxon period there is more indefiniteness prevailing at the time of writing than there is with regard to any period antecedent or consequent to it. this may be attributed to two causes, the first being the unsatisfactory use of the word _burh_ in anglo-saxon manuscripts, and the second the effects produced during the past half-century by writers wrongly attributing the remains of early norman castellation to the period preceding it, following upon a misunderstanding of the word above mentioned. this has had the result of rendering the major portion of the works produced upon the subject of castellation during the latter half of the nineteenth century unreliable and obsolete so far as the saxon and roman periods are concerned, while at the same time producing a marked hesitancy among experts to definitely attribute any work to the first of the periods without systematic excavation of the site. in o.e. the word _burh_ in its nominative form signifies a fort or stronghold and is generally translated as "borough," while in its dative form _byrig_ it is commonly used to indicate what its modern representative "bury" conveys. but anglo-saxon writers did not use the two words strictly, and thus hesitancy and confusion have been produced. it is now being generally accepted that the usual form of burh or borough was that of a rectangular enclosure surrounded by a rampart and an external ditch, the area being of any dimensions up to or acres or more. this arrangement is probably exemplified in the earthworks at wallingford. it is obvious that the inherent weakness in this very elementary system of defence lies in the inability to adequately man all the ramparts at once because of their great extent; the defenders probably relied upon the promptness with which they could meet a threatened attack at any particular point. the anglo-saxons at a very early period recognised the advisability of forming fortified positions in the island, and carried out the system so entirely that practically every isolated house, farm, or group of buildings was enclosed by its rampart and ditch. even at the present day we become aware of this fact from the scores of "burys" and "boroughs" with which the surface of our land abounds. the burh was thus a comparatively slight affair when compared with earthworks which had preceded it. but undoubtedly the great centres of defensive strength lay in those towns which the romans had formerly fortified, and the inclusion of their masonry walls in the borough boundary immensely augmented their efficiency, as is exemplified at york, lincoln, and chester. around villages and farmsteads the defences probably consisted of a ditch, a vallum surmounted by a turf wall, a palisading of thick stakes, or even a hedge. that the latter was a mode of defence in the earlier part of the saxon period is proved by an insertion in the old english chronicle under the year --where ida of northumbria is said to have built _bebban burh_, _i.e._ bamborough,--that it was first enclosed with a hedge, and subsequently with a stone wall. illuminations in saxon mss. representing fortified towns invariably depict stone walls with battlements; but, again, it may be that these are roman, and crenellated walls are extremely ancient, being represented upon the nineveh marbles. in the illustration from the caedmon ms. given here true battlements are depicted by the saxon artist, while a similar attempt has also been made in harl. ms. --a battlemented parapet being evidently intended. [illustration: battlemented parapet shown in caedmon's paraphrase; ms. in bodleian library.] [illustration: battlements shown in harl. ms. . (an anglo-saxon ms. of the psalms.)] ida "wrought a burh" at taunton (before ), and alfred built many burhs against the danes. his son, edward the elder, and ethelfleda, the lady of the mercians, were yet more energetic in raising these defences. to edward the burh at witham, now unfortunately in process of demolition, and also that at maldon are attributed, while ethelfleda was responsible for those at stafford and tamworth in , and at warwick in . in the absence of rebutting evidence we are undoubtedly justified in assuming that these burhs were simply replicas of the conjectured method of fortification pursued by the saxons; the belief is strengthened by the remains at maldon and witham, where wide rectangular enclosures are found surrounded by earthen ramparts and external fosses. a difficulty, however, arises when we consider the two burhs erected at nottingham. no rectangular enclosures have been discovered there, and it seems probable that the word simply signifies that two forts were erected to protect the bridge which passed over the trent at this point, similar perhaps to the mounds of earth at bakewell and towcester, which are supposed to date from the same period. the genius of the saxons appears to have been adapted to field warfare rather than to the construction or maintenance of strong military stations, for we find that when defeated they took refuge in natural fastnesses rather than in fortresses; the woods and marshes of somerset, for example, protected alfred from the pursuit by the danes, and the last stand of these people against the normans occurred in the fens and marshes about ely. there is no account extant of a protracted resistance afforded by a saxon fortress; that of london against the danes may be attributed to the massive roman walls there. it is unsatisfactory to be compelled to wander thus in the realms of conjecture, but it is probable that the kinds of defence varied in different places, since at worcester edward surrounded an ancient borough with a wall of stone. an oblique light, however, is thrown upon the subject by the presence in england of a few undoubted examples of fortifications erected at definite dates by another northern race, _i.e._ the danes, who might be expected to fortify themselves somewhat similarly to the saxons. [illustration: the danish burh at gannock's castle, near tempsford.] these marauders built burhs at reading, quatford on the severn, and benfleet, but by far the best now remaining are those at willington and tempsford on the river ouse. at willington the danes proposed to establish their winter quarters in , and an extensive burh was thrown up for the purpose. it consisted of a large enclosure with inner and outer wards, high ramparts, and three wide ditches filled with water from the river. the most striking features, perhaps, were the two large harbours within the fortifications, designed to protect the danish galleys. the saxon king edward, however, carried the place by assault and burnt the fleet. the discomfited danes, much lessened in numbers, retreated up the river, and near the junction of the ivel with the main stream threw up a smaller burh which now bears the name of gannock's castle, near tempsford. the fort is an oblong area enclosed within a single fosse, and, what is very significant in face of later developments, a mound of earth stands within it near a corner, where the only entrance to the fort is found. probably this mound was protected by palisades the same as the rampart, but edward, flushed by his former success, stormed the burh and captured it with terrible loss to the routed garrison. [illustration: pevensey castle.] _pevensey._--pevensey castle is associated with the earliest history of britain. upon its site stood the roman camp of anderida, oval in shape, and obviously adapted to surface configuration. it is the reputed site of the landing of caesar. the british occupied it when the romans left, and here occurred the great massacre by the south saxons under ella in . in william i. landed at pevensey and erected one of his portable wooden castles, probably within the roman camp. the castle came to his half-brother robert, earl of mortaign, who considerably strengthened the existing remains. the supposition that he erected a motte and bailey castle seems to be negatived by recent investigations. the castle was held by bishop odo against the forces of rufus for six weeks in , but was surrendered, odo promising to give up rochester, which promise he subsequently violated. king stephen besieged it in person in the war with the empress maud, when it was defended by gilbert, earl of clare, and only surrendered through famine. it came to the crown during the thirteenth century, and john of gaunt appointed the pelham family to be castellans. in , sir john of that name, an adherent of bolingbroke, was absent when the castle was besieged by the king's forces, but his wife, the lady jane, conducted an historical defence with such gallantry that the assailants retired. pevensey appears to have been used as a state prison, and within it many notable persons have been incarcerated, including edward duke of york, james i. of scotland, and joan of navarre, second queen of henry iv. a large proportion of the roman wall surrounding the oval site is still in excellent preservation; it is strengthened by fifteen drum towers of great solidity. the height ranges between and feet, and upon the summits may still be perceived some of the strengthening norman masonry. the inner castle is a remarkable feature of the enclosure; it is supposed to have been erected at the end of the thirteenth century, and one of the towers dates from the time of edward ii. it forms an irregular pentagon, each angle being strengthened by a massive drum tower; two semicircular towers flank the entrance, of which one only remains in good condition. the masonry of the drawbridge is still to be seen, and the entrance passage with portcullis grooves and meurtrière openings are in good condition. the great roman wall has been utilised to form portions of the eastern and southern sides, but this suffered in the time of elizabeth, when a part of it was blown up by gunpowder. chapter iv the motte and bailey castle, _c._ -_c._ as is well known to students of english history the norman influence began to prevail in this country some time anterior to . the court of edward the confessor owned a fairly large proportion of normans, the sympathies of that monarch being strongly in their favour. they obtained from him grants of estates in return for feudal duties, and, the welsh being at that time a source of annoyance, some of the land so allocated was situated on the borderland. [illustration: the tower of london.] so far as is known, the earliest castle to be erected by a norman in that locality was built by richard fitz-scrob, _c._ . _richard's castle_, as it is termed, stands in the northern part of herefordshire; a second example was thrown up at hereford, and a third at the southern entrance to the golden valley. if we may trust contemporary documents a similar work was erected about the same time at clavering castle in essex by a saxon native of the county, swegen the sheriff, and also, probably, the castle at dover, which appears to have been in existence prior to the battle of hastings. of this little group of pre-conquest castles the strongest was conjecturally that at hereford, erected in by harold, earl of the west saxons, consisting of a motte and bailey similar to the rest, but only a small portion of the bailey remains at the present time, as the mound has been removed and the ditch filled up. as regards the construction of a castle of the motte and bailey type, it was commenced by the excavation of a deep ditch enclosing, as a rule, a circular space. there are a few exceptions which approximate to the oval, and the oblong form is not unknown. the whole of the ballast excavated was thrown up inside the ring until a high mound, flattened at the top, and with sides as steep as the "angle of repose" of the excavated material would allow, had been formed. the last portions of the superincumbent earth thrown up were consolidated by ramming. around the edge of the area upon the summit of the mound a breastwork of timber was placed, either of thick vertical planks driven deeply into the soil and firmly strengthened behind, or of timber and stone as previously described in connection with fortified hill-tops (chap. ii.). upon the summit and occupying the centre, as a rule, a wooden castle was erected known as the "bretasche," and varying in size and accommodation according to the available space. we may safely infer that the height of the bretasche was not less than two stories, and this, added to the elevation of the mound which occasionally reached to feet, would afford a coign of vantage for a view over the whole area below. upon the outer edge of the fosse a vallum occurs in many examples, thus still further adding to the depth of the defence and giving increased height to the counterscarp; it also afforded a means for erecting a palisading of stakes if advisable. to afford ingress and egress to the fort a narrow flying bridge of wood was erected reaching from the top of the mound to the outer edge of the fosse. [illustration: clifford's castle, northants.] such was the method of construction of the simplest form of this type, of which bures mount in essex, the mount, caerleon, and clifford's castle, northamptonshire, are examples; but it is extremely questionable even if these cited cases were made without an accompanying bailey, although no traces can now be discerned. the accommodation would be so extremely limited, and the danger of starvation to the garrison so imminent, seeing that no room could be afforded for any cattle or sheep upon the motte, that, unless intended to be of a temporary nature or hastily raised in an emergency, we are justified in assuming that these forts, of which not very many occur, are in an incomplete condition. _clifford's castle_, at little houghton, three miles east of northampton, is an example of the motte and fosse; it is one of those defending the valley of the river nen--earl's barton and wollaston being similar companion defences. the hill is of large circumference, presenting imposing proportions, and may be compared with important works like those at ongar and pleshey in essex, or with thetford in norfolk. it rises to a height of over feet above its surroundings, and lies upon part of a small natural ridge. a ditch surrounds the base, the ballast from which was taken to the top of the hill in order to increase the height; the summit there, however, is level. in order to increase the efficiency of the fosse it was converted into a moat, water being admitted from the adjacent river. at the present time no traces whatever of a bailey are discernible, nor of any enclosure with masonry walls. this does not prove that these additions have never existed; the natural place for them would be upon the eastern side where high ground is situated, and if they have been built at any period they would present features similar to those at thurnham in kent. the summit of the mound would in that case be reached by a flying bridge of wood. the bailey, or base court, was an enclosed piece of land lying at the foot of the motte; a ditch surrounded it, the ballast from which was thrown up inside the area so as to make a rampart for palisading. the two ends of the ditch joined the fosse encircling the motte, generally upon opposite sides of the latter. in the bailey the buildings for the garrison, stables, offices and domestic buildings were erected, while the bretasche afforded accommodation for the lord of the castle, his family, and immediate attendants. in those cases where a second bailey occurs it is generally extended beyond the first on the face remote from the motte, as at ongar castle, essex; but sometimes, though more rarely, both baileys will abut upon the mound, as at newton in montgomeryshire, while in a limited group of castles, including windsor and arundel, the motte occupies the centre of the whole defence. it is not difficult to understand the almost universal rule that the mound is placed upon the outer edge of the enceinte; it was without doubt the strongest part of the position, and the refuge to which the besieged retreated when the bailey, or baileys, had been lost, and in the last extremity it afforded a means for escaping to the open country. this disposition of the mound with regard to the bailey should be borne in mind when dealing with those castles which have been erected in later times upon a pre-existing motte and bailey fortress, the mound, as a rule, with its accompanying enclosures serving as a nucleus around which masonry defences could be grouped. through the agency of the plough, and aerial forces of degradation of various kinds, baileys present but scanty traces at the present day in many instances, and this may be taken as proof, if any were needed, that earth and wood were the only kinds of material employed during the early norman period in the construction of forts. no traces of stone have been discovered which can be assigned to that period with absolute certainty, and not only does this well-established fact corroborate the assertion, but documentary evidence points in the same direction. it is quite possible that other motte and bailey castles besides the few enumerated may eventually be ascribed to the fifteen or twenty years preceding the norman invasion, for there was nothing to prevent a wealthy thegn from erecting one of this type which he may have observed on the continent where many scores were in existence. the bayeaux tapestry shows dinant as being defended by a motte and bailey castle; the usual wooden tower is seen upon the top of the mound, and the enclosed bailey is stockaded. it also shows the construction of such a castle at hastings, besides four similar examples in brittany and normandy. certain it is that almost immediately after a rapid construction of these fortified posts occurred in many parts of england and wales, not necessarily equally distributed, but more thickly dotted in those places which the military instinct of the great conqueror led him to deem desirable. thus the welsh borderland is remarkably rich in examples, herefordshire alone containing thirty-two, as compared with leicestershire four, nottinghamshire five, and hertfordshire four. it is remarkable, however, that many highly developed examples of this class are to be found in the eastern counties where no borderland existed, and we can only account for this anomaly by supposing that a norman lord, to whom a grant of land had been assigned in recognition of his military services, hastened to consolidate his occupancy by the erection of a castle, and that such building might possibly not have any reference to the defence of the kingdom as a whole. thus the castle became the accredited centre of a feudal barony, and a motte and bailey in almost every case is connected with places mentioned in the domesday book as being the residence of a norman landowner. for example, berkhampstead, owned by robert count of mortaign, boasts one of the most perfect specimens to be found in the country; the manors of nigel de albini at cainhoe in bedfordshire, robert de malet at eye in suffolk, william fitz-ansculf at dudley in staffordshire, geoffrey alselin at laxton in nottinghamshire, william de mohun at dunster in somersetshire, robert le marmion at tamworth in staffordshire, robert todenei at belvoir in leicestershire, henry de ferrers at tutbury in staffordshire, roger de busli of tickhill in the west riding, and ilbert de lacy at pontefract in yorkshire, all exhibit the same feature. these castles in many cases became the centre around which sprang up the dwellings of traders and agriculturists which subsequently developed into boroughs, while in not a few instances ecclesiastical settlements occurred which finally expanded into stately monasteries. again, many barons threw up castles in the centre of, or adjacent to, pre-existing towns, the subsequent fortifications of which became an integral part of the whole scheme of defence, as at warwick, nottingham, and leicester. wherever a castle was built for the double purpose of overawing a town and defending it against a common enemy, it is generally found placed upon the city defences or immediately adjacent thereto; and as the settlement had invariably originally sprung up in the vicinity of, or upon the banks of, a river, the fort is usually found placed at the junction where the borough and the river defences meet. a fortress situated in this position would be able to afford material help to a relieving army, while at the same time in the event of the town being captured and given to the flames it would occupy the best possible position, short of being entirely outside the walls, for the garrison to escape the effects of the conflagration. this position of the castle with respect to the town walls and other defences will be recognised in the cases of warwick, hereford, stamford, cambridge, bedford, chester, shrewsbury, etc. [illustration: kenilworth castle, warwickshire.] the motte and bailey castle was, as a general rule, placed upon the banks of a river, which thus ensured immunity from attack upon one side, while at the same time supplying the water for the ditches defending the other three sides. in many examples, however, the defence depended upon dry ditches. the proximity of high land apparently had no bearing upon the choice of position, unless of course it was dangerously near; it was only upon the introduction of gunpowder that the presence of commanding spots in the neighbourhood became of importance in the selection of a site. we find, however, that the positions usually chosen enabled the garrison to command a view over the surrounding country, and this feature is a prominent one at richard's castle, which affords a wide extent over the northern part of herefordshire. this is also the case at belvoir, which occupies a similar position with respect to the great plain of nottinghamshire. there were naturally a number of points which had to be taken into consideration in the selection of a site, but those enumerated were among the most important; one fact is forcibly borne in upon the mind when viewing the positions of these ancient fortresses, namely, that the builders had a keen eye for the recognition of salient points in the ichnography of a district. in an invasion of the british isles at the present day the unwelcome intruder would probably hasten to entrench himself and render his position safe by pits, earthworks, and an elaborate entanglement of barbed wire; and in the same manner as these could be rapidly prepared, so we find that the conqueror, directly after hastings, threw up the defence which would be the most expeditious in the making and the cheapest in construction. the motte and bailey castle fulfilled both conditions inasmuch as it was only necessary to obtain, by fair means or otherwise, an adequate number of saxon labourers to ensure the rapid erection of the mound, while simultaneously the local trees were being felled and roughly hewn into shape by native carpenters for the palisades and bretasche. to give an idea of the speed with which these fortresses could be made, we find that in a brief campaign of less than two months, in , the king founded eight of considerable importance, including those at nottingham, warwick, lincoln, huntingdon, and york; in the following year the erection of a second castle at york only occupied eight days, and baile hill, the mount of the defence in question, sufficiently testifies to the magnitude of the work. one great advantage of the system should not be forgotten, namely, the possibility of adequate defence by a small garrison because of the narrow front exposed to an attack, and the immunity from harm of the besieged while the defences stood intact. _windsor._--the royal castle of windsor originated in one of the motte and bailey type erected by the conqueror upon the striking eminence near the thames. it was one of those that were hastily thrown up in order to consolidate his power, as it is mentioned as early as , and in domesday book in . it is one of a small and exclusive type by reason of the dominating motte occupying the centre of the enclosure instead of the usual position at the side or end; this peculiarity is shared by arundel, nottingham, and one or two others. it is quite reasonable to infer, however, that one, or even both, of the baileys were added at some time subsequent to the throwing up of the mound. it was sufficiently advanced in strength in to be the prison of de mowbray, earl of northumberland, and the extensive additions made by henry i. enabled the court to be held there in . john seized on windsor during the absence of his brother, but was besieged in it by the loyal barons, and forced to surrender. windsor has been stated as the place of imprisonment of the de braose family in , who were deliberately starved to death by the inhuman john. in the reign of henry iii. very extensive building operations occurred, and a number of towers, including the barbican, were added, but probably edward iii. left a greater mark upon the castle than any monarch preceding him, possibly by reason of a natural affection for his birthplace. upon the great motte which his norman ancestors had reared he built that magnificent shell keep which forms such a fitting centre for the grand range of buildings encircling it. the works commenced about and lasted for twenty years, the celebrated william of wykeham, subsequently bishop of winchester, being the architect. they included the whole of the walls of the enceinte, the great hall, various lodgings for officials, and st. george's chapel. in two notable prisoners were confined here, david bruce and john, king of france. in the reign of richard ii. st. george's chapel was found to be in an insecure condition, and geoffrey chaucer was appointed clerk of the works. windsor was the scene of the imprisonment of the scottish king james i. under henry iv. and v. edward iv. commenced the re-building of st. george's chapel, which was not completed until the reign of henry viii., while to the latter monarch is due the great gateway which bears his name. the castle suffered but little structurally during the civil war, but all the plate and many of the priceless relics were the objects of plunder. charles ii., william iii., and anne probably did more to destroy this gorgeous monument of antiquity than any preceding monarchs; with the idea of adapting it to modern requirements buildings were dismantled, old landmarks were removed, and trashy innovations of an unworthy age substituted in their place. there are but few marks of commendation attached to the name of george iv., but among them the restoration of the castle upon the ancient lines, when £ , were expended, must be placed to his credit. in spite of the vandalism of recent centuries there still remain many interesting examples of medieval masonry. chapter v the shell keep, _c._ - the shell keep represents the second development of the norman castle, and consists of a circular or polygonal ring of stone walling erected upon the motte in the position formerly occupied by the wooden palisading. the substitution of masonry for perishable material was a natural and logical sequence, but in the hurried rush of events immediately following upon the conquest there was no time for erecting such a defence. a hastily thrown-up mound also would not bear the weight, and it was necessary to allow the earth to consolidate before imposing it. as the country became more settled, and economic and other upheavals less frequent, the norman barons found time and means to devote to the strengthening of their feudal homes. of the precise date of the first shell keep erected in these islands we have no definite record; it is very doubtful if any saw the light during the reign of william the conqueror or rufus, although many examples could be found at that time upon the continent. we know that certain castles, such as carisbrooke, lincoln, and totnes, had developed shell keeps prior to the termination of the reign of stephen, and that windsor, berkeley, arundel, and a number of others were furnished with the same not very long after, so that the age of the shell keep may roughly be ascribed to the twelfth century. one must not infer, however, that every example of a shell keep dates inexorably from that age, because, having proved its efficiency, it became a recognised method of defence, and lewes and durham were endowed with shells as late as the reign of edward iii. the shell keep is always placed upon a mound, either natural, structural at the time of erection, or a pre-existing motte, but by far the greater number of mounds are artificial. the configuration of the earthwork suggested the shape of the shell, being either circular, oval, or, as in the case of york and probably warwick, that of a quatrefoil. the majority are polygonal, the sides not necessarily of equal length, and few of them exceeding the duodecagon in number. the diameter varied from feet to , seldom more or less; the thickness of the wall was from feet to feet, and the foundations were carried from feet to feet into the soil. this wall was not built upon the extreme edge of the plateau, but generally a few feet from it and carried upwards to a height of between feet and feet, steps of wood or stone upon the interior face giving access to the rampart. being essentially in one compact mass, without vertical breaks of any great extent, and homogeneous in construction, the shell keep was specially adapted to crown the summit of an artificial mound. the interior area was occupied by buildings, generally abutting upon the keep walls; in early examples these were constructed of wood, but subsequently almost entirely of stone to lessen the danger of conflagration. the substitution of masonry for palisading upon the mound suggested a similar course for the defence of the bailey, and the twelfth century witnessed the erection of many of those gigantic walls surrounding them which excite our admiration at the present day by their massiveness and strength. they followed the scarp of the original mounds, and in many examples the water of the external fosse lapped their bases. the addition of a barbican or ravelin to defend the chief entrance to the castle, which invariably opened into the bailey, was now adopted, while the former wooden ladders or bridges giving from the motte to the bailey were superseded by causeways of stone, defended on either side by a continuation of the bailey enceinte up the slope of the mound. stone steps instead of wood led from the inner surface of the curtain walls to the ramparts above; stone buildings were erected for the domestic offices, barracks, etc., while the wooden planks and ladders by which the moats had formerly been crossed gave place to masonry arches. these improvements in the majority of examples did not occur at the same time, hence the presence of a twelfth-century shell keep is no guarantee that the curtain walls are of the same age. the introduction of flanking towers, generally semicircular, into the curtain wall, and of rectangular towers, astride it, as a rule, occurred in this century. there are examples in our island, however, which prove that only partial adoption of these improvements took place in many castles, and that, for example, the baron and his family were quite content to dwell within the wooden bretasche upon the motte, at the same time strengthening the weaker bailey defences by the erection of a substantial curtain wall. _alnwick._--the magnificent castle of alnwick is an excellent example of a shell keep fortress; it stands upon elevated ground on the south bank of the aln river and about miles from the sea. at the conquest the site, which probably had an earlier defence upon it, was granted to ivo de vescy, whose daughter married eustace fitz-john. the constant inroads of the scots necessitated a stronger fortress at this point, and, about , fitz-john began the building of which some splendid remains are still visible, chiefly in the innermost gateway and the outer curtain wall. his son, who took his mother's name of de vescy, placed the castle in the custody of the empress maud's uncle, king david of scotland. in , william the lion invaded england and besieged the castle, but a coalition of the northern barons captured the king and took him to richmond, thus raising the siege. the de vescy family died out in , and after a temporary occupation by anthony bek, bishop of durham, was purchased by sir henry de percy, a name which is associated with everything that is brave, chivalrous, and martial in the county of northumberland. the percy who fought through the wars of edward iii. and was present at halidon hill and neville's cross was considered as second only to the king in importance, while the marriage of his son to mary plantagenet, daughter of henry, earl of lancaster, proved that it was worthy of alliance with the blood-royal. in alnwick was besieged, and yielded to henry iv., following upon the battle of shrewsbury and the defection and death of hotspur; henry v., however, restored the heir to his possessions, and created him earl of northumberland. he was killed at the first battle of st. albans, , while his son fell at towton in . the castle saw much fighting in the latter part of the fifteenth century. the long line of the percies came to an end in ; it was probably the most historic of our great english families, and eight bearers of the title met with violent deaths, chiefly on the battlefield. the daughter of the last earl married charles seymour, duke of somerset, and their daughter married sir william wyndham, thus conveying to him the estates of petworth, egremont, and leconfield. in the next century a duke of somerset left a daughter who inherited alnwick and married sir hugh smithson, who was created earl percy and became the ancestor of the present owner. the castle is cut off from the town of alnwick by a deep combe, which has been much scarped; it is a matter for doubt whether the battlemented walls of the town were ever joined to those of the castle, the same as at conway and elsewhere. the shell keep was erected in , but is so surrounded by subsidiary towers as to almost lose the characteristic. it lies in the centre of the great enclosure, and dual defences run east and west to the enceinte, thus making two wards, or baileys. the knoll upon which the shell rests may either be a natural feature or the artificial motte of a previous castle. the great gateway and the barbican present excellent examples of military architecture of the fourteenth century. in the middle of the eighteenth century repairs and restorations took place in the execrable taste then prevalent, some of which remain to the present time to mar the aspect of an otherwise superb relic of the past. _arundel._--the manor of arundel is one of the most ancient in the kingdom, being specifically mentioned in the time of alfred the great, while, respecting the castle standing there, it is unique in being the only one mentioned in domesday as being in existence before the accession of william i. that king granted it to the great montgomery family, who were succeeded in its possession by king henry i., through the rebellion of robert de belesme. it afterwards passed in succession through the families of d'albini, fitz-alan, and howard for seven centuries to its present owner, the duke of norfolk. many important events have linked this great military structure indissolubly to the history of england. here the empress maud was received with her brother, the earl of gloucester, in , which precipitated an attack by king stephen, but the most famous event connected with it was the siege of , when sir william waller, first overcoming the defences of the town, placed his guns on the top of the church tower and proceeded to batter the castle. it capitulated after seventeen days' siege, and the domestic buildings were levelled to the ground. the castle is constructed upon the end of a ridge of chalk extending from the south downs, with a natural escarpment upon the east and south. it is an excellent example of masonry superseding earthwork defences without obliterating their original lines. the position is such as to suggest a prehistoric camp of the promontory type. the chief original defence was the great moated mount, which is over feet in diameter; on the south side the height from the summit to the bottom of the ditch is feet, being altogether but a little smaller than windsor. like the latter it possesses two baileys, occupying over acres in extent, and together forming an oblong enclosure. the mount stands near the centre of the western side upon the enceinte, the ditch forming part of the outer ditch of the castle in one place. this outer fosse has been much strengthened by artificial means, but is in many places natural. [illustration: arundel castle, sussex.] upon the motte a shell keep was erected in the late norman period; it is about feet high, with walls nearly feet thick, and is almost feet in diameter. the walls are faced with caen stone covering a core of sussex stone and chalk. the barbican, called the bevis tower, and a portion of the great gatehouse, were built in by richard fitz-alan, who also erected four towers at equal distances round the enceinte. after the last siege the place remained a heap of ruins for many years, but about the tenth duke of norfolk began to rebuild it, and expended vast sums upon the fabric. the result was the practical re-erection of the present magnificent structure, a typical example of the stately homes of england, and an appropriate dwelling-place for our premier duke, who has in comparatively recent years erected a sumptuous cathedral as a fitting companion to the ancient baronial castle. _carisbrooke._--carisbrooke stands upon a site which was undoubtedly a fortress occupied by the jutes, who conquered the island; william fitz-osborne, earl of hereford, obtained possession from the conqueror and reared a motte and bailey castle there. his son, who was imprisoned for life, forfeited the estates, which came into possession of richard de redvers, whose heir became earl of devon. piers gaveston held the castle in the fourteenth century, and also the earl of rutland, son of edmund of langley; it was in the occupation of a number of persons subsequently but fell to the crown in the fifteenth century. it is intimately associated with the unfortunate charles i., who made three distinct attempts to escape from its confinement. the mound of the norman castle was enclosed by a shell keep by richard de redvers; it is an irregular polygon of eleven faces and sixty feet in diameter, the walls being of enormous strength and thickness. entrance is gained by a long flight of steps leading to a passage defended by a portcullis and double gates. the keep encloses one of the two castle wells. very extensive additions were made by anthony, lord scales, who was lord of the castle in . the majestic gateway dates from his time; it is a fine and impressive entrance, flanked by two lofty cylindrical towers with a good example of machicolation between the towers, added late in the fifteenth century. the ruins of the apartments occupied by the royal prisoner lie to the north of the enclosure. in the reign of queen elizabeth an elaborate system of fortification was carried out by an italian engineer, in view of the advent of the spanish armada, but was never put to use. after the restoration many regrettable alterations and additions were made by lord cutts, with a view to modernising it, but some of these have been modified recently by the crown. the picturesqueness of the ruins and their surroundings are an acknowledged feature of the island, and few visit the latter without seeing this venerable relic of the past. chapter vi the rectangular keep, _c._ - we have seen that the shell keep was a logical sequence in the development of a castle which had been originally erected upon the motte and bailey plan, and the question will naturally suggest itself as to the nature of castles which the normans built in the twelfth century upon a site not previously occupied. this was the rectangular keep with its fortified enclosure, answering approximately to the shell keep and the bailey. rectangular keeps had been prominent in french fortifications for at least thirty years before the norman conquest, but the introduction of the defence into england was slow and protracted. only two examples are extant which preceded the death of william i., namely, the white tower of london, and the keep at colchester. this type of castle has come to be associated with the normans, to the practical exclusion of the much greater number of motte and bailey and shell keep fortalices which are equally connected with their occupation; probably the dignified appearance of the massive keep, with its impressive adjuncts and surroundings, are responsible for the popular belief. the keep itself was essentially a new feature in the art of fortification, a medieval method of resisting the special form of attack prevailing at that period. the enclosure was directly derived from the rectangular _castra_ of roman times, descended through the anglo-saxon burh and the norman bailey. probably of all the military structures which the world has seen, the rectangular keep is the grandest in impressive appearance and dimensions, combined as it is with simplicity of outline; it is also the most durable in workmanship by its adamantine strength and structural proportions. the walls are generally from to feet thick, and, at the base, sometimes even feet, while a few still standing are reputed to have the ground floor solid. the enormous thickness of walls in medieval buildings must not always be taken as an indication of strength; in a large number of cases they consist of two walls at some distance apart, with the intermediate space filled in with rubble and a certain amount of mortar, generally inferior in quality, so that at times when the outer casing is pierced, the interior core pours out through the opening like grain from a sack. they afforded, however, facilities for the construction of passages in the wall itself, and also for small chambers, while the exterior portion of the wall was invariably strengthened by flat pilaster buttresses. the entrances to these keeps were usually on the first floor, access being gained by means of a ladder or wooden gangway, the doorway being of small dimensions. a series of narrow vertical slits in the walls, splayed out into embrasures inside, served the purpose of windows, and also as oillets or arbalesteria, for the discharge of arrows and bolts. later examples of the keep are furnished with forebuildings adapted to protect the vulnerable portion, the entrance. these forebuildings were especially designed to present unusual difficulties of penetration; drawbridges, meurtriers, oubliettes, and other devices being opposed to intruders, while passages leading to every spot except those desired were constructed in the walls to mislead and divert attacks from inrushing assailants. one of the best examples is that at newcastle-upon-tyne, built _c._ ; it has two towers and contains a chapel, the entrance to the keep itself being from the roof which forms an open platform. [illustration: forebuilding of the keep, berkeley.] but by far the best example of a forebuilding is to be found at dover, standing against the eastern face of the great keep. it is so designed that three separate protections are afforded to the stairway leading into the keep, the base, centre, and landing stage having each a separate tower for its defence. the entrance upon the first floor is barred by a door of formidable thickness and great strength; upon the first floor occurs the chapel, and a view into it is obtained from the stairway, while a small chapel or oratory is placed overhead upon the second floor. a well, now disused, formerly had its opening in the third floor. the actual entrance to the keep occurs upon the second floor, although an ancient one, now blocked up, opened to it from the first floor. _dover castle_, from its commanding position at the narrowest part of the english channel, has for many centuries occupied one of the most prominent positions among the fortresses of england. it stands upon a chalk knoll to the east of the town, and by nature and art is practically severed from the adjacent land, whether high or low. from traces, which are now almost entirely obliterated, it is concluded that a celtic defence primarily existed upon the summit; this was followed after a.d. by a roman station, the chief remains of which are to-day embodied in the well-known pharos, a companion probably to that erected in a.d. by caligula upon the gallic shore. traces of the roman occupation, apart from the lighthouse, are very scanty, and are overshadowed by the saxon work, although it is open to doubt whether the development of the latter was carried out to any elaborate extent. [illustration: dover castle, kent.] it is with the norman period that the history proper of the castle commences. it surrendered without opposition to the conqueror, who added to the defences, and it was able to resist a sharp attack upon it in when the men of kent rose against william. shortly after this the town was surrounded by walls. [illustration: dover castle.] although dover was rightly considered as the key of england, the fortress is not connected with many of the great events which have gone to make the history of england. it has always been in the possession of the crown and governed by a constable. hubert de burgh defended it against the dauphin in the time of king john, and, although louis built many trebuchets and imported minor petraries from france, these, combined with beffrois, sows, and rams, failed to shake his determined defence. dover appears to have played but little part in subsequent history, probably through its falling into ruin by neglect during the "wars of the roses" and of the great rebellion. the keep is a fine example, dating from , and essentially norman; it is nearly feet square, and rises to a height of feet. it presents a commanding feature from the sea as the summit is nearly feet above high water. the usual norman pilaster buttresses are apparent at the angles and in the centres of three of the faces. the keep walls are of most unusual thickness, in parts exceeding feet, but these are honeycombed by a number of small chambers and passages. only loopholes admit light to the lower stage, the more important rooms being upon the second floor. the keep is provided with two wells, not contained, as usual, in the great transverse wall which divides the building into two distinct portions, but in the thickness of the eastern wall. subsequent defences have taken the form of massive curtains defending the enceinte, which encloses an area of acres, a special feature being the large number of towers, round-fronted or square, which are liberally scattered along it. the general shape now developed may claim to be that of the concentric fortress, although it is classified among the rectangular keeps. its adaptation to up-to-date requirements has in many cases led to the obliteration of many ancient features formerly distinguishing it; these, although undoubtedly justifiable, are to be regretted from the antiquarian point of view. in order to convey an idea of the internal economy of a keep and the disposition of the various apartments the diagram appearing on p. may be of use. it shows the five successive floors of hedingham keep, essex, which dates from about . upon the ground floor plan the great thickness of the walls, about feet, is plainly apparent with the narrow embrasures giving light. at the base the walls batter slightly for a few feet, not shown on plan. the well-stair commences in the basement and extends to all the floors. the first floor or entrance story has a small round-headed doorway, the arch of which is ornamented with zigzag moulding; steps now lead up the face of the wall to it, but formerly it opened from a forebuilding of which traces still remain. here the honeycombing of the walls commences which is so marked a feature in keeps. the embrasures have very narrow openings externally but wider than on the ground floor. the central dividing wall here is pierced by an arch and hence shown dotted in plan. on the second floor is the great hall of audience; across the centre is built a remarkably fine arch carried upon norman shafts with scollop capitals and moulded bases. the fireplace and also the window openings have zigzag mouldings around the circular heads. the upper part of this room has a gallery running round it shown as the third floor plan; the windows are doubled by a dividing pier and openings admit of a view into the audience chamber. above is the fourth floor low in height, with zigzag moulding round the external window heads. over this story is the flat roof and the turrets at the corners, two of which still remain. the floors and the roof were all supported upon wooden beams. hedingham castle was the residence of the de vere family for about six centuries. king john besieged and captured it in , but it underwent no subsequent siege. the outer fortifications were demolished in the reign of elizabeth and only the keep remains at the present time. the ramparts upon the summit of a rectangular keep were carried upon the walls themselves, the latter, as a rule, being sufficiently thick for the purpose without corbelling outwards. the parapet was either continuous or embattled. a roof, at times covered with lead, was carried over the central opening, and the uppermost floors were invariably borne upon massive wooden joists. the lowest floor was generally free from timber, being constructed of masonry carried upon the arches of a crypt, but in those cases where the whole structure was borne upon a solid foundation of masonry spread upon the entire area of the site, this might be dispensed with. some existing crypts are not coeval with the building, but were added at a later date, that at richmond, for example, dates from the decorated period. as a general rule the keep contained a well which was sunk through the foundations and carried upwards in the central dividing wall to the various floors, but examples occur where it is placed in the enclosure. most keeps were furnished with an oratory or private chapel, one of the most famous being that in the tower of london, while those at newcastle-upon-tyne, colchester, and guildford are well known. in the later type of keep this feature is absent, the tendency being to erect all buildings used during times of peace within the enclosure. the reduction of such a keep as we have outlined was almost impossible in the medieval age except by famine; the outer minor defences, however, were not proof against the missiles of the trebuchet, onager, and other petraries, and would invariably succumb. but with regard to the massive structure of the keep, the largest stones could be hurled with but small results; and the few narrow openings in its walls presented but meagre opportunities for a successful admission of the falarica, quarrel, or arrow. to carry it by direct assault would be at all times a forlorn hope. we thus see that the rectangular keep was essentially a structure for passive defence; and during the time that provisions lasted it was practically impregnable. built upon the living rock, as they generally were, it was an impossibility to mine them; even if attempted, mine could be met with counter-mine, and the ram and sow might in vain essay to make any impression upon such solid masonry. at the same time the garrison was to a certain extent incapable of inflicting much damage upon the besiegers except in case of assault; the steep shingle roof afforded no place for a military engine, and but scanty facilities for storage of rocks, stones, beams, and other weighty missiles for dropping upon assailants. the narrow entrance into the keep prevented an effective sortie, and, if attempted, was a source of danger in retreat. during the three months spent by king john, in , before the keep at rochester, his military engines produced practically no result upon it, but an effective mine succeeded in bringing down the masonry of one of the lower angles, and eventually part of the tower itself. the great advantages perceivable in a solid keep were so apparent that the addition of this feature to many castles of the motte and bailey pattern was deemed advisable, but only in a few places did the keep stand upon the mound; nottingham is an exception, but in nearly all other examples they occupied new sites, the tremendous weight of the structure rendering it inadvisable to trust it in that position. the superiority of the keep over the motte and bailey castle was well exemplified in , when robert of bellesme, earl of shrewsbury, broke into rebellion against king henry i. he possessed a fortress of the motte and bailey type at quatford on the severn, but this "devil of bellesme," as he was termed, had no confidence in his father's fortress, and transferred the stones higher up the river where, in the short period of twelve months, he built the imposing keep whose massive remains, although sadly shattered at the time of the commonwealth, still excite our admiration. it is erected upon a rocky site, protected by ravines upon three sides, and overhanging the river severn upon the fourth. when besieged by the king it withstood all the efforts of the formidable petraries brought to bear upon it, and appears to have been practically uninjured when, at the expiration of a month, a portion of the garrison became disaffected by reason of the threatening nature of the royal messages, and managed to secure its surrender. [illustration: rochester castle, kent.] when a keep was added to a castle of the motte and bailey type there does not appear to have been any regular rule as to its position. at guildford it was erected upon the motte (though a little way down the slope), and also at nottingham, pickering, and york; at clun in shropshire the keep was built partly on the motte, occupying the eastern slope, the mound apparently bearing a defence of the shell keep pattern at the same time. gloucester castle has been entirely destroyed in order to make room for a modern prison, but from existing records we learn that the keep was an addition, occupying the centre of the former bailey, while the building at newcastle also stood distinct from the mound. the keep at oxford stands upon the enceinte at some distance from the shell keep, while at rochester and canterbury the new additions were erected outside the original castle. [illustration: clun castle, salop.] in the reign of the conqueror and his immediate descendants, the rapid building of castles for overawing the defeated saxons was a matter of crown policy, but with the settlement of the kingdom, and the rise into power of norman nobles waxing rich and powerful upon their estates, restrictions became imperative if the royal prerogatives were not to be set at nought. consequently, special licences to build and crenellate had to be obtained before erecting, or adding to the existing defences of, a castle, and the rigorous insistence upon this law was readily recognised and maintained by all strong rulers of the kingdom. when, however, a weak monarch came to the throne, or internal dissensions occurred, the norman barons invariably seized the opportunity thus afforded, and a large increase of these fortalices sprang into existence. the most remarkable example was during the eighteen years of strife wherein king stephen was struggling for his crown with the forces of queen maud. in order to propitiate the nobles and secure their services, the king gave licences with a reckless indifference to consequences, and many scores of castles were erected under these permissions, but a still greater number with no licence at all. these latter became known as "adulterine" or spurious castles; the total number built during this period of anarchy is said to have been more than one thousand, but more modern computation places the number at about seven hundred. stephen, when too late, perceived the mischief attending the multiplication of these citadels, and attempted to reduce the evil by destroying those belonging to the clergy. the essay proved to be a mistake, and during the disorder that ensued, the land became a prey to anarchy of the most violent kind, each baron or leader of mercenaries doing that which was right in his own eyes, and retreating to the safe precincts of his castle when in difficulties. of the nature of these unlicensed strongholds there is considerable doubt, but a great probability exists that they were of very rapid construction and, therefore, not of the rectangular keep type, but of the motte and bailey, or of the shell keep pattern. that a large amount of time had been spent in their erection seems to be negatived by the fact that upon the accession of henry ii. the great majority of "adulterine" castles were destroyed in the course of a few months. this would have been impossible if solid masonry erections were in question, but hastily improvised defences built by forced, and therefore, probably, unskilled labour, would not present great difficulties. in all likelihood a great number of the earthworks which occur in england, and have not been assigned to any particular date, may owe their origin to this disturbed period, especially those of the motte and bailey type. upon the whole, we can hardly look upon the reign of king stephen as a period distinguished by an advance in the art of castle-building, but rather as one of temporary retrogression to elementary types. with the advent of the second half of the twelfth century the castle began to show in many details the influence of the early english style of architecture, though ornamentation is singularly rare in early castellation compared with the lavish wealth bestowed at the same time upon ecclesiastical buildings. the norman style was still adhered to in the main outlines, but the external pilasters developed to such an extent that they became buttresses, as at clun and dover, the masonry workmanship improved, local stone came more into use, and internal decorations, such as ribs to the vaulting, began to be introduced. it is not uncommon to find the dog-tooth ornament employed in conjunction with contemporary work in the norman style, but so long as the rectangular keep remained, the internal arrangements became, as it were, stereotyped, and were strictly adhered to. the latest styles of rectangular keeps carried but few, if any, suggestions of norman architecture as they trended upon the early english periods; thus fonmon castle in glamorganshire, and penhow in monmouthshire, exhibited no traces of pilaster buttresses, and other features so strongly marked in earlier examples. _bamborough castle_, grim, grey, and imposing, by its vastness and massive proportions, stands upon a rocky height of igneous formation on the coast of northumberland. it is by nature a promontory fortress, and as such was seized by ida and his angles in , and who thence extended his sway over what subsequently became the kingdom of bernicia. the castle is mentioned in , and was twice taken by the danes. in the dramatic siege occurred with which bamborough will be for ever associated. william rufus besieged it with a formidable army, but such was the reputation of its impregnability that he would not venture upon storming it. he, therefore, had recourse to a siege, and one great beffroi he raised was so formidable that it is mentioned by name, _malvoisin_; this he advanced to the walls, and so closely that conversation could easily be exchanged between the rival combatants. the rebel baron, de mowbray, left the castle in charge of his wife, with the intention of procuring assistance, but was captured in an attempt upon newcastle. by the king's orders he was brought to bamborough and exposed to the gaze of the garrison: upon a royal threat to put out the eyes of his captive unless the castle surrendered at once, the heroic matilda de l'aigle, who had continued the defence with the utmost success, admitted the king's forces. de mowbray was imprisoned, but in his old age was permitted to enter the monastery of st. alban, where he died. rufus appointed eustace fitz-john of alnwick as castellan, and the castle, in the time of stephen, successfully resisted an inroad of david, king of scotland. in the great keep was erected by henry ii., and from that period the constableship of bamborough became a royal appointment. [illustration: bamborough castle.] during the wars of the roses, bamborough played an important part. first in yorkist possession it was captured by queen margaret, who placed a garrison of three hundred men there under the duke of somerset. edward iv. with ten thousand men besieged alnwick, bamborough, and dunstanburgh, the kingmaker in person conducting the operations. the castle was surrendered, and sir ralph grey was left in charge, but betrayed his trust and admitted margaret in . in he was surrounded by warwick's army, and a fierce bombardment was maintained which did enormous damage, grey being injured by one of the falling towers; he recovered, however, but was subsequently executed at doncaster. in the sixteenth century the castle fell into disrepair, but in a partial restoration occurred, and subsequently portions of it were turned into a school for girls; afterwards, however, it was purchased by the late lord armstrong. there are three wards within the enceinte of the castle which encloses about acres of land, the middle ward and that to the east being at one time covered by the buildings of the ancient town. the great keep is similar to those at dover and london, but originally possessed only two stories. it is erected upon a solid mass of masonry, and the entrance leads by a passage in the thickness of the wall into the second story. there is no forebuilding as the keep is of a date anterior to their introduction. the lower part of the walls is about feet thick, and in the basement occurs the well over which appears a great vaulted hall. _rochester castle._--the two great royal castles in kent were those at canterbury and rochester, and of these rochester was the more important and boasts of a richer history. the keeps are practically all that remain of each, and rochester again asserts the pre-eminence in respect to the importance of present remains. the site had been previously occupied by the romans and the saxons when, immediately subsequent to the conquest, a motte and bailey castle was reared by the normans, followed shortly afterwards by a massive encircling wall, enclosing an area measuring about yards long by yards broad. a portion of this wall was erected close to the river, and a deep ditch protected the remaining three sides. [illustration: richmond castle, yorkshire.] it was thus, at the demise of the conqueror, a very strong fortress, and that much-hated half-brother of the late king, bishop odo of bayeux, seized it, but was besieged and captured by rufus after a resistance of six weeks. he was sent to tonbridge castle and subsequently liberated. in henry i. granted the constableship of the castle to walter de corbeuil, archbishop of canterbury, and permitted him to erect a tower, probably the existing keep. in , when in the possession of william d'albini, who was acting for the barons, king john sat down before the castle with a formidable array of trebuchets, and battered it for three long months. apparently he had greater success by undermining than by missile-throwing, the tower at the south-east angle being partially brought down by a mine, together with other parts of the chief defences. this extensive damage probably helped it to fall into the hands of the dauphin the next year. in it resisted a vigorous assault from the forces of simon de montfort, and during the wat tyler rebellion was besieged and partially captured. edward iv. repaired it, but subsequently it fell into a state of neglect, and has not seen any military operations since. it is now in the possession of the corporation of rochester, and used as a place of public recreation. the great keep is naturally the chief object of interest; it is feet in height, and about feet square. the thickness of its walls varies from feet at the base to feet at the top, where the angle turrets rise over a dozen feet above the main battlements. it is divided, like the tower of london, into two portions by a transverse wall rising to the total height, and carrying in its centre the main shaft of the castle well, which was arranged to deliver water at every floor. the usual flat pilasters appear upon the external walls, and the two lower stories are pierced by loopholes only. a forebuilding with the usual complicated contrivances protects the main entrance. the aspect of the venerable keep, conjoined to the tower and turrets of the adjacent cathedral, form a delightful combination of the military and ecclesiastical architecture of former ages. _richmond castle._--the castle of richmond is beautifully situated upon high ground overlooking the river swale, in yorkshire, but, although the fortunes of the castle extend to the time of the conquest, and many noble families are connected with its history, it has played no important part whatever in the making of history, either in its own country or that of england. it has never seen an arrow launched in anger, or received a ball from opposing ordnance. it was erected by alan fergeant, who in commenced operations and encircled the triangular site with a curtain wall. the keep was erected by his brother about the year ; it is approximately feet square and feet high, with the usual norman pilasters, but deeper than formerly, strengthening the fronts and angles, while each of the latter bears a turret of two stages upon the summit. the only entrance is by a door on the south face, from which a narrow stairway leads to the floor above. the ground floor was vaulted in the reign of edward i., the same as that at newcastle. a chapel was built, about , adjacent to it, by john, earl of richmond, who was killed at lyons in , and various other domestic buildings occur near it. a circular barbican protects the main entrance to the castle, while in the south-east angle of the enceinte wall an imposing rectangular tower has been built, containing the remains of an ancient postern. [illustration: plans of the keep of hedingham castle. _reproduced by permission of the architectural association from the sketch book of hedingham castle._] chapter vii the cylindrical keep, _c._ - the latter part of the twelfth century and the earlier portion of the thirteenth was marked by the introduction of the cylindrical keep, forming a transition or connecting link between the shell and the rectangular keeps of the previous period, and the remarkable development of castellation which occurred in the thirteenth century. the latter, however, must not be considered in the light of a sudden revolutionary change, inasmuch as many indications occur in the castles of the twelfth century which exhibit a tendency to break through the conventionalism then prevailing, and to produce works of a more complex character, suited to the progress in military methods of attack. the introduction of the cylindrical keep was one of these innovations; although it did not remedy the great fault inherent in keeps generally, viz. that of impotence with regard to driving off the besiegers, yet it furnished a method which enabled the builder to effect a considerable economy in material and labour, while at the same time affording that strenuous passive resistance to assault which characterised the former styles. it is probable that king henry ii. was chiefly responsible for the introduction of the cylindrical keep, as by reason of his french birth he was acquainted with a number of foreign castles having citadels built upon this plan. these cylindrical keeps were likewise known as donjons and juliets, and attained to a degree of perfection upon the continent which was never reached in the british isles. the example at coucy is probably the finest abroad. the advantages which may be claimed for the cylindrical keep, apart from its lessened cost of construction, are the increased solidity, and the great difficulty in breaching it, or bringing it down by a mine. by vaulting each floor the resistance of the structure was increased; by enclosing the upper part in a similar manner also, the danger of fire from incendiary missiles launched upon the roof was practically nullified. a disadvantage, however, lay in the fact that the besieged could not concentrate a discharge of missiles against assailants at one part of the base without exposing themselves to the enemy's archery. this was to a great extent rectified by the bretasche, which, though in use previously, became established as a regular defence at this period. these were timber galleries encircling the outer part of the tower at its summit, supported in position by strong beams of wood inserted in holes made for the purpose, and strengthened by struts resting upon corbels. upon this foundation a wooden gallery was built, covered in by a sloping roof resting against the walls, and generally enclosing the summit of the wall. in suitable places the gallery was loopholed for archers and cross-bowmen, while through openings in the floor stones and other missiles could be dropped upon assailants at the foot of the keep. it could be entered from the battlements behind, where stores of ammunition were placed. at times two bretasches were in use, one above the other; the upper projected a greater distance from the walls so as to avoid injury to the lower. the unfinished appearance of the tops of many towers can be explained by their having been covered with a bretasche in former times, although this defence was not kept in position permanently but usually built upon the approach of danger. the machicoulis and alurs of a later date were imitations in stone of the wooden bretasche. at coucy these defences were placed about feet from the ground, and the nerve displayed by the defenders working at such a giddy height excites admiration. the introduction of machicolation proper into england occurred in the latter part of the thirteenth century and became a prominent feature at that period. the faults inherent in the bretasche were the feeble resistance which it offered to missiles launched from the mangonels of the besiegers; the destruction of one part by a well-aimed stone would naturally expose the remaining defenders to archery, besides seriously weakening the rest of the structure, which depended to a great extent upon its continuity for safety. another weakness was the perishable nature of the material, which required constant renovation and addition, and to this circumstance may be attributed the fact that examples of the true medieval bretasche are extremely rare at the present day. a fragment remains over one of the gates at coucy, while the position of the main beam may be seen upon the outer gate of leeds castle. at norham castle a small doorway appears in the upper part of the square keep, the conjectured use for which is that it gave access to the bretasche. in many castles of the twelfth century still remaining a line of small openings in the outer wall at the top is visible; they indicate the position of the former bretasche, and are caused by the removal of stones for the insertion of the projecting beams. notwithstanding the advantages inherent in the cylindrical keep, which prompted their erection in many parts of france and other parts of the continent, we do not find one example forming an integral part in a british castle of the first class. [illustration: carnarvon castle. carnarvonshire.] cylindrical keeps were not always of a stereotyped form, and among the comparatively few erected in england there is marked diversity in detail. launceston, for example, really consists of a triple defence; two outermost rings of walling, one of which is a dozen feet thick and nearly feet in height, effectually prevent any attempt at mining the keep proper, which stands a few feet within the second ring. it is now only a shell, but timber flooring once divided it into three stories. the walls are nearly feet in height, about feet thick at the base, and stand in a ring whose diameter is nearly feet. the open spaces around the keep were formerly covered by roofing. richard, king of the romans and brother of henry iii., is generally credited with raising the launceston keep and also the companion one at restormel. the keep at barnard castle is remarkable for the huge projecting triangular spur, which, springing from the soil, rises to within a few feet of the parapet. the floors were vaulted. this circular keep is about feet in height and feet wide. pembroke keep, on the other hand, rises without buttress or spur or concentric walling straight from a battering base at the ground-level to a height of about feet to the spring of the vaulted roof. it trusted apparently to the enormous thickness of its walls, feet at the base, to defy any attempts at mining. _conisborough castle_ possesses the most remarkable keep of the cylindrical type in the british isles, both by reason of its extraordinary plan and rare contour. it is a gigantic cylinder nearly feet in diameter, and tapering upwards to a height of over feet. upon the exterior six enormous buttresses are arranged symmetrically round the face, projecting feet from the surface and being feet wide where they support the cylinder. they diminish in width, however, as they recede from it. these buttresses are carried up the whole height of the keep, and thus, combined as they are with a massive base of masonry upon which the tower stands, and forming an integral portion of the wall which is about feet thick, we have what is probably the most efficient protection against the deadly mine ever devised as a protection to a british castle. it may be compared to six enormous spurs, the blowing up of one or even two but little affecting the stability of the remainder. [illustration: ground plan of conisborough keep.] [illustration: conisborough.] the entrance to the keep is only a small square aperture placed in the first floor and approached by a long flight of steps in which at one time a drawbridge occurred. the ground floor contains the well and is entered by means of a trap-door in the vaulted ceiling. the buttresses are excavated in places to form chambers, and in one is situated the oratory described by scott in _ivanhoe_. it is beautifully vaulted in the early english style, with carved capitals and bases to the supporting shafts. this grand relic of the feudal period was probably built in the reign of richard i. by hamelin plantagenet, the natural brother of king henry ii., who had married into the de warrenne family, the rich earls of surrey. another variety of the cylindrical keep was that at orford, in suffolk, which possessed a cylindrical shaft similar to that at conisborough, and was supported by three minor towers symmetrically arranged and carried above the battlements. this keep was protected at the base by a massive wall with a ditch between the wall and the castle base, and probably suggested the conisborough keep and also that at warkworth, while those at wallingford, york and pontefract approximated to the same ideal. chapter viii the concentric castle, _c._ , to the castellated mansion period the inception of the concentric idea in castellation must not be ascribed to the english builders of the second half of the thirteenth century, inasmuch as the plan is essentially oriental and appeared in the levant before . thus château gaillard, built by richard i. in upon the banks of the seine near les andelys, is based essentially upon the concentric type, though it does not absolutely conform to that ideal owing to the configuration of the ground. that crusading monarch was among the first to recognise the possibilities of the saracenic form and based this castle upon it. upon the only side where it could be attacked it offered first an outer triangular-shaped ward, with an encircling wall, having five towers upon its enceinte. between this and the second ward was a formidable ditch, feet in depth, the wall standing upon the brink of the scarp; this second ward was of large dimensions with five towers upon its walls, which were practically built upon the edge of precipices. it was roughly hexagonal in shape and contained the inner ward, partially circular in outline and surrounded by a ditch. the walls of this ward were lofty and faced with bastions segmental in plan, thus embodying the prevailing belief that angles and corners were more vulnerable than curved surfaces. inside this ward stood the keep, forming the fourth successive line of defence to be overcome. the keep or donjon is splayed outwards at the base, a device often adopted for projecting missiles among the assailants when dropped from above, and also for greater strength. probably the earliest examples of machicoulis are found upon this keep. this formidable fortress fell by a combination of mining, filling up of the great ditch, battering the keep, and escalading the inner ward, after pounding the curtain walls with perriers. the thousands of warriors returning from the many crusades were well acquainted with the concentric castle, having in many cases been detained before the walls of an eastern city built upon a similar design. the difficulty and danger in attacking such a place were well known to them, and we can only ascribe the question of cost as the chief reason for the non-adoption of the idea at an earlier period. at constantinople the crusading hosts before the city found themselves confronted by a comparatively low fortified wall, bristling with impediments; within it, at the distance of some hundreds of feet, arose another and taller wall, while beyond that again a third wall, the highest of all, appeared. these walls extended for more than three miles upon the western side, with one hundred towers; all were embattled, and they offered a stupendous scene to the wondering eyes of the crusaders as they vanished in grand perspective into the distance. there is no castle in england which presents more than three hundred yards of continual front. the capture of the first defence of the eastern capital by no means imperilled the integrity of the second, while the prospective losses of the assailants when confined in the narrow space between the first and second lines was appalling to con template. the same difficulty would occur with regard to the second and third lines of defence, and it is small wonder that the leaders paused in a projected attack upon so formidable an obstacle. [illustration: castle rushen, isle of man.] the essential principles underlying the construction of a castle erected upon the concentric plan were:-- . that the natural features of the selected site should be adapted and made part of the defences, and that no rigid plan of the ground occupied, based upon former principles of castellation, should be strictly followed. . that a series of defences independent and complete in themselves should be presented in turn to an assault, the capture of one by no means entailing that of another. the castle-builders of the second half of the thirteenth century rigidly adhered to the principles embodied in the first clause given above; they did not produce a structure of the motte and bailey, or the keep and base-court types, with little regard to the situation and configuration of the ground, but made their plans with the utmost care, embracing every advantage which the site presented. as a necessary sequence the ground plan of one concentric castle differs from every other, and it is only by a general summary of the ideas prevailing that any comparison can be made. the second clause naturally suggested a concentric plan whereby each defence was placed within the other, the strongest of all naturally being in the centre. but as most of the english castles were rendered concentric by means of additions to buildings previously existing, the pure concentric ideal is seldom reached except in those structures reared entirely at that period, the others attained it more or less by developing conditions already obtaining. [illustration: the ideal concentric castle.] the ideal concentric outline may be gleaned from the accompanying plan, where the three entrances are a special feature, each being placed as far as possible from the one adjacent. by this device the assailants who had managed to capture the outer enceinte would be compelled to pass under one half of the second line of towers and curtain walls before reaching the entrance pierced through them, being all the time subjected to a plunging fire of deadly missiles. the same would occur if the second line were captured. the gates were in all cases flanked by defensive towers, and generally reached by a drawbridge which could be raised before the entrance archway; this was narrow and defended by one or more portcullises, while a strong gate, usually sheathed with iron, was placed at the entrance immediately behind the raised drawbridge. if these formidable obstacles were overcome and the first part of the passage captured the inner portcullis or portcullises had to be forced, but the assailants would in the meantime be subjected to a galling discharge of arrows and bolts from the narrow loopholes on either side, which were pierced in the walls of rooms whose only entrances were from the inner courtyard or from the ramparts. in the vaulted roof of the passage also circular openings were built, termed "meurtriers," or murderers, through which melted lead, hot water or oil, and other liquids could be poured upon the struggling mass of assailants below. from the formidable nature of the defence it may readily be understood that direct assaults of castles built upon the concentric ideal were limited, the besiegers contenting themselves with waiting until famine had done its work, or treachery within the walls allowed them to enter. the project of capturing three strong castles, one within the other, was a prospect sufficient to daunt any ordinary commander, and so long as the besieged could count upon a friendly army in the field outside, the loyalty of the garrison, and a plentiful supply of provisions, the fortress might be relied upon to maintain its integrity. [illustration: machicoulis supporting an alur.] it was during this period that machicoulis and alurs reached their highest efficiency and development, and in every castle built after they may be found wherever extra strengthening of the defence was desirable. in some illustrated medieval romances of the second part of the thirteenth century the castle is depicted with these additions, although at times the perspective indulged in by the artist is somewhat disconcerting. where machicolation was not adopted, probably by reason of the expense, the walls were generally corbelled outwards at the upper parts of towers and walls, thus giving a more effective control over the bases of these structures where mining or battering might be attempted. battlementing was almost universal, and the system of piercing the merlons with arbalestraria may be assigned to this early date, although not reaching the full development it subsequently met with in the edwardian castles of wales. it may be seen in illustrated manuscripts in the form of simple circular openings in the merlons. the protection of loopholes and windows by a hanging shield is likewise illustrated; it prevented the admission of arrows and bolts discharged with a high trajectory. the maximum development of the art of castle-building in the british isles occurred in the reign of edward i. and is exhibited in its best form in those magnificent buildings which he erected in wales to consolidate the conquest of that country. with the great snowdonian range as the centre he placed a ring of fortresses at those strategic points, chosen with remarkable military perspicacity, where they would be of the utmost advantage in commanding the widest stretch of country. criccieth and harlech, standing upon the sites of previous strongholds, and conway and carnarvon upon entirely new ground, are the most prominent and famous of this encircling ring. the term "edwardian," however, for a concentric castle so frequently used, is a misnomer, because some of the grandest examples of the style date from the time of henry iii.; the outer ward of the tower of london, for example, rendered it concentric in to . the _castle of harlech_ approaches the concentric form so far as its position will permit, but the bold rocky promontory upon which it stands was too irregular for the complete ideal, and consequently the castle was adapted to the site. it is practically an oblong with massive circular buttress towers at the four angles; two others defend the gateway and two smaller ones are on either side of the barbican entrance. small watch-towers, corbelled at the summits upon false machicolations, are adjacent to the larger. the barbican lies upon the eastern side of the fortress, and was only accessible by a steep and narrow entrance after a dry ditch had been crossed. harlech and kidwelly are similar in not being purely concentric; each have short fronts of wall and the defences of two of the baileys are united, thus only two lines of resistance are interposed. neither possess a donjon, the two inner wards being the last resort of the garrison. the inaccessibility of this massive pile, perched feet above the adjacent sea and producing a strangely impressive effect by reason of its grim vastness, has been repeatedly tested since its walls were first raised. owen glendower beat in vain against its impregnable strength and lost mortimer, his son-in-law, before its walls. in the wars of the roses, when the soul-stirring "march of the men of harlech" was penned, the castle was summoned to surrender by the yorkists, but the constable of the time, a doughty welshman, held out for the lancastrian cause and made a most protracted resistance in the campaign of , harlech being the last fortress to surrender in that great struggle. in the civil war it maintained its reputation, but was finally delivered up to cromwell's brother-in-law. _conway castle_, one of the most impressive and majestic of medieval fortresses in britain, is situated in a romantic and picturesque spot at the mouth of the river conway. it presents a perfect ideal of a fortress and a fortified town, the massive accompanying walls of the latter forming an integral portion of the defence as a whole. the town walls are over a mile in length and are in a singularly good state of preservation; there are twenty-one towers, arranged at regular intervals along this enceinte, and four gates, over one of which is a row of machicoulis, twelve in number, projecting from the upper part of the wall. it was also protected by a dry ditch and with drawbridges placed before the gateways. [illustration: leeds castle, kent.] the castle occupies an irregular oblong area divided into a larger and smaller ward by a transverse wall, which is carried across at one of the narrowest parts; thus where breadth is unobtainable, as at conway and carnarvon, ward is set behind ward. eight lofty circular towers are arranged at intervals around the massive curtain wall, four of them being provided with small look-out turrets upon their summits. in the larger bailey the banqueting hall and domestic apartments were placed. the castle and also the town fortifications were erected by king edward i., with henry de elfreton as the architect; they were completed in , and occupied by the king and court in , upon the occasion of a welsh rising. the monarch, however, was nearly starved out in his fortress through an unusual flood whereby provisions were unable to be sent across the river. previously, however, he had passed a christmas there and the assertion that conway was really a combination of a castle, a palace, and a pleasant residence is perfectly legitimate. richard ii. assembled his forces at conway to resist the invasion of bolingbroke, but was induced to leave it, and his betrayal and lodgment in flint castle followed. the edifice suffered but little during the wars of the roses; henry vii. repaired it where decay had taken place, and it practically remained intact until the great rebellion, when it suffered from two sieges, and shortly afterwards, in , was despoiled of its timber, lead, and iron, and reduced to its present condition. the excellence of the masonry which characterises the edwardian castles in wales is perhaps in no way better exemplified than at conway, where a portion of the base of a tower on the south side fell out bodily in recent times through being undermined, and gave much trouble before it could be broken up. it has since been restored. the protection of the castle is now in the hands of the town authorities of conway. _beaumaris castle_ was erected by king edward i. about , and approximates more to the concentric ideal than perhaps any other castle in britain. the outer enceinte is an almost regular octagon, strengthened by towers at each of the angles and in the centre of each curtain, excepting the one in which the entrance gateway is placed. the inner enceinte is square in shape and of very great height, thus commanding the ramparts of the outer; it has the usual towers, of immense strength, and is finished with a grand array of battlements. its position probably detracts from impressiveness, for it was designed to have the moat surrounding it filled with water at every tide from the menai strait, and this necessitated the selection of low ground for a site. by the arrangement of the walls two baileys are formed, the inner and outer, and the castle affords an example of a fortress built upon the concentric ideal where the ground does not modify the detail in any way. _carnarvon castle_ may be confidently claimed as the finest example of its type in europe. it stands upon a site previously unoccupied and was commenced by king edward i., who raised the walls sufficiently high to cover the garrison, and completed by his son, edward ii., who carried the walls and towers to their present altitude. it is built of limestone blocks with string-course bands of dark-brown sandstone, the mouldings, doorways, and other ornamental portions also being of the same material. the plan of the castle approaches that of a kidney form, the whole of the space enclosed forming one ward in contradistinction to that at conway, which is subdivided; as the ancient town of carnarvon was surrounded by massive walls, large portions of which still remain, the area so enclosed may be looked upon as the outer bailey. [illustration: merlon pierced with oillet.] although the enceinte of the castle is plentifully supplied with towers which undoubtedly form the chief feature of its picturesque appearance, yet it is to be questioned if the latter added very materially to its powers of resistance when compared with the walls, which are in places over feet in thickness, and of very great height, often over feet. these walls contain, at the points most vulnerable to an attack, a double line of galleries traversing the thickness and leading easily into each other for mutual support. the outer walls of these passages are plentifully supplied with loopholes, and as the merlons upon the battlements are also pierced with oillets, a triple discharge of quarrels and arrows could be brought to bear upon assailants by a garrison securely protected from injury. against such a hail of missiles any attack would probably prove futile. the moat is of great width and depth and formed no inconsiderable portion of the original defences. the main idea of the architect when planning carnarvon castle appears to have been to render attacks upon the general line of the enceinte impossible of success, by reason of the galleries and the thickly-set mural towers, and thus to lead the assailants to concentrate upon the chief entrance. this, however, was protected primarily by the town walls, then by a formidable moat, two massive towers, a narrow entrance furnished with no less than four portcullises, with two inner obstructions of a similar nature to be overcome ere the entrance was forced. such an elaborate concentration of effective resistance is seldom encountered in medieval fortresses, and the fact that carnarvon castle has never been taken by assault, but only subdued by starvation, is amply accounted for. this magnificent structure has always been a crown possession, and at the present time is preserved with a care deserving of all praise. it narrowly escaped demolition at that period which proved so fatal to all castles in britain, but, although the order was issued, the carrying out was delayed, and the accession of charles ii. in nullified it. the chief architectural beauty is perhaps the eagle tower, crowned with its three graceful turrets and boasting of the birth within its walls of the first prince of wales, but the traditional apartment is still problematical. although as we have seen the concentric castle is usually associated with the reign of edward i., and the formidable strongholds in north wales are generally cited as the perfection of the type, yet earlier attempts at the ideal had been made in britain, and in no greater perfection than at the well-known castle of caerphilly in glamorganshire, completed a year before the king came to the throne. from a military point of view it is the grandest example of the concentric ideal in our islands, and it is perhaps to be deplored that this embodiment of a medieval fortress has never been subjected to the stern arbitrament of war, and that no great military renown is associated with its history. it was only assailed once, in , when the parliamentarians wreaked their traditional destructive tendencies upon it. [illustration: caerphilly castle. (_from an old print._)] it was erected and completed in by gilbert de clare, earl of gloucester, and stands upon a mound of gravel in the middle of an artificial lake, produced by damming up two water-courses and turning the contents of a marsh into the catchment basin thus formed. the curtain of the middle ward is of no great height, that of the inner ward being thus able to dominate it. the outer ward is essentially divided into two, each forming a _tête-du-pont_. the eastern portion, and the smaller, has a curtain feet in height and a moat of its own, the island thus formed being approached through two gatehouses from the land side, and joined to the inner ward by drawbridges. the western and outer ward is much more important than the eastern. it acts as a _tête-du-pont_ the same as its companion, but contains also the chief approach to the castle, two conspicuous towers standing on either side of a narrow entrance, thus forming a strong gatehouse. from it curtain walls of great height branch off on either side, washed by the waters of the lake, and sundry half-drum towers, and other buildings have been built abutting upon the defensive wall. thus any assailants would have most formidable obstacles to encounter on attacking either the eastern or western faces, two moats and three successive lines of walling being opposed to their efforts. the immediate object of its erection was to overawe the welsh marches, but these had been reduced to order almost at the same time it was built; subsequently it but served to consolidate the peace thus secured. [illustration: tower of london: the middle tower] a still earlier example, though not perhaps embodying all the conditions of the type, is to be found in the neighbouring county of carmarthen. kidwelly castle occupies a commanding position upon carmarthen bay near the estuary of the river gwendraeth. the stream here is of considerable width and the eastern side of the castle is built upon the edge of the steep slope leading down to it; consequently no fear of an assault was to be apprehended from that quarter, and a curtain wall of no great height was deemed sufficient for the defence. this wall formed the string of a bow as it were, and the semicircular portion defending the land side had to rely upon other obstacles, such as a deep moat and a curtain set with towers. the entrance gateway is at the southern termination of the wall and consists of two towers with a building between containing the passage; it affords rooms for soldiers on duty with two stories above, all the masonry being of the most solid description. this entrance gave upon the outer ward. the inner ward consisted of a square enclosure abutting upon the centre of the river line: it is protected by high curtains strengthened by the usual towers. it will be perceived that the deviation from the concentric consists in the coincidence of the east wall of the inner bailey with a portion of that of the outer. its foundation dates from , when payn de chaworth reared it. [illustration: kidwelly castle, carmarthenshire.] not far from llandeilo, a village near carmarthen, stand the remains of a concentric castle around which local tradition has woven a web of romance, asserting that all history is lost in remote antiquity and leading the imagination to run riot in conjuring up the identity of its former inmates. upon the south side the walls stand upon a precipice with a sheer drop of probably feet, while a climb of over feet is necessary to reach the northern face. it is called carreg cennen and occupies the summit of a height springing up from a ring of encircling hills. it stands upon an acre of ground and is of the rectangular shape; within the outer curtain stands a small inner bailey with one side coincident with that of the outer curtain overlooking the precipice, and as such is comparable to kidwelly. there is one round tower, but the others are angular like those of carnarvon. it was built by rhys of wales in the thirteenth century. it must not be imagined that the castle-building energies of edward i. were entirely expended upon the grand examples of his work found in north wales, on the contrary there are many buildings to be discovered where his handiwork, or that of contemporary barons, is a prominent feature. a tendency appears to have manifested itself at that period to alter existing castles of a previous type so that they conformed in some way to the concentric ideal, and pevensey, chepstow, and corfe are cases in point. in addition to caerphilly in glamorganshire there are many other structures in south wales showing a very high ideal of castellation, indeed that portion of the principality has been termed the "land of castles," and the appellation is by no means undeserved. there is hardly a prominent position upon the coast, or a suitable site inland, but what has been seized upon at some period to erect a position of defence. _pembroke castle_, with the town walls supporting it, is perhaps the most important pile to be found in this district; it embodies additions of varying dates in its massive walls and towers. the great gatehouse and circular norman keep are undoubtedly its chief attractions at the present day when, although shattered by powder after cromwell's capture by means of starvation, and much subsequent spoliation, it presents one of the most imposing aspects to be found in the kingdom. _carew castle_ is deservedly celebrated for picturesqueness and affords an illustration of the use of the angle-spur at the foot of drum towers as a preventive against mining. _cilgerran castle_ occupies a position which is probably unparalleled in south wales. it approaches very closely to the edwardian type, but the area chosen has not entirely dominated the plan; it once possessed an inner and outer bailey with a great portcullised gatehouse and massive cylindrical towers, two of which still stand. pembrokeshire is essentially the centre of the castle-land of wales, for besides those mentioned there are manorbier, lamphey, narberth, haverfordwest, llawhaddon, roche and many others, most of them exhibiting traces of edwardian influence based upon norman work. in the upper valley of the wye the efficiency of castles was of great importance, inasmuch as they guarded one of the great lines of incursion from the heart of wales into the marches; here edwardian additions may be seen at builth where a donjon was placed upon a motte which had already been encircled by a shell keep, while a circular rampart surrounding the whole bailey made a very presentable representation of the concentric ideal. at bronllys, farther to the south, a cylindrical tower was the chief addition, while at tretower, still farther south near crickhowell, a shell keep appears to have been inserted within the remains of a previous rectangular keep defending the motte. _the tower of london._--this great fortress, palace, and prison, unique among the castles of england, dates from the time of william the conqueror. the site occupied a position upon the river thames immediately to the east of roman london; the latter was surrounded by massive walls with mural towers which had subsequently been repaired by alfred the great. a portion of this walling undoubtedly furnished part of the western defence of the norman citadel, inasmuch as remains have been found adjacent to the present wakefield tower. the wall thus adapted extended between two bastions, and possibly the first enclosure was merely stockaded. it was, however, necessary to erect a more substantial fortress in order to overawe as well as protect london, and in , william entrusted gundulf, the architect-bishop of rochester, with the commission. the great keeps at rochester and west malling were also designed by him, and possibly he had much to do with those at norwich, colchester, and other places in england. to this period may also be ascribed some of the towers and part of the massive curtain wall lying to the west of the inner ward or ballium which at that period contained the royal palace, apartments for the court, and dwellings for the garrison. possibly a narrow ditch encircled the walls on the inner line of the present spacious moat. in , the buildings were repaired by thomas à becket; but to richard i. must be ascribed the carrying out of works which materially added to the general strength. henry iii. caused additions to be made, chiefly upon the river front, which give it the characteristic appearance it presents at the present day. the well-known traitors' gate dates from this period, and is one of the finest examples of medieval masonry in existence. about the year the tower began to acquire those features which subsequently rendered it an excellent example of the concentric fortress; an outer wall of circumvallation was carried completely round, with a deep and broad moat washing its face. the outer ward was formed lying between the two lines of walls, thus producing three lines of defence, the innermost being the great keep. a small barbican, which has now disappeared, stood upon the outer edge of the moat. in the early part of the reign of edward iii. some towers were added, the chief being the beauchamp and bowyer. since the period of the commonwealth the tower has ceased to be inhabited by royalty, the removal of the palace, which stood against the south-eastern corner of the inner ward, being probably responsible for it. as the tower of london has been inextricably involved in the major portion of events forming the history of england, it is obviously impossible to deal even in a cursory manner with them within the confines of this work. a few facts, however, relating to the keep may be of interest, as it is undoubtedly the most ancient portion of the structure. it is rectangular in shape, feet long by feet broad; it rises to a height of feet at the battlements and contains three stories. the usual norman pilaster buttresses occur, those at the angles being continued upwards into three of the square turrets, while the remaining corner supports a large projecting circular turret containing the main staircase. the walls are of enormous thickness, ranging from to feet, and as usual the building is divided into two portions by a wall feet thick, rising to the maximum height of the building. [illustration: chepstow castle, monmouthshire.] the floors were originally of wood, but when sir christopher wren destroyed the ancient interior features of the keep, great brick vaults were built in the lower portion. st. john's chapel is a magnificent gem of early norman ecclesiastical architecture; it stands upon the second floor, and its apsidal termination projects boldly beyond the walls of the keep. the third floor contains the state apartments with the great council chamber, the walls of the chapel rising through it to the roof, and containing a mural passage and a triforium. the roof is flat and was adapted during the tudor period for mounting artillery. the position of the original entrance to the keep is now unknown, the present one being evidently a construction of later date. no traces of the forebuilding defending it have come to light. the internal arrangements for defence against surprise are marvellously intricate, the principal apartments being approached by mural passages so narrow that only one person could pass at a time. this was, of course, eminently desirable from a military standpoint, but inconvenient and awkward when occupied by the court. _corfe castle._--seated upon an isolated chalk hill in the island of purbeck, with a natural escarpment upon three sides where two rivers bifurcate on their way to poole harbour, and with a gentle slope upon the fourth side, the great castle of corfe reared its massive front through many centuries of dramatic history, marked more than once with touches of the tragic. the remains of its cyclopean walls and towers now lie in mighty masses over its slopes, and tell eloquently of a day when destruction only seemed to occupy the minds of men, and all that was great and beautiful from the foregoing ages was marked out for desolation and ruin. perhaps no castle in england has suffered so much as that of corfe. its site is connected by history with the saxon dynasty, for king edgar is said to have founded it; and here the tragic deed was perpetrated by which it is popularly known, when his son edward the martyr, king of the west saxons, was treacherously murdered by elfrida his step-mother. such an unholy deed was a sinister incident in the birth of a castle, and appears to have thrown a gloom over its subsequent history. four miles to the southward rises the bold coast-line of the dorset littoral, while northward is the great depression occupied by the waters of poole harbour. it appears to have been successively a saxon palace, then a norman, and afterwards an edwardian fortress. king stephen besieged it in , earl baldwin de redvers having seized it for the empress maud. king john used it as an arsenal for military engines and stores, and here his foul crime of starving twenty-two knights and nobles to death, whom he had captured at mireteau in , was committed. the wretched ex-king edward ii. lived here for a time before his removal to berkeley, and it appears to have been possessed by several important historical personages before it reverted to the crown in , when it was granted to sir christopher hatton. that family sold it in to sir john bankes, the ancestor of the present owners. the notable defence of the castle for three years by lady bankes against the commonwealth forces is one of those feats which stand out bravely against the somewhat sordid history of that period. the castle occupies an area of about three acres. the norman work consists chiefly of a square keep occupying the most elevated part of the hill, where possibly the saxon palace had been situated, and, with its enceinte, formed the innermost ward of the castle. it is about feet square, and feet high, with the usual flat pilasters; the masonry is remarkably good, formed of large squared stones obtained from some hard beds in the vicinity. the floors and apparently the roof were of wood, and have now disappeared, while the battlements also are missing. on the east side of the keep are the remains of the queen's hall of early english work, and other buildings within the inner ward appear to be of the same date. the gateway of the middle ward was overthrown by undermining, part of it has sunk and moved out of the perpendicular. the great curtain wall reaching between this gateway and the keep is comparatively intact, and forms one of the finest defences of that description now remaining in britain. the entrance to the outer ward has been sadly wrecked; the two drum towers have been blown forwards by the explosive force of gunpowder, the vaulting is rent, and the adjacent wall to the west overthrown. more than half of the tower called the buttavant tower has been blown clean away, while the minor bastions and the encircling wall generally have either disappeared or been thrown out of the perpendicular. the order to "slight" the castle, _i.e._ to dismantle it, was issued by the parliament in , and perhaps no fortress exists in britain where the decree was so thoroughly carried into effect. unnecessarily large charges of gunpowder appear to have been used, not only dislodging the masonry but shattering it; while in many places the effect was obtained by undermining and propping up with wood, which when subsequently burnt brought down the superincumbent mass, similarly to the proceedings at the keep of raglan castle. [illustration: chepstow castle.] _chepstow._--the noble ruins of chepstow castle form one of the attractive features of the celebrated wye valley. they stand in a grand position surmounting a vertical escarpment springing from the river and protected on the three remaining sides by ditches of formidable width and depth. the ground plan is that of an elongated parallelogram, one of the longer faces being that overlooking the river. this is subdivided into four courts or wards, while the whole area enclosed is about three acres. the principal living-rooms overhung the river, where the great hall, kitchens, ladies' apartments, etc., were placed. this was a point of a quite inaccessible character, and consequently permitted of a certain amount of embellishment, such as large windows, etc.; in the remainder of the enceinte, oillets and balistraria form the chief openings. the main entrance to the castle is on the eastern side, under a fine norman arch flanked by two massive circular towers; the passage was guarded by a portcullis, and two meurtrières in the groining. not far from this entrance the lesser hall is placed. the clare family, earls of pembroke, were the earliest norman owners of chepstow, after william fitz-osborne the founder, the last of whom, richard strongbow, is well known in connection with the conquest of ireland in . his daughter isabel married one of the bigot family, and subsequently it passed to sir charles somerset, earl of worcester, from whom it has descended to the present owner, the duke of beaufort. chepstow saw much of the civil war, being held at first by the royalists, but it was assailed by colonel morgan in and surrendered after a siege of four days. it was again attacked in , when the governor, sir nicholas kemyss, and forty of the garrison were killed. [illustration: leeds castle, kent.] _leeds._--this castle is undoubtedly one of the most picturesque in the british isles, and its beautiful natural surroundings are enhanced by a rich history extending back to the saxon period. here ethelbert of kent raised a fortification which was given to bishop odo at the conquest and, at his fall, came into the crévecoeur family, who began the norman building. it remained in their hands until the barons' war when it reverted to the crown, with whom it remained for about years. edward vi. gave it to sir anthony st. leger about , and his descendants sold it to sir richard smith. it subsequently came into the possession of the colepeper family, from whom are descended the martins, the present owners. among the many historical associations connected with the castle is that of the frail queen isabella, wife of edward ii. she appeared one evening before the gateway with a large force of attendants and demanded admission; under the circumstances then obtaining the governor, sir thomas colepeper, thought fit to refuse, being without the king's orders, and, upon a display of force, saluted the visitors with a shower of arrows. she repaired to the king and so influenced him that the castle was besieged and captured; the castellan was hanged over the drawbridge with eleven others. at leeds henry v. received the emperor sigismund and imprisoned his step-mother joan for practising witchcraft; subsequently, eleanor, the wife of good duke humphrey of gloucester, was tried here for the same offence in . [illustration: leeds castle, kent.] the position of this castle was an exceedingly suitable one in those days when water was deemed the chief method of defence. it occupies two natural rocky islands, one in the centre of a lake, and one in an artificial one on the mainland made by sluices and ditches upon which was placed the barbicans. the keep, or gloriette, as it is here termed, may have been modelled out of a late norman shell keep, but has been much altered by additions and restorations. it contains a chapel built in ; the walls rise from the water to a considerable height and are arranged round a small middle court. in it are the dining-hall, the queen's bed-chamber, and other domestic buildings, chiefly of the time of henry viii. from this island drawbridges permit of passage to the larger central island, around which a curtain wall of great strength has been built at the edge of the water with drum towers at the principal angles. inside this was a second and concentric wall, thus forming an inner and outer bailey, but only the southern gate of this has been preserved. it is probably of late norman work. the domestic buildings occupied the northern end of the inner area, now superseded by a splendid mansion standing upon norman foundations. another drawbridge gives upon the artificial island upon the mainland previously mentioned, where the inner barbican stood, and beyond this again was a strong and massive outer barbican. [illustration: windsor castle.] chapter ix the castellated mansion and manor-house the reason for the disuse of castles is popularly attributed to the invention of gunpowder, but the introduction of cannon can hardly be accepted as entirely responsible for the decline, and we must therefore seek for other reasons which, added to the first, eventually succeeded in effecting their destruction and abandonment. the use of gunpowder was introduced into england in the first half of the fourteenth century, the first authentic date being , when edward iii. employed it in his campaign against the scots. the first reference by froissart is in , cannon being specifically mentioned, while at cressy in there were a number of those weapons in use. these early pieces were, however, of small calibre and were provided with such indifferent powder that against the walls of a castle they were practically innocuous, and it was not until the invention of trunnions for cannon, and of bombards capable of throwing heavy spherical shot in the fifteenth century, that fortified places had anything to fear. but long before the english castle had begun to show signs of falling into abeyance, in fact but very few new structures of that class were erected after the close of the thirteenth century, and those that did spring into existence no longer exhibited the overwhelming strength and powers of resistance which stamped the erections of the preceding century. when prosecuting his war with france, edward iii., in , endeavoured to leave the kingdom in as defensible a condition as possible during his absence, and with that object in view ordered the keepers of the royal castles to put their respective charges into first-class order. in spite of this a report upon their efficiency a few years later revealed the fact that several were utterly unfit to withstand a siege. in , when the incensed edward ii. raised forces to avenge the insult to his queen by bartholomew de badlesmere at leeds castle, and quickly captured that place, tickhill, warwick, tutbury, and others, the ease with which they fell into his hands indubitably proves that they were no longer in a thoroughly defensive condition. and this, be it remembered, was before the introduction of gunpowder. the economic conditions prevailing in the fourteenth century were also in antagonism to the persistence and growth of castles in the land. military feudalism was in its death-throes, and the laws passed in the reign of edward i.--notably the statute of quia emptores--were undoubtedly responsible for it. the barons no longer held the same position as formerly when they dictated terms to their own sovereign, and although a recrudescence of the power of the military nobility occurred during the time of the wars of the roses, that struggle was in reality but duels upon a large scale between a number of nobles who had been successful in maintaining a semblance of their former power. the statute of winchester gave almost unlimited rights to the king, whereby he could summon the commons to arms if a baron proved recalcitrant. the baronial castle necessarily became an anachronism to a large extent, since its owner no longer had the power to fill it with numerous retainers, and also because the king, by his overwhelming numbers, could easily capture it. the art of war had also changed consequent chiefly upon the extraordinary efficiency displayed by the english archer, whereby he became supreme upon the field of battle: the development of this superb infantry was under the entire management of the crown and, consequently, the king became immeasurably superior in striking strength to any individual baron. the advantage began to rest with him who could put the most efficient battalions in the field, and not as formerly with the one who owned the greatest number of castles. combined with these conditions there was the indubitable fact that a castle had acquired the reputation of being connected with oppression of the people, resistance to lawful power, and a refuge from justice for the wrongdoer. this was entirely incompatible with the great reforms insisted upon by edward i., and passed into law by parliament; law and order became the rule and not the exception, and the position of the castle grew anomalous. [illustration: skipton castle, yorkshire.] with the ascendancy of an efficient administration of justice came the desire for comfort and a display of luxury, and probably no one who has become acquainted with the internal disposition of an early castle will qualify the assertion that the acme of discomfort and inconvenience must have prevailed within them. consequent upon this alteration in the economic conditions of the nation, the need for the impregnable stronghold of the past ages ceased to exist, and in many parts of england, but more especially in the south and east, the existing structures were largely altered or added to in order to afford conditions suitable to the changed amenities of social life. these alterations in nearly every case were made at the sacrifice of efficiency, and many castles which had played a notable part in the history of the nation became merely the residences of their lords, who made no attempt to put them to their original uses in time of war. arundel, the great midland castles of warwick, kenilworth, and many others, fall under this category. so far as gunpowder is concerned the part which it played in causing the abandonment of the feudal castle is strangely varied and dependent upon local circumstances. a well-found castle with an efficient and adequate garrison, supported by an army in active operation in the field, had no more to fear from an attack in the fifteenth century than it had in the thirteenth, perhaps not so much. very few bombards of the period mentioned could throw stone shot weighing over lbs., whereas the medieval trebuchet could hurl a missile of twice that weight, or even more, and to almost as great a distance. the effect of low-trajectory cannon upon castle walls in the fifteenth century under ordinary conditions may almost be left out of consideration, so small was the calibre. it is true that sir ralph grey, when besieged in bamborough castle in , was forced to surrender in a short space of time by the army of the kingmaker, who used his basilisks, aspiks, serpentines, dragons, syrens, and sakers with excellent effect; but we may justly claim that this was an exception, the configuration of the ground enabling warwick to place his pieces close up to the walls, while grey could look for no effective relief from a sympathetic army outside. ten years afterwards the castle of harlech, under the able governance of davydd ap ifan, held out against all the force that edward iv. could bring to bear upon it, and was the last of the castles garrisoned by lancastrians to render up its keys. but perhaps the greatest argument against the belief that the "venomous saltpetre" was the chief cause of the decline in castellation is that of the gallant resistance made by many of these old strongholds in the great civil war. at that time the newest of the castles was, perhaps, about two hundred years old and had not been constructed entirely for defence; the older structures were in many cases devoid of woodwork which had perished through age and neglect. yet these ancient buildings, now once more called upon to play their part in deadly strife, in many cases showed a resistance to attack which was simply marvellous, sometimes, as in the case of pembroke, defying the ordnance brought to bear upon them. if a royalist army of respectable proportions happened to be in the vicinity of a beleaguered fortress, the parliamentarians appeared to regard its reduction as an impossibility, and in the first place devoted their entire attention to the dispersal of the field force. it is true that the condition of the unmetalled trackways, which were dignified by the name of roads, at that time, presented almost insuperable obstacles to the passage of heavy ordnance, and the advance of a cumbrous baggage train was at times an impossibility. but even if cannon of respectable proportions could be brought against a castle in the great civil war, the effects produced were in many cases out of all proportion to the enormous trouble involved. thus at the first siege of pontefract castle in a cannon throwing a -lb. shot was used in conjunction with another of lbs. and two of lbs., the least being lbs., and yet the siege failed chiefly by reason of the small effect produced by the projectiles which were fired into it. again although scarborough castle was quite ruinous in when its siege commenced, and in addition was ill-supplied with ammunition or food, yet it gallantly sustained a siege lasting for twelve months. it may therefore be conceded from the foregoing that the assertion respecting gunpowder causing the disuse of the castle in the british isles must be taken with a large degree of reservation, since many other causes have to be considered, and even those who maintain the assertion must admit that the reason assigned took an unconscionably long time in effecting its object. [illustration: ightham mote, kent.] in the very few castles which saw their origin during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries in britain, domestic comforts and attempts at effective defensive works appear to have run side by side, often to the almost total exclusion of the latter. the substitution of brick for stone masonry in many of these was in itself a startling change, but when combined with this, large and lofty apartments were introduced, many with magnificent carved and moulded wooden ceilings, windows of large dimensions filled with beautiful tracery characteristic of perpendicular architecture, walls hung with rich tapestry and decorated with gorgeous heraldic devices and trophies of arms, costly furniture and other fittings betokening an advanced education in domestic requirements,--the feeling was borne in upon the minds of the nation that the feudal castle, as such, had seen its day, and that the age of the baronial residence and the manorial dwelling-house had superseded it. in these later castellated residences the kitchens, larders, cellars, dining halls, residential rooms and general offices became matters of supreme moment, the defensive works of secondary importance, but designed nevertheless with a view to impressiveness and an assumption of strength which they rarely possessed. within these lordly halls the noble owners held high revel, while troops of servitors, henchmen, and servants of every degree swarmed in the passages and halls in marked contradistinction to the old time grim men-at-arms, bearded archers, and steel-clad retainers of the feudal fortress. there was naturally a period of transition during which the characteristics of the castle predominated over the domestic influences, and those which sprang into existence during the reigns of henry iv. and v. very ably show this feature. to this intermediate period we may ascribe those structures which were chiefly reared by the spoils acquired upon the continent by soldiers of fortune who "followed the wars," and returning to their native land built palatial residences for themselves, out of their lawful, or it may be, ill-acquired, gains. many of these were based upon designs which the adventurers had seen abroad, thus our first example, bodiam, is a replica of many castles which were to be found at the time of its erection in gascony. _bodiam castle_ is one of the finest in sussex, and certainly one of the most picturesque in england; it is situated upon the rother, which here forms the boundary between sussex and kent. the building owes its origin to sir edward dalyngrugge, who had served in france and spain under the black prince with singular credit to himself and marked advantage to his worldly estate. a portion of this superfluous wealth was expended in erecting bodiam castle, which, while affording every comfort as a residence, possessed most of the essential qualities for effective defence. it presents a singularly beautiful and romantic spectacle at the present time, the towers and enceinte being entire, while a wealth of foliage and the wide waters of the surrounding moat afford a _coup d'oeil_ seldom equalled and probably not excelled in england. the licence to crenellate dates from ; the building was erected in the middle of a lake connected with the river, thus forming a broad and deep moat. a causeway, defended by an ingenious system of bridges and small gateways, leads across the latter, and terminates in a small barbican, now partly dismantled; the entrance is between two tall square towers which present beautiful examples of machicolation upon their summits. upon the opposite, or south face, is the postern leading to the moat and defended by a massive square tower, being one of nine in all surrounding the enclosure. the interior is now simply an empty shell, all the domestic buildings having been destroyed by sir william waller in , after the siege of arundel, although the chapel and the chief apartments are capable of being located. we have therefore simply the outer walls remaining of a particularly fine castle of the perpendicular period. the entrance consists of a vaulted passage with many openings for the discharge of missiles upon assailants while they were endeavouring to overcome the three portcullises and the massive wooden gate defending it. in addition to ordinary loopholes there are round holes for the discharge of harquebuses. the castle underwent a siege by the earl of surrey in the reign of richard iii. in consequence of a descendant of sir thomas lewkenor, into whose hands it had passed, proving obnoxious to the king. _shirburn castle_ is also of the same type and very similar to bodiam; it dates from the year and was erected by warine de lisle who had gained wealth and distinction under edward iii. it stands in the chiltern hills near stokenchurch and is a large square pile surrounded by a broad moat. [illustration: wressle castle, yorkshire.] _wressle castle, yorkshire._--the castle of wressle lies to the south-east of york, near the junction of the derwent with the ouse, the navigation of which it was probably designed to protect. sir thomas percy, the brother of the first earl of northumberland, is reputed to have been the founder. it fell to the crown, and henry iv. granted it to his son john, earl of bedford, and after his demise to sir thomas percy, son of henry, the second earl of northumberland. the percies seem to have maintained their court in the castle with a magnificence befitting their illustrious race, and during their occupation the castle saw the most glorious portion of its history. in and it was garrisoned by the parliamentarians and shortly afterwards was ordered to be dismantled. three sides of the quadrangle were thrown down, leaving only the south façade. it was in the possession of the seymour family from to , when it again passed into the hands of descendants of the percy family, and now is owned by lord leconfield. the building originally possessed five towers, one at each corner and another over the entrance on the south side, which still remains, together with the curtain wall and flanking towers. these present a very imposing appearance, but the general effect of the ruins suggests the castellated mansion of the perpendicular period more than the grim sternness of a medieval castle. the square corner towers appear singularly inadequate for an effective flanking fire, and no doubt the building relied for defence chiefly upon the broad moat which encompassed it upon three sides and the deep dry ditch defending the approach. _hever_ undoubtedly owes its fame partly to its magnificent gatehouse, which forms by far the most impressive part of the structure, and partly to the rich store of human interest imparted by its intimate connection with the ill-fated anne boleyn. it was built in the reign of edward iii. by sir william de hever, whose daughter brought it to her husband, lord cobham. in the time of henry vi., sir geoffrey boleyn, lord mayor of london, an opulent mercer, purchased it, and added greatly to the existing buildings, the work being subsequently finished by his grandson, sir thomas, the father of anne. [illustration: hever castle, kent.] the latter was born in , and brought up at hever under a french governess. after she attracted the notice of the king, her father was created viscount rochford, and earl of wiltshire and ormond, while anne was made marchioness of pembroke. it was in the garden at hever that henry first saw her, and subsequently his wooing of that unfortunate queen occurred there. after the execution of anne and her brother, the castle went to the crown and was settled on anne of cleves. in sir edward waldegrave purchased it, and it passed to sir william humfreys and subsequently to sir t. waldo, whose descendant is the present owner. the castle is surrounded by a double moat, fed by the river eden; it is a small castellated house of the fifteenth century, the chief feature being the superb entrance, battlemented and machicoulied, and containing three portcullis grooves in the main passage. the buildings completing the rectangle are chiefly of the elizabethan period, but have been very extensively restored by the present owner. _maxstoke_ is one of the very few castles which have come down to us without the expression "dismantled by order of parliament" being applied to it. it affords us an idea of the beauty the face of england would present, so far as magnificent castles are concerned, if the forces of destruction and revolution had never been let loose upon our fair isle. it dates from , when william de clynton, earl of huntingdon, obtained licence to crenellate. the duke of buckingham owned and occupied it in ; he was killed at northampton in , and his son humphrey, earl of stafford, having died of wounds received at the first battle of st. albans in , his grandson henry succeeded him but was beheaded without trial at salisbury in . edward stafford, however, succeeded to the estates in the reign of henry vii.; his death by beheading occurred on tower hill in . maxstoke came to the crown but was given by henry viii. to sir william compton, from whose descendants it was purchased by the family of dilke in whose possession it still remains. [illustration: maxtoke castle, warwickshire.] the gatehouse is in excellent preservation, the entrance being flanked by hexagonal towers, while the archway contains the grooves for the portcullis, and also the old gates themselves, plated with iron and bearing the arms of the stafford family. a fine groined roof is inside the gatehouse, while the battlements have an alur behind them. the walls of the enceinte and the four towers at the corners are in good preservation, and show marks of the wooden buildings formerly erected against them for accommodating the soldiers. the chapel and a number of the domestic apartments are original, dating from the time of edward iii. _raglan_, one of the most imposing ruins in the british isles, was erected shortly after by sir william ap thomas, who had returned rich in honours and also in worldly wealth from many a stricken field, the last being that of agincourt. he married the daughter of sir david gam, and commenced the erection of the magnificent building which combines in such an excellent manner the characteristics of a mansion and a fortress. if either predominates it is undoubtedly the warlike portion since, presumably, the builder could not at once forget his bellicose proclivities. his son was made a baron by edward iv. and afterwards earl of pembroke, and was beheaded at northampton, . the castle came into the possession of the somersets in , the ancestors of the present duke of beaufort. the fifth earl carried out extensive work upon the pile, but shortly afterwards the demolition of the castle was ordered by the parliament. probably the most striking feature of the castle is the detached keep lying to the left of the main entrance, and called the yellow tower. it is surrounded by a wide and deep moat, and was undoubtedly a formidable obstacle before being slighted. it underwent a vigorous siege in , when sir thomas fairfax assailed it with a large force. the garrison ran short of ammunition, and, the north wall being breached, a capitulation ensued. _herstmonceaux castle._--one of the finest examples of the later castles is herstmonceaux, in sussex, dating from the year . it has been described as "the most perfect example of the mansion of a feudal lord in the south of england," and, when visited by walpole in , was in a perfect state of preservation; grose, writing a few decades later, gives a vivid description of all the principal apartments, which seem to have suffered but little at that time. now, however, when there is some rumour prevailing of an intended restoration, the building is in ruins,--roofless, ivy-grown, and in many parts dismantled by the falling-in of roofs and floors. it is built of the small bricks then in use, two inches or less in thickness; they were brought to england from belgium, strange to say the art of brick-making having apparently been lost since the departure of the romans. belgian workmen were also brought over to erect it. sir roger fiennes, an agincourt veteran, was the founder, and probably the site had borne a previous fortalice. like bodiam, erected some half-century previously, the plan is quadrilateral, almost square, with four octagonal towers at the corners and three of pentagonal plan strengthening the curtain walls. the gateway is one of the finest and most impressive in existence; the towers which flank it rise over feet in height, cylindrical at the upper parts and superposed upon feet of octagonal bases, with smaller turrets rising still higher above them. a magnificent range of machicoulis with crenellation above protects the towers and the curtain between, the merlons being pierced with oillets. a moat, long since dry, encircles the building, a bridge spanning it at the principal entrance. there are three tiers of cross loopholes, and below occur openings for matchlocks to defend the bridge. with the exception of the grand towers of the south gateway and the shells of some adjoining buildings, there are only broken arches and shattered walls, piers, and buttresses now to be seen, and it is only by the description left by grose and walpole that the ichnography of the interior can be traced. wyatt the architect is responsible for the vandalism committed, as he dismantled the castle to furnish material for the owner's new residence adjacent. [illustration: herstmonceaux castle, sussex.] although herstmonceaux has never undergone any struggles in the "fell arbitrament of war," yet painful memories cling to the ruins. thomas fiennes, the ninth lord dacre, succeeded to the estate at the age of seventeen. the youth had already laid the foundation of a brilliant career at court when an escapade, planned by himself and some madcap companions, whereby they essayed to play the rôle of poachers upon a neighbouring estate, led to the death of a keeper whom they encountered. his three companions were arrested and hanged for murder near deptford; dacre was also tried and condemned, and the sentence was duly executed at tyburn in , the young man being twenty-five years old at the time. _tattershall castle_, on the witham in lincolnshire, is contemporary with herstmonceaux, and constructed likewise of flemish brick bonded with exquisite workmanship. the tower still standing contains four stories with a total altitude of feet; large gothic-headed windows occur filled with perpendicular tracery, and these windows are repeated on a smaller scale in the four octagonal towers which clamp the angles of the building. massive timber balks once supported the various floors, and a number of carved chimney-pieces are to be found. the walls are about feet thick at the base, and many passages and apartments have been made in their thickness. the well in the base is covered by a massive arched crypt, upon which the castle has been erected. but perhaps the most notable feature in this beautiful relic of the past is the grand and markedly-perfect system of machicolation combined with the bretasche, which is exemplified in the cornice surmounting the tops of the curtain walls. upon massive stone corbels is built a substantial stone wall pierced with square apertures for an all-round fire with various arms; in the floor of the alur are the openings for dropping missiles upon assailants at the base of the walls; above this again are the merlons and embrasures giving upon the battlement walk. the castle was erected by ralph, lord cromwell, treasurer to king henry v., whose vast wealth sought for an opening in which to display itself, and probably could not have done so more effectively than in the rearing of a magnificent pile of buildings of which but a small portion, the tower described, now remains. in its later years it suffered a partial dismantling during the commonwealth period, followed by a rifling in the eighteenth century similar to that which overtook the sister castle of herstmonceaux. after the middle of the fifteenth century castles were no longer built, and we have to look to the fortified manor-house such as was designed by the lord cromwell above mentioned at wingfield, derbyshire, or that at exburgh in norfolk; these when surrounded by moats were capable of being placed in a good state of defence, and many a thrilling tale is told of the sieges they underwent during the civil war when the stout resistance they made was nearly or quite equal to the defence of the massive ramparts and cyclopean bastions of the earlier castle-builder. [illustration: penshurst place. kent.] _penshurst place._--this was originally an embattled mansion of the fourteenth century, and gradually expanded by constant additions into an excellent example of a combined castle and a manorial dwelling-house. the licence to crenellate is dated the fifteenth year of edward iii., and stands in the name of sir john de pulteneye. this opulent knight erected a stately mansion in the form of an irregular square as to plan. it reverted to the crown in the reign of henry vi. and was held by the duke of bedford, regent for a time, and then by his brother, humphrey, duke of gloucester. the staffords held it afterwards, but at the decease of the duke of buckingham edward vi. gave it to ralph fane and then to sir william sydney, one of the heroes of flodden field. its associations with sir philip sydney form one of its chief claims upon the public. the spacious hall measures feet in length by the same in height; it is feet wide, and is a grand example of fourteenth-century architecture. the beautiful windows reach from the floor to a considerable height, the roof is open, there is a minstrels' gallery, and an elaborate arrangement for the fire in the middle of the hall. adjacent is a range of buildings much altered in the elizabethan period, containing state rooms, the queen's drawing-room, etc. portions of the wall of enceinte are to be found upon the south and east. _ightham mote._--this building is undoubtedly one of the most perfect examples of the combination of domestic convenience with an efficient system of defence to be found in england. it stands about two miles from ightham village in kent in a deep hollow, through which runs a rivulet flowing into the moat surrounding the house, from which the latter takes its name. ivo de haut possessed the mote in the reign of henry ii.; it reverted to the crown for a time in the reign of richard iii., but was restored to the family, and subsequently passed through the hands of many owners. the house appears to be of three distinct periods, edward ii., henry vii., and elizabeth. the hall is of the first period; it has a slender stone arch to carry the roof and contains many ancient features; some of the original shingles, for example, are still in existence, though a modern roof covers them. other objects are a chapel, original, and the gateway tower with the gateway itself and the doors. there are many examples in england of the simple manorial hall of purely domestic type whose owners found it expedient, at some critical period, to fortify in some manner, and these additions are of the greatest interest to the antiquarian. perhaps the best example to be found is that of stokesay, near ludlow, which is a unique specimen of a small mansion of the thirteenth century subsequently fortified. the licence is dated , and a stone wall is mentioned; only a few yards remain of this. a wide ditch surrounds the area, and a high tower, similar to two towers joined together, affords the required defence. it is embattled, the merlons being pierced, while the embrasures have the ancient shutters still depending. it dates from the end of the thirteenth century. the hall stands adjacent and vies with that at winchester in being the most perfect example of a thirteenth-century hall remaining to us. it is about feet long by wide and over feet in height. the windows are in the e.e. style, and the corbels carrying the roof are of the same period. the lord's apartment overlooked the hall. it has been occupied by the de says, the verduns, and ten generations of the ludlows, the first of whom built the crenellated parts. the prompt surrender of the cavalier garrison to the parliamentarian army is no doubt responsible for the fact that no destruction of the house occurred at that critical time. the examples given of the castellated mansion and fortified manor-house are necessarily meagre in number, and many more, such as broughton castle in oxfordshire, sudley in gloucestershire, wingfield manor, derbyshire; hilton, durham; hampton court, hereford; whitton, durham, etc., call for remark if the exigencies of space permitted. chapter x the castles of scotland _prehistoric and other earthworks._--the numerous remains of strongholds and defensive works of a prehistoric character readily fall as a rule under one of the divisions used in describing the english examples. they are usually of a circular or oval formation, and where irregular the shape has been determined by the site. the hill-forts, known as vitrified forts, are, however, not represented in england, and, although found in a few places upon the continent, appear to have been chiefly developed in scotland. by some means, not definitely determined as yet, the walls of these strongholds have been subjected to intense heat, whereby the stones have become plastic, and amalgamated when cool into one coherent mass. it is unnecessary to dilate upon the obvious advantages which a homogeneous defence of this nature would possess. these forts chiefly lie in a broad band between the moray firth and argyle and wigtown, and are generally constructed of igneous rocks; when provided with a suitable flux of alkali in the form of wood-ashes or seaweed a comparatively moderate heat would be sufficient to cause fusion. the walls of vitrified forts are of about half the thickness of unvitrified, and appear to belong to the late celtic age. _brochs_ are also peculiar to scotland. they are massive, tower-like buildings, chiefly occurring in the northern counties and upon the islands; they are remarkably similar in outline and construction, and they have been ascribed chronologically to the period immediately before or after the roman occupation of britain, and as being essentially celtic. the broch of mousa is generally believed to be the most perfect example extant; it is in shetland, and consists of a wall feet thick enclosing a court feet in diameter. the wall is about feet in height and contains a solitary entrance, narrow and low. in the thickness of the wall, and approached by three internal openings, are chambers, while a spiral staircase leads upwards to where passages constructed in the walls are served by the stairway. other brochs which have been examined appear to possess a similarity of plan, but some have subsidiary defences in the shape of external walls, ramparts, and fosses; thus the example at clickamin, lerwick, was surrounded by a stone wall. that found upon cockburn law, and known as odin's, or edin's hold, is of note by reason of the double rampart of earth surrounding it. it is one of the largest as yet discovered, the wall being feet thick and the area feet wide. probably the many hut circles which surround this broch are of later date and were formed from its ruins. the great thickness of the wall is exceeded, however, by the broch at torwoodlee, selkirkshire, by inches. with the advent of the historical period firmer ground is reached, and there are numerous evidences that the motte and bailey castle was introduced at an early period into scotland. during the second half of the eleventh century this was the prevailing type as in england. it has been found possible to divide the era of castellation proper in the northern kingdom into four distinct periods: _first period_, - .--the roving spirit and warlike disposition of the normans prompted their adventurers to penetrate into the fastnesses of the north, where the innovations they introduced made them acceptable in the main to the inhabitants. they taught the latter how to raise towers of a design based upon the rectangular keep, with thick cemented walls, and many of the great fortresses, such as edinburgh, stirling, and dumbarton, originated at this time. the early type of keep was quadrangular in plan with towers at the angles, which were sometimes detached from the main building and placed upon short curtain walls; but some were naturally modified or specially adapted to the site like those of home and loch doon. the use of water as a defence was recognised at an early stage; some towers were placed on islands in lakes, and most of them were furnished with moats and ditches. at this period castles were seldom placed upon high promontories. the workmanship was as a rule poor, rough, and crude, but some exceptions occur like kildrummie and dirleton. _second period_, - .--the years of this century were marked in scotland by anarchy, war, and bloodshed, which devastated the kingdom and placed the arts of peace in complete abeyance, while poverty was universal. the period was consequently unfavourable for the erection of scottish castles upon a large scale, but many scores of small keeps sprang into existence. bruce was antagonistic to the building of large and roomy castles, arguing that their capture by an invader would give him a standing in the country which otherwise he would not possess. the towers erected were based upon the norman keep; they were of stone throughout, so that their destruction by fire was impossible. their walls were so thick and massive that restoration after a siege was easy. the basement was always vaulted, and was intended for storage purposes and the herding of cattle in an emergency. as a general rule it had no interior communication with the upper floors, but trap-doors are not unknown. the entrance to the building was on the first storey through a narrow door reached by a ladder; it gave upon the hall, the chief apartment, where all dined in common, and the household slept, a subsidiary half floor being constructed above for this purpose. [illustration: bartizan.] the second floor was the private apartment of the chieftain and his family, and was also provided with a wooden gallery for sleeping purposes. the roof was a pointed arch resting solidly upon the walls and covered with stone slabs. at the angles of the building bartizans were usually built, although rounded corners like those at neidpath and drum sometimes occur. in the massive walls spiral staircases, small rooms, cupboards, and other conveniences were arranged. round the tower a wall was generally erected, within which the stables, offices, and kitchens were built. in the wall of the tower itself, and sometimes below the level of the ground, the universal "pit" or prison was built, ventilated by a shaft carried upwards in the thickness of the wall. at times the battlements were provided with parapets resting upon corbels but executed in a crude manner. [illustration: bothwell castle, lanarkshire.] the century in question saw numerous castles of this type come into existence, all based upon the same plan, that of the king differing only in size from that of the small chieftain. the largest are from to feet square, but the majority are much smaller. these keeps formed nuclei for subsequent additions as at loch leven, craigmillar, campbell, and aros, and many of them served as ordinary residences down to the seventeenth century, long after the tide of war had passed. _third period_, - .--with the coming of peace and a period of commercial and industrial prosperity, the nobles of scotland were able to observe the progress of castellation around them in england and france, and began to adopt the styles which they found in those countries. a type of castle appeared based like that of bodium upon a french ideal,--the building of a high embattled wall strengthened with towers around a quadrangular space. this plan, derived from the concentric ideal, was adopted for the largest castles, such as stirling, which is the most perfect example of a courtyard plan, and tantallon. in the smaller castles the hall is placed in the centre with the kitchen, pantry, and buttery adjoining it, and the lord's solar and private apartments at the daïs end. the wine-vaults and cellars are built beneath, while the bedrooms occur above. in contrast to the english buildings of the period, the question of defence was the dominating idea in spite of the altered conditions of better living and increased luxury. many plain and simple keeps were also built during this period. _fourth period, after_ .--the development of artillery led to alterations being made in castellation, while the progress of the reformation gradually introduced the fortified mansion and manor-house. many small keeps, or peel towers, were built, however, chiefly on the border. ornamentation up to this period had been conspicuously absent, but now it assumed a very high importance. corbelling became almost a mania,--floors, windows, parapets, chimneys, and other details projecting to an excessive distance in order to enhance the effect. the bartizans were covered with high conical roofs, and turrets similarly ornamented became a prominent style. the accommodation in the upper floors was greatly increased when compared with the basement, through the excess of corbelling. gables were furnished with crow-steps, while machicolation became at times almost fantastic. gargoyles shaped like cannon in stone are a marked feature of the period. _bothwell castle, lanarkshire ( st period)_ bothwell castle is generally termed the grandest ruin of a thirteenth-century castle in scotland. it belonged in the thirteenth century to the murray family; was captured by edward i. and given to aymer de valence, earl of pembroke. the english had possession until the year when, after capturing it, the scots dismantled it. from the douglas family it passed by marriage to the earls of home. it is placed upon a rocky promontory above the clyde, and consists of an oblong courtyard with high curtain walls and strengthening towers, round or square, while a large circular donjon lies at the west end. the latter bestrides the enceinte and is separated from the bailey by a moat; it is of noble proportions, feet in diameter and feet high, with walls feet thick. the tower forcibly suggests that at coucy in many particulars. the hall and various other apartments occupy the eastern portion of the bailey. _neidpath castle_ (_ nd period_) neidpath castle is situated upon elevated land overlooking a winding of the tweed. it was built upon the =l= plan, probably in the fourteenth century, being a main central tower of the keep type with a square projection of considerable size attached to one side. the walls are feet in thickness and the original door was on the basement floor facing the river, a departure from the general rule. a spiral stair gave access to the upper storeys. the tower was originally of enormous strength, being really two immense vaults superposed upon each other, but other, wooden, floors have been inserted between. the parapet and corners are rounded similar to those at drum castle. it was greatly altered and added to in the seventeenth century. no particular history attaches to the building, which belonged to the hays of yester for centuries; it has only undergone one siege, that by cromwell, when it surrendered after a short defence. [illustration: neidpath castle, peebles.] _edinburgh castle ( rd period)_ the site of edinburgh castle has undoubtedly been occupied by some description of fortress from the most remote antiquity. the romans occupied it and subsequently malcolm canmore fortified it as an aid towards keeping the english out of scotland. in edward i. besieged and took it in fifteen days; he recaptured it again in . in it fell into the hands of bruce by a daring escalade, and was stripped of its defences. edward iii. rebuilt it, and placed a strong garrison there, but the scots took it four years later. david ii. refortified it and rendered it so strong that neither richard ii. nor henry iv. had any success in their attempts to take it. since that period it has undergone a number of sieges. it is built upon the courtyard plan, and is one of the survivors of the four chief fortresses in the country, the others being stirling, roxburgh, and berwick. the moat at the entrance is now dry and filled up, and the gateway there is modern. the argyle tower (sometimes called the st. david's tower) is a portion of the old castle, as are also the ruins of the wellhouse tower, while st. margaret's chapel is the oldest building and also the oldest church in scotland, containing early norman work and probably also saxon. the general aspect of the castle suffers much from a picturesque point of view by the addition of the great demi-lune battery and ranges of modern buildings. _stirling castle ( rd period)_ the commanding rock upon which stirling castle is placed was originally an old hill fort, but in the twelfth century was one of the four chief castles. thus in it held out for three months against edward i. and a powerful army. so important was it considered that edward ii. attempted to relieve it, and thus led to bannockburn. baliol occupied it, and king david only captured it after a long and obstinate siege. at the stuart period it became a royal castle and the favourite residence of the scottish kings. the present walls are undoubtedly raised upon the old foundations, but, so far as antiquity is concerned, the oldest part of the castle remaining is the parliament hall opening from the inner ward which is of late perpendicular architecture. the palace is of the renaissance, and dates from . [illustration: edinburgh castle, from the terrace of heriot's hospital.] _dunnottar castle, kincardineshire ( rd period)_ one mile south of stonehaven stands dunnottar castle, upon a flat platform of rock with the north sea washing three of the precipitous sides. a small isthmus, not much above the level of the sea, connects it to the mainland. the oldest parts of the castle date from c. . the entrance is at the base of the rock upon the land side, where an outwork of remarkable strength is placed. after ascending a steep incline a tunnel feet long is reached, also defended, and a second similar defence occurs beyond, thus the approach was of an extremely formidable character. the keep stands at the south-west corner, and is of the =l= shape four stories in height, and built early in the fifteenth century. the stables and domestic buildings are of a later date, and arranged round part of an irregular courtyard. the castle, although credited with being one of the most impregnable in scotland, and to which the scottish regalia was entrusted for safe keeping during the commonwealth, was captured by sir william wallace in , whose troops scaled the precipices and put the english garrison of men to the sword. in edward iii. refortified it, but the scots took it as soon as he had left the kingdom. general lambert blockaded the castle in , and eventually captured it. _tantallon castle ( rd period)_ tantallon castle is of the courtyard type, similar to caerlaverock and doune, and was erected about the end of the fourteenth century. situated upon a rocky precipitous site, with three sides washed by the north sea, it was only imperative to construct defences upon the fourth or west side. a deep ditch cut in the rock, curtain walls feet thick and feet high, battlemented, with a level court in front, beyond which was another deep ditch,--these were the defences deemed all-sufficient to baffle intruders. the keep also acted as a flanking defence to the curtain walls, and contained the only entrance, which passed completely through it. many traces exist of the work carried out in the early part of the sixteenth century in the endeavour to make it impregnable to artillery. the buildings now occupy only two sides of the interior quadrangle, the rest having been dismantled. [illustration: dunnottar castle, kincardineshire.] in the rich history of the castle we find that in james v. invested it with , men and a formidable battering train, the structure itself being supplied with large artillery. the siege lasted twenty days and proved unavailing, the great thickness of the walls resisting the efforts of the gunners. it underwent another siege in when the earl of angus made a stand in it against the covenanters. general monk invested it and found after two days that his mortars had no effect; he then tried heavy siege guns which breached the wall, but the garrisons retreated into the central tower where they were safe, and were allowed to capitulate upon good terms. the fortress fell into ruin in the beginning of the eighteenth century. chapter xi the siege and defence of a medieval castle a work upon castellation would undoubtedly be incomplete if it omitted to deal with the interesting subject of the means by which the medieval knight defended his castle, and of the methods he employed for attacking his neighbour's, or an enemy's town, whether in a private feud or legitimate warfare. through the almost universal habit of perusing medieval romances the general public has formed a mental picture of the hero and his followers riding round a castle and summoning it to surrender, or challenging the garrison to emerge from their retreat and essay mortal combat in the open. as the engineer and captain of the sappers and miners, the director of the artillery, the designer of movable towers, and the general head of the various artifices calculated to bring the besieged to their senses, the hero is less well known. the _coup de main_ method of attack has probably been the same in most ages, and undoubtedly was the chief means resorted to by primitive man. his missile weapons during the stone, bronze, and early iron ages were of no use against earth ramparts crowned by thick palisading; sling, stones, arrows, and spears were only efficacious against the bodies of his enemies, and hand-to-hand combat was therefore a necessity. hence we may imagine a concentration against a presumably weak point, a sudden rush, the plunge into the dry ditch and a rapid scramble up the scarp towards the palisades under a shower of arrows, stones, and other missiles; the mad escalade of the defences surmounting the earthwork and the fierce resistance of the defenders, followed by a successful entry or a disastrous repulse and retreat. precisely the same course was pursued in the medieval period when a rapid bridging of the moat by planks and beams would be attempted, scaling ladders would be reared, and, protected by their shields from the rain of missiles, the assailants, covered by their archers' fire of arrows and bolts upon the ramparts, would mount their ladders and attempt to effect a lodgment upon the walls. and, although weapons and conditions have changed, the assault to-day is made upon the self-same methods. if, instead of the _coup de main_, a sustained siege is decided upon the knight will order his "gyns" to be brought up to the front, and large and heavy ones to be built upon the spot. from the time when uzziah "made in jerusalem engines, invented by cunning men, to be on the towers and upon the bulwarks, to shoot arrows and great stones withal,"[ ] down to the invention of cannon, the ingenuity of man has been exercised in devising machines for hurling missiles to a distance. the greeks, romans, and other nations of antiquity brought them to perfection, and marvellous results were obtained in ancient sieges; the vivid account by plutarch of the great engines used at the attack upon syracuse, b.c. - , reads almost like romance. caesar frequently mentions this artillery, and especially the portable balistae for throwing arrows and casting stones; they were fitted with axles and wheels and manoeuvred like batteries of cannon at the present day. larger engines were constructed as required like those of the medieval period. [footnote : chron. xxvi. .] [illustration: tantallon castle, haddingtonshire.] the ancient engines were distinct from those of a later age in depending for their efficacy upon the forces of tension and torsion as compared with that of counterpoise in the middle ages. the art of preparing the sinews of animals so as to preserve their elastic powers was known to the ancients, and great bundles so treated were utilised in different ways in the various engines. experiments on sinews, ropes of hair, and other materials at the present day have proved that loss of elasticity soon occurs, whereas we learn that such was not the fact in classical times with their special method of preparation. by fixing an endless skein in a suitable frame, stretching it tightly and then twisting the skein in the centre by means of a beam of wood, the necessary torsion was obtained; if a missile were placed upon the beam when drawn back and the beam released, the projectile would be hurled to a distance proportionate to the velocity of the arm and the weight of the missile. the principle may readily be gleaned from the accompanying diagram which exemplifies the two vertical skeins used in a portable balista for throwing arrows; by being fixed in a suitable frame an action like that of the bow could be obtained. by using immense coils of twisted sinew the nations of antiquity, and especially the greeks, threw stones weighing lbs. or more to a distance of from to yards, and as a general rule with marvellous accuracy, while lighter missiles are stated to have been hurled to between and yards. these engines received the general name of "catapults," although the greeks generally referred to them under the term "tormentum," in reference to the twisted sinews, thongs, and hair, of which the skeins were made. broadly speaking, catapults shot darts, arrows, and the falarica,--a long iron-headed pole; balistas projected stones or similar missiles, though the names are often interchanged by the chroniclers. some time after the fall of the roman empire the secret of preparing the sinews was lost. [illustration: diagram illustrating the principle of construction in classical engines.] _the trebuchet._--another force was called into play for medieval artillery. this was the counterpoise, or gravitation, and the principle upon which all large engines or "gyns" were constructed during the middle ages. a long wooden arm was pivoted in a framework so that a short and a long portion projected upon either side; to the shorter part a great weight in a swinging cradle was fixed which necessarily raised the longer arm to the vertical position. if the latter were drawn backwards and downwards the great weight was accordingly raised, and upon release the long arm would sweep upwards in a curve and project any missile attached to it. by fixing a sling of suitable length to the arm the efficiency was immensely increased (_see_ title-page). such was the principle of the "trebuchet," the enormous engines which carried devastation and destruction to medieval castles. the french are said to have introduced these in the twelfth century, and by the end of the thirteenth they were the most formidable siege engines of the time. [illustration: stirling castle, stirlingshire.] the transition period in england between the classical weapons and the trebuchet was the twelfth century and the early part of the thirteenth. the veterans from the crusades undoubtedly introduced the torsion and tension engines, but found that the home-made article could not compete in efficiency with the oriental examples and therefore the advent of the trebuchet was welcomed. roughly speaking, the original balista or catapults depending upon torsion, and throwing shafts rather than balls, were not so frequently in use as those engines which depended upon tension and threw heavy stones. in the early part of the thirteenth century the balista catapult came into vogue once more; it was of the cross-bow type, and at the end of the century was called the espringale and mounted on wheels. the counterpoises used in large trebuchets weighed sometimes between and tons; the throwing arm was often feet in length, and the engine could hurl a projectile weighing between cwt. and cwt. to a distance of about yards. dead horses were at times sent whirling over the battlements into a besieged town, while casks of matter of an offensive character and likely to breed pestilences were common missiles. but the chief use and purpose of the trebuchet was the smashing-up of bretasches; the pounding of the battlements and upper works to facilitate escalades; the filling up of the moat in selected places by throwing large quantities of earth, stones, etc., into it and against the walls, and, occasionally, to hurl some unfortunate envoy back again into a town or fortress when the messages he carried were distasteful to the besiegers. in a medieval ms. full directions are given for trussing a man intended for use as a projectile. camden states that at the siege of bedford castle by king john one of the mangonels, _i.e._ trebuchets, threw millstones into the castle. he mentions seven great machines being at work at one time. again, when henry iii. besieged kenilworth, in , stones of extraordinary size were used as missiles; some are still preserved at the castle and two are at the rotunda, woolwich, the diameters being - / inches and - / inches; the weight lbs. and lbs. respectively. at pevensey castle catapult stone shot of , , and lbs. respectively have been discovered. the great trebuchet constructed by edward i. for the siege of stirling castle cast balls weighing between two and three hundredweight. the several parts of this great machine were sent by sea, but the castle surrendered before its efficacy could be tried. the king was annoyed that this, his pet device, the "war-wolf," as it was termed, had not had an opportunity, and therefore ordered the garrison to remain within while he took a few "pot-shots" at their defences. such projectiles would almost demolish a house, and were nearly as formidable as modern shells; their great weight would batter every portion of a medieval castle except the very thickest of walls. the platforms of earth thrown up by besiegers to sustain their great engines remain in many places intact to-day; thus round berkhampstead castle are eight, upon which the trebuchets of the dauphin were erected in , when he battered the castle into submission in about a fortnight. the terms mangonel, petrary, balista, onager, scorpion, perrier, catapult, etc., when used by historians of the middle ages, generally apply to the trebuchet and its varieties, large and small. _the arblast, espringale, and spurgardon_ were engines based upon the cross-bow or tension principle; some were of considerable size and threw huge bolts tipped with iron. another and a common use was to convey ignited incendiary matter into the enemy's quarters by their means. they were mounted upon towers, curtain walls, and in the baileys, while in the open when placed upon wheels they served the purpose of field-pieces. [illustration: raising the portcullis.] _the ram_, based upon the weapon used by the ancients, was in frequent use. the working parts and the men manipulating it were protected by a pent-house called the "snail," or "whelk," having a roof of considerable thickness. in this house it was suspended by chains and pulled backwards and forwards by hand or mechanical appliances; when released, it smashed the stones in the wall to powder, so that they could be subsequently removed from the defences. to mitigate the effects the besieged let down mattresses, bags of wool, and coiled rope mats by chains from the ramparts. _the terebra._--a machine based upon the classical _terebra_ was also in use. it consisted of a heavy beam which could be rotated; the iron head being furnished with a spike of square section was inserted in a joint into which it bored its way, breaking up the surrounding stones and facilitating their removal. _the cat, or sow_, was in constant use for mining and underpinning walls. it was a covered house upon wheels, with an enormously strong roof calculated to withstand the heavy stones, beams of wood, hot water, molten lead, and spiked poles which were invariably launched from the battlements for its destruction. under its cover the besiegers tunnelled beneath the walls, which they supported with woodwork until their task was completed; by starting a conflagration in the chamber thus excavated the supports were consumed and the wall was breached. at other times the stones, previously shattered or loosened by the ram or the terebra, were removed until the wall above was incapable of bearing its own weight. mining, like other operations, had to be carried out with discretion and was undoubtedly a precarious operation. thus in the siege of dryslwyn castle, carmarthenshire, in the time of edward i., lord stafford and other leaders lost their lives by a sudden collapse of the walls they were undermining. the mine was often met by a counter-mine of the garrison as in modern warfare. _the beffroi, belfry, or movable tower_ was a machine for facilitating the capture of fortified positions. it could be built upon the spot or carried from place to place in pieces. when mounted upon wheels it was pushed forward towards the walls, the object being to give the assailants the same advantage of height which was shared by the besieged. from the upper platform the archers could command the battlements and approaches; those in lower stages sent their missiles into loopholes and other openings; in the lowest stage a ram was often mounted. one feature of its construction was a hinged platform which fell outwards upon the battlements and over which the assailants endeavoured to enter the fortress. the besieged hindered the approach of this terror by digging pitfalls for the wheels, shooting incendiary missiles, making sallies for its destruction by fire, or concentrating such a body of men upon the walls that none could live under the hail of missiles poured into it. the methods of assailing a castle thus enumerated were, as a rule, put into operation at the same time and supported one another. thus in the siege of bedford castle, defended by the followers of faukes de breauté, in , the siege was carried out by king henry iii. in person. two wooden beffrois were made and advanced towards the walls,--these were occupied by longbow-men and arbalestiers; sappers approached the walls and undermined by means of a cat; seven trebuchets cast their ponderous projectiles against, or into, the castle without intermission night and day, while lesser artillery hurled lead-covered stones, darts, bolts, and other missiles among the defenders upon the walls, or through the oillets and louvre-covered windows. the barbican was taken and then the outer bailey; a breach in the defending wall gave admission to the inner bailey, and when, by judicious sapping, one portion of the great shell keep sank and produced a wide breach, the castle was surrendered. in medieval manuscripts we meet with many illustrations of petardiers hurling vessels containing greek fire upon the various engines attacking a castle or town, and perhaps this terrifying missile deserves more notice than has hitherto been paid to it. introduced from the east during the time of the crusades it was used with other incendiary bodies, but as no great objects were specially achieved by its use in our islands, or rather, as chroniclers do not make special mention of such results, we are probably justified in thinking that the effects were more of a terrifying character than of actual effectiveness in besieging or defending a castle. index adulterine castles, , ages--stone, bronze, iron, dates of, l'aigle, matilda de, albini, nigel de, cainhoe castle, alnwick castle, description of, alselin, geoffrey, laxton castle, alur, , ambresbury banks, essex, anderida, angus, earl of, arbalesteria, , arblast, archer, the english, aros castle, arundel castle, , , , description of, shell keep, siege of, arundel cathedral, aspiks, avalon, isle of, badbury, berks, badbury rings, wimborne, , , badlesmere, bartholomew, bailey, buildings in, bailey or base court, bakewell, baliol, robert, balista, , , stones, bamborough castle, description of, keep of, , siege of, wards of, banks, sir john, and lady, barbican, or ravelin, barnard castle, the keep, bartizans, , base court or bailey, basilisks, battlemented parapets, bayeux tapestry, beauchamp tower, tower of london, beaufort, duke of, , beaumaris castle, _bebban burh_ or bamborough, bedford castle, shell keep of, siege of, beffroi, , , , bek, anthony, bishop of durham, belesme, robert de, , belfry, belvoir castle, position of, todenei, robert, berkeley castle, berkhampstead castle, mortaign, robert, count of, berm, cadbury castle, verulamium, berwick castle, bigot family, bodiam castle, , description of, boleyn, anne, sir geoffrey, sir thomas, bolingbroke, bombards, , bothwell castle, description of, bowyer tower, tower of london, bradbury, bretasche, , description of, motte and bailey castle, breauté, faukes de, brick castles, brick-making, art of, british isles, earthworks of, , broch, at cockburn law, of mousa, bronllys castle, bronze age, , broughton castle, bruce, robert, buckingham, duke of, builth castle, bures mount, essex, burgh, hubert de, burh, bury, borough, and burgh, , burhs, nottingham, saxon, , stafford, tarn worth and warwick, witham and maldon, busli, roger de, tickhill castle, cadbury, tiverton, castle, berm of, caerlaverock castle, caerphilly castle, description of, caesar, artillery of, cainhoe castle, albini, nigel de campbell castle, canmore, malcolm, cannon, early, gargoyles, shot, weight of, canterbury castle, keep of carew castle, carisbrooke castle, description of, carnarvon castle, description of, town walls of, castellated mansion, , castellation, the first, transition period, castle-building stephen's reign, castles, centre of boroughs, centre of feudal baronies, definition of, in gascony, herefordshire, hertfordshire, leicestershire, nottinghamshire, of scotland, sites of, cat, , catapult, , , chapel-en-le-frith, chaworth, payn de, chepstow castle, description of, château gaillard, description of, the keep, chaucer, geoffrey, cilgerran castle, cissbury, , civil war, efficiency of castles, clare, earl of, gilbert de, family, classification of earthworks, clavering castle, essex, clawll y milwyr, cleves, anne of, clickamin broch, cliff castles, - clifford's castle, northants, , clifton camps, clinton, william de, clun castle, keep of, , cobham, lord, colchester castle, chapel of, colepeper family, comb moss, compton, sir william, concentric castle, essential principles of, conisborough castle, description of, constantinople, fortifications of, contour forts, conway, town wall of, castle, description of, corbelling, mania for, corfe castle, buttavant tower, description of, keep of, "slighting" of, coucy castle, , , , counterpoise engines, counterpoises of trebuchets, _coup-de-main_ attack, craigmillar castle, crenellated walls, crévecoeur family, criccieth castle, description of, cromlechs, cromwell, ralph, lord, crowstep gables, curtain walls, cutts, lord, cylindrical keep, dalyngrugge, sir edward, danish burhs, dauphin, definition of a castle, "devil of belesme," differentiation of earthworks, dilke family, dinas, dirleton castle, dog-tooth ornament, dolebury, donjon, , dorchester, oxon, douglas family, doune castle, dover castle, description of, , the keep, dragons, drum castle, , dryslwyn castle, dudley castle, fitz-ansculf, william, dumbarton castle, dunnottar castle, description of, keep of, dunster castle, mohun, william de, durability of earthworks, durham castle, dyke hills, eagle tower, carnarvon castle, earls barton castle, northants, earthworks, auxiliary aids to, british isles, classification of, destruction of, differentiation of, durability of, english, with stockades, edinburgh castle, , argyle tower, edinburgh castle, st. margaret's chapel, wellhouse tower, edin's hold, "edwardian" castle, edward the martyr, eleanor, wife of humphrey of gloucester, elfreton, henry de, ely, engines, ancient, english earthworks, escalade, espringale, , ethelfleda of the mercians, , exburgh manor-house, eye castle, malet, robert de, fairfax, sir thomas, falarica, , fane, ralph, fergeant, alan, ferrers, henry de, tutbury castle, feudal baronies, castles centre of, fiennes, sir roger, thomas, execution of, first castellation, fishguard, fitz-ansculf, william, dudley castle, fitz-john, eustace, , fitz-osborne, william, earl of hereford, william, fitz-scrob, richard, flanking towers, flint castle, flying bridge, motte and bailey castle, fonmon castle, glamorganshire, forebuildings, rochester castle, fortified hill-tops, classification of, strengthened, , gam, sir david, gannock's castle, near tempsford, , gaveston, piers, glendower, owen, gloucester castle, keep of, humphrey, duke of, golden valley, castle at, gravitation engines, greek fire, grey, sir ralph, , guildford castle, chapel of, keep of, gundulf, bishop of rochester, gunpowder, introduction of, "gyns," , ham hill, somerset, hampton court, herefordshire, harlech castle, , harquebuses, openings for, hastings castle, hatton, sir christopher, haut, ivo de, haverfordwest castle, hedingham keep, essex, hembury fort, honiton, herefordshire, castles in, hereford, motte and bailey castle, , herstmonceaux castle, , description of, hertfordshire, castles in, hever castle, sir william de, hill forts, hilton castle, home castle, earls of, homestead moats, developed, humfreys, sir william, hunsbury, northants, ifan, davydd ap, ightham mote, iron age, , isabella, queen of edward ii., isle of avalon, juliets, keep, scottish, plan of, kemyss, sir nicholas, kenilworth castle, siege of, kidwelly castle, carmarthenshire, , kildrummie castle, lacy, ilbert de, pontefract castle, lambert, general, lamphey castle, "land of castles," launceston castle, the keep, laxton castle, alselin, geoffrey, leconfield, lord, leeds castle, kent, , baileys of, barbicans of, description of, keep of, leicestershire, castles in, lewes castle, lewkenor, sir thomas, licences to crenellate, lincoln castle, lisle, warine de, llandilo, castle near, llawhaddon castle, loch doon castle, loch leven castle, logan stone, ludlow, family of, machicolation, , , , , , earliest example of, maiden castle, , , , entrances of, malet, robert de, eye castle, _malvoisin_, mam tor, derbyshire, the shivering mountain, mangonel, , manorbier castle, , "march of the men of harlech," marmion, robert le, tamworth castle, maxstoke castle, medieval walls, construction of, melandra, near glossop, menhirs, merlons, , , , meurtriers, , , mining, method of, missile engines of the ancients, mohun, william de, dunster castle, monk, general, montfort, simon de, , montgomery, family of, morgan, colonel, mortaign, robert, count of, berkhampstead castle, earl of, motte and bailey castle, advantages of, bretasche of, construction of, flying bridge of, positions of, , positions of mound of, rapid erection of, scottish, mount and fosse, mount (or motte) and bailey, mount, the, caerleon, movable tower, mowbray, de, narberth castle, natural fortresses strengthened, - neidpath castle, description of, newcastle-upon-tyne castle, chapel of, forebuilding of, keep of, newquay, newton castle, montgomeryshire, nineveh marbles, norham castle, norwich castle, nottingham castle, keep of, nottinghamshire, castles in, odin's hold, berwickshire, odo, bishop of bayeux, , , oillets, , , , old castle head, onager, , ongar castle, essex, , _oppidum_ of cassivelaunus, orford castle, suffolk, oubliettes, oxford castle, keep of, parapet, location of, peel towers, pelham, lady jane, sir john, pembroke castle, , keep of, penhow castle, monmouthshire, penshurst place, description of, percy, earl, sir henry de, sir thomas, perrier, petardier, petrary, , , pevensey castle, , inner castle of, pharos at dover, pickering castle, keep of, "pit," or prison, pitt rivers, general, , plantagenet, hamelin, plateau forts, , , pleshey castle, essex, pontefract castle, , lacy, ilbert de, porchester castle, portland, primitive weapons, projectiles, men as, millstones as, promontory forts, protected village sites, pulteneye, sir john de, quatford castle, quia emptores, statute of, raglan castle, description of, keep of, ram, , ravelin, or barbican, ravensburgh castle, hexton, rectangular keep, chapel of, forebuilding of, construction of, crypt of, impregnability of, internal arrangements of, introduction of, ramparts of, reculvers, isle of thanet, redvers, baldwin de, richard de, regalia scottish, richard's castle, herefordshire, , richborough castle, sandwich, richmond castle, barbican of, chapel of, crypt of, description of, keep of, ring hill, essex, roche castle, rochester castle, description of, keep of, , , siege of, , roman fortification, romano-british period, roman wall, tower of london, roxburgh castle, royal castles in kent, st. burian, st. david's head, st. john's chapel, tower of london, st. leger, sir anthony, sakers, saxon burh, , mss., period, say, de, family of, _segontium_ (carnarvon), serpentines, seymour, charles, duke of somerset, family of, scales, lord, scarborough castle, siege of, scorpion, scottish castles, periods of, - second period, third period, fourth period, shell keep, configuration of, position of, shirburn castle, description of, shoulsbury, exmoor, siege and defence of a medieval castle, sigismund, emperor, silchester, , simple artificial enclosures, , smith, sir richard, "snail," solar, somerset, family of, sir charles, south cadbury, sherborne, sow, , spurgardon, spurious castles, stafford, edward, family of, humphrey, earl of, lord, stockades, , construction of, , , gallic, on earthworks, stone age, , circles, stokesay castle, description of, stirling castle, , description of, palace of, parliament hall, siege of, strongbow, richard, sudley castle, swegen the sheriff, sydney, sir philip, william, syracuse, attack on, syrens, tamworth castle, marmion, robert le, tantallon castle, description of, keep of, sieges of, tattershall castle, crypt of, description of, taunton burh, terebra, thetford castle, norfolk, thomas, sir william ap, thurnham castle, kent, tickhill castle, busli, roger de, todenei, robert, belvoir castle, _tormentum_, torsion and tension engines, torwoodlee broch, totnes castle, towcester, tower of london, st. john's chapel, , description of, keep of, traitors' gate, trebuchets, , , , , , , , , , projectiles of, , , treryn castle, tretower castle, trevalgue head, tutbury castle, ferrers, henry de, tyler, wat, uzziah, valence, aymer de, vaulting ribs, verdun, family of, vere, de, family of, verulamium, st. albans, vescy, ivo de, vitrified forts, , waldegrave, sir edward, waldo, sir t., wales, rhys of, wallace, sir william, waller, sir william, , wallingford, castle, walls, medieval, construction of, warkworth castle, warwick castle, , , "war-wolf," watling street, west malling, west saxons, harold, earl of, "whelk," whelpley hill, bucks, whitton castle, durham, winchester, statute of, windsor castle, , barbican of, description of, motte of, st. george's chapel, shell keep of, wingfield manor-house, , wollaston castle, northants, wren, sir christopher, wressle castle, wyatt, the architect, wyndham, sir william, yarnbury, wilts, yester, hays of, york castle, , keep of, zigzag moulding, , the end _printed by_ r. & r. clark, limited, _edinburgh_. _uniform with this volume_ english costume painted and described by dion clayton calthrop square demy vo ( × - / inches), cloth, gilt top containing full-page illustrations in colour facsimile, and numerous thumb-nail sketches in the text complete in one volume price s. net (_by post, s. d._) _or obtainable in four sectional volumes, bound in cloth, gilt top_ price s. d. net each (_by post, s. d._) vol. i. early english. vol. iii. tudor & stuart. " ii. middle ages. " iv. georgian. excerpts from preface there is no reason why a book dealing with antiquarian subjects should be written in the dry-as-dust method; that it should be clear stands to reason; that it should be as complete as possible is a justification of its being; but beyond these it is eminently necessary that it should be interesting. it is to every kind of historical student that this book is addressed, especially to those who endeavour to make the dry bones of history live--the author, the artist, and the actor. it is, also, for all who take an intelligent interest in history, and who would wish to see the shifting panorama of men move before their eyes in the right colours and clothes. published by adam and charles black, , , & soho square, london, w. transcriber's note. the oe ligature is shown as the separate letters oe in the following words: crévecoeur, oeil, and manoeuvred. the advertising material has been moved to the end of the ebook.